Canyon Voices Issue 13

CANYON VOICES LITERARY

MAGAZINE

ISSUE 13 SPRING 2016

CANYONVOICES.ASU.EDU

FICTION

POETRY

CREATIVE NONFICTION

Jen Bielack

Thomas Balkany

Kathleen McAvoy

Grandfather and his Saguaro

Nearly Over

Andrew J. Hogan

Karesansui

Alicia Brall

Sunrise

Christie Collins

Arielle Seidman

Ancestry, Dear Reader, Love Poet

Showmance

Clayton Smith

Bob Eager Lind Flowers

Love in a Place Like a Forest

Franco Strong

So Long, An Unfinished Canvas

Ilyssa Goldsmith

Memorias de la Tierra

John Grey

Morgan Billings

Rinat Harel

Snake World, Medical Imaging Damned, Nothing More

Thierry Sagnier

E.J.R.

Dede and the Snails

Michael Lee Johnson

Rinat Harel

Nomadic Trials

Cassie Kellog

Seth D. Slater

Nevine Khan

How to Become a Straight A Student

Ryan Loveeachother

Sandbox My Beloved Ghost Dollar General…, Even Though…, I Pissed in the Street

The Best Laid Plans

Kyle Martindale

Ariana Schaeffer

Michael McDaniel

St. Francis, The Phoenix

Jew Boy

Over There, Just Down the Hall Is a Living Man

Marlene Olin

William “Chip” Miller

Wishful Thinking

My Mother and Ted Bundy, Jesus Fans, June Cleaver’s Pearls

Corissa Gay

Dinesh Sairam

Final Request

An Unfettered Life: My Rant Against Compelled Motherhood

Renee G. Rivers What’s in a Name?

Patricia Martarella Calling the Whales

Rinat Harel Africans, White City, and a Pint of Guinness

Headlights Tossed Forward

The Last Vase

Chris Furry

Hannah Castor

Deleted Hindsight Mwenda

Dennis

Namaste

The Trail

Poetry Contest Winners

Kathleen McAvoy The Redoubtable Mrs. Browning

Eunice Kim Places of Knowing

Lind Flowers Windmill Seeds

SCRIPTS

ARTWORK

AUTHOR’S ALCOVE

Daniel Rubin

Geneva Benton

The Absurd Job

Erin Doty

Marieke Davis

Gabriel Evans

Disappearing Act

Brianna Graw

A conversation with Rinat Harel

George Thornburg

Linneah Hanson

Inside Voices

Patricia Colomy

Romaine JacquetLagreze

Writer or Just Writing it Down?

Cole Keister

Transcribing poetry with E.J.R.

Benjamin Graber End of Limerence

Phil Harding On the Block

Will Hightower TBA

Kate Currie Mocking Bird

Hee Sook Kim Keri Lawrence Liz Miller

Brett Bezio

The Depths That Words May Reach

Rome Johnson Just Do It!

Monique Munoz

A chat with writer Daniel Rubin

Victoria M. Savka

Miranda Gross

Melissa Schleuger Maggie Schmiegelow

The Art of Fantasy An interview with Ariana Schaeffer

Nicole Simmons Rachel Smith Sheryl Tsosie Maja Wronska

ABOUT US Our Mission Contact Us Submission Guidelines Staff Pages

CANYONVOICES

Publisher’s Note

Publisher

JULIE AMPARANO

Maya Angelou once said, “The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.”

The CANYON VOICES staff of student editors worked hard to find and present voices that pulsates straight to the core – whether in poetry, creative nonfiction, artwork, scripts or fiction. All the while, they never lost sight of the CANYON VOICES mission to focus and raise up emerging artists.

We think Maya Angelou would be proud of our Issue 13. It’s filled with works that will touch your heart, dredge up fears, or make you smile.

Our authors come from across the state, across the nation and beyond. Emerging artists, indeed, live and create in all corners of the world. One of our poets hails from what he calls “the shady regions of Southern India.”

Many, however, come from our own backyard here in Arizona.

In addition to the words we feature in our magazine, this issue of CANYON VOICES has one of its largest visual art sections to date, with 78 stunning pieces.

All of this is brought to you by the wonderful student editors, who each semester produce CANYON VOICES. They are dedicated, passionate, and creative. Time after time, they leave me in awe. I thank the entire student team for their hard work, and I give special thanks to my Division Director Louis Mendoza, Assistant Director Patricia Friedrich, and Dean Marlene Tromp for their unwavering support.

We hope you enjoy Issue 13 as much as we enjoyed putting it together. Come on in and find a story, an image, or a maybe just a word or two that goes straight to the heart.

Editors in Chief

MEGAN HUFFMAN SAYED KARIMI Managing Editor and Design Director

OLIVIA TEJEDA BRETT BEZIO, Creative Nonfiction Editor, Alcove Lead

ASTRID CASTANEDA, Creative Nonfiction Lead

PATRICIA COLOMY, Poetry Lead

SARAH EDWARD. Fiction Editor

MANNY FELIX, Poetry Editor

MIRANDA GROSS. Fiction Editor

ROME JOHNSON, Scripts Lead

SHANNON MCSORLEY, Poetry Editor

KAILTYN PIERSON, Creative Nonfiction Editor, Art Editor

BECCA SMITH. Fiction Editor

KAITLIN THERN, Fiction Lead, Artwork Lead

SHELBY TURNER, Scripts Editor

ALEXIS WATKINS, Scripts Editor

Social Media Editor

ERIN McDOWELL Marketing Department

LAUREN GRISWOLD RUTH DEMPSEY

CANYON VOICES is a student-driven online literary magazine that features the work of emerging and established writers and artists.

The magazine is supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts, and Cultural Studies at Arizona State University’s New College. To subscribe, please click here.

Click here for submission guidelines.

Cover image BALLOON by Maja Wronksa.

See the Artwork section for full image

All uncredited artwork from Pixabay.com.

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Glassy Sky by Sheryl Tsosie (See Artwork for full image)

FICTION Paradise Between 1 by Hee Sook Kim (S ee A rt wo rk for full im a ge )

Jen Bielack

Grandfather and his Saguaro

Andrew J. Hogan Sunrise

Arielle Seidman Showmance

Clayton Smith Love in a Place Like a Forest

Franco Strong Memorias de la Tierra

Morgan Billings Dennis

Thierry Sagnier

Dede and the Snails

Rinat Harel The Last Vase

Seth D. Slater How to Become a Straight A Student

Chris Furry The Best Laid Plans

Ariana Schaeffer Jew Boy

Marlene Olin Wishful Thinking

Corissa Gay Final Request

FICTION : JEN BIELACK

Grandfather and His Saguaro

By Jen Bielack

I

remember well the last time my grandfather told the story of the saguaro. He was sitting in his favorite chair, his aching feet propped on a pillow on the coffee table, nothing important on TV. I sat curled in the corner of the adjacent couch.

“But, abuelito, we live in Arizona, not in Mexico.”

I knew this would bring a feisty response.

“So, abuelito, why don’t you tell me that story about the saguaro.”

“Tell me more, mi abuelo, tell me more about your saguaro.”

“But it used to be Mexico, Carmelita. It was stolen, all this land was taken from Mexico not that long ago. Only the saguaros mark the territory. They are the guardians of the land.”

His face crinkled up and he smiled with his mouth and his eyes.

“The saguarito, hita,” he said back to me. He liked using the short form—which in Spanish was really the longer form—for most words.

Thus was I “Carmelita” and my brother “Juanito.”

“Yes, I met a saguaro one night in the desert. He saved my life.”

“Tell me the story.”

“Well,” said he, “the saguaros are reminders to all of us—gringos (except he really said “gabachos”), Mexicanos, Indios, Chinos,

“Well,” he began, then interrupted himself, “first fix my pillow, would you?”

Negros . . . “

To do this I had to support both legs just above his ankles with one arm while I flipped the pillow with the other. Then I gently let his heels back down onto the fresh side of the pillow. His feet were very sensitive.

Sometimes now he would forget to finish a sentence.

“Reminders of what?” I prompted.

“Gracias, Carmelita. So this was many years ago when my skin was smooth like the palo verde, pero not green por supuesto.”

“Reminders or where we are and where we come from, us Mexicanos. These green giants stretch all the way from Guaymas in Sonora to Phoenix and beyond to the north.

They speak silently, but if you have Mexican blood, you will hear what they say: ‘This land

“Of course,” I encouraged him.

“We were crossing the Sonoran Desert, not far from the town they call Sierra Vista. We walked

where I stand, esta tierra, this is Mexico.’”

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at night under the light of the moon. They had no fancy cameras then, no balloons floating in the sky.

“Then what happened?”

I knew that Grandfather was referring to the blimp that scans the desert near Sierra Vista for border crossers.

inteligente.”

“It was my first crossing, but for mi primo, it was

“So one minute I’m walking straight ahead,

the second y para mi tío, he lost count by then.

todo derecho, following a path as plain as my own hand and the next minute, smack, I walk right into a saguaro.”

“Then I got ahead of the others. Like you, I thought I was so smart back then. Muy

Now I gave him a look, but he ignored me.

We slept in the shade of a deep arroyo durante el día. Por la noche, we walked. And those saguaros, they walked with us, but if you looked at them, they were never moving. They only moved when you weren’t looking.”

“What did you do?”

“I did what anybody would do. I screamed like a baby. That saguaro stuck me in so many places: la cabeza, las manos, even my knees got stuck with those little needles that look like hairs.

I stifled a giggle and he gave me a look.

“Es verdad, hita. They walked. They’re still out there walking.”

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“So after that, we stopped for the night. We

I leaned forward and stretched my hand toward his head. He guided my fingertips to a sort of callous under his skin.

camped right there. Mi tío made a gigantic fire.

He put me so close to that fire, I thought I would melt. Then he took his pliers from his mochila and he pulled out those needles one by one, all that he could.”

“Feel that, Carmelita?”

I nodded solemnly.

“Did you cry, abuelo?”

“That’s where mi saguarito kissed me. That part of me is saguaro. Those needles went in there and never came out.”

“No, I didn’t cry. I was prepared for that pain.”

“But why do you always call that saguaro ‘your’ saguaro,

‘Yes, I met a saguaro one night in the desert. He saved my life.’

abuelito?”

“Because in the morning when we could see better, we looked at that saguaro. It was in the same place, right in the middle of the path. It was not there when I was walking the night before. It stepped in front of me at the last minute.”

“You know, I think that’s where I went wrong, Carmelita,” he suddenly volunteered.

“The last minute before I was going to fall to my death. That last minute.”

“What do you mean, where you went wrong?” I scrunched up my face.

Now Grandpa paused so that he could tell the next part very slowly and carefully.

“Well, I stopped walking, you see. I wasn’t a

“Carmelita, behind that saguaro, mi saguaro, the ground dropped for one hundred feet. One . . .

good saguarito. When my feet got bad, I stopped walking. Now,” he said, indicating his feet in their faded slippers on the pillow, “these things are almost useless to me.” He shook his head. “It’s a bad way to end when you’re part cactus.”

hundred . . . feet . . . of nothing but air. Mi saguarito, he saved my life, mijita.”

“Wow,” I said, like I was hearing it for the first time. I still got shivers sometimes when he reached the end of his story.

“It’s okay, abuelito,” I patted his arm, “you’re going to be okay.”

“Look,” said Grandpa, “look here. Feel here.” He pointed to the hard part of his forehead up towards his hairline.

“Be careful,” he whispered, “you don’t want to get those needles in you.”

“I think they’re too deep, abuelito.” I sat back down all the way and waited quietly. Sometimes he had other words of wisdom to impart, although I was pretty sure I had heard them all by now.

“What last minute?”

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I continued to rub his forehead gently with my fingertips because I knew he liked it. He closed his eyes and smiled just with his mouth.

But he wasn’t. Within a month, he took to his bed. Within another, the ambulance was at our

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door, taking him to a hospital room where he lay like a skeleton, his head turned toward the window, though there was nothing much to see. One night, while he was asleep, I taped a magazine picture of a big old saguaro on the window where he could see it if he opened his eyes.

I was in school the day he died. My mother told me he did open his eyes and did see the saguaro and that he smiled. I like to think he saw it at the last minute.

At his funeral a few days later, choked with sadness, I retold his saguaro story to the small throng of family and friends who came to bid him farewell.

Afterwards, I had a chance to speak to my uncle, the son of the cousin he crossed the desert with that time.

“You know, my father always talked about that saguaro too. He remembered it his whole life,” he told me in a soft voice.

“Yes, it was quite the miracle, I suppose.” I forced a sad smile.

“Have you ever been to the Sonoran Desert south of Sierra Vista?” he asked me.

“No, never. Why? Have you? Did you find that saguaro?” I was suddenly very motivated, already planning my own future pilgrimage to the spot.

We both stood in silence for a while. I thought of the small knot on grandpa’s forehead, his swollen and useless feet. His life. His death. His saguarito.

Then I smiled, with my eyes and my mouth.

“Well, that’s just it. I’ve been there and I don’t know if you know about saguaros. They don’t grow much above 4,000 feet in elevation. The area around Sierra Vista and south into Mexico is much higher than that. In that part of the desert, there aren’t any to be seen.”

“Well,” I said to my uncle, “that saguaro must have walked an awfully long ways.”

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For more information on author Jen Bielack, please visit our Contributors Page.

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FICTION : ANDREW J. HOGAN

Sunrise

By Andrew J. Hogan

I

pulled into the Starlite Motel on Congress about 8 am. It had been a long, hot ride overnight from San Diego on US 80 through Yuma. Even at 8 am, the thermometer by the office door read eighty degrees. I wished I hadn’t had to leave San Diego. I signed the register. On the counter the headline of the Tucson Citizen read, “Japan’s Major Airfield Destroyed in Preparation for Operation Downfall.” The War in Europe was over, but the Japs were still fighting. There was going to be an invasion of Japan. I was passing on that party; I’d barely survived the slaughter at Okinawa.

The Starlite advertised swamp coolers on its sign out front. I could sleep through the heat of the day in relative cool and then set off after dark back on US 80 east. After checking in, I loaded up on breakfast at the beaner restaurant next door. I returned to my room, cranked up the swamp cooler, and slept the sleep of the guilty until nearly 6 pm.

me, but my choices were going to be limited traveling at night. I picked her up.

“Need a ride, sweetheart?” She looked at me a little wary, or maybe she was hoping to get a ride from somebody who looked a lot more interesting than I did.

It was still too hot to eat. I had the beaner cook wrap me up a couple more burritos. I checked out and headed my car east on Congress. It was 7:30 pm and the sun was setting. I crossed Toole Street, the railroad tracks and then turned southeast on US 80 toward Benson and Douglas. On the side of the road was a girl hitchhiking. She was in her early teens, maybe fourteen, fifteen, dark brown hair, large, angry eyes, a big chin; a good looker overall, maybe a little young for

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“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to New York.”

“Well, sweetheart, I’m staying on US 80 all the way to Georgia. I can drop you off in Atlanta.

You should be able to get to New York from there no trouble.”

“Okay.” She opened the door and sat down in a little huff. Then she looked straight at me with her angry, dark eyes. “I’m not your sweetheart.

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My name is Susan.” She kept staring at me until I responded.

I didn’t want her to have too much information about me, just in case I had to let her go. “No, it was business. Before the war.”

“Excuse me, Susan.” She shut the door and I started moving. “What takes you to New York?”

“My father was a clothier, he traded furs mostly.

What about you?”

“I hate Tucson,” she said. “I want to be a writer.

New York’s where the great writers live.”

I needed to change the subject away from myself. “What’s that you’re carrying?” She had some kind of book in her hand.

I noticed she’d brought a small suitcase. She’d put in front of the seat and stretched her legs over it. It caused her skirt to rise a little and I got a look at her calves.

Smooth, strong, probably hadn’t started shaving them yet. It was getting dark and I’d have to wait until sunrise tomorrow for a good look.

We were getting close to the Army Air Corps base, and I wanted to be sure we got by without attracting any attention.

“It’s my first time through here,” I said.

“Tucson looks like a hick town. How’d you get stuck here? Military?”

“That’s my journal.” She looked at me like I was stupid to have asked. “All the great writers keep journals. They write down their experiences to use later.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea.” I decided to be as pleasant as possible for the time being.

We were getting close to the Army Air Corps base, and I wanted to be sure we got by without attracting any attention.

“I saw a little bit of China, from the ship.” I’d said too much.

“I want to travel and write stories about my experiences, like Richard Halliburton.” In the twilight I could see she was smiling. This was the topic that would keep her occupied while we passed the base. I remembered the author’s name from a newspaper story. The guy had written a bunch of travel adventures that were especially popular with teenage girls. What a racket. He must’ve screwed dozens of them on his lecture tours. The idiot had died trying to sail a Chinese junk across the Pacific Ocean; took his whole crew down with him. I knew about being at the mercy of incompetent officers.

“Oh, were you a businessman too?” I didn’t answer. “Or maybe in the Navy?”

“Never heard of him,” I said. “What kind of stories did he write?”

“My mother brought me here when I was five.

We lived in New York, but I couldn’t breathe well.

Then we moved to Miami, but that was worse, so we moved here.”

“What about your father? Where’s he?” I said.

“He died when I was only three. He was a businessman in China.

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“My favorite book is The Royal Road to Romance,” she said. “First he was arrested for taking photos of the guns at Gibraltar. Then he decided he wanted to see the sunset from the Taj Mahal, so he hid himself inside and got to swim in the temple pool by moonlight.”

“Sounds pretty exciting,” I said. Just then a B-17 and two P-38s flew over the highway, landing on the runway about a quarter-mile on the left.

“Oh,” she said, almost jumping in her seat.

“What about The Flying Carpet?” I didn’t know what she was talking about. “Richard Halliburton and his pilot Moye Stephens traveled around the World in a biplane. They flew to places where no one had ever flown before.”

“No, never read it, but it sounds exciting.” I needed to know who might be looking for her and how much pull they might have to mount a search. If I’d picked up a little beaner girl on the side of the road, nobody would give a damn if she went missing - a lot safer, but where’s the challenge in that?

“So your mother never remarried?” I said.

“Not yet.” She was sullen now.

“Not yet?” I said.

“She’s engaged.” Her eyes rolled. “He’s an Army Air Force captain. His lungs were injured during a mission, so they sent him here to recover.”

She made a face of disgust. “He wants to adopt me and Judy, my sister.” Then she sighed. “But he makes my mother happy. She hasn’t been happy for a long time. She’s almost stopped drinking.”

Damn, a fucking officer, probably decorated. He could raise a stink.

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We were well past the Army Air Corps base now.

I stopped talking and focused on driving. She must have been tired because she fell asleep in about ten minutes, even with the open window washing ninety-five-degree air over her.

She took a long drink. She sat up straight, like someone had poked her with a hot stick. I was sure her face turned red, but it was too dark to tell. She coughed a couple of times, but kept holding onto the flask. She caught her breath and then took another swig; it went down without protest.

An hour later we were passing through Benson, on our way to Douglas. It was dark now. In the dim green light of the dashboard I could see her sleeping. I drove carefully to not wake her up. I stretched my hand over and lifted her skirt up to the knee, but what I saw was still mostly in my imagination; it was too dark.

I needed to think about what I would do if we got stopped along the way. I had to pass through Tombstone and Bisbee. There might be guards around the mines but roadblocks were unlikely. But going through Douglas, the Border Patrol might have security checkpoints set up and stop us.

“Thanks,” she said. A couple of belts of brandy put her right back to sleep. I knew how I was going to get her to cooperate once we took our night off in Texas.

If everything went right, there wouldn’t be a next time for either one of us in Tucson.

It would be suspicious, a single guy traveling at night with an unrelated teenage girl. If they started checking and found I was driving the stolen car of a missing woman, I’d be finished. I couldn’t just ditch the girl in the next town or even out in the middle of nowhere. If somebody found her, she’d describe me and mark my trail. I didn’t want to kill her without getting some satisfaction out of her first, but it was too soon to take the time for that. Maybe out in central Texas I could take a night off from driving. For now, I’d have to keep her happy.

The temperature had dropped off a bit, and everybody else must have been home in bed taking advantage of the coolness, because the streets of Douglas were empty, even the road leading to the border checkpoint. A couple of miles outside of Douglas, the car had slowed as we climbed a steep hill. In the headlights up ahead I could see a couple of rattlesnakes out in the middle of the road all wound around each other, screwing. I swerved and ran them both over. Served them right for having sex out in the open where everyone could see.

She woke up between Tombstone and Douglas.

She said she was thirsty. I pulled out my flask.

“Sorry, it’s all I’ve got.”

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It was about midnight when we cruised through Douglas. She had slumped down after drinking the whiskey and her head wasn’t visible in the passenger side window. Her blouse had bunched up around her chest, making some visible openings between the buttons.

I imagined with a little light I’d be able to see she wasn’t wearing a bra. Patience, I said to myself. Soon enough you’ll know.

Susan woke up again. I asked her if she was hungry. We shared the two burritos I’d gotten from the beaner restaurant.

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“These burritos are kind of bland,” she said.

“Where’d you buy them?”

I found the turnoff for NM 52 and headed toward Ruidoso. I thought the jig was up when we reached Engle. There was a barricade across the road and an Army jeep parked a few yards away. But there was nobody manning the barricade, and I slipped the car around it. About 4 am Susan started getting restless in the back seat because of all the jostling over the unpaved road.

I told her about the restaurant next to the Starlite.

“Next time, you should try the Casa de Sanchez.

It’s just up the street.”

I smiled and nodded. If everything went right, there wouldn’t be a next time for either one of us in Tucson.

We got into Lordsburg around 2 am. I found an all-night gas station at the junction of US 80 and US 180. I had to wake up the attendant to start the pump. Before I did, I persuaded Susan to lie down in the back seat. She took another swig from the flask. It was cool enough now that she agreed to let me cover her with my pea jacket. When I laid it over her, I was able to run my hand down the back of her exposed calf. I told the attendant to be a quiet as possible, my daughter was sleeping in the back seat.

“Where are you taking me?” she said. “This can’t be the main road.”

The headlights showed down into a ravine about 20 yards away. It would be the perfect place to stash her body when I was through.

“You said we were going to stay on US 80 all the way to Atlanta.”

She was starting to annoy me.

“It’s a little bumpy, but it’ll save a lot of time,” I said.

“I want to get back on the main road.”

“Okay,” I said. “The main road is just up ahead.” I knew I would have to do her now. I couldn’t risk her acting out at some gas station or restaurant, attracting attention to me. I was dead tired from driving so far. I could have gotten a lot more pleasure out of it earlier in the evening. I looked for a good spot to pull off the road.

After we’d fueled up, I headed north on US 180.

I was trying to avoid the military checkpoints set up around Fort Selden, near Las Cruces. I went through Silver City and then turned onto US 85 going north towards Albuquerque. The road map I’d found in San Diego in the car’s glove compartment showed New Mexico Route 52 running from Hot Springs to Ruidoso across the White Sands monument. It was a back road, unpaved, slow, but it took me around all the main New Mexico military installations. The map was old, from the late 1920s; I was hoping the road had been improved since then.

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“It’s a shortcut, sweetheart.”

“I need to take a little break, sweetheart. How about you?”

“I’m all right.” She sounded scared. I wondered if she might be getting suspicious. Still she probably wouldn’t run away out here. We hadn’t seen a light from a house or a car in the fortyfive minutes we’d been on the dirt road. Nobody lived out here. Even if she did try to escape, she would have to crawl over the front seat to get

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out. I had disabled the inside door handles for the back seat.

was engulfed in thunder. The hat flew off my head. I grabbed the car door to hold myself up.

The car was shaking. I thought the car might turn over on me when the open door wedged into the ground. Something hit me in the head, and I went down.

I drove up a ridge. There was a clearing at the top of the rise. I pulled over and parked the car.

The headlights showed down into a ravine about 20 yards away. It would be the perfect place to stash her body when I was through.

* * *

I remember being lifted into the back seat of the jeep. They laid my head on a towel in Susan’s lap for the trip back to the guard station. I woke again up in a Quonset hut. There was a bandage

I turned off the motor but left the parking lights on; I really did need to take a leak before I got started.

“I’m going over in the bushes for a minute,” I said. “Do you need to get out?”

“No, I’m all right.” Great. I wouldn’t need to keep an eye on her.

After I finished my business, I came back to the car and opened the rear driver-side door. She scooted across the seat to the other side. Maybe she could see my face when the dome light came on. I stuck my head inside and grabbed her left leg.

on my head and over my right eye, and I had a helluva headache. They’d picked us up right after the blast. We’d been spotted some time earlier, but the guard units had been ordered to stay in their bunkers until after the test.

“Come here, Susan. I’m going to give you a real adventure to write about in your journal.”

Suddenly a bright flash enveloped her head. I couldn’t see her face anymore. I let go of her leg and stood up outside the car. The light continued to grow, boiling orange up into the sky. The ground began to shake. I could hear a distant rumble, like a galloping horse, then ten horses, then a thousand, bearing down on me. I

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Susan was sitting at a desk talking with an Army lieutenant. They had me on a cot in the far corner away from the door. There was a big MP standing next to my cot and another MP

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standing by the door. I tried to sit up. The MP held down my shoulder.

Fort Selden military police. I have your daughter…” Susan’s head spun around in his direction. “…ah, your step-daughter Susan here.

We found her traveling with a Navy deserter. She said she was on her way to New York.”

“Stay where you are.” I wasn’t going to be able to make a break for it. My head was pulsating.

I’d probably have fallen down if they’d let me stand up.

I couldn’t hear what Susan’s stepfather was saying on the other end of the line, but the lieutenant was reassuring him that Susan was unharmed, appeared to be in good health, and several other indirect assurances suggesting I hadn’t had the chance to make a woman of her.

The phone on the lieutenant’s desk rang.

“Jenkins here,” he said. “Pass him through.” He held the phone to his chest. “Susan, it’s your father on the line.”

“Captain, I’m going to have to ask you to come here personally to pick Susan up. My CO will be contacting your CO to explain the matter and write your orders.” There was a brief pause. “No, it’s not that. She’s fine, but she stumbled into some military testing that needs to remain confidential. Maybe you should think about bringing your whole family with you.” He took a sip from his coffee cup. “You might want to plan on being our guest here for a month or so. Do you want to talk with Susan?”

“My step-father,” she said. “My real father’s dead.”

“Well, I’m going to arrange for him to come here and pick you up.”

“I don’t want to go back to Tucson.” Angry tears swelled in her eyes.

“I know, but it’s too dangerous for you out here on your own. Look at what almost happened.”

Susan hesitated taking the phone. “Hello. Yes, I’m all right.” Her forehead wrinkled. “I hate Tucson. I’m not going back.” Her forehead wrinkled again, but this time in surprise.

“Where? Santa Monica? It’s next to Hollywood?” I could see she was thinking, calculating. “How soon? I can be in high school this fall?” She was smiling now. Holding the phone to her chest, she told the lieutenant, “I’m moving to California. I’m going to go to the same high school where the movie stars send their kids.” Before the lieutenant could answer, Susan spoke into the phone again, “Oh, I guess that’ll be all right. I’ll see you on Saturday.” She handed the phone back to the lieutenant.

“I saw the sun rise twice in one day.” She looked as though she was remembering seeing God’s face.

“I know. It was something to never forget. But I’m talking about him,” the lieutenant said, nodding toward me. “They still haven’t found the woman he stole the car from.”

Susan looked at me. It was as though she was looking at a roach that she’d once foolishly thought of as a pet; her face showed disappointment, disgust, embarrassment. But I didn’t see what I should have seen, fear. She wasn’t afraid of me; she wasn’t afraid of anything.

“Captain, we’ll be sending your stepdaughter to the base hospital at Fort Selden to get checked out. There are some quarters there for visiting

The lieutenant put the phone back to his ear.

“Captain Sontag, I’m Lieutenant Jenkins of the

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FICTION : ANDREW J. HOGAN

family. A nurse will stay with her until you’ve arrived.” He wrote something down on a piece of paper, probably another telephone number, and hung up. “Now, young lady, let me take you to the base where you can wait for your parents.

Is that your suitcase?”

“What about me?” I said to the lieutenant before he left with Susan.

“You’re not going anywhere, seaman.” He turned to the MP standing next to me.

“Handcuff him to the cot. I’ll send the Black Mariah for him.”

Susan picked up her suitcase, her jacket and her precious journal and went toward the door.

The MP opened it, but before she walked through she looked back at me. She was going to say something, but thought better of it. I got the look again, like I was something foreign, something almost but not quite interesting, something she had just scraped off the sole of her shoe. I got the same look at my court-martial from the military judge who put me here in Portsmouth.

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I was hoping the Navy might charge me with kidnapping so I could get to see Susan again at the trial. It would’ve helped me with my dreams of what might’ve been.

For more information on author Andrew J. Hogan, please visit our Contributors Page.

SPRING2016

FICTION : Arielle Seidman

Showmance

By Arielle Seidman

O

n the morning of the final matinee Scott, the stage manager, arrived early, as usual. Dina, the director, was already there, which wasn’t usual at all. She was perched on the edge of the stage with half-wet hair, biting thoughtfully on her fingernails and apparently contemplating the set. All around her, the cardboard and wooden Forest of Arden stood quiet and still. Some of the love poetry and a few flowers from Orlando’s favorite tree had fallen to the floor, and Scott hurried over to re-hang it all.

Oh, thought Scott, sighing. So it’s going to be

“You’re early,” he said conversationally, with his back to Dina as he adjusted the wall hooks. “Nervous? It’s going to be a good last hurrah.”

“Don’t,” she insisted. “I’m not just being dramatic. Or…all right, maybe I am being dramatic, but I’m not wrong. You don’t feel it?”

THAT kind of a morning.

Dina laughed a little under her breath.

“Don’t make that face,” she told him, which was only a little bit ridiculous, since she couldn’t see his expression. It didn’t really matter. She knew without looking. Scott and Dina had been working together for so many years now that there wasn’t a single face he made which she hadn’t seen before.

Scott turned around and found Dina watching him with one of those eminently reasonable looks in her eyes, inviting sympathy.

“I’m not nervous,” replied Dina. “I’m just thinking.”

“Oh, yeah?” Scott finished with the flowers, took a step back and decided that it was good. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Everyone’s going to be gone, soon,” she said.

“It’s the very last show. We’ll strike the set, we’ll buy the drinks, and then we’ll all go our separate ways, possibly for a year or two, maybe forever.

Doesn’t it break your heart?”

He tweaked a flower petal back into place and carefully unfolded the corner of one of the love poems.

Scott felt strongly that it was time for him to inject some quiet rationale into the situation, or possibly some snarky humor.

“I was thinking,” murmured Dina dreamily, “about how I’d almost forgotten how miserable it is to fall in love. I wish I hadn’t remembered.”

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“Stage managers,” he began.

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FICTION : Arielle Seidman

“-don’t have hearts, I know,” finished Dina, shaking her head. “Yes they do, and yes you do, but you don’t have to understand.”

“It’s just that they’re all going to leave,” Dina was saying, shaking her head. “You can sort of feel it already, in this space. Don’t you think it’s lonely in here? There’s nothing alive about The Forest today.”

It wasn’t a particularly passive-aggressive statement. There was nothing unfriendly or accusatory in Dina’s voice as she said it, but somehow Scott found himself feeling just a little bit guilty anyway. It tended to happen that way, with her.

“There has never been anything alive about The Forest,” Scott reminded her. “I made it out of packing boxes and wooden dowels.

She trailed off for a moment and Scott waited, expecting the pause to lead up to some suitably magnificent, theatrical moment.

”Dina waved that away with a dismissive hand. “You know what I mean,” she told him, and he did, really. “I’ve never been good at this sort of thing…at endings. It’s been harder all along, because for some reason this time I’ve known it was coming, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the fact that it is coming, and it’s all

“Yeah,” he said, “okay. I want to understand.” He really did, even if he hadn’t before. “Tell me. Just go stand up-right-center while you’re doing it so that I can readjust the spot.”

Quietly, gracelessly, Dina got up and moved into the light. Scott, in his turn, hurried across to the booth, where he settled himself in and switched off the house lights.

been very frustrating and bittersweet for me.

“Post play depression,” suggested Scott. “PPD. I prescribe lots of sleep, a good cry, and a new project.”

“Okay,” he called through the window. “I’m ready. Tell me about the heartbreak.”

“I don’t know how,” said Dina.

“No.” Dina shook her head. “It’s not just PPD. Not really. I guess I just feel like…”

“Can’t hear you,” returned Scott, even though he could. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to hear her if the house had been full of soundsucking audience members, so it was good practice.

She trailed off for a moment and Scott waited, expecting the pause to lead up to some suitably magnificent, theatrical moment.

“Hey listen,” she said unexpectedly. “Did you know that Lisa’s studying to become an oncologist?”

“I said,” called Dina, projecting beautifully, not shouting, “that I don’t know how.”

“Yes you do,” muttered Scott. “Can you move… a little bit more to the right? Wait, wait, not that far, stop. Um, back a little…yeah, right there.

Perfect. Hold that. Thanks.”

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“What?” Scott stared. “Uh, no, I didn’t.”

“Neither did I,” announced Dina, sighing. “I didn’t know that she was in medical school, and

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FICTION : Arielle Seidman

I didn’t know that Tom had once been in a swing band. I didn’t know that Maria was getting married in March, or that Ahmad was planning a trip to Taiwan, or that Jessica had once published a book of poetry. I feel like…like maybe I don’t actually know anything about the actors who I’ve been working with for almost three months now.”

passionate people, the kind of people it’s really worth getting to know. You share some incredible artistic moments, baring your soul for each other onstage in a way that makes you genuinely feel like you’ve made a powerful connection. You can really fall in love with a person in the theater. I think I fall in love with each and every one of my actors every time we put up a new show. You know them, you love them, you’re endlessly emotionally intimate with them…and then it’s all over, suddenly, and they’re gone.”

Scott raised an eyebrow.

“You obviously,” he said, “know tons about them. More than me, apparently.”

Scott, who’d never spent a great deal of time with any of the actors, wasn’t certain what to say.

“I read all of that on their facebooks,” Dina informed him.

“They didn’t tell me.

They didn’t think it was important for me to know, because… well, because after tonight, after the curtain closes and after strike we’re just not going to matter to each other anymore.”

“I’d like to ask Tom out for coffee and pick his brains about the latest Tarantino movie,” said Dina. “I’d like to take Maria out for karaoke and find out what kinds of drinks she likes and what sorts of silly things she does when she’s tipsy. I want to go to every show that Lisa is ever in, and I want to cheer her on one day when she finally gets to play a villain. I want Ahmad to send me photographs from his travel adventures, and I want to stay up all night online talking to him about the crazy stuff he’s seen. I just…I want to be a part of their lives forever in the really important way they’ve been a part of mine for the last three months, but I know that I won’t. It felt like a real connection, but it was only a stage connection, and they’ll make others, with other people, and

Scott shrugged. He wasn’t entirely certain where any of this was going, but at least he’d finally gotten the spot centered on Dina’s face.

He was surprised to discover, now that he could see her expression in the light, that she really did look just a bit sincerely lonely.

“Theater is so wonderful and horrible that way,” she was saying. You meet such incredibly

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FICTION : Arielle Seidman

so will I…and right now, when we’re all about to celebrate closing a really stellar production together that feels so insane. Right now it feels like it’s supposed to mean something permanent for us.

Do you get what I’m trying to say?”

Scott was reflecting on the fact that the Forest of Arden was alive again, in that moment.

Dina had somehow brought it back to life when she’d “bared her soul,” as she’d put it. Dina had an energy, a vivacity and an urgency to even the way she moved her head or waved her hands that Scott had remarked on numerous times before, in multiple other productions. He’d watched her give opening night speeches and congratulatory, closing night notes. She was always alive. She lit up a room.

to drop a large cake that had what looked like “For My Cast” scrawled on the top in pink icing.

Jessica, alongside her, was somehow managing to carry three large bottles of Diet Coke at the same time.

Onstage, Dina was still smiling. As her actors all collected in the seats, she nodded and held out her arms to them.

Watching her then, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he understand a little bit of what she meant about falling in love with the theater.

“I’m ready,” she announced. “Places in twenty minutes!”

“Not everybody leaves,” he told her.

Dina smiled.

“Thank you, twenty,” chorused the cast enthusiastically, almost in unison.

She probably had more to say. She usually had a lot more to say, but at that moment Scott heard the theater doors open and the actors began trickling in.

Scott watched while the actors headed off in the direction of the dressing rooms, and left Dina alone on the stage, still smiling. It was sad, now, and he felt it.

“Hey, Dina, my beautiful girl,” declared Ahmad, flopping into a chair in the front row and depositing his makeup bag on the floor. Are you ready for our last hurrah?”

Stage managers may not have hearts, but nobody enjoys watching someone they love feeling lonely.

Maria and Tom were on their way in together, apparently locked in a very intense private conversation. Behind them, Lisa was trying not CANYONVOICES

For more information on author Arielle Seidman, please visit our Contributors Page.

SPRING2016

FICTION : CLAYTON SMITH

Love in a Place Like a Forest

By Clayton Smith

“I love you,” Lucius whispered tenderly, brushing his fingertips gently over the scarred, rigid bark of the old maple. “I love you, tree.”

“Please, you must go,” begged the maple, “for I am a tree, and you are a human, and you are making me very uncomfortable.”

“Tree,” Lucius whispered, tears glistening through his shuttered lids, “do you not love me in return?”

“I know,” sighed the maple. Its voice was slow and sweet, amber sap on a spring afternoon.

“I know well of your love for me.

But you must not stay.”

“I must not go,” Lucius countered.

He pressed his cheek against a knot on the trunk, letting the smooth, rounded knob knead a depression into the pouch of his skin.

“I am yours, and you are mine. My devotion to you is eternal, my love.

Our story will inspire romances for all time.”

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“I do not love anyone. I am a tree. And also, I do not talk. You are a crazy person, Lucius. I implore you to seek treatment.”

And with that, Lucius wept bitterly against

the maple, for his heart was broken, and because the boulder near the river had said the exact same

thing.

Tree Faces by Gabriel Evans.

Please visit the ARTWORK section for more work by this artist.

For information on author Clayton Smith, please visit our Contributors Page.

SPRING2016

FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

Memorias de la Tierra

By Franco Strong

T

Tamayo listened and heard nothing.

But maybe that was the prayer: a dense, monolithic silence.

he votive candles flickered with the light taken from a remembered dream. An image of the Virgin of Guadalupe sat atop the altar with her heavy gaze perpetually searching the earth for the son she had lost. There were other faces though, hidden amongst the blooming marigolds, photographic portraits all colored with the same somber grey. The outlines of their features—strong jaws, wide eyes, linear brow lines—seemed to be pulled

by Time’s eroding fingertips.

her hands were both rough and soft at the same time, and how her soothing touch was the only thing that could send him to sleep on certain restless nights. Maybe her voice was already there, alongside the others, murmuring to not be forgotten on this day, All Soul’s Day, Día de los

Tamayo kneeled in front of the altar and uttered a prayer to those faces, his ancestors. He imagined that the purifying salt atop the table was only a collection of dried and forgotten tears. Incense dripped into the air and in between the bending and shifting wisps of smoke.

Tamayo heard whispers, sighs, moans, but they were faint and unclear as though the voices were coming from the opposite end of the desert expanse.

Tamayo wondered how far his own words could travel, if those on the other side of Death could hear his prayers. His voice didn’t need to travel that far, he only wished that it would reach his disappeared mother so he could tell her

Muertos.

A voice, heavy and human, called out to Tamayo and he lifted his eyes to see his abuelo standing in the doorway. The old man always stood a little taller in the shadows of nightfall, as though once the oppressive weight of the sun was gone, his spine straightened out to its true length.

“Hijo, come. We have work to do.”

“Tonight?”

“Sí,” the old man said and walked out of the doorway, the orange candlelight making his image linger a moment longer. The old man never spoke much and Tamayo never asked many questions. Tamayo trusted the old man, and he trusted the old man’s silence even more.

that even though he loved his abuelo he didn’t want to live with the old man any longer. He wanted to tell his mother that he missed being with her, in her arms, how her hair smelled like flowers, how

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He peered up at the Virgin Maria and the other nameless faces upon the altar, and they seemed

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

to beg him to stay, to hear their stories, as if they had recovered a little life from him and a second death awaited them once they were alone and forgotten.

the torrents of cold water that must have flowed through at one time. Tamayo only knew his grandfather had made a living as a ranch-hand his whole life, and if the old man stopped working his hardened hands would probably dissolve and be reclaimed by the parched soil, the same soil which had forged them with its inexhaustible sand and dirt.

The old man was already waiting outside in his rusted pickup, the engine wheezing in the placid blue air of night. They drove off, two men, one old and one young. Somewhere along the way, Tamayo lost track of their sleepy town, the constellations of street lamps, the empty highway, the silent side streets, and he found himself on a crumbling road that trailed up a bald hillside. The headlights picked up the slowly swaying path, the curves a vague dance that only the hillsides knew. Low-lying, dead brush protruded from the otherwise barren soil and Tamayo imagined that those leafless branches were the hairs of a giant beast which hibernated just beneath the earth.

They waited longer, Tamayo walked in circles to keep his legs warm, and time seemed to lurch directly alongside the light breeze.

The old man lifted a finger to the distance and said, “Beyond those hills is Mexico. You can’t see it, but it’s there.”

Tamayo had heard the whispered rumors about that place, that his mother had crossed back over the prismatic, crystalline frontier and she’d probably never return. His fragmented thoughts coalesced and he wondered what kind of place Mexico must be, where women drift in only to be swallowed whole and never heard from again.

The old man parked the truck at the end of the paved road, then he walked a little farther off with Tamayo following, the ancient gravel sighing beneath their feet. The old man carried a small basket and Tamayo could smell the aroma of warm tortillas. They stopped at the edge of a vista overlooking the scattered light below.

Tamayo whispered that the pockets of light looked like pools of water, maybe small oceans with invisible, black waves rippling through them.

“Our blood first simmered over there in that black heap. It still simmers to this day. You can hear her prayers sometimes, carried through the winds and the rains,” the old man said.

Tamayo listened and heard nothing. But maybe that was the prayer: a dense, monolithic silence.

“Do you think Mama is there, like they say?” he asked.

“I’ve only seen the ocean once,” the old man said, his voice course like burning embers were lodged in his throat. “But I’ve known her cousin, the desert. It’s a waterless ocean, a sea of stones.” The old man was quiet for a moment.

“After a lifetime you learn to love it in your own way.”

“We pray for everyone on All Soul’s Day,” the man answered, “even those that are lost.”

Images seemed to rise from the earth and saturate Tamayo’s mental landscape, his mother’s soft face, her hair, then a deep chasm that slowly opened like a sleepy eye, and a pupil that was filled with an ancient, granulated black.

“It’s pretty,” Tamayo said. He thought about the old man and all those memories that must reside within that leathery, sulfuric skin of his. It was like peering at a dry riverbed and imagining

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

The lights below and the stars above floated and danced, both pulled by the same invisible tide.

He wondered how many lives these lights had presided over, indifferent witnesses to the sufferings of those below. Then, for a moment, the faint scent of incense pressed against Tamayo’s nostrils, followed by the sound of hooves beating and dragging against the earth, but those noises seemed hollow, as though emanated from the shifting westerly winds more so than any real point in time.

“I see. Her legs,” the old replied. “She needs rest. Come down and I can help you unsaddle her.”

The rider hesitated and didn’t move.

“You don’t recognize me,” the old man said.

“It’s okay. Yo soy un primo de su papa.

You’ve been away from the ranch a long time.”

The rider looked over the old man and then Tamayo felt the heavy gaze fall upon him.

“How long has it been?” the rider asked.

“Ah, here we are,” the old man said.

“Mucho tiempo. Un año” the old man said. “But you have the papers, of course.”

A tall silhouette approached from out the darkness and Tamayo recognized the unmistakable outline of a man on horseback. The horse trotted with a severe limp, almost stumbling over itself. A stench of stale and dry sweat proceeded the lonesome rider, and as he came closer Tamayo made out a floppy Stetson resting on the rider’s back, gold yet rusted button’s running down his legs, leather boots with crevices like veins, a frayed poncho over his chest with dark circles matted into the cloth like spots on aged wood. A thin moustache and high cheekbones graced the man’s face along with deep set eyes reminiscent of precious metal that hasn’t been mined yet.

Desert dust covered his whole body.

The mysterious rider nodded his head. “Sí.”

“Come, we’ll help you get them to su padre,” the old man said.

The rider dismounted from his ailing horse, which let out a deep, asthmatic breath. Tamayo peered at the rider and by the light of the moon he saw a face, young, barely on the cusp of manhood, yet vaguely familiar somehow, a resemblance to Tamayo’s own face but unfamiliar also, like he was peering through the shards of a broken mirror.

“Who is he?” Tamayo whispered to his abuelo.

Tamayo’s abuelo spoke in an even-keeled Spanish to the rider, “Ella is muy bonita,” he said and stroked the taut neck of the brown stallion.

The old man lay an almost skeletal hand upon Tamayo’s shoulder, “He’s one of those lost souls we pray for on this day.”

“Ay sí, pero her legs are hurt,” the rider said.

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

to their own land, foreigners of both the body and soul, motherless nomads. They tried to get along, make a life as they always had, but other settlers questioned the legitimacy of Israel’s family properties: a massive ranch whose only demarcations were the natural wrinkles of the earth. Israel’s padre, too old and too proud to leave his land, had sent Israel to ride into Mexico and retrieve the official documents that would justify ownership and the family’s right to live on the ranch they had always called home.

The rider faced them and asked, “Your hijo?”

“My grandson, Tamayo. Your distant primo,” the old man said.

“Israel. Mucho gusto,” the rider said with an outstretched hand, scars running across his knuckles.

Tamayo took the man’s grip and an alien sensation tore through his body, like infinite grains of sand and stone penetrated into his skin, burrowing itself in his arteries. He felt the languished desert sun burn in his chest, shrieking echoes clawed through his ears, a coldness cleaved through and severed his psyche in half. He saw them with innocent eyes, crystalized calamities, memories that weren’t his own.

The sun and its endless caresses of warmth seemed to conjure a dream within Israel’s exhausted mind, one of stars collapsing, an ocean evaporated, documents and papers written with the shifting sands in a language he didn’t recognize. The dream passed and Israel knew it was time to rest.

* * *

Inocencia, his horse, was strong but he could sense her muscles stiffening with fatigue. He remembered the words of his father: horses are like women, treat them right and they’ll keep you alive.

He crossed over the border, that prismatic frontier of dry lands, the terminal point of two worlds: the United States and Mexico. The border-town was sleepy, a prevailing unconsciousness extruded from the peoples’ faces, similar to those early-morning dreams one has just before awakening.

Once he set up a small, makeshift camp he watched the sun fall as though it was tired of holding up the weight of the sky.

Israel pushed past the town and rode farther along into the depths of the forsaken lands.

Here, the thirsty mountains loomed a little closer in order to carefully examine the solitary figure riding along their stone ribs. It felt like he had been through here before, as though he were also crossing that nocturnal frontier within his soul towards some preordained rendezvous on the other side of the horizon.

Long, symmetrical rows of crops lined the hillside and horizon, a signal that Israel was leaving behind a solitary expanse and entering the lands of other men. He rode past a crumbling church with men lazily working as though their limbs, faces, and bodies weren’t their own, trying to reconstruct a distorted skeleton of walls and empty windows.

He arrived at the center of the small town around midday, the sun at its apex and the town devoid of shadows. Dust covered everything, the adobe walls, tiled roofs, iron bars, windows, and porticos. Even the townspeople’s faces couldn’t escape the omnipotent granules, they

Israel’s family used to call this land, Mexico, their country. But an invisible incision had been freshly sliced into the earth. After the war with the Norteamericanos, Israel and his family found themselves stranded in Alta-California, strangers

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

were there, between that old woman’s wrinkled eyelids, and here, beneath this young man’s tongue. The thin film of sand was a reminder that any lives built atop the exiled lands were condemned to Time’s amnesic gaze.

mind wasn’t sure if he had seen the crumbled walls only once before or a hundred times.

That night Israel lay awake in bed. Acclimating to the world of men is difficult when one has found the ocean of solitude between the desert and the sky. Outside the thin window, he heard voices, murmurings of the town,

The official governmental building was adjacent to the central square, which wasn’t more than an open space with a few dead plants and one dismal, leafless tree in the center. Israel tied up his horse, and then once inside the building he spoke to an older gentleman, explaining the situation, the official documents required, who his father was (he was well known due to the sheer size of the family ranch), and the correspondences they had with their former country’s government.

Acclimating to the world of men is difficult when one has found the ocean of solitude between the desert and the sky.

He idly listened a little longer to the sounds brought to his ear, before dressing and making his way to the stables out back where Inocencia was resting.

She too seemed uneasy with this night and its noises. Israel patted the mare’s thick neck and whispered sweet and soothing words into the animal’s ear.

She was the only connection Israel had to his home, the ranch, and its crusted hillsides he knew so well growing up that they were firmly embedded within his soul. He could almost see

The older gentleman said that yes, they had been expecting the young sir form AltaCalifornia, the paperwork would be ready in one, maybe two days at most, governmental bullshit, you see, and leaned his heavy body closer to Israel.

“The matter of time is important,” Israel said.

“They’ll have it ready when it’s ready,” the man shrugged, “governmental bullshit.” Then he told Israel to enjoy this small town, that he would personally see that Israel found the finest accommodations, some lodgings where the young man could get some well-deserved sleep.

all the faces of the ranch, tías and tíos, hermanos, abuelos, nephews, cousins, all the faces that passed through their land, their features slight variations on the same theme because they were forged by the same blood, sun, and history. He envisioned his father, the

Israel agreed, helpless to do otherwise. He retrieved Inocencia from outside and followed the man to the lodgings across town. Once again, the outline of the ruined church reappeared in Israel’s view and his sun-poisoned

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then a woman singing a corrido about a drunken hero who buried his dead wife in the desert, but the sleek and slender body of the woman was actually only a large stone, and the man had never loved anyone in his tired life because the desert, that overbearing and jealous mistress, loved him too much and she would never let him out of her labyrinthine grip.

old soldier, riding atop his caballo with his perpetually loaded rifle because the old man was still at war, with time, with nature, with his own soul. He envisioned his mother with her

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

stoical gaze, which always peered into the empty spaces of life’s shattered reflection.

Could she see him as he was, a young man, tired, hungry, lonely, and maybe a bit older now because his soul allowed the bitter cold of the desert night to enter in? A fleeting, transparent notion crept across Israel’s mind, that his loved ones had forgotten him the moment he cleared the border.

“Sí,” Israel said, then added, “It isn’t safe for a woman to be out alone. People might get ideas.”

He whispered a prayer into Inocencia’s ear, “Bring me home, querida,” before leaving to rest once again.

“No, I guess you aren’t alone now,” Israel said.

The woman laughed and moved closer to Israel.

“Everyone in town knows me and they know I’m not that type of girl. They think I’m mad, but they know I’m not like that. And I’ve found you, so I’m not alone now, am I?”

Thin yet strong lips above an angular chin with soft and slender cheeks composed the young woman’s face. Her large and round eyes competed with the half-moon above. She was simply beautiful, but something in her eyes made Israel hesitate, as though instead of looking at the constellations in the night sky she peered into those black recesses of nothingness which separate the needlepoints of light.

He went searching for those nocturnal sounds he heard earlier, but the town was a semiconscious specter. Then, from out of the opaque night, a silhouette appeared and only a moment later did Israel hear footsteps.

The feminine outline spoke to him, her voice seemed like the fingertips of a cascading shadow: “Are you alone out here also?”

“May I join you?” she asked.

La Senal by Monique Munoz.

Please visit the ARTWORK section for more work by this artist.

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

Israel shrugged and they started along together.

“Any stranger that comes to his town is naturally searching for something they’ve lost,” she said.

“I can tell by your longer left stride that you are searching for a home. And the way your head tilts you’re longing for a mother.”

“I knew I’d find you,” she said. “It’s like I had remembered it before it happened, or I had read it somewhere.”

“You can read?” Israel asked, surprised that a woman of humble origins knew the writings of men.

Israel straightened his stride and stiffened his neck. “I have both, up North.”

The subtle wind seemed to laugh for her and she said, “No, not words. I read the same things everyone else does, the wind, the rain, the sun, all those things which carry the fate of men within them.”

“Then why are you here and not there with them?” she asked. “But what I mean to say is that you are motherless, without a land, an orphan to the hillsides with no dirt to call your own. Except maybe out there somewhere,” she pointed to the distance, “isn’t that so?”

“Ah, I see,” Israel said.

He didn’t answer and they walked a long stretch in silence, the town also densely quiet, like it was on the precipice of collapsing into the cold earth, as though someone else were imagining it, and the dreamer was ready to wake at any moment.

They walked along and she spoke more, about strange things, stories, the origins of this town, coyotes, empty graves, life, sickness, death, pyramids buried beneath the sand, the sun, the crumbled church, lost children. Israel tried to contemplate what she was saying but he lost her words as soon as she uttered them. Still, something in her voice was reminiscent of the hazy heat which woke Israel on summer mornings.

“You can go ahead and tell me about yourself or I can continue listening to the night and it’ll tell me everything I need to know about you,” she said.

He spoke a little about himself, about his family,

“We’re both a little lost,” she said.

the hacienda, how he was sent by order of his aging father, how he had traveled through the desert without speaking a word, yet he heard more voices than he could ever dream to count.

“You don’t know your town?” Israel asked and surveyed the adobe buildings flanking either side of them. His hand brushed against his knife, just to be sure it was still there. He had heard stories of conniving women who preyed on the souls of unsuspecting men.

“And they sent you alone? No tienes hermanos?”

“They have their own lives, families, wives, husbands, children.”

“No, I know this town well. It’s probably the only thing I’ll ever know. But us, you and I, we’re lost in a different way,” she said.

“They sent their youngest?”

“I’m not so sure,” Israel chuckled. “I was sent here. I’m supposed to be here.”

CANYONVOICES

“I’m not the youngest. There were others. But winters are cold and help is far.”

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The two had circled the town and they were returning to the stables. Her eyes seemed to contain another story within, but the voice was too far gone, drowned in the edges of her transparent irises.

whispered that soon she’d be free and out of the stable, amongst the open land where her muscles could stretch to their full length.

The wait seemed long and empty until the aquiline silhouette appeared. The young woman wore the darkness like a shawl draped across her shoulders. Maybe she only existed at night,

“I need to rest,” Israel said.

“I know. I’ll wait for you tomorrow, here, at sundown,” she said, and Israel agreed.

“You can kiss me goodnight,” she added, “I don’t mind.”

Israel leaned in and his lips pressed against warm flesh, inviting, soft and subtle like a thunderstorm a great distance away. Then her slight frame slipped into the tactile night, her body swaying to an ancient melody, and Israel was left alone with the ghost of a kiss that tasted so familiar.

a tangential entity to La Luna.

He attempted to retrace his steps from last night while the sun painted his skin with its vibrant vitality

“Not long,” Israel replied.

“Here, I made these for you,” she said and unwrapped a few warm tortillas from a bundle of cloth.

Israel bit into the warmed masa which melted and slid down his throat.

“Good?”

“Sí.”

The day leaked through Israel, one yellow, sunstreaked moment after another. The governmental papers hadn’t arrived when he checked in the morning, and he found himself with nothing to do except wander amongst the town once again. He attempted to retrace his steps from last night while the sun painted his skin with its vibrant vitality. During daylight the thirsty town appeared smaller and insignificant, as all things are when flanked by a gravel abyss and omnipotent sun above. In the nocturnal darkness of last night though, beside that peculiar woman, the streets had slithered into a labyrinthine coil.

She added, “I’d made a good wife if I had the chance.”

“Of course. Someday,” Israel said and took another bite.

“No, fate will have it otherwise. I’ll live like Our Virgin. She knows how similar we are.”

“You haven’t told me your name,” Israel said. “I thought about it as I slept last night.”

“You already know it. Maybe you dreamt it last night. It’s Maria. Now, let’s walk while we still have time.”

Droplets of white clouds diluted the blue sky throughout the day until the quivering horizon swallowed the last daylight. Israel visited Inocencia, brushed her coat down, and

CANYONVOICES

“How long have you been waiting?” she asked.

He let her lead and the streets seemed to snake into new possibilities, stretching and shortening

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

at will. They ended at the crumbled skeleton of the old church.

face, her skin allergic to the phosphoric glow.

Israel wondered if there was a point of congruence between the two of them, if a space within their souls overlapped, or if they’d always long for one another like the desert longs for its ancient ocean to return.

“Here again?” Israel asked.

“All paths, no matter where they are in the world, naturally lead to the river or a pile of debris, sometimes even both.”

Israel said he had never heard that maxim before. His thoughts turned to the small streams that ran through the hills of his family ranch during the rainy season, and how he had mistaken the sighing water for human voices when he was younger.

“Vamos,” she said. “There is nothing else to this town. Even if we search every day for a year, we’ll still find nothing.”

Israel didn’t mind, he could have followed this woman through the ghostly streets all night, but her hand, calloused and maybe even scarred, pulled him along.

She told him to Israel wondered if there was a point of “That’s how things eat, finish the rest of congruence between the two of them, if a are. You’ll find out the tortillas. “God space within their souls overlapped, or if for yourself, one knows you won’t they’d always long for one another like the day” she said and have any more desert longs for its ancient ocean to return. home-cooked food.”

then continued on, telling the story of how the church

They arrived back where they started, collapsed, how some said the walls were sunk somewhere outside the stables where Inocencia by an old woman, others claimed a child had slept. Israel thanked her for the food along with opened her mouth and swallowed it, still others the walk and her stories, and he began to say were adamant that it was simply the weight of more but she interrupted.

forgotten sins.

“You don’t have to say, but I know you “And which do you believe is true?” Israel love me. I’ve heard it before, a remnant of your asked.

voice. And in my own way I love you, ever since you crossed that border up North. I know you “All of them. I wouldn’t tell them to you if I knew can never take me to those lands up there, but they weren’t true,” she said.

for tonight you can be with me,” she said with sad eyes, her vision focused somewhere beyond A current of light from the half-moon flowed Israel, behind, in the darkness that stretches onto everything below, except for the woman’s across time itself.

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

Once the two of them were in the room she began to undress, silently, her fingers and hands following some preordained action. The same wind which had carved out the hills and the plains also shaped her almost perfect curves, and he stroked her waist with trembling hands, yet the wispy sensations in his fingertips was familiar, a path he had navigated many time before.

The official documents had arrived at the governmental building and he had no trouble retrieving them. Inocencia’s muscles were well rested and relaxed, and Israel left the town simply like a whisper.

The days didn’t pass by, rather, they replayed in a cyclical loop fueled by the sun’s shrieking heat. Hadn’t he already seen those hillsides, the ribs of the desert? Hadn’t he already passed that creosote and cacti, the charred navel-hairs of these plains? He kept the morning sun to his right, the evening sun to his left, and Inocencia’s nose pointed North towards the lands he had been born into.

“Pobrecito, pobrecito, my little lost angel. You haven’t been with a woman before, I know.” She kissed his neck. “Don’t be afraid, there is nothing you can do, I’m barren.”

No, she was an oasis of skin, flesh, and tangible scents. He pressed his body against hers, he embraced her supple skin, his salvation was there, within the diaphanous yet fractured edges of her soul. Her breath was a chorus unearthed from the dry soil, an echo finally arriving from years past.

Visions traversed over the backdrop of Israel’s mind, the dark and potent coffee his father drank, the crisp hiss of earth as it was being shoveled, water dripping off balconies after a storm, his mother’s joints that creaked like wooden walls on a cold morning. At nightfall he heard voices, the voices which whisper a man’s fate and cause time to exist and then pass on by. In the aquiline moments just before sleep, he thought about her, that peculiar woman he had loved briefly in that unconscious town, the strange and sublime stories that poured from her mouth. At times he still tasted the ghost of her intimately familiar kiss, and he wondered how much longer it would linger upon his cracked lips now that he was out here in the amnesiac expanse. Her warmth was near also, hovering beside him, extruding from her ephemeral body. He opened his eyes, his reveries disappearing once he gazed upon the dying embers of his campfire and the ocean of stars above, indifferent to his presence below.

“How many times must you perish in my arms?” she whispered.

Israel knew he loved her, maybe even at the simultaneous moment she loved him, the exact moment he stepped through the crystal frontier.

He loved her because she was barren, encompassing in her absence. He closed his eyes and an entire night sky floated through his head, the stars liquefied and dripped down to the dry plains below.

The warmth of the sun gently stirred Israel awake like motherly hands. Daylight filtered in through the window, illuminating the bed devoid of a woman’s flesh. Somehow Israel expected it, her absence at dawn, because she was a creature that existed within the lungs of the night. She could never live beneath the sun, and he knew it.

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The sun was renewed once again as Inocencia trotted along. Roads, trails, other towns should have crossed Israel’s path by this stage of the long journey, but the open landscape hinted at nothing except a continuation of its placid, beige coloration. His food was gone, the final droplets

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of water sloshed through his canteen, and Inocencia hadn’t lapped up anything to drink in days. The papers he had been sent to retrieve were still stowed away safely within a wooden box and the tough leather of his saddlebag, the ink and paper thrummed with life and gained weight the farther he pushed towards the horizon. He dreamed of casting the papers into the lifeless sand and riding off, Inocencia in full gallop back home. No, he convinced himself he could survive these lands with the papers intact. He recalled the words his mother spoke to him ever since he was a small child, that his family blood had been forged in the choking dust and heat, that it was an inseparable part of his soul.

this pace they’d make it home in a few short nights, the work finally finished and his homecoming complete, a son worthy of his own name. His exhausted muscles were on the verge of shattering and his starving stomach was gnawing into his ribcage. He shed those agonizing thoughts and left them behind to the deprived earth. Across the infinite sands there were people, loved ones awaiting him, those who would appreciate the fresh wrinkles carved into his face. His poncho trailed behind and caressed the wind as he kept Inocencia moving across the night.

Across the infinite sands there were people, loved ones awaiting him, those who would appreciate the fresh wrinkles carved into his face.

Two loud, jerking snaps tore through the air. The pounding hooves ceased instantly, Inocencia shrieked. The boundless night halted, an absolute transparency overcame Israel’s mind. The desert whispered chorus of secrets to him, a revelation unfolded, and he saw each mountain, each forgotten crevice, each grain of sand, each thistle and thorn with perfect clarity, the images composing a panorama of desolation.

Then he felt himself fall to the earth, his brittle body pummeled into jagged stones, his chest almost collapsing in on itself. He lay there, face down and cheeks bleeding, huffing the grains of sand that clawed at his parched throat. He slowly rose to his feet and attempted to brush off the dirt which clung to his body, trying to reclaim his skin as its own. His right arm and shoulder dangled uselessly, broken in more places than he could count.

He dismounted and rested Inocencia in the shade of a rock outcropping. It was better to only run her at night from now on, when the cooler, blue air reinvigorated exhausted lungs. He looked across the dead plains and laughed at the shimmering, false water of the distance. With his right hand against the butt of his pistol he whispered to the cracked earth that he wasn’t that dumb, that he knew her tricks well enough. His voice clawed its way from out of his body as he cursed himself, then aimed.

One, two, three, gunshots disappeared into the phantom waters of the distance.

Inocencia’s stride stretched across the nocturnal abyss, galloping along, chasing the silver mist cast by La Luna. He had found a path earlier in the day, a forgotten path overgrown and barely visible, and he hoped it lead to somewhere, a town, a village, the cool waters of a river. Crisp

Behind, a few paces back, lay the massive body off Inocencia, her hind legs kicking and scrambling, hooves scraping against the dry earth. She whimpered in pain and attempted to

air with azul edges blew across his face and sliced open his brittle lips. If Inocencia kept up

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

stand but her unsteady legs gave out and she buckled with a deadening thud. The whimpers continued, air siphoning out of her lungs as she lay inert. Israel drug his own wounded body towards his horse, his refuge, his sole connection to his home and his youth. The hazy dust-cloud between Israel’s temples cleared long enough for him to examine Inocencia, and his fingers brushed upon her broken and mangled front legs. She couldn’t go on, her stride would never return, her terminal point had been reached, here, on this lonely patch of land.

flared nostrils. She huffed a few more heavy breaths. She wouldn’t make it to the morning.

Regret and unfulfilled memories settled over Israel, he couldn’t give her one last sunrise, one last glimpse of the open land she had been born and raised to traverse. He unfurled his poncho and spread it over her head along with her eyes, those brown marbles that absorbed the mute heavens. The muzzle of the pistol briefly caught the silver light of the moon, trembling as Israel pressed it against the poncho. A single salvo ruptured the night before the opaque silence returned.

With his one functioning hand Israel stroked the neck of the animal he had loved like a member of the family he was desperately trying to remember now. She peered at him with her primitive eyes, terrified, unable to comprehend the numb cruelty of the night. Her shuddering hide calmed after Israel whispered words into

Israel grabbed the box of cherished papers with his hand, the left hand, the good hand. He staggered on, his aching body desperate to leave the negative expanse of land, sky, and the invisible incision of the horizon that separates the two and keeps the entire world aligned.

Fleeting visions crossed the desert of his mind, forgotten as soon as they arose, fragments of lights, shards of sounds, voices, hands, warmth.

Heavy feet barely slid over the sand, dragging dust along, each step seemed to cost him another lost night of his life, yet he lumbered on.

How many steps had he taken, how many nights had passed? He peered behind to see how far he had gone only to gaze upon the limp outline of Inocencia still close, just barely out of reach.

The desert wouldn’t give him up.

her ears, “It’s okay, relax, I’m here. Niña bonita, estoy aquí.”

A throbbing pain swelled along the right side of Israel’s shattered body and he kneeled down.

The night churned in its indifference as Israel nestled Inocencia’s head into his lap.

“You did good. You’ve always done good,” he said. “It’ll be over soon. Just rest, amor, rest.”

He muttered a dry curse to the placid stars above, the points of light that traced out every constellation and mapped out the unknown fate of each man. Maybe this place, the desert and the sky, had seen too many deaths, knew the outcome of every man who wandered through with sin and innocence it his soul, and now this palace devoid of walls or windows had no use for the suffering of men.

The wind picked up and whispered a hymn to him, low at first, then it gathered into a chorus until he heard voices, distinct murmurings, and they relayed stories to his ear, about how he was meant to stay here, how he had always been here, year upon year the same fate, voices like his mother’s, his father’s, the woman from the sleepy town that he loved only in the dead of night, and even more voices, familiar, always familiar with their prayers calling to him.

A warm liquid seeped into Israel’s lap and for a moment the thought it was he blue night itself spreading across his skin, but the sensation was too warm, too thick. His fingers followed the droplets up towards the source: Inocencia’s

CANYONVOICES

The dry earth, anxious for her ancient ocean to return, swallowed the saline droplets that fell to

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FICTION : FRANCO STRONG

her, her thirst quenched for the night. Opaque silence settled once again.

led her off, the two of them, a lost son and a crippled horse, disappeared into the night.

The rounded outlines of moisture vanished in the heat of the sun’s rising tide.

Tamayo peered up at his abuelo but the old man kept gazing into the darkness as though his eyes gathered those things that one only sees in old age. The box of papers within Tamayo’s hands seemed to yawn alongside the cool air.

* * *

Tamayo pulled his hand back from the caballero and the crystallized memories retreated into the night. He peered at the rider, Israel, and saw a face covered in dust, cracked lips and a sadness in his eyes that was washed out in the misty moonlight, yet Tamayo recognized all of these features as his own, like a reflection of his face filtered through a corroded mirror.

“I saw things, Papa. Strange things,” Tamayo said.

“Yes, you’ve seen the delicate tragedy that christened out blood. It’s our collective memory, our collective fate. We become lost, Tamayo, always.”

The familiar voice of Tamayo’s grandfather broke in, “You must be tired, very tired.”

Tamayo opened the box and the brittle wood exhaled, but inside were no papers, no documents, only a pile of sand that sifted between Israel’s fingers, warm somehow, reminiscent of a mother’s caress. Images cascaded through his mind and he thought of her, her voice, her hands, her hair that flowed like a riverbed, her body and flesh the consistency of sand, her eyes the consistency of gravel. She was still out there, across the sea of stones, that ocean devoid of water. He could still hear whispered traces carried over by the warm winds.

“Sí,” the caballero said.

“Are you hungry? We brought you food,” the old man said and handed a few tortillas to the caballero.

“Me estoy muriendo de hambre. I can’t remember the last time I ate,” he said as he bit into the warm masa. “I just want to see my mother and then sleep.”

“Sí, she has been waiting for you. You can give us the papers and then go on and rest. We’ll take them to your father.”

They waited a long time upon that vista, two men, one old and one young, one searching for a mother, one waiting for a daughter.

“Muchas gracias,” Israel said, digging out the small wooden box from the worn leather saddlebag. He handed the papers to Tamayo who held them with uneasy hands.

“I don’t think she’s coming, Papa,” Tamayo finally said.

The old man shook his head. “No. We’ll pray for next year.”

The old man broke in and asked, “Did you see any others out there, also returning? A woman, lost amongst the border, searching for her son?”

Tamayo followed his abuelo. The rusted pickup gurgled to life and they began their descent back downhill.

“No, there were no others. The desert is a lonely place,” the rider said, then he walked away. Dark splotches littered his torn poncho and the gold buttons of his pants shifted like reptilian scales.

He lay a hand upon his horse’s thick neck and

CANYONVOICES

For more information on author Franco Strong, please visit our Contributors Page.

SPRING2016

FICTION : MORGAN BILLINGS

Dennis

By Morgan Billings

T

he house is small and weather beaten with chipping tan paint and creaking shutters in the same shade of green as Kermit the Frog. None of the shrubbery is alive and the burnt brown grass is decorated by borders water dyed cement, of the cracked and unsafe variety; but there are two fair skinned, towheaded boys dancing around barefoot on the spiked blades and mud lakes playing war. Their mother is standing just inside the matching green door watching her young sons streak each other’s faces letting out battle cries, only shaking her head or pausing her speech when DJ, the oldest, picks up the leaking hose and turns its blast onto his brother who merely toddles backwards narrowly avoiding falling into one of the larger puddles that have formed. Her hips are jutted forward and her head careened at an odd angle, sandwiching the receiver to the corded phone between her ear and shoulder while she plays housewife and folds laundry. The man she is talking to is not her husband. Her husband hasn’t been around for two years. He’s never seen a single one of DJ’s baseball games.

He’s never even seen the toddler waddling around the burned out yard in too loose hand me down denim shorts and striped tee shirt.

screaming, whining, crying emanating from her children and DJ is not pleading or offering increasingly pitiful excuses to explain the situation. She looks up from the uniform folds heaped on top of the ironing board that really just serves as a portable desk. Snap. They are sitting: Tommy butt down in the mud and DJ carefully on the backs of his ankles. They are breaking apart twigs and dipping them into the gooey tacky mud creating small structures to fill a miniature village with pseudo houses. She breathes deeply and relaxes her shoulders. No one is crying; they are just creating something worth fighting for. She smiles and continues listening to the man on the other end of the line talk about rent and cable and weather and normal and average and future while she watches the sun tan her children with no regard to the mud from between the folds of laundry and the gap of the door.

The street roars to life with the heavy panting and chugging of a motorcycle and the children stop. There’s the whirring rip of tires on asphalt and the children stand. And when the bike becomes a figure out of the shining gleam of metal they run, careful to pick up their pristine white sneakers, and stand in front of the door.

When the bike and its long-haired, towheaded rider screech stop on the drive way DJ pushes his little brother behind his back and brandishes his size 4 sneaker in one chubby five-year-old fist with his chin stuck out and chest puffed up.

The man on the phone has.

She stops talking, stops moving, stops breathing when she hears a snap from somewhere in the yard. There is no

CANYONVOICES

The boys’ mother lets the telephone slide away from her grasp and slap against the sheetrock

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FICTION : MORGAN BILLINGS

wall. She steps around the ironing board and out of the house to face her husband.

“I’m coming home Mary. It’s what happens when they release you. You come home to live with the bitch that’s been cheating on you since you’ve been gone.” He looks down at his kids.

“They don’t even know who I am, do they.” He is cold, fists are coiled at his side ready to lash out and whup everyone in the vicinity.

Dennis, for his part, does nothing. He sits on his bike like it’s a throne and waits. Waits for the other shoe to fall, for his children to realize it’s him, for his wife to run forth and weep for joy at seeing him for the first time in the two and a half years he’s been away since he was imprisoned.

Mary tenses. Tommy is scared; he starts crying; When nothing happens, he scoffs. Hops off of the silent kind of tears fall in fat lumps down his his bike with an undignified cheeks while he shivers. Mary grace and heaves the duffel he wants nothing more than to be was sent to prison with over his able to pick him up and Mary tenses. shoulder with a disgusted grunt barricade both of her children Tommy is scared; and postures. He looks at his inside the house. But Mary he starts crying; wife with narrowed blue eyes grew up in the desert, knows the silent kind of that match the skyline behind what happens the minute you tears fall in fat him with his lips set in the thin turn your back on a coiled up lumps down his lipped purse his mother’s make snake starved for attention, so after smoking her least favorite she stands still and tries not to cheeks while he brand of cigarettes.

start crying herself. DJ raises shivers. his shoe again.

“What are you doing here, Dennis?” Her voice is cold, “This isn’t your home anymore. guarded, measured. She is afraid but refuses to You’re not welcome here.”

show it in front of her boys. She cocks her hips The felon turns red, bristles, advances. “Like hell lazily to the side and folds up her arms, never it ain’t. Like hell I’m not!”

taking her eyes off of the man who will not A small white shoe spins through the air before divorce her. She has effectively blocked Tommy bouncing off of the man’s chest, knocking him from view.

into a shock-stunned stop. DJ reaches down DJ looks from his mother to the man standing in and quickly picks up his other shoe, poising it the drive way and raises his shoe.

for flight.

“Well, it’s really fucking good to see you too “Oh, so that’s what you’ve done? Turned my Mary. Love what you’ve done with the place. children against me?! Well listen here you bitch-“

Been too busy teaching my kids to forget their DJ launches his only other shoe, this time at his father to actually take care of anything? Or father’s face. It connects with a thump as the remember shit? You know, like the day your white rubber heel hits the bridge of his nose.

husband gets out of prison?”

For a few moments there is silence. Tension pools in the air like beads of sweat on a working man’s brow. And Dennis takes a step forward.

“What are you doing here Dennis?”

DJ takes a step forward postures so that his brother is firmly behind him protected by his little left arm now extended into a gate. Only his mother notices.

CANYONVOICES

“GO AWAY!” DJ rushes to the midway point in the driveway thrusting himself squarely between

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FICTION : MORGAN BILLINGS

his mother and her attacker. His little arms are splayed outward in attempt to himself become a wall.

“GO AWAY!” Tommy runs to the yard and throws houses from the village. DJ stands hi3s ground throwing curve balls out of concrete at the chrome work of his father’s bike.

His mother gasps out “DJ” and leans to try and grab him towards her. Tommy starts wailing.

The bike roars to life once again and Mary springs forward scooping up her son. “Get out of here Dennis. Please, just, just leave.” She is tired, with more than the weight of the world on her shoulders. Mud still flops down on the drive way from where Tommy sits safe in his puddle.

Dennis takes a step forward.

“GO AWAY DADDY!” He picks up sizable chunks of the crumbling concrete and chucks them at the man on the driveway. Tommy rushes forward careening around his mother to do the same, launching pebbles from chunky fists.

There’s the sound of a siren in the distance and the hum of a dial tone from where the phone hangs against the wall of the house next to the door hinge.

“GO AWAY!”

Dennis takes a step back. His children press forward, chipping away the concrete; DJ throws larger and larger pieces with greater and greater accuracy while Tommy tosses what remains left over and whatever bounces off of his father’s form right back at his waist.

Dennis lifts up the kick stand and backs out of the driveway. He does not turn to look back.

He is long gone by the time the police arrive in their shiny new car with white painted doors. He is long gone by the time his family folds in on itself and starts to cry.

The boys don’t stop screaming, don’t stop throwing, don’t stop chasing until the man is right back up on his motorcycle. Their mother stands in shocked silence on the side of the drive way, afraid to move an inch.

CANYONVOICES

For more information on author Morgan Billings, please visit our Contributors Page.

SPRING2016

FICTION : THIERRY SAGNIER

Dédé and the Snails

By Thierry Sagnier

O

n the second morning of vacation, a

‘Il est incroyable,’ Babette whispered, and Jeanot felt a stab of jealousy.

grand snail hunt was organized by the

parents, with prizes for biggest, bestlooking, most fearsome and sweetest disposition. The children were sent out, each with a shoebox with holes punched in the top, a sandwich and a bottle of lemonade, and told they could not return before

gastropod hissed when he approached it.

lunchtime.

“Escargotus Gégantus,” whispered Babette, In minutes, Dédé Bourillot proved his worth

who was proud of her Latin.

with his unerring ability to spot snails from yards away. As Babette and Jeanot lifted leaves, moved branches and crawled

Jeanot poked it with a stick and Goliath retreated into its shell, but barely. When Jeanot

through the shrubbery, Dédé scooped snails

picked it up, the shell seemed to vibrate. He

from the dewy grass as if drawn to them by

cleared a corner of the shoebox of other snails, deposited the monster. “Do you think he’ll eat

a magnet. Some he picked up, glanced at, discarded—too small, homely, discolored or

the others?” Dédé was breathing onion fumes

broken-shelled.

into the box and Jeanot moved away. But it was

“Il est incroyable,” Babette whispered, and

a good question; surely something as monstrous as Goliath—Babette had baptized it immediately

Jeanot felt a stab of jealousy. He didn’t think Dédé was incredible at all, merely lucky, and

—would have cannibalistic tendencies.

how far could such a skill take you in life?

Dédé ran back to the château and returned minutes later with a bucket. He added leaves,

Dédé was inspecting a smallish specimen with a bright grey and yellow shell when Babette found Goliath.

torn grass, a few twigs and a couple of grayishbrown stones. He picked the snail up gingerly and put it in the bucket. Babette sniffed, “He’ll

get out, stupid!” but Dédé shook his head, led

The beast was so big she refused to touch it.

It was as large as her fist, and its antennaed

the two children to a crumbling outbuilding and pried a square of glass from a window. The pane

head thrust forward in unmistakable

fit neatly over the bucket. “Now we can watch

aggression. Its slime trail was an inch-wide rainbow, and Jeanot could have sworn the

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FICTION : THIERRY SAGNIER

what it does,” he said, “and he won’t escape!

In the château’s dining room the adults were

Come on, there has to be more like him!”

finishing dessert and fell silent when the children walked in. It smelled like butter and

There weren’t. Goliath was one-of-a-kind, a freak of French nature.

garlic.

Dédé emitted a frightening sound and

They took their trophies back to the château

moaned, “Goliath!” Jeanot spotted the pile of

and showed them to the adults, who marveled

empty snail shells on a side table. Babette

at the colors and were properly awed by

turned very white. “Vous les avez mangé? Nos

Goliath’s size.

beaux

The dentist

escargots?”

weighed it;

They had. The

Goliath tipped

little ones, the

the postal

big ones, the

scale at 40

giant one, all

grams.

the snails were gone,

That evening

devoured by

the children

the parents.

were taken to

Babette yelled,

the movies by

“Vous êtes

the nanny. It

tous des

was a small

horribles

theater seating

cons!!” She ran

no more than

from the room

100 and the

with Dédé and Jeanot trailing, all of them

featured film was Walt Disney’s Living Desert.

screaming, crying, noses running like faucets,

The room was stifling, redolent of Gauloise

stamping their feet on the ancient floors.

and Seita cigarettes, and the floor was sticky from a generation of chewed gum, ice cream

Dédé ran away that night. He emptied his

drippings and spilled Coca Cola. The children

school cartable of all the books he was

gasped at rattlesnakes, moving rocks that

supposed to read during the holidays but

traveled miles, scorpions and shifting dunes.

hadn’t, replaced them with two apples, a liter

The nanny was particularly taken by a flower

bottle of lemonade and a small bag of red

that bloomed once every decade, and she

onions. He also took a handful of toilet paper

spoke of this miracle during the entire walk

sheets, some matches from the kitchen and

home.

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the latest Mickey magazine.

SPRING2016

FICTION : THIERRY SAGNIER

It was mid-morning before anyone realized

children. The vacation was turning into a good

Dédé was missing. His father refused to worry.

venue for Latin.

“He’s always doing that,” said Monsieur Bourillot. “Every time he’s unhappy about

Dédé was gone the better part of the day

something, he runs away. He won’t go far. The

before Monsieur Bourillot acceded to his

last time he ended up at the patisserie down

wife’s demands that he call the police. Within

the street and cost us a small fortune in choux

the hour, two gendarmes arrived on bicycles.

à la crème. He’ll be back as soon as he gets

Both were unshaven, “Peasants in uniforms,”

hungry.”

muttered Monsieur Bourillot, who nevertheless gave an acceptable description of

Madame Bourillot was less cavalier. “I don’t know… The cook says he took some onions.” She shook her head.

“And he can last a long time with onions…”

The other parents favored

his vanished son. When asked why

It was mid-morning before anyone realized Dédé was missing.

Dédé ran away, Madame Bourillot explained the snail situation, and this seemed of great interest to the policemen. “Lots of snails here,” said the thinner of the two. “The wife and me, we go out in the morning after a rain or heavy dew,

calling the authorities. They

find a dozen or two and cook them

grilled Jeanot. Did Dédé

in butter and chives…” Monsieur

mention his plans? Did he say

Bourillot nodded, adding that in his

anything or talk to anyone? Was he really that

family, garlic was the preferred recipe, to

upset about the snails? Jeanot pleaded

which the fatter of the two lawmen agreed that

honest ignorance. He was surprised Dédé had

chives were wasted on snails, but garlic was

taken the future into his own hands and

exactly right. The men discussed this for a

thought if anyone should be upset, it was

moment before returning to the subject of the

Babette, who had first discovered Goliath.

missing child. Jeanot watched all this with mild interest and thought an important piece

Babette bawled more over the loss of the

of information was missing. “He has onions,”

snail, with whom she had bonded, than over

he said. “A little bag of them.”

Dédé’s predicament. She did sniffle that Dédé was a pauvre gosse, a poor misunderstood

The gendarmes looked at one another, and

kid whose mother and father should have

the thin one wordlessly mounted his bike and

known better than to behave as they did. She

pedaled away. The other rolled a cigarette

made no pretense of liking the Bourillots and

using yellow corn paper, puffed hard,

noted that anyone who would consume a

addressed Madame Bourillot. “Where did they

household pet was a priori and sine qua non

find the snails?”

monstrous and ipso facto unfit to have

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SPRING2016

FICTION : THIERRY SAGNIER

Jeanot and Babette led them to the exact spot

village with a leather lace dangling from his

where she’d come upon Goliath. The

mouth. He’s a bit strange,” he pointed to his

policeman squatted to touch the grass,

head and made a whirling motion with an

pronounced it too dry now for gathering

index finger, “but no onions. So I knew it had

anything but chiggers. Within 15 minutes, the

to be your child.” He looked immensely

other gendarme returned with Dédé riding the

pleased.

handlebars of the bicycle and looking slightly Monsieur Bourillot handed him a twenty franc

abashed.

bill which he refused, though he allowed that His mother hugged him; his father cuffed him

bicycling was thirsty work, particularly with a

on the back of the head.

passenger on the handlebars, and a glass of cognac would not be frowned upon.

“It was the onions, you see,” the thin gendarme said. “I saw your boy with some

Dédé, it turned out, had not gone far. He’d

other children; they were cheering him on, and

walked to the village, eaten his apples, and

it’s an unusual sight, a boy eating onions-not

drank the lemonade while sitting on the empty

something you see very often around here.

fountain commemorating the local dead from

Boys eat pears, cherries, apples…” He looked

four wars. He’d played with the boulanger’s

thoughtful, added, “Le petit Hercules, the

kids and was fed a ham sandwich by the

shoemaker’s son, eats raw

children’s parents, had gotten into a shoving

potatoes from time to

match with the son of the bistro owner,

time, and

eaten the rest of his onions one after

sometimes he’ll

the other on a bet and with the

wander the

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money he’d won,

SPRING2016

FICTION : THIERRY SAGNIER

bought himself a bottle of grenadine water

She didn’t talk to them the rest of the day, ate

and some nougat.

dinner in the kitchen, stayed with the adults until bedtime and retired to her room without a

“You struck a blow for the escargots,”

word. In the middle of the night she poured a

proclaimed Babette as she hugged him. “I am

glass of warm water over each of the boys’

so very proud of you. You’re like Spartacus in

midsections while they were sleeping. Neither

the movie! Sic Semper Tyrannis! Right, Dédé?”

Jeanot nor Dédé woke but both were horrified to have wet their beds during the night and

Dédé grinned happily, his father’s backhanded

neither mentioned it to the other. But, Jeanot

cuff forgotten. He was basking in the moment.

realized, somehow Babette knew.

Jeanot thought kids who eat onions probably didn’t get that many brushes with fame and so was only mildly resentful.

* * *

Two days later using a clear glass jar the boys caught a frog and of course dropped it in the small leather purse

The frog, the amphibian equal to Goliath, could have numerous uses, including being set free during dinner

Babette carried

looked harmless they went to mass. The château-owner wanted to show his guests the medieval chapel, an insignificant structure with a failing belfry and no stained glass. There were a dozen or so villagers attending, mostly shrunken women in black, made even smaller by their lowered heads and shawls.

Babette echoed the priest’s mutterings: “Gukka tamen orifice

everywhere. She screamed

dayo. In spiritutuem nabisco.” Latin, she had

and threw the purse in the air, spilling its

decided, would become her mother tongue.

contents (a brush, a stick of Wrigley’s chewing gum, a pencil with no eraser at the tip, a lace

That afternoon Dédé drowned in the pond. He

handkerchief, some copper centimes coins, a

did it quietly, without a fuss, holding a butterfly

tube of lipstick taken from her mother’s

net made from a broomstick, a length of

dresser, a tattered picture of the Holy Virgin

fencing wire and a large square of cheese

blessing a crowd of children as she ascended

cloth the cook used in the kitchen to make

to Heaven, and of course the surprised frog),

fromage blanc. He had made the net himself

and chased Jeanot, and then Dédé who was

after seeing swallowtails flitting near the pond.

slower. She caught him, slapped him hard

He’d also spied a large frog and was torn

once, twice, then a third time and called him a

between which one he should chase. A

pauvre crétin. Jeanot watched her fury with

butterfly, he sensed, would please Babette to

amazement. This was a Babette he didn’t

no end, particularly if he did not harm it. She

know.

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On the morning of a day that

would let it fly away, and Dédé thought that

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FICTION : THIERRY SAGNIER

would be poetic. The frog, the amphibian

feet away. The butterfly alit on a cattail, its

equal to Goliath, could have numerous uses,

wings moving nervously. Dédé balanced on

including being set free during dinner. Dédé

the stone, stretched out and swung the net

giggled to himself imagining the fracas. His

which caught the butterfly just as it was

Papa would cuff him again but the blows

escaping. He laughed, jumped in the air, lost

rarely hurt, mostly they glanced off his head

his footing, and dropped the net. The rock he

and he shook

was perched

them off. The

on was algae-

frog was

slick and he

worth the

slipped,

blow.

flailing his arms as he

Nearing the

went down.

pond, Dédé

The back of

held his

his head hit

breath, got on

the stone

his hands and

hard exactly

knees and

where his

crawled

father cuffed

towards the

him whenever

water. The frog had its rear to him, fat purply

Dédé did something wrong and Dédé was

green frog haunches resting on a lily pad not

unconscious before his face slid underwater.

ten feet away. Dédé could see its sides

The net remained afloat, its captive’s wings

moving in and out as the animal breathed.

beating weakly before it succumbed.

A swallowtail caught his attention. Dédé

The cook found Dédé floating in the pond.

conceived an ambitious plan to get both the

She didn’t panic. She waded in, grabbed the

butterfly and the amphibian.

small boy’s left foot and dragged him to shore.

She knew immediately that he was dead, her

He would nab the flyer, trap it in his shirt, and

farmer father had been an occasional

then scoop up the frog.

mortician, and as the village undertaker’s daughter, she had seen bodies laid out in the

He lunged and the swallowtail flitted away

barn prior to burial. On the family farm, death

over the pond. Dédé gave chase. The frog

was a commonplace event.

disappeared in the dark waters. With one quarry gone, Dédé concentrated on the other.

She picked up Dédé and cradled him in her

He stood and hopped onto a stone that broke

arms, amazed at how little the child weighed,

the water’s surface, then onto another a few

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less than a sack of flour, she was sure. The

SPRING2016

FICTION : THIERRY SAGNIER

water from his body soaked her bust and

Monsieur Bourillot nodded and followed her.

apron and she avoided looking at his face,

Proud of his culinary skills, he assumed the

though she’d noticed when she first pulled

cook was facing a gastronomical issue and

him out that he wore a small smile, the briefest

needed his advice. Two days earlier she had

of curls at the ends of his mouth.

asked how much ail they wanted in the escargot—but when they reached the kitchen

She walked to the kitchen because that was

she merely pointed.

where walking took her, no matter what the starting point might be, and she laid him

She put her coat on—she always hung it in

carefully on the big butcher block table that

the hallway so it wouldn’t smell of the day’s

smelled of pepper and parsley. She washed

cooking—and pretended not to hear Monsieur

her hands, arranged her hair, straightened her

Bourillot’s keening.

skirt and made sure her shoes were tied. She went to look for Monsieur Bourillot, found him

reading a newspaper in the big main room.

She approached him, leaned down,

For more information on author Thierry Sagnier,

whispered, “Monsieur, pouvez vous venir avec

please visit our Contributors Page.

moi?”

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SPRING2016

FICTION : RINAT HAREL

The Last Vase

By Rinat Harel

S

afe from the high winds, the fallen walls, the sheets of sky collapsing all around—afoot, he carried it in his arms, wrapped in an old coat. It was a fine relic; the last vase of its kind to have survived the turmoil intact.

The earth shook every so often, objects rained at random from all directions at once, balls of fire flared from underneath. Bright and warm like springtime blossoms, he thought, and hugged the vase closer to his chest.

Fewer people ran in the streets these past few days. He saw none today. Could these ruins be called streets? Their ashen breath pushed through his pores. Even the scrawny alley cats had vanished.

Through the shadows he slipped, taking cover when danger loomed. Though most shelters could not be trusted.

The air has been murky for weeks. The once familiar city had turned into a labyrinth. He might have already crossed it from east to west, north to south, a few times over. Or has he been circling the same neighborhood? Whenever he found any water pooled in the wreckage, he would suck the drops dry. He had yet to find any today.

Exhausted, he ducked into a pit and lay on the debris-littered ground; eyelids shut before his head met the ground, the vase cradled within his emaciated, curled-up body. His once spotless suit was now but rags splotched grey and brown, loosely hanging on him.

Had he fallen into deep sleep or dozed off for a few minutes, he could not tell upon awakening. He peered out from under the struck-down

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

FICTION : RINAT HAREL

tree that roofed over the pit. It is possible that nobody beyond these veils of acrid smolder had endured, he thought.

Was the vase still unharmed? He unwrapped it with a feathery touch. In the dim light his eyes followed the intricate, bejeweled ornaments. He brushed his fingers across the silky design, lingering on the embossed mythological creature, half-bird half-beast, whose name escaped him.

As smooth as a baby’s cheek, he smiled, and in one piece indeed. Twelve inches tall, adorned with cultural motifs, its value was immeasurable.

Recalling its former place atop a glass-protected shelf in the softly lighted hall, he knew keeping it out of harm’s way was now his responsibility.

But for what purpose, he wondered?

An earthworm pulsated beside him. He scooped it up. The creature hung from both sides of his open palm, tiny clumps of earth clung to its moist, plump body. Perhaps life underground remained unaffected, he shook his head in amazement. Tickled by the worm’s wriggling, a chuckle escaped his lips. The sound took him by surprise.

Once on the ground again, the worm squirmed away in a sinuous movement. He followed it with his eyes until it was gone. Sunk in thought for a long hour after, deep furrows formed on his brow.

He finally rewrapped the vase with his coat and crawled out, rising to his feet when he reached the open air. He looked up, trying in vain to trace a patch of blue sky, even a hint. Am I trapped in someone’s dream he wondered before he turned to resume his flight.

Where to, he knew not.

For more information on author Rinat Harel, please visit our Contributors Page.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

FICTION : SETH D. SLATER

How to Become a Straight A Student

By Seth D. Slater

S

uck up. This will absolutely, without a doubt, guarantee you, a death sentence.

However, if you manage to survive (by avoiding all of your peers who have threatened to electrocute, drown, shoot you in the face, decapitate, and then kill you) you will gain major brownie points with your teachers.

Bring your English teacher coffee and a doughnut for her morning class. She will take note of this act of kindness and reward it next time she grades one of your poems. Offer to wash your Economics teacher’s car. We’re talking a wash, wax, and interior detail. Take the car to your dad’s shop and convince him to put on brand new tires with rims that spin. This makes your teacher’s ‘85 station-wagon look sweet. Babysit once a week for your History teacher who has five kids and one more on the way. Even though his children are little savages and run around the house naked tattooed from head to toe in marker, you enjoy babysitting. You watch Barney and have seasons 1, 2, and 3, memorized. You decide you hate Barney. You throw every single Barney tape you can find in the fireplace. You blame the missing tapes on the pet hamsters who escaped from their cages after they were “liberated” by the little savages.

The parents are ecstatic with this news. You are too. You come back next Friday to find they bought Teletubbies. You quit.

goals are in life. You tell her you want to be a Jedi-master, are working hard on learning the “Elvish” language, and your greatest dream is to become a massive-blue Avatar named Tony. She laughs at your “sense of humor.” She doesn’t understand. You were dead serious. You order.

She gets a steak with mashed potatoes and gravy. You order chicken-strips with ranch off the child’s menu. You look across the room and see your ex-girlfriend. She’s with John, your best friend. You’re still in love with Kate. Kate broke up with you when you disappeared, going underground, after you decided to become a “suck up.” Kate doesn’t understand your need for good grades. You tried your best to save the relationship; you called, faxed, texted, emailed and FaceBooked. However, she wanted to see you “face to face.” You explained to her you were deep undercover, in your living room watching TV. It wasn’t safe to venture outside, as a so called “suck up.” So, she broke up with you. You now realize just how much you don’t like Hannah. You tell Hannah you have to go the bathroom. You make a quick exit, key John’s car, and drive to Blockbuster, leaving Hannah to find a ride back to her house half-an-hour away.

However, you did not quit without something secondary to fall back on. You begin to date the Principal’s daughter. Her name is Hannah.

Hannah’s hobbies are horse-riding, ballet, debate, chess, and writing long, complicated poems called “Haikus.” You play Xbox. You go out on your first date. She asks you what your

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The principal is not happy. He scowls at you.

You decide to quit basketball right before the

SPRING2016

FICTION : SETH D. SLATER

playoffs to try and focus on schoolwork. As the difficult topic. You call Lucky Charms and ask if star player, you feel entitled to being able to it is possible to interview Lucky. They hang up make your own decisions. Your coach is furious. the phone. After two hours of exhaustive, Your father is furious. You don’t care. You’re extensive research, you still don’t have enough getting straight A’s, but you still need to focus. information. You have no choice. You come to You stop going to practice and turn in your your last resort. You log on to Wikipedia and find jersey. You then begin to write all the information you need. You your senior paper. Your senior write the paper two weeks paper has to be “persuasive.”

Your friends laugh before it is due and spend the You have to prove a point. You at and ridicule you. remainder of your time in decide to prove that leprechauns constructive activity. You play You know the truth. Xbox.

may exist, however, only inhabit the deep, dark jungles of South You are a genius.

Your plan of “sucking up” isn’t America and white beaches of working so hot. The teachers, Fiji. You will explain, in depth, somehow, are on to you. Perhaps the Leprechaun’s history. writing them personal letters twice a week on However, you don’t immediately recall their how much they mean to you and how much you history. You decide to ask your twenty-four-yearadmire them and how totally awesomely old brother who lives in the basement and drinks amazing they are wasn’t the best idea. However, all day, what he knows about leprechauns. He after some consideration, you decide this explains that the leprechauns left Ireland after probably wasn’t what tipped them off. the Leprechaun Civil War. The Leprechaun’s democracy split after the Republicans and Someone must have ratted on you. You decide Democrats couldn’t agree on the legitimacy of not to give your teachers the laptops you had the Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot. On top of purchased for them for Valentine’s Day that you this disagreement, their economy went down bought with your college savings. You cut your the toilet. They were twenty-five trillion pots-ofhair short, bleach it, get cheap sun glasses, and gold-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow in debt. Thanks an earring. You drive to school and try to form a to their pink president, Otatta who suggested a new identity. Unfortunately, you couldn’t afford a stimulus package. What an idiot. You nod, all of new car. You try hard to convince everyone the this sounds strangely familiar. Good thing your car isn’t yours; you borrowed it from your cousin brother has a great memory. You thank your who moved to Italy to learn French because he brother and leave before he passes out.

was moving to Spain to teach Italian. That doesn’t fly. Your disguise doesn’t work. You are Your friends laugh at and ridicule you. You know disappointed. You stay up late, drink five redthe truth. You are a genius. Your thesis bulls in rapid succession, and listen to The Devil statement read like this: Leprechauns exist, Wears Prada. You decide you don’t like school. however, are extremely troubled and mentally You must retaliate. You take your shirt off, tattoo disturbed creatures, due to the lack of publicity yourself in marker, and run up and down the hall and global acknowledgement they receive. You screaming bloody murder like those little need to research. You go down to the library and savages. The police take you away. You are ask the librarian for books on Leprechauns. She expelled from school. You play Xbox. points to the children’s section. You check out

all the books you could find that even mentioned the word Leprechaun. You plow through the For more information on author Seth D. Slater, please books, taking notes, getting imperative direct visit our Contributors Page. quotes, and trying to truly understand your

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

FICTION : CHRIS FURRY

The Best Laid Plans

By Chris Furry

I

t’s a surreal feeling, being told you were going to die in such a sterile, cold environment. I've never really liked doctors’ offices, though before that day I'd never really had a reason to feel that way.

It's strange, the things you remember and the things you don't. I can't, for the life of me, remember what Dr. Trumbull said to me that morning, his exact words. I do, however, remember exactly what I had for breakfast and how it tasted, both when I ate it and when it came, unbidden, into the back of my throat and then into the small stainless steel sink in Dr. Trumbull's office. Two poached eggs, a slice of wheat toast, a piece of turkey bacon, two cups of black coffee, and a glass of fresh hand-squeezed orange juice.

It was delicious, the first time anyway, the second time I regretted the orange juice, its extra acidity burning my nose and stinging my eyes to tears. Of course, I remember the gist of what I was told, anaplastic astrocytoma, a high-grade brain tumor. The tumor itself is inoperable, but not as aggressive as other forms of glioma. These things I remember, but I can't recall exactly how he broke the news to me that I couldn't be cured, that I was going to die. I remember the pattern on his tie with pristine clarity, but the words are a blur.

abbreviated to their first letters as if saying "the C-word" might upset me less than saying "cancer." Some words become completely taboo and with them, any mention of their subject matter. In this realm of words, "death" is king and upon his brow lies the thorny crown of angst and regret. The worst words are the ones that people assume will lift your spirits, or brighten your mood, "hope," being chief among them. Hope is the darkest, foulest word that can be uttered in front of a dying person, precisely because they have none and to dangle it in front of them is cruel.

It’s astonishing how quickly bad news travels. I have told 11 people that I am ill, all close friends, or family. Since that time, I have received 39 "Get Well Soon" cards in my mailbox, none from anyone I'd told. I have been added to prayer chains in churches across town and across the country. A litany of well-wishers has called, dropped by, and written. More people have made contact with me in the last six months than I have spoken to in the last six years. Never, in all my 31 years, have so many people seemed so concerned with how I am feeling. I once had a flu so virulent, that I was hospitalized for four days and I very nearly died from the pneumonia I developed. During that time, I saw my mother twice, her and no one else. No homemade chicken soup awaited me upon my release, no generic Hallmark cards with somber pictures, emblazoned with "Get Well Soon," even though getting well was a possibility. No, four days on a respirator and

It's odd, the way things change when the prognosis is grim. People in your life start to treat you differently, not on purpose of course, but because they are walking on eggshells. Words become forbidden,

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SPRING2016

FICTION : CHRIS FURRY

then two weeks at home fighting back pneumonia in relative solitude.

The first 24-hours, I was in complete disbelief. I went home, put on my gym clothes, and worked out using my normal routine. I spoke to no one, stunned silence perhaps, though I rarely spoke to anyone at the gym. I went home that evening and ate a sensible meal, chicken most likely though that particular detail is as muted as Dr. Trumbull's words. When I woke up, I ate breakfast and got ready for work, but as I pulled my suit jacket on a thought occurred to me. I wasn't going to be going to Italy with my friends next summer, a trip we'd planned nearly a year before because I wouldn't be alive. At that moment, the weight of the situation washed over me, like a tsunami in the wake of an earthquake. I spent the next six days in various stages of emotional breakdown, manic hysteria; deep, dark depression, and everything in between. At last, I settled on one thing. The one thing that would make, or break me as I fought for precious time. My legacy.

What I have to offer to those I leave behind and what it says about me when I'm gone.

As my grandmother rallied, my mother nodded grimly in agreement. She stared at me as though she had never seen me, as if I were a stranger, but one that she loved fiercely. I had never seen her look that way before. She suddenly stood and engulfed me in an embrace that drove the fear from my heart, as quickly as it drove the breath from my lungs. She held me that way for a long time, when she finally pulled away she had stopped crying. Her eyes were a fierce crimson, puffy and dark around the edges, but her cheeks were dry.

“We’re not gonna quit, Greg. Ever. We’ll fight with you until our very last.” She ran her hand along my cheek, like she did when I was a kid.

* * *

The first people I told were my mother and grandmother, my mother wept as I expected she might. What I did not expect, was my grandmother’s reaction. She was angry, not at me, not at the diagnosis, or the doctor who gave it. She was angry at the unfairness of it, the sheer iniquitousness of a man my age being cut down by something so devastating. She vowed that we would fight, until there was no fight left.

As I sat in her small breakfast nook, I began to feel my spirits lift for the first time since I’d stumbled out of the oncologist’s office, a week ago.

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“I know, momma. I know.” I hadn’t called her that since I was a kid, either.

The next person I told was unintentional, the crushing weight of it forced the news from my lips, unbidden and unlooked for. Dr. Stephen Jennings was the principal at the school, where I had been filling young minds with Shakespeare and Harper Lee since I was 25. I was in his office, discussing my plans for the future of Ralph Waldo Emerson High School’s English program, when it burst forth from my lips. Slack jawed and wide-eyed he stared at me, a

SPRING2016

FICTION : CHRIS FURRY

mingling look of pity and horror wrinkling his features.

“Doesn’t make any sense, does it, Greg? My grandpa, rest his soul, was 94 when he shuffled off his mortal coil and he drank, smoked, and ate bacon. All on the morning he died. His whole life he was that way. Heart disease, but not the acute kind, the old and worn out kind,” a small half-grin creased his face, “Hey, uh, you’re not going to go all, you know, Walter White on me, are you?”

“I, uh, I didn’t even know you were sick, Greg.

Are, I mean, are you alright?” He quickly gained control of his facial features and his look was wholly one of concern.

“I’m fine, Stephen, thank you.

I’m not even really sure where that came from. I’ve only told my mother and grandmother.

I’m fine, really. So, about this novel selection for the ninth graders next quarter, I was

If I could reach just one of them, if I could change just one life, it was all worth it.

thinking Of Mice and Men. It fits the curriculum and it’s a great story.” My voice cracked and I choked back the burning emotion that was threatening to explode out of me.

material.”

He laughed, “No, I don’t suppose it is.”

“Greg, this, you know, it can wait. I mean, we don’t have to talk about curriculum right now.

What do you need?” He sat down across from me and folded his hands, every fiber of his body language screaming at me to talk to him.

***

A week later I realized that it was that exact moment, sitting at Stephen’s desk, that I knew what my legacy was. My kids, well, not mine I don’t have any, but my students. If I could reach just one of them, if I could change just one life, it was all worth it. That thought, that new-found purpose became my will to go on.

And I did. I spent the next three hours pouring out my soul to him, crying, screaming, cursing the iniquity of it all. To his tremendous credit, he sat there and listened, offering advice and condolences only when it was called for. When I was finally and completely spent, I chuckled.

I began targeted chemotherapy, along with radiation therapy, a few weeks after that day. To say I was unprepared for the changes it would cause in my body, would be a severe understatement. I was gripped by debilitating nausea, made worse by the fact that I was so tired I could hardly manage to claw my way across my bed and hang my head over the edge, where I had a five-gallon bucket standing guard. For days following my first treatment I was wracked with wave after wave of violent, gut-wrenching sickness and exhaustion like I

“What’s funny?” A curious expression clouded his face.

“I eat paleo, limited red meat, low dairy intake, high fiber but low or no gluten. I exercise four or five days a week and run at least 3 miles each of those days. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, nothing.

I’m healthy as a horse. I mean, besides the cancer.” I laughed harder this time.

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I barked laughter, dissolving into fits of hysteria. Tears streaming down my face, I finally calmed myself enough to choke out, “II’m a damn English teacher, Steve. Wh-What am I going to ddo? Wr-Write thesis papers for overworked grad students?

That’s not exactly ‘Breaking Bad’

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didn’t know I could feel and still be alive. As soon as I was able to stand however, I sat at my small dining room table and planned a lesson for my first day back. Three ninth grade periods, all of whom had been reading Of Mice and Men for nearly four weeks. I dove into my lesson plan as if it were a life raft, working for hours to make sure it was perfect.

Once the last surprised look had faded from the face of Danny Weller, who was a minute late as usual, I stood before my first period class and smiled.

“Okay, who has questions?” Thirty hands shot into the air, “About the book?” Thirty hands slowly returned to their desks, then slowly, as if unsure whether it was okay, a hand raised. I nodded at the owner of the hand, a short and rather bookish young man named Bryan Singleton.

I walked slowly and unsteadily into the dark, cold classroom the following morning. I was in pain, but determined to present a cheerful face for my students. Sitting at my desk, I began to go through my lesson plan again. Really, I was just killing time until my first period class arrived.

The door latch clicked open and my head snapped up, startling the young girl who had walked in.

“So, I don’t understand the title. I mean, there aren’t any mice in it, Lenny loves rabbits.”

I smiled, “The title comes from a poem by a man named Robert Burns. ‘The best laid plans of mice and men, go often awry, and leave us naught but grief and pain, for the promised joy.’

Can anyone tell me what that has to do with our story? Why Steinbeck might have chosen that title?”

“Good morning, Lisa, how are you today?” I smiled at the short, thin Vietnamese girl, who stared back at me, her surprised eyes magnified by the thick lenses on her horn-rimmed glasses.

Blank stares met my slow gaze. I was just about to ask the question a different way, when a hand slowly inched its way toward the ceiling. “Yes, Danny, you have an answer?”

“Mr. Ellsworth, you’re finally back! How are you feeling?” Lisa’s face brightened suddenly.

“I’m doing well. Are you ready for our discussion today?”

“Uh, yeah, well maybe, I mean-” Danny sputtered and his face flushed bright crimson, “Well, like, George and Lennie were working to get their own place, right? That was their plan, but no matter how hard they tried, they uh, well they couldn’t do it. You know, ‘cuz like, Lennie was, I don’t know.”

She fidgeted, hands absentmindedly playing with the hem of her t-shirt, “I think so, but this book confuses me. I’m not sure who the good guy is.”

“Does there always have to be a good guy? Very rarely in life, do we see heroes like those we see in stories. Black and white, good and evil, the truth is often far more gray,” As I said this, students began to stream into the room, “But don’t worry, we’ll get to that soon enough.”

“No, that’s good, can anyone expand on that?” I was surprised, Danny hardly ever said anything that wasn’t about baseball.

“Well, Lennie killed stuff,” A small voice said, it belonged to Jen, a small, shy young girl who I don’t recall ever having heard speak during class without me calling on her directly, “I mean,

As the kids walked through the door, lost in the day-to-day dramas that encapsulated their high school existences, the scene replayed itself.

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not on purpose, but because he didn’t know how strong he was. He loved rabbits, like Bryan said, but when he touched them they died. That is what got them to Soledad in the first place, right? Lennie grabbing that girl’s dress? And that’s why, no matter how well they planned, they were never going to get their own place.

Only pain and suffering.”

gaunt, my ribs stuck out from my chest at strange angles, the chemo having robbed me of my appetite. I was exhausted constantly, the skin under my eyes hung limp in deep purple bags. When I brushed my teeth I had to avoid the left side of my mouth, because there was a painful sore there that bled if I rasped my toothbrush across it.

I was blown away at the accuracy of that statement. In the first ten minutes of class, the students had managed to not only throw my lesson out the window, but to amaze me with their interpretations of the book. “That is exactly right, Jen. You see, Lennie didn’t know any better. How could he? But George was responsible for him and that meant he had to be responsible for Lennie’s actions, too. So, what happened that destroyed their plans?”

Today was my PET scan, which my oncologist was somewhat hopeful about. The chemotherapy was really aggressive, so the hope was there would be enough reduction to back it off a little. As I sat in the waiting room another patient sat next to me, tears streaking her face and ruining her makeup.

For the next 45 minutes, my class did something we hadn’t done before. We just talked, no quick writes, none of our typical activities. For the first time every student was engaged, even the meekest, a tall, heavy boy named Michael Enderson. I can’t even remember the last time I heard him speak, when I would call on him to join the conversation he typically just blushed and lowered his head. Today he was engaged and talking, joining in and expanding on thoughts and ideas. When the bell rang no one moved, I had to dismiss them. As the last student left the room, I walked over to my desk and picked up my lesson plan. Giving it a long look, I threw it in the trash.

“Huh? Oh, uh CT. You?” She faked a smile.

“MRI, PET, or CT?” I didn’t really want to know, but I couldn’t hear her cry anymore.

“PET, my first one. How old are you? You look so young.” And she did, devastatingly young.

Suddenly, I was terrified of her answer. I wished and prayed that she wouldn’t answer.

“I’m fourteen, I’ll be fifteen in two months. On the 23rd.”

I made a valiant effort to put a smile on for her, while my stomach lurched and my soul screamed at the injustice. Fourteen? I had students in my class her age, to think of one of them here, in this cold room waiting to hear terrible news was more than I could bear. I sat there, babbling about how I hoped she would be fine and that I was sure she was going to hear good news.

I shook my head, “The best laid plans of mice and men.”

***

When the nurse finally walked in and called my name the young girl, whose name I didn’t even know, wrapped her skinny arms around my neck and whispered “Good luck.”

Six weeks later, I no longer recognized myself in the mirror. My hair, though always trimmed short, was now gone. Once I woke up with a pile of it on my pillow, my razor took the rest. I was

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I practically ran away from her and had there been a way to do so with any tact, or dignity I would have. By the time I arrived in the dark, cool radiology room, tears had begun to overflow my eyes and spill down my cheeks. As I settled in the machine, I closed my eyes and thought about George and Lennie.

“Greg, I understand that you are anxious. I really wish there was some information I could give you, but I just schedule the appointments. I’m really, very sorry. Is 8:45 good for you?”

“Yes, Tessa. 8:45 is fine, I’ll see you then. Thank you.” I laid the receiver in its cradle and lay my head down on my desk.

When I got home that evening and sat down at my desk, I had almost pushed her out of my mind. I was looking through my emails, drifting between that and grading papers. I didn’t even hear my phone ringing, only when the nurse began talking on the answering machine did I realize and pick the receiver up.

I woke up the next morning and sat up, or tried anyway, the muscles in my neck and back screamed in protest.

When I finally pulled myself to my feet and stretched out, my joints popped and cracked like machine gun fire. I went upstairs, showered, got dressed, and headed drove to school. The day washed over me in a blur of meetings and classes, everything seemed to flow like liquid, no real substance to any of it. As I packed my briefcase full of papers that needed grading, I noticed a flashing icon on my computer screen. I reminded myself to check my email when I got home. I drove home in what seemed like a trance, I wasn’t just worried about the next day, I was worried that I was running out of time. I was worried that I was going to wake up one day soon, or rather not wake up, and have done nothing that mattered. Nothing that made a difference. As I drifted off to sleep, the thought nagged at me allowing only a fitful, restless sleep.

“Oh, hello Mr. Ellsworth. I guess I caught you at a bad time. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, Tessa, everything is great. What, uh, what’s up?” I tried to sound upbeat, but I wasn’t expecting a call back so quickly.

“Dr. Trumbull wanted me to call and let you know that he has your scans and he’d like to see you on Thursday to go over them. Is the morning or afternoon better for you?”

“Thursday? That’s the day after tomorrow. I guess the morning will work,” The day after tomorrow? That was much sooner than I expected, frighteningly sooner, “Is, uh, is everything alright? I mean this is pretty quick, right?”

* * *

It’s a surreal feeling, being told that you are going to die in such a sterile, cold environment.

Learning that what you thought could be measured in months, or years was, in fact, measurable in weeks. This time I was much more coherent while Dr. Trumbull explained my fate. New growth, my tumor had metastasized

“Mr. Ellsworth-”

“Greg, please.”

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and spread to my lymph nodes. Nothing I could have imagined would have possibly prepared me to hear what he was telling me. My head spun and again, my breakfast came unbidden into that stainless steel sink. I sat there for ten minutes in silence, Dr. Trumbull staring at me.

He straitened his tie, the same tie he’d worn the last time I’d seen him. It’s strange what you remember and what you don’t. I remember, with absolute clarity, the exact moment that I saw the understanding dawn on the faces of my

writes, and discussion periods. The sun had begun to set and since my apartment faced east, it began to get dark quickly. I went inside and succumbed to my weariness.

I woke up suddenly and looked around my room, unsure of my surroundings at first. It was still dark outside and I was confused, I reached for my alarm clock and stared at it, 6:15. I crawled out of bed and decided to do something that I hadn’t done since I was a freshman in college. I decided to watch the sunrise. I made strong, rich coffee and walked out onto the balcony with my laptop. Maybe I would write a little, maybe I would write a lot, maybe I wouldn’t be able to write at all. I sat and watched as the first crimson rays burst through the gathered darkness, piercing it with fiery red and gold rays of light. As the sun began its slow climb into the eastern sky, I opened my laptop and noticed an icon blinking at me. I had never checked my email. Worried that it might be from Stephen, I opened my mailbox and found a single unread message from an address I didn’t recognize.

students. That a-ha! moment that you hear about in college. I remember the look on my grandmother’s face when she vowed to fight with me, until there was no fight left.

It’s a difficult idea to comprehend, that soon you were going to stop living, to stop being. It made no sense, not the idea of death, that made perfect sense. What made no sense was the idea that it didn’t matter, that it was so pointless.

My whole life I believed that my reason for existing was to give my life purpose, that my way of giving purpose to my life was to change the lives of others. I had spent six years of my life trying to do that, trying to get more than just that dawn of understanding. Make no mistake, that was a satisfying moment and one that I am proud of, but to affect real, lasting change was the goal of any teacher.

Dear Mr. Ellsworth, I was riding home in my car yesterday after picking up my son from school and I asked him how his day was, expecting the usual shrug, or “fine.” Instead, he told me that he had decided that he wanted to be a writer. This was a shock to me because my son is not even a reader and I doubt he has ever written anything he didn’t absolutely have to. It was a shock because Michael has never expressed an interest in anything deeper than video games. He has never been a great student, or an athlete, or done anything that wasn’t a computer game. When I asked him why he was suddenly so interested in being a writer, his answer was so earnest, so emotional, that I had to pull my car to the side of the road to listen to it. He told me that he had never realized how powerful writing could be until he had read Of Mice and Men. He said that the

When I finally nodded my way through Dr. Trumbull’s explanations of treatment options, condolences, and offer to recommend someone who could help put my affairs in order, I made my way to my car. Numb and tired, I made my way home. My initial instinct was to just go to bed, sleep for as long as my body would sleep and then take a sleeping pill to sleep some more. Instead, I made some tea and sat down on the small balcony outside of my apartment. I sat there all day, reading Steinbeck and writing notes. By the time I’d finished I had a complete outline for the book including assignments, free

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FICTION : CHRIS FURRY way Steinbeck told stories was like nothing he’d ever read before. He didn’t just tell them, he told about life, about humanity in a way that was so genuine it was hard to believe that the stories were fiction. As I sat there listening to my quiet, shy young son, I realized his eyes were glittering and his cheeks were flushed. He was actually excited. About learning. Michael was more excited about reading and writing than I have ever seen him about anything, to include the latest Call of Duty game. I asked him where this sudden love for literature came from and he stared at me blankly for a second before saying, “From Mr. Ellsworth, my English teacher.”

thing. You. You ignited a fire in my son, an inferno that thirsts for literature and knowledge. My son also told me about your condition, I am very sorry by the way, it is so terrible. Michael though, he didn’t just come out and say that you have cancer, or that you were terminally ill, he said that it was an injustice. That it wasn’t fair that you were being taken away from the kids who need you. That the best laid plans had only left us with pain, once again. I don’t even understand what all of that means, I only know one thing. You, Mr. Ellsworth, are an amazing teacher. You have given my son a purpose, you gave changed him in a way that I never thought possible, no matter how hard I wished, or dreamed. I can only hope that you receive a thousand emails like this one, because though it will never be enough to truly express the profound impact you have had on the young men and women at Emerson High, perhaps it will give you some idea of that impact.

He said that you had said something one day, before class to another student, that had struck him as profound. “Does there always have to be a good guy? Very rarely in life, do we see heroes like those we see in stories. Black and white, good and evil, the truth is often far more gray.”

He went on and on about how real that was, how much sense it all made after he heard it.

Thank you, Mr. Ellsworth, from the bottom of my heart.

Never, in 15 years, have I seen my son so fired up. Since we got home yesterday it’s like the floodgates have opened and my son is finally starting to bloom into the flower I knew he was.

He wrote a very short story last night, handing it to me excitedly and asking me to read it. It was very good and I’m not just saying that because I am his mother, I am saying it because I really enjoyed it. I don’t know what to say, I pulled up to the school this afternoon and my son, who I don’t think I’ve ever seen have a conversation with anyone else, was standing in front of the school talking to a group of kids excitedly, laughing and joking. I sat there for a few minutes and just watched him. It was incredible, it was everything I’ve ever wanted for him. Friends, a purpose, a dream, everything. Through everything that I’ve seen in the last few days, I come back to one

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Christine Enderson, Michael’s mother.

As I sat there, in the warm glow of the morning’s first light, I closed my eyes and felt its warmth on my cheeks as if I’d never felt it before. For the first time since I’d gone to the doctor about a reoccurring headache nearly a year ago, I felt contented with my life. For the first time, I felt free. Though the best laid plans may go awry, though life may be shorter than we’d ever believe, I know one thing now for certain. The purpose is not in the destination; the purpose is found in the journey.

For more information on author Chris Furry, please visit our Contributors Page.

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Jew Boy

By Ariana Schaeffer

A

ll the Jewish boys in Montreal went to the Protestant school. The Catholic schools were also available, but Jews in Montreal never sent their children there—unless they were Orthodox. The Orthodox Jews were so strict that they wouldn’t light a fire in their fireplace on Shabbat because that was considered “work.” Instead, they would beg a Gentile bystander to do it for them. My brothers and I would sometimes pretend to be Gentiles just to see inside the Orthodox

“I’m home,” I told Mother as I entered the sparsely decorated kitchen. The smell of her fresh-baked bread filled me like honey, and the kitchen and living room hugged me with their cozy arms.

The Depression had started with the United States, but here in Canada it was felt as well.

However, I didn’t think anything of it—I always had enough food, a place to sleep (right now it was on a cot in the living room), and my friends at school. My father owned an artificial flower business, so we were better off than most of my friends. And Mother’s cooking helped all woes go away. I pitied my friends who didn’t have a Jewish mother.

Jews’ household, and see the men’s tallits and the women’s tichel scarves up close.

Our parents never wore anything of the sort, except at bar mitzvahs. After lighting their fire, we’d giggle all the way home.

My little brother Levi and I helped my mother set the table, carefully putting out the silver plates and bowls, straightening out the tablecloth, placing the butter in its dish at the center.

Mother had just heard about new paper napkins that were beginning to be manufactured all over the world. She had decided to buy some to save her time on laundry, and had me set the table with them in place of the cloth napkins.

My mother Rose, my father Edward, my two brothers and I, our aunt and uncle, and our two cousins lived together in a fifth floor apartment near the Saint Lawrence River. We had moved from New York a year ago, when the Depression forced us out of the city.

Grandpa Sandor also lived with us, and he always wanted a good Hungarian meal when he came home with my father for dinner. The meat, the soup, the vegetables, the fruit, the dessert, and the coffee were laboriously prepared by my mother for hours each day.

Cloth tablecloths and napkins were used at every meal, and Mother always set out the best china dishes and silver cutlery. I walked in from school on a crisp fall afternoon, shivering in the Montreal wind.

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“Fold them carefully, David,” she said to me, her smiling lips under her soft brown eyes sending me love. “I want Grandpa to be pleased.”

Grandpa Sandor was very concerned about things being proper, “like they were in the good old days, in the Old Country.” He was the one who had helped me learn to fight in New York,

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so that I was able to hold my own even against bigger kids.

Grandpa and my father came home to the smell of a chicken being roasted to perfection. My uncle followed soon after. Within a half hour, the eleven of us were gathered around the table for our nightly feast. My mother and I watched Grandpa’s reaction to the napkins. He looked at them but didn’t say anything.

The first course, steamed vegetables, was served, and my father and uncle began their nightly talk of politics, both in the U.S. and Canada. The women and children weren’t supposed to talk, but tonight Grandpa’s normally robust discussion with his sons was absent.

He was completely silent. My mother, who knew quite a bit about Franklin Roosevelt, offered her thoughts during a lull in the discussion. “I think Mr. Roosevelt would be a great president. Have you seen how he’s helped New York as a senator?”

The fruit was served, and then an apple tart, and Grandpa still hadn’t touched his napkin or said a word to his sons. Mother served the coffee, with cream and sugar, and the adults drank while we all relaxed in our chairs and digested. When the meal was over, Grandpa still hadn’t said anything—about the food, about politics, about the business. The adults put down their coffee mugs and sat back with a sigh. Grandpa stood up, grunted at my mother, and picked up the side of her beautiful white tablecloth, which had been part of her dowry.

“Maybe,” my father replied. “But it’s going to take some real character to move the U.S. out of its rut.” And then he turned to my uncle and continued talking.

Grandpa Sandor, however, glared at Mother for the next ten minutes, his hairy nostrils flaring over his black mustache, while we ate our chicken and potatoes with butter and gravy. The potatoes had paprika—everything from Hungary had paprika and Grandpa wouldn’t have his food any other way. The soup was served, and Grandpa continued to glare at Mother. I was feeling uncomfortable, but I knew that I could run off to play baseball with my brothers and cousins as soon as the coffee was served and finished.

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Looking fixedly at my mother, who was turning pale, he slowly wiped his mouth on the side of the tablecloth. A mottled smear of coffee and soup and oil and jelly spread across the white linen. “Hmph!” he said. Then he picked up the paper napkin with his fingers like it was rotten, and dropped it in the pot of leftover soup.

“Hmph!” he said again. My father was starting to turn red, and Grandpa turned to him. “Teach

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your wife some respect!” he growled, then stomped out of the room.

Rue Saint Louis had assembled their men, and the groups sized each other up

Mother burst into tears. “I didn’t know he wouldn’t like the paper napkins!” she sobbed. I felt terrible. Mother had spent so long on dinner and making the napkins and everything else look good.

My father held her shoulders and frowned. “He’s very traditional. I don’t think he wants women talking at the table, either.”

New York, being short and fast saved my life. In Canada, it earned me respect.

The oldest kid on our block, a fifteen-year-old named Jacob, was dividing us according to age.

“Ten-year-olds, stand right here.” My cousin David joined them. “Nine-year-olds, here.” I joined them, nearly a head below every single one.

My uncle smirked. “We’ll have to do better next time, then. Go outside and play, boys.”

I silently vowed I’d never treat my mother like Grandpa had. We ran outside, glad to escape the tense atmosphere.

“David, are you really nine?” Jacob asked me.

The early May sun was still shining its light on our street. The boys all along our street, Rue Notre Dame East, had gathered in front of our neighbor’s red-bricked apartment. But it wasn’t for baseball, as we had thought. They were organizing a fight.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m just—”

“Short,” he said. “Yes.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “Well, you can fight with the others your age, but if you ask me, I’d say join the seven-year-olds.”

Fights always had a referee and rules. You couldn’t hit below the waist, and you couldn’t use sharp objects to defeat your opponent (knock his eyes out, etc.). But the kids in Montreal only knew how to fight with their hands. They were dummies.

I shook my head. They were little kids, and my brother Levi was in that group. I could hold my own.

When everyone was sorted, we strode down the cobblestones to the next street, Rue Saint Louis.

Each street was a brotherhood of sorts. The kids on one street played baseball and soccer against the kids on the next street. And they organized fights against each other.

I had lived in New York for the first eight years of my life. New York fighting was bloody and tough. You had to use both your hands and your feet to win. No parts of the body were off-limits.

When I was six, I had showed Grandpa Sandor how I fought. He was impressed so he taught me some “man” moves to better defeat my opponents.

Rue Saint Louis was the home of my school’s bully, a huge 13-year-old named Albert. He had black hair and a pimply face. His parents were from Germany. His father didn’t like my family, so Albert didn’t like me. I thought it was because we made more money than they did, but my father once mentioned something about

I was extremely short for my age. I’m still short for my age. But I was fast. Faster than a hockey puck whizzing from my stick across the ice. In

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their anti-cement or something. Whatever the reason, I was glad Jacob was the referee, making sure kids of the same age only fought each other.

“Why do you always do this to me?” I asked.

“This isn’t school—come on. I’ve tried to stay out of your way, but you just love beating up everyone smaller than you.” I looked to Jacob for help, but he was staring at Albert with a scared look. I groaned inwardly.

We marched between buildings of brick and stone and newer ones of wood and concrete.

Rue Saint Louis had assembled their men, and the groups sized each other up.

“You’re short, David. And a Jew Boy.” Albert licked his pudgy lips.

As usual, we went from youngest to oldest. The six-year-old group from Saint Louis picked their man, and ours did the same. We all made a ring around them, and when Jacob blew his whistle we started shouting, “Fight!

Fight!” We cheered when our side was winning, and groaned when the other side got the upper hand.

The seven-year-olds fought each other, then the eightyear-olds. When it got to us, my team picked me to start, as they knew I was the best fighter in my age group. I was to go up against Harold, the toughest fighter in the other group. He looked a bit nervous; I had a reputation for not losing fights.

“So?”

“So I have two reasons to beat you up.” Albert guffawed.

I heard a crunch and felt a tendon pop in my finger.

Albert’s momentum carried him forward and he bowled over me, knocking us both to the ground.

Albert laughed, the half-cackling, half-booming laugh of a thirteenyear-old bully. “I don’t need New York style, David. I’ve got God on my side.” And he lunged.

As Albert charged, I noticed a bruise on the side of his neck, half-hidden by his shirt. And then I ducked—and darted to the side.

Albert grunted as he missed his punch and turned back to me.

“Don’t try to outsmart me, Jew Boy,” he snarled.

We got into our stances, feeling the ground, fists up, and focused on any possible weakness. Everyone gathered in a circle around us, breathless and anticipating.

Then Albert shoved his way from the back of the crowd to face me.

“At least my dad’s richer than your dad!” I shouted back.

Albert grunted and lunged again. I dropped my weight to my hips and watched his arms. He was aiming for the side of my head, so I ducked even lower as he neared me, and shot my arm at his face, hoping and praying I’d hit something.

“Hey Jew Boy,” he sneered. Everyone backed up, and Harold skittered into his group of friends. Albert put his fists up and beckoned to me with his fat hands.

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“Have you ever fought New York style?” I asked. I squared up my body and raised my fists, looking for vulnerabilities.

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I heard a crunch and felt a tendon pop in my finger. Albert’s momentum carried him forward and he bowled over me, knocking us both to the ground. I hit my head on the street’s stones and saw blinking lights. We both started moaning, then Albert got off of me and took his hand away from his nose. It was covered in blood, and his nose looked a little bent. I had gotten a lucky punch.

“Levi! Get!” I shooed him toward the crowd. But Albert was laughing.

“You idiots.” He walked toward Levi. “You think you can get away with anything.”

Levi threw his arm out for another punch.

“Bully!” he yelled.

Albert grabbed his arm and picked him up, shaking him like a rag doll. Levi whimpered at first, then screamed.

“You’re gonna pay for this, Jew Boy,” he growled, raising his fists again, blood running into his mouth and down his chin. I was scared. I didn’t want to fight anymore.

I couldn’t stand it. My head cleared and I felt power rushing into my limbs. I ran at Albert as fast as I could, my head down and my fists in front of my face. I crashed into his stomach, under Levi’s flailing limbs.

He grunted. I kneed him below the belt, and he dropped Levi and fell to his knees. I swung at his temple and he finally fell to the street, groaning. I picked up my brother, who was bleeding on his elbow and leg.

“You started it, and I knocked you down,” I said, trying to keep the trembling from my voice. “So I win and we’re done.” I looked to Jacob again, desperate for support. He looked down. I seethed, but I knew Jacob had some history with Albert’s older brother. He was still afraid of that family. I didn’t blame him for that, but he was the referee. I ground my teeth as I accepted that I’d be getting no help from that quarter.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

Albert ignored me and began to advance on me.

I backed away, looking desperately for a way to not get killed. Then, with a yell, my brother Levi charged at Albert. “Stupid Gentile pig!” he screamed in his high voice, crashing his 7-yearold weight into Albert’s side. Albert hardly moved from the impact, but Levi rebounded off the bully and fell on his bottom.

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He nodded. I looked around at the group of shocked faces. My cousins each took one of Levi’s shoulders, and my big brother supported my left side. “Let’s go home,” he said.

We stumbled back to our apartment, the dusk muting our streaks of blood. Mother and Father were in urgent conversation in the kitchen, and

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FICTION : ARIANA SCHAEFFER

as we came in Mother gasped and took Levi in her arms. While she petted him and bandaged his leg and elbow, I looked at her questioningly and asked about the napkins.

how we were having a fight with the boys on Rue Saint Louis, and how Albert had butted into my fight and tried to beat me. I told him that I was probably going to lose until Levi tried to help me. I told him how Albert had called me a Jew Boy and short. I told him the rage that filled me when Albert started beating up Levi, and how I knocked Albert onto the ground.

“It’s all right, David,” she sighed at me as I washed the dirt and blood off my hands. “I’m going to return the napkins and go back to linen ones. It was a silly mistake.” She shook her head with a half-hearted smile.

When I finished, Grandpa’s grumpy expression had faded. His mustache twitched, and he nearly smiled. He looked down at me, nodded, and said, “You should be proud to be a Jew Boy.”

Grandpa Sandor walked in. He narrowed his eyebrows at Mother, then turned to me and my cousins.

“What happened?” he grunted.

I hesitated, still sore with him for being mean to Mother. But she seemed okay now. I told him

CANYONVOICES

For more information on author Ariana Schaefer, please visit our Contributors Page.

SPRING2016

FICTION : MARLENE OLIN

Wishful Thinking

By MARLENE OLIN

D

oreen's life was a series of incidents that happened by default. Thirty years with the same husband was now money down the toilet. She disliked her son and loathed her grandchildren. And somehow she got roped into a job that sucked every cell out of her atrophying brain. If she were a car, Auto Nation would send her packing.

She was heading for the junk heap fast.

Some people rub a rabbit's foot. Others pray. The glue that held Doreen's life together was words. Lists and notes punctuated every moment of life.

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.

Doreen, an A student, was working towards a teaching degree when she met Walter.

Then one hot sweaty night in the bed of his pickup changed her universe. A hand up her skirt, a fumbled condom, and out popped Justin nine months later. She offered to raise him as a single mother, but Walter insisted on marriage.

punctuated every moment of life. Each morning she left a post-it on Walter's coffee cup. Let a smile be your umbrella! Don't take any wooden nickels! She scribbled on the napkins tucked in Justin's lunchbox. Good luck on your math quiz!

Have fun in P.E.! All the care and affection she could muster was funneled into corny homilies.

Memos.

"This is Ypsilanti, Michigan!" said Walter.

"Not fucking Woodstock!"

Her husband lived for the hunting season. With the first autumn breeze, Walter headed for the U.P. Doreen would draw up a list of provisions.

Sleeping bag, canned food, first-aid kit. Then her husband would pack enough ammunition to shoot every living creature in the Great Lakes.

When his fingers were long enough to wrap around a trigger, little Justin was brought along, too.

For a while Doreen was content. Walter got a job on the GM line. They managed to find a small house in a neighborhood lined with other small houses. She baked. She cleaned. She volunteered at Justin's school.

But when she tried to get pregnant again nothing happened. Doreen always wanted a little girl. But wanting and having never seemed to meet up.

Each weekend they'd re-enact the same conversation. Doreen would wave goodbye, holding back tears. Walter would crank down the window and jut out his big jaw. "Campin' not for sissies, Doreen!" With his hand on the gear

Some people rub a rabbit's foot. Others pray. The glue that held Doreen's life together was words. Lists and notes

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FICTION : MARLENE OLIN

shift, he'd apologize for leaving her home again. "What we need is a Winnebago! If only we had a Winnebago!" Then the wheels would spin, dirt would spray and they'd be gone.

bookended a teddy bear. Justin sat hunched over his desk, the tops of his knees touching the underside. When she leaned over his shoulder, Doreen thought he was reading a play.

Doreen stayed at home, organized the closets, pickled tomatoes. Sometimes she'd drive over to her mother Pearl's house, sleep in her old bed, and wake up to the familiar smell of pancakes. Her mind, foggy and thick, would take a few moments to register where she was.

Who she was. It almost felt like starting over.

"Anything interesting?"

Justin looked through his mother like she was ectoplasm, a wavy mirage in the desert. Then he glanced at a spot on the wall. It was a gesture Doreen recognized, the kind of side glance he resorted to when setting up a lie. Doreen watched his mouth as the words sputtered out.

Justin grew into a clone of his father. Six feet, big hands, a head squared like a sledgehammer.

Doreen tried to leave her mark. On Wednesdays rain or shine, they'd rummage through the library and waddle home with an armful of books. Riding in the car, Doreen turned the dial onto the classical music station and planted seeds. They'd talk about current events, travel, the world beyond the horizon. Every inch of Justin's bulletin board was wallpapered with his mother's notes. Reminders about tests.

Homework deadlines. When the University of Michigan offered him a scholarship, it was like both of their dreams came true.

"I'm taking a film class...we're reading scripts..."

"Can I see?" In one swift move she grabbed the papers and held them up to his reading lamp.

Her vision wasn't what it used to be but her hands moved like lightning.

Justin averted his eyes, still staring into space, looking anywhere but his mother's face.

"Dahlia... I'm seeing this girl named Dahlia... Her father's a movie producer in LA and after graduation we're going to work on the set."

Once he started talking, the sentences spurted out fast like a Tourette's tic.

Justin met Dahlia when he was a senior. Doreen was hoping he'd apply to law school or medical school. But the practice tests in his bedroom were buried under piles of new clothes. Fancy clothes from stores Doreen never heard of.

Stores in Grosse Point and Bloomfield Hills. It was a wardrobe they couldn't afford.

Doreen was tempted to drive to Ann Arbor.

She'd imagined knocking on Dahlia's apartment door with a bottle of wine or a basket of muffins.

But she refused to be one of those pushy sitcom mothers, those in-your-face stereotypes. The distance between the university campus and Ypsilanti was only eight miles but they were worlds apart.

Doreen panicked. There was telling what kind of trouble kids got into nowadays. Drugs. The Internet. The possibilities seemed endless. No matter how hard she tried to steer him, her son seemed headed in the wrong direction.

A year later they met her at the wedding. Doreen didn't even know Justin and Dahlia were engaged until she received the invitation. When it came time to fill out the response card, she was filled with trepidation. She agonized over every word as if they were life or death decisions. Should she close with sincerely or

She cornered Justin one day in his bedroom.

The quilt she had made him years ago sat tattered on his bed. On a shelf, beer bottles

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FICTION : MARLENE OLIN

best wishes? Perhaps cordially? Eventually she took the big leap.

price on her forehead, Doreen wondered how much she'd be worth.

"Have you been to Rodeo Drive," asked a cousin. "Eaten lunch at The Ivy?" Not one person asked them where they were staying.

Their hotel was tucked inside a warehouse district near the airport, wedged between neon signs and graffitied billboards. A traveler's inn, a two star by any stretch of the imagination, yet more than they could afford.

Mr. and Mrs. Walter Hightower will be delighted to attend. We extend our best wishes to the betrothed couple and look forward to meeting our newly extended family.

Yours very truly, Doreen and Walter.

They splurged and stayed for a week.

Walter would complain the minute they parked their packages. "For the money we're paying, ya think they'd hire a housekeeper. And throw in more than stale donuts and cold coffee."

Doreen eyed the scum on the shower curtain, the stains on their white towels. She made a mental note to write the management a letter.

"Maybe we ought to buy that Winnebago, Walter." Her only child was now thousands of miles away.

The pull was strong, like a fish struggling on filament. "We'll need to come visit. Somehow we'll need to visit."

The nuptials were a six course Beverly Hills extravaganza. Walter and Doreen had never flown on a jet or even used a credit card before.

Now their son was being married in a mansion with a backyard big enough for a circus tent.

To her surprise, Doreen found a response from the hotel corporate office in her mailbox a month later. And with it, an offer for a free hotel stay.

"Please be sure to notify the front desk upon your arrival," the letter said. "We want your next vacation to be your best vacation!" And sure enough, when twins Dustin and Justin, Jr. were born a year later, their trip to Los Angeles went smoother. A bowl of fruit awaited them in their room. Doreen wrote the management once more.

Walter wore the gray suit he saved for funerals.

Doreen bought a knee length chiffon with matching shoes. Still, they felt like lepers. Justin introduced them with a whisper, holding their sleeves with two fingers. Dahlia's mother looked her up and down up and down like she was assessing the inventory. If someone stamped a

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SPRING2016

FICTION : MARLENE OLIN

Thank you very much for the lovely assortment of apples and bananas. One minor suggestion.

Replace the old coffee makers in each room with those nice new ones with the individual cups. People appreciate the little touches.

Doreen was home on a five-day layover. She had spent the afternoon cooking Walter's favorite foods and freezing them. Meatloaf.

Chicken Divine. Tuna casserole. She tossed the empty can of cream of mushroom soup in the waste basket and wiped her hands on her apron.

Looking forward to our next visit, Doreen Watchtower.

"I just have to get this in the oven, Walter. Hold onto your hat." Doreen grabbed the potholders and lifted the pan.

P.S. Have your plumber take a look at the runny toilet in the lobby restroom.

Five letters later they offered Doreen a job.

Talking and exercising, Walter worked to find a rhythm. He got out of his chair and lifted his knees up to his chest still pumping the weights.

Air blew from his mouth like he was having contractions. Doreen glanced at him and sighed.

He looked like an aging ostrich trying to get nowhere fast.

Would she like to be a professional guest at their hotels? They'd fly her from city to city and pay her to run through a checklist. An expense account plus more money than Walter ever made. Free meals! Free travel! It was too good a deal to turn town.

"I need some space, Doreen. I need to get out of Michigan, hit the road, see fucking America."

Huff, huff. Blow. Blow.

At first Doreen was thrilled with her newfound freedom. She used different names in different towns, paid with cash, lived like a spy. Earlham, Indiana and Dayton, Ohio may not have been Paris or London but at least Ypsilanti was behind her. They purchased new rugs for their home and hung fresh drapes. They even had cash left over to buy the Winnebago. Like all the other setbacks in her life, Doreen never saw the next one coming.

Doreen stood with her hands on her hips and planted her feet. Grooves marched across her forehead. ”Maybe I can take a few weeks off," she said. "Or work part-time." Then, she inched closer. He was perspiring buckets now. The possibility occurred to her that he was having a heart attack. Could heart attacks cut off oxygen from your brain? Could they make you stupid?

"I'm thinking of retiring," Walter announced one Sunday. He was sitting at the kitchen table, lifting ten pound weights. First one arm, then the other. He had joined a gym recently, a tough guy kind of place where lily white guys pretended to be boxers. They rope-a-doped to black rap music, wore thick gold chains. Muscles rippled under Walter's shirt that he hadn't seen in decades.

Finally, Walter stopped moving. His shoulders sagged, the weights dragged down his arms. "I need space from you, Doreen."

Doreen collapsed in a chair. Speechless, she worked her jaw up and down and listened for clicks.

"There's someone else."

"Did you hear me?"

Doreen waited. She could wait all day.

Now, he was shouting.

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FICTION : MARLENE OLIN

"Remember Valerie from the Winnebago dealership? The one who arranged the financing?"

like peers. She let them pick out their own clothes too. They wore shorts in the winter and superhero shirts in their Christmas photos. It drove Doreen to distraction.

Images flashed through Doreen's mind like a spinning Rolodex. A picture of a blonde with fake boobs and lots of makeup reared its head.

Suddenly Dahlia's face loomed in front of her. All made-up like she was ready to go out.

"You were supposed to take the RV for a test drive, Walter. Not her!"

Then she climbed the stairs, tossed his clothes out of the window, and threw Walter out next. She stared at the grayhaired woman in the hall mirror like she was looking at a stranger. Lonely never felt so lonely. Her first instinct was to call her mother. But ever since she broke her hip Pearl hadn't been the same person.

Reluctantly, she walked over to her workspace.

"We're kinda busy, Doreen. Our nanny has the flu and the babysitter, Jesus, I don't think she's older than twelve, just got here and we're heading out the door." She had to speak quickly to get it out all in one breath. In the background, the sleeve of a sport coat appeared then disappeared. Justin. Somehow he always dodged Doreen's phone calls.

That caller ID was a curse.

That night, as Doreen lay in bed alone, she decided to take control of her life.

The laptop had been a gift from Justin and Dahlia. It took her one year to muster the courage to take computer lessons and another year to see her way through them. On a good day, she could figure out how to Skype her grandchildren. She pushed a few buttons and the screen lit up. A few robotic chimes then a blur of noses and chins filled the screen. Her grandsons. They looked like one of those hideous paintings she had seen in the Toledo museum. A Picasso. All cubes and triangles. A funhouse distortion.

That night, as Doreen lay in bed alone, she decided to take control of her life. Her next trip was to Rockford, Illinois. She'd spend one night in her company hotel then drive the next day to Chicago. Finally, she would treat herself to a real vacation.

She googled five-star hotels, scoured their websites and picked the most expensive. Then she typed in reviews. She knew from experience that management took these passing shots very seriously. There was always a problem they wanted buried. An inconsistent chef. A stomach flu outbreak. Even the best resorts could have tricky air-conditioners. She unearthed a thread of complaints and typed a livid email.

"Hello, boys. It's Grandma Doreen."

"Mom said we could play computer games, Doween." Then behind him, the other one shouting, "Do we have to talk to her again?"

A weekend stay at your hotel almost killed me.

Next she researched the symptoms of Legionnaire's disease. After a month long

They were six-years-old now. Dahlia thought it built self-confidence if they addressed adults

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"It's nothing that can't wait." Then Doreen remembered that thousands of miles away pixels on a computer reconfigured her image. She smiled like a movie star. "You two have fun!"

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FICTION : MARLENE OLIN

convalescence, I'm back on my feet. If they got really nervous, maybe they wouldn't check the registration. The period of contagion is over.

Then the final touch. God willing, perhaps one day I will see your beautiful city again. Yours truly, Doreen Watchtower. Then she pressed send.

Gently patting her hand, the nurse looked her in the eye. "Selma."

Doreen felt the blood swish in her ears. "Selma, I need to know. What are they looking for?" She swallowed hard tasting fear.

"There's been one or two cases of Legionnaire's Disease," Selma whispered. "I think they're looking for that."

In three days her inbox bore an urgent message from the fanciest hotel in Chicago. Would she like to be their guest? They treated Doreen like royalty. A suite with a crystal flute and a magnum of champagne. She walked the halls of the Institute of Art and watched dolphins swim at the Shedd Aquarium. By nightfall she had seen all the landmarks on her list.

Just when she was drifting off sleep, someone knocked at her door. At first Doreen thought she was dreaming.

"Holy cow, is that you Walter?" For a minute a wave of relief washed over her. Then heels tapped on the linoleum and Valerie stilt-walked into the room. Between the size of her chest and the height of her shoes, Doreen wondered how she could stand up straight. Like the Sears tower, she was an engineering marvel.

Lying on the bureau were a fan of kitschy postcards. The hotel's logo and in red cursive writing: Wish You Were Here. She had idea how to reach Walter so she addressed one to the Winnebago dealership. Dear Walter, I'm having a swell trip! That Wrigley Field is something!

"We got your postcard, GPSed the address, and the Winnebago did the rest!" Walter pasted on a grin but it looked like he had lost some weight.

The jowls on his face hung even looser, swaying as he spoke. "The people at the hotel told us you were here."

But twenty-four hours hadn't passed when Doreen started running a temperature. By the second day, she could barely breathe. A racking cough kept her up all night. By the third day, the concierge of her hotel insisted she go to the hospital.

She pressed the button on her bed and seconds later Selma came to her rescue."Mrs. Watchtower needs her medication." She looked Valerie over, shook her head and pursed her lips."I'll have to ask the two of you to leave."

"We're running tests." The nurse was black and stout, all busy hands and no nonsense. She plumped up the pillows and adjusted the tilt of the bed. Doreen liked her.

Selma glanced at the machines. The graphs were zigzagging and little beeps were getting louder. "Your blood pressure's boiling, Doreen!"

"What kind of tests?" Vibrating with fever, Doreen was terrified of dying alone. She called Justin in California every hour on the hour and each time his voice mail picked up.

"It won't last for long," Doreen told the nurse.

"For thirty years, Walter's owned the same pair of boots. Whenever I bought him a new pair he'd get blisters and complain. Doesn't have the patience to break in anything new." Her chest

The nurse checked her pulse and tucked in the blankets. Doreen grabbed her wrist. "What's your name? I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

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FICTION : MARLENE OLIN

rose and fell as she struggled for breath.

"That...woman won't last for long."

But her suspicions festered. As soon as she got back to Ypsilanti she put her powers to the test.

She turned on her computer and started typing. I don't know if you're God or The Devil himself but I sure would like Walter to total his Winnebago. Details, she thought. I need to add more details. "But please make sure he doesn't hurt himself or anyone else." Then she pressed save.

"Just get that trailer trash out of your head, Doreen. You're on an antibiotic now. You'll be feeling better in a jiffy."

Doreen reached for the pad and pencil on her nightstand. She drew a stick figure with large balloons for breasts and an arrow with the word Valerie. Under it she wrote Drop dead soon!

The next day she waited for the phone to ring.

Dusted the furniture, mopped the floors. Sure enough, Walter called while she was cooking dinner. "There's been an accident, Doreen."

Laughing, Selma poured her a glass of water and took her pulse once more. Then she mumbled a few words and glanced at the ceiling. "The Lord, he has a plan. Yes, indeed.

He sure has a plan." The thought was so soothing Doreen nodded off moments later.

"Are you okay, Walter?" She knew the answer before the words came out.

"I dunno what happened. I had a coupla drinks, Valerie being dead and all, and the next thing I know the brakes on the Winnebago don't work for shit." He still sounded a bit boozy, slurring his words, talking too loud.

The sun was a slit in her window when the sounds of sirens jolted her awake. She pressed the call button once, twice, three times. The nurse raced back into her room.

"There's been an accident in the parking lot," said Selma. She sat down on Doreen's bed and pressed her fingers to her own wrist this time.

Then she tucked down her chin and spoke to her lap. "Selma, you don't calm down you're gonna get yourself a stroke."

"Where exactly are you?" There was noise in the background. Voices boomed over a loudspeaker.

"I'm with the police, Doreen. You're my phone call. I crashed into a gas station. Made a mess."

He hiccupped a sob.

Doreen sat up. "What happened?"

Doreen dropped the receiver. She had played various scenarios in her head and this wasn't one of them. Walter booked on a DUI! She picked up the phone again. "I'll call a lawyer, Walter. I'm not sure how we'll afford it but we'll get a lawyer." Someone shouted on Walter's end of the line. Then the phone went dead.

"Trailer trash got her heel caught and stumbled down a man hole. She only fell around three feet but whacked her head good."

"My trailer trash? You mean Valerie?"

Selma nodded. They both stared at the paper still crumpled on top of the blanket.

The newspaper was sitting on the kitchen table.

The Megabuck jackpot was up to twelve million dollars. She grabbed a pen and pencil and at the bottom of her grocery list, right under milk and eggs, she added the following words: Doreen Watchtower buys the winning ticket.

"Is it hot in here or what?" Selma was unbuttoning her shirt, throwing ice chips down her cleavage.

"It's just a coincidence,” said Doreen. "I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

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FICTION : MARLENE OLIN

The next morning, she drove her mother to the supermarket. Pearl was sliding downhill fast.

Doreen sent her to the adult daycare but soon she'd have to take her in. Even though it was a sunny July day, Pearl was dressed in her winter galoshes, a nightgown and a raincoat. The two of them walked up and down the aisles, Doreen throwing the essentials into the cart, her mother tossing in thirty rolls of toilet paper and enough menthol cough drops to last a year.

When they were done, Doreen purchased the lottery ticket and stuck it in her purse. She hated wasting a dollar and she hated gambling worse. She was losing her mind just like her mother. Add that to a plateful of worries.

On the ride home, Doreen stared at the windshield and talked to no one in particular.

Pearl's mind was like a sieve. She'd get no help from that direction. Instead Doreen thought out loud. It was time to get organized. Make lists.

Get Walter out of jail. Check. Visit Justin in California. Check. Get a raise or quit her job.

Check. And maybe, just maybe, things would turn out all right. Itching for a pen and paper, her fingers danced on the steering wheel. She couldn't get back to her house soon enough.

Pearl sneezed and brought her back to earth. "In my purse, Mom, by your feet. Look inside.

There's tissues."

Pearl grabbed the lottery ticket, wiped her nostrils, and stuck it in her pocket. Then she started singing. The old grey mare just ain't what she used to be. Tapping her fingers on the dashboard and stamping her feet, she was having her own private party.

funny farm. When Doreen pulled into the driveway, she was more than determined. She was desperate. She sat down by the computer once more and typed.

Doreen and Walter Watchtower will visit Europe and make love every Saturday afternoon. She paused for a few seconds, searching for the right words. They will find a wonderful aide to take care of Doreen's mother. Their son Justin will go back to graduate school and became a college professor.

Smiling, Doreen was just finding her stride. After he and his wife send their twin sons to military school, Dahlia will give birth to a beautiful little girl.

When she couldn't think of anything else to add, she summed up her dreams in one concise sentence. Then just like in the storybooks they will live happily ever after.

She meant to press Enter. All she wanted to add was the date. But she instead she pressed Delete.

With one stroke all was lost, her words sucked up into the blue screen. She felt her heart race and tried to tamp down the panic.

You're being ridiculous, Doreen. Nothing bad is going to happen. You've been tossed and turned like a ship at sea, buffeted by a series of coincidences. Nothing bad is going to happen. But the more she tried to convince herself, the faster her chest pumped. Her neck throbbed and suddenly her head felt like it was going to explode.

She reached for the keyboard but it was too late.

Grabbing the table, she looked for her pen. It was inches away. If only her fingers could touch … A flash of light and then darkness.

Doreen sighed, rolled her eyes, and looked straight ahead. Her husband was in the pokey and her mother was two steps away from the

For more information on author Marlene Olin, please visit

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our Contributors Page.

SPRING2016

FICTION : CORISSA GAY

Final Request

By Corissa Gay

F

aye had seen so much highway that her eyes blurred. Her head ached, and her mouth felt crusty with the lingering taste of stale coffee.

predictable color scheme, sat on lawns in various shades of green. These were peppered with fake deer and trees sporting the hint of a reaction to the nippier weather.

Carefully nested on the passenger seat was a well-worn messenger bag. The casual observer might have been put off by the shape of the contents straining against the thin cloth, the suggestion of a spade.

Public schools surrounded by sports fields were all built with reddish-gray brick. People walking their dogs seemed blissfully sedated.

Faye had never really been out of Muncie, and she was disappointed to note Ohio didn’t look terrifically different than Indiana.

The 12:00 sun was beating against her windshield, and her sweater was sticking to her back in Faye slashed the the uncomfortable stuffiness tears off her cheeks of the cab.

Faye reached for her map and confirmed she was close to her exit. She couldn’t wait to see something other than her car’s front bumper quickly devouring miles of gray concrete.

and parked her car.

She could see the brown marble of the marker, so drab and dusty that it blended right in with the muddy earth.

Lynde’s grave was marked.

The name, seeing it on the map in ominously bold strokes, made her choke up a little.

Faye’s pops, her dad’s father, had come from a long line of detached, academic Englishmen. He had been excommunicated from his parents after moving to New York City in 1960 at the ripe age of 20. In the midst of unchecked depression and the violent repression of his homosexuality, Pops spent nearly 10 years perpetually stoned and drunk while working paper and milk delivery routes. He lived in a one room apartment, kept rigorous and detailed diaries, and spent a lot of

Satisfied that she had remembered the exit number correctly, she messily shoved the map back in the general direction of the messenger bag. She was almost there: The Amity Cemetery in Pike, Ohio.

Her mind seemed to stutter at the sudden immersion back into suburbia. Homes, which all had vaguely the same shape and

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Soon enough she was pulling into the main drive of the cemetery. She stopped briefly by the front offices for a map and was pleased to find that Paul

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FICTION : CORISSA GAY

his time thoroughly planning his travels around the world.

Sitting against the trunk of a tree off to the left of the marker, Faye tucked the messenger bag against her side and quickly extracted a weathered, leather journal. She flipped to the last entry. It was scrawled messily, Pops’ shaky script a challenge to read. But Faye knew her pops’ handwriting better than anyone else's.

He never left New York, though, and the reason for that was Paul Lynde.

During a fantastical drug trip, Pops had a vision of the most beautiful strong-jawed man he’d ever seen. Later, once he'd sobered up, Pops almost fainted at the sight of this man on a poster advertising the musical Bye Bye Birdie.

Faye,

I know I don’t exactly deserve a final request. People are so silly that way, demanding things after they're gone as if

Faye was pretty sure that her grandpa had seen the poster before taking the drugs. Years of carefully controlled sexual attraction to men did the rest.

they still have a chance to irreversibly mark the world. And I, silliest of them all, never attempted to actually live in the first place. So, yes, I know I don’t deserve anything.

Anyway, Pops couldn't afford a ticket to a Broadway show, but he was determined to see this man's face in person. So he snuck into a performance, and that was how he met Adele…

Faye's grandma. Her father had been the head of security for the theater.

You were always the best thing I did in this world. My most beautiful creation, and I am only responsible in the most indirect of ways. You understood the world in the same way I did. You

They were married three years later.

understood me when no one could.

Pops would be forever obsessed with the man on the poster, and Bye Bye Birdie was required viewing growing up.

So I want you to do one thing for me: bury this journal by Paul Lynde. Over 70 years of lying to the world and he was the only thing I was honest about. I want this

Faye slashed the tears off her cheeks and parked her car. She could see the brown marble of the marker, so drab and dusty that it blended right in with the muddy earth.

journal—the truest part of me—to join Paul and be my resting place forever. A place where my soul will linger, if it lingers at all.

Grabbing the messenger bag and clipping her keys to her belt loop, she started toward the grave.

Remember there is always something worth living for, even if I was a bad example of that way of thinking.

Almost certain what she was about to do was illegal, Faye glanced around several times.

Though the site certainly received more foot traffic than the average grave, the world remained quiet and calm around her. It was practically peaceful, but Faye couldn’t muster up an emotion that wasn’t resignation.

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I love you, my dearest Faye.

Pops

Setting aside the journal, Faye extracted a tiny shovel from the messenger bag and started to dig a hole near the tree.

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She held the journal close to her heart, studying the gash she had made in the ground. Suddenly overwhelmed with the need for closure, Faye backed into the tree and pulled a pen from her back pocket. She flipped to the back of the journal, and on the last blank page wrote:

Sometimes I really want to kill myself, but you already knew that because you felt that way, too. I tried when I found out you died. You were the only one who ever knew how to listen. I should have remembered, though, that people can find comfort in unlikely places. Whatever works, you know?

Love you, Faye Gratified, relieved, she dropped the journal into the hole with a satisfying thud.

Faye reclined back against the tree, closed her eyes, and imagined that she could smell Pops: honey and rosebuds.

Carefully, she put the earth back the way it belonged.

For more information on author Carissa Gay, please visit our Contributors Page.

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SPRING2016

FICTIONCONTRIBUTORS Jen Bielack Jen Bielack is a retired high school teacher/coach from Tempe, Arizona. She self-published the historical novel Interrupted Dreams in 2012. A member of the Avondale Inkslingers, she has also published short pieces in their anthologies. She lives and writes in Sedona, Arizona at this time.

Morgan Billings Morgan Billings is an amateur author and a professional student currently pursuing consecutive degrees in English and secondary education and Arizona State University. Her work focuses on the feeling of emotion and human interaction within situations of great importance, particularly those dealing with loss and grief, through mediums of both fiction and nonfiction. Billings, a mixed race Hispanic author, States that her primary influences derive from life experiences in family, societal, and cultural structures as well as her background and visual art and athletics.

Chris Furry Chris Furry was born in Sacramento and attended high school in Davis and Woodland, California. He is a US Army veteran and served in Iraq. Since then he attended Woodland Community College and Yavapai College in Cottonwood, Arizona, completing his Associates degree at Yavapai in May 2015. Chris now attends ASU and is pursuing a degree in English and a Secondary Education Teaching Certificate. His short story “Three Days in Diyala,” was published in the anthology Voices of War. Chris lives in Cottonwood with his wife Sabrina, his son, Chris Jr., and daughter, Payton. His oldest daughter, Jasmin, lives in California.

Corissa Gay Corissa Gay is a writer and managing editor for an internet marketing company. Her work has been featured in the Kent State magazine Luna Negra, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and The Penny. She dedicates her story, “Final Request,” to Nonno: the Pops to her Faye and a constant source of inspiration.

Rinat Harel Born and raised in Israel, Rinat moved to the U.S. in 1991. Having earned a bachelor and master’s degrees in fine art, she is now pursuing an MFA in creative writing, and her story Africans, White City, and a Pint of Guinness had recently received the Emerson College 2015 Writing, Literature & Publishing Graduate Writing Award in Nonfiction. (Judge: Robert Atwan, editor of Best American Essays). She had also won the GrubStreet Boston Spring 2014 scholarship. She is currently working on a memoir on her experiences as an operations-room sergeant in an Israeli Air Force squadron. Her work has been published in magazines such as the East Coast Ink, The Masters Review, and Consequences Magazine.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

FICTIONCONTRIBUTORS Andrew J. Hogan Andrew J. Hogan received his doctorate in development studies from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Before retirement, he was a faculty member at the State University of New York at Stony Brook, the University of Michigan and Michigan State University, where he taught medical ethics, health policy and the social organization of medicine in the College of Human Medicine. He has published fifty-two works of fiction in such publications as Paragraph Line, OASIS Journal (1st Prize, Fiction 2014), Subtopian Magazine, Long Story Short, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, The Blue Guitar Magazine, Flash, Stockholm Review of Literature, Festival Writer (Pushcart Nominee), and the Copperfield Review.

Marlene Olin Marlene Olin's short stories have been featured or are forthcoming in over sixty publications. She is the winner of the 2015 Rick DeMarinis Short Fiction Award as well as a Best of the Net nominee. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Miami, Marlene attended the University of Michigan. She is a Contributing Editor at Arcadia Magazine.

Thierry Sagnier Thierry Sagnier is a writer whose works have been published in the United States and abroad.

He is the author of The IFO Report, (Avon Books), Bike! Motorcycles and the People who Ride Them (Harper & Row) and Washington by Night (Washingtonian Books). His short story Lunch with the General, published in Chrysalis Reader, was nominated for a 2013 Pushcart Prize. He is also the author of two online works published by Pigasus Books: Thirst, a thriller based in Washington, DC’s mean streets, and Writing about People, Places and Things, a collection of essays chronicling his thoughts on writing, family and friendships, and his bout with cancer.

He is represented by the Philip Spitzer Literary Agency.

Ariana Schaeffer Ariana Schaeffer is a senior at Arizona State University. She is enrolled in Barrett, the Honors College, and is writing a full-length fantasy novel for her thesis, which she plans to publish and expand into a trilogy. She was homeschooled until college, which she began at fourteen and loved from the first class she took. Ariana has been married for almost two years, and believes it is the best thing that ever happened to her. She enjoys writing whenever she has free time, playing the guitar and piano, hiking with her husband, and watching clouds move across the sky as they inspire her to write.

Arielle Seidman Arielle Seidman is a twenty-eight-year-old author, teacher and thespian living just outside of Washington, DC. You can find Arielle's blog and more about her work at http://www.arielleseidman.com.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

FICTIONCONTRIBUTORS Seth D. Slater Seth D. Slater writes poetry, short stories, and nonfiction. His writing is gritty, humorous, and unapologetic; painting the beautiful and ugly in equal light. His work has appeared in Trans Lit Mag, TreeHouse: An Exhibition of the Arts, Bird's Thumb and the Fall 2015 issue of Canyon Voices. Slater has recently been accepted by San Diego State University and will attend SDSU's MFA program in the fall.

Clayton Smith Clayton Smith is the author of the novels Apocalypticon, Anomaly Flats, and Mabel Gray and the Wizard Who Swallowed the Sun, as well as the short story collection Pants on Fire: A Collection of Lies and the comedic play Death and McCootie, which debuted at the 2013 New York International Fringe Festival. He is the co-founder and Archduke of Dapper Press, the world’s foremost literary laboratory, and he is also a lecturer in the Business & Entrepreneurship Department at Columbia College Chicago.

Franco Strong Franco Strong takes his inspiration in equal measure from his philosophical studies and the almost ceaseless sun of Southern California/Northern Mexico. He labors as a cofounder and fiction editor of the Alebrijes: Online Journal of Creative Arts

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Thomas Balkany

Cassie Kellogg

Nearly Over

Sandbox

Alicia Brall

Nevine Khan

Karesansui

My Beloved Ghost

Christie Collins

Ryan Loveeachother Dollar General Customer Satisfaction Even Though He Grew Up With Six Sisters I Pissed in the Street

Ancestry Dear Reader, Love Poet

Bob Eager Deleted Hindsight

Kyle Martindale

Lind Flowers

St. Francis The Phoenix

Mwenda

Ilyssa Goldsmith So Long An Unfinished Canvas

John Grey Snake World Medical Imaging

Rinat Harel

Over There Just Down the Hall Is a Living Man

William “Chip” Miller My Mother and Ted Bundy Jesus Fans June Cleaver’s Pearls

Dinesh Sairam

E.R.J.

Poetry Contest Winners

Michael Lee Johnson Headlights Tossed Forward

(See Artwork for full image)

Michael McDaniel

Damned Nothing More

Nomadic Trials

Waiting by Gabriel Evans

The Trail

Megan Huffman David Redkey Sarina Guerra Patricia Colomy

POETRY

My Mother and Ted Bundy

By William “Chip” Miller

Even when he was sentenced

to die in the chair,

my mother swore he

was innocent.

“A good-looking man

Like that don’t have

To kill young women;

They adore him.”

And to prove she was

right, the tv camera

panned on a group

of girls wearing

“Free Ted” t-shirts.

but he was still walked

In chains to a prison

storeroom.

And when Bundy

faced the crowd

for the last time,

my mother said,

“All he ever needed

Was the love of one

Good woman.”

And then Ted cried

for himself. There were

so many “bodies, still

out there, so many.”

Even after he was buried

in a grave marked

only by a number,

my mother kept her

front door unlocked,

all night long.

For more information on poet Wiilliam “Chip” Miller, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Damned

By Rinat Harel

Damn them all;

Damn the fire in their eyes and the guns in their hands,

Damn their rocket launching, bomb dropping, baby killing,

And shameless propaganda.

Damn their refusal to put down hate, extinguish

Anger, and discard this hell.

Like puppets in a tragic theatre, they play their roles

To the utmost and without fail,

Over and over and over. And damn, over again.

Self-righteousness spewing from their mouths in torrents,

Their fingers always pointing away.

Seizing land not theirs, killing brothers not theirs,

Demolishing houses not theirs,

Sending children not theirs to explode in crowded markets.

Why, bellows the shaken earth; Why, echo the missile-torn skies.

Stop, begs the mother.

March on, command the generals.

Damn them all!

I turn to flee the burning soil, leave behind the rumbling cannons.

Damn the hopelessness and blindness, damn the waste and malice,

I yell as I run.

Damn all …

The mother’s pleading eyes slow my steps.

I halt.

I cannot.

Damn, but I cannot.

This smouldering earth is my earth too.

For more information on poet Rinat Harel, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Dollar General Customer Satisfaction

By Ryan Loveeachother

Today, I called (888) 309-9030. I was lonely.

Earlier, I Facebook messaged a blonde-haired writer who had a picture next to a short

story she’d written. It was called “Pearls Before Swine.”

I resisted for a while, since I’d never met her.

Afterward, I called the Dollar General Customer Satisfaction line.

Not because I was dissatisfied. The Black Cherry sparkling water was crisp, unexpired,

and refreshing— as it always is.

I didn’t save the receipt, because I don’t want my wife to know.

Instead of drinking booze to drown the loneliness, I’m addicted to a chemical concoction

of pressurized aspartame.

But, that lady’s voice, asking me to spell my last name, assured me that at least Dollar

General cares.

She made inroads.

For more information on poet Ryan Loveeachother, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

My Beloved Ghost

By Nevine Khan

You say you are invisible,

As you drift through the night with your head bowed

Eyes weary but ceaselessly searching

Feet shuffling, seeking an escape

Through places unfamiliar

Where neither the quiet nor the crowd knows you

You remain silent, yet

Your heart lets out anguished sighs,

Into the night that surrounds you

And its beating echoes in the empty spaces,

Fearful but unwavering in its fight

You believe you’ve been forgotten, but

I remember the sun rising in your smile

The river sparkling in your laughter

And the fires crackling in your rage

You call yourself a stranger, but

My tongue knows the twists and edges of your name

I can see that you are innocent

As you tremble beneath the weight

Of crimes never committed

You believe you are lost, but I have found you,

Come my beloved ghost,

Take a rest from your journey and

Let me bathe your dark path in my heart’s light

Shatter the silence you’ve held for so long,

Use your strong, silken voice and speak,

Your language is woven into my soul,

And your words will never be wasted on me

Unfold your petals and bloom

Stand before me as you truly are

The others may never see you

But you take shape before my eyes in all your beauty and fury

You are sharp and clear, flesh and bone

For more information on poet Nevine Khan, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Jesus Fans

By William “Chip” Miller

There was no screens

in the windows;

bugs buzzed

around the pews.

I sat in my scratchy

best with kids

my age, all of us

bad apples.

And the preacher

always preached

about hell, how

much hotter

it was going to be

than in this mill

church. There

was a lake of fire …

We all waved our

fans, but didn’t

pray to Jesus,

on the clouds.

No, we prayed

for thunder,

pagan thunder,

the sweet god of rain.

For more information on poet William “Chip” Miller, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Over There, Just Down the Hall, Is a Living Man

By Michael McDaniel

He rots alone

Within his single room,

Surrounded by human beings

but flat as a board.

His comments few,

no one tries to speak

for he hardly cares to meet.

How much a shame

for a man to go through college

walking like a ghost

from class to dinner

to his single room,

always on his own –

it’s all too easy to see

that the past four years

have been the same wasteful dream,

a malaise of geology tests, W.O.W., mac n’ cheese,

and sitting on fences.

What causes a man

to live so much a hermit’s life

in a dormitory?

I lived down the hall

two years ago,

and it was great to simply

walk together in the evening’s twilight

and actually relate to the man;

I’ve hardly seen him since.

I forgot to meet him in the fall –

Did he even care that I flaked?

I remember him, like I remember other hallmates past

and I pray and wonder

if I should hail him once again.

Will someone reach this man?!

He fades away and even now

shows that he will be nothing but a shadow

all his days

if no one seeks to break his exile.

Who shall go?

When shall I?

They die everyday

before our very eyes

like a slow poisoning,

like blackened lungs.

For more information on poet Michael McDaniel, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Mwenda

By Lind Flowers

I find myself relishing this search of you,

and all my findings are lovely.

The fingers of my thoughts examine you,

lifting and adjusting limbs,

holding them up to the light.

I touch and reach into new places,

observing the braille of your expressions,

noting the tone of your words,

sensing the vibration of your sweet hummings.

I am beginning to see you

I survey you,

from top to bottom,

around bends and angles.

I look but find no edges,

no rough, gravelly places,

only many smooth stones,

cool and weighted in my hand,

that glint and gleam

in the light of the sun and moon,

like finished marble or jade,

rounded in a stream.

I find these stones in rooms of you,

like little nooks you’ve set aside

for me to come and find you,

places for me to be still in.

Everywhere I look

I find some sacred treasure of you,

that you have not hidden,

that you have not arranged,

pieces of you

that you quietly let me discover,

small, intimate wonders

just for me to enjoy.

For more information on poet Lind Flowers, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Snake World

By John Grey

Early spring and already the black and brown snakes

are out of hibernation, on the move.

Even the fat old carpet python, ensconced

in the rafters of the barn, eases its way down in search of mice.

It’s not about buds on trees here

and birds high-tailing it back from the north.

It’s the reptiles that decide when the weather is changing.

They shrug off winter. They slither back into our world.

I fear them all, of course. Especially the death adder.

His name is enough to send the shudders through a boy.

I have never seen one. But they own my nighttime.

My bedroom window’s shuttered tight even in hot weather.

My father says there’s nothing to be afraid of.

A snake is more afraid of me than I am of it.

Do I really believe that a deadly taipan

is scared stiff of a ten year old school boy?

It’s early spring but it’s not like folks are celebrating.

The winters are warm and pleasant. Climate crawls

from one day to the next. Only snakes sense a difference.

My father once caught one on the end of a stick.

It was just a yellow-faced whip, mildly toxic

according to the textbooks but a confirmed assassin

in my frozen eyes. “Kill it,” I screamed at him.

Maybe its death would send a message.

But he let it go free, mumbled something like.

“It has as much right to live as you and I do.”

So what could have been one less threat to my life

became a lesson in the rights of all sentient beings. Ouch!

For more information on poet John Grey, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Karesansui

By Alicia Brall

I try to articulate it

“karesansui”

The kids smack tiny wooden rakes

over wooden frames of sand, knocking

half the contents out of these

miniature playgrounds.

This sand is not water, these rocks

are not the elements—

but they are, aren’t they?

Disregarded,

chaos.

“kah-ray-sahn-soo-ee”

I say

practicing

repeating

trying to see kabuki

in the sunset, trying to remember the sound

of the drums, my nerves stunned

by quaking waves

of sound, trying to hear the polished throb

that bounced, bone-to- bone,

within my frame for weeks

over this BANG

BANG BANG

BANGing of clunky

fat fists, a fury

of feng shui child’s play

“karesansui”

I say over

and over

because the saying is the meditation

raking lips over syllables

arranging sounds

like smooth stones.

For more information on poet Alicia Brall, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Sandbox

By Cassie Kellogg

Me and the ancient sandbox,

Float in my mind’s eye.

Sitting in the present, dazed in my own self retribution.

Back to imagining the last euphoric days.

The kitchen cups.

Pink, green, and blue plastic,

Held together my special concoction:

Sand and twigs and water from the plastic bottle.

My magic swirled.

A grimy brown potion, with microscopic fragments of glass,

Glimmered to me, The Child.

The sun-dried pellets of cat feces sat,

Dangerously close,

Though I never noticed.

I only imagined the sweet strays,

And generously allowed my sandbox to be theirs too.

Something now, in the somber present compels me.

I sit on my hands

Now and again,

Allowing my head to take me back.

It sways in the darkness of the room,

Envisioning that old sunny place.

And with that momentary glimpse,

That feral compulsion of remembering,

And clinging, and grasping, and begging,

All is silent.

Will I ever go back?

Will I ever go back?

For more information on poet Cassie Kellogg, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Nearly Over

By Thomas Balkany

We wander autumn woods

with little to say

and nothing but time

for the passing colors

fading quilts of red and gold fluttering

in the trees overhead and on our path

for the crunchy grass

on the hill by the old earth fence where

clouds sail by in the bright sky slowly

and for the smoky crisp scent

around our lodge in the late afternoon,

the fire on our hearth more warmth than flame.

Fall’s leaves

their dream nearly over

flair brightly and die.

For more information on poet Thomas Balkany, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

Ancestry

By Christie Collins

Just as I

am a woman

born with

millions of

tiny oocytes

bright with life,

I was born

with poems:

a poem for

every atom

of my being.

And the I

that speaks

as witness,

that writes

this poem

into existence,

was but one

of my mother’s

million poems.

For more information on poet Christie Collins, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Dear Reader, Love Poet

By Christie Collins

I have a theory that no poem

sounds like a bad poem,

provided that the knowing poet

has taken time to practice reading the verse aloud, visualizing the valleys

of syllables in each word, breathing in just the right corners, following

the line breaks like a trail through the woods.

For all we know, a giraffe might stumble

into this poem. He might unfurl his long black tongue against a toddler’s rosy cheek, and if

you hear this image aloud, you can see the long, spotted neck of the animal. It doesn’t cross your

mind to judge if one can get away with writing a poem about a giraffe. It’s already been done

and here you are, too, at the zoo participating in the tenderness of this moment, this world,

this strange existence feeling smaller, kinder.

If the reader is prepared & passionate,

certainly any poem could be moving, which is why I wish I could be there with you

now as you read this line to yourself.

I want to go back to the beginning & read

this poem to you because in hearing it, I would give you a small piece of myself

which would break from your hands into flight, singular & brazen. As I read this poem,

you would hear undercurrents, a brave passion.

In all honesty, you may hear me slip or stammer

on a word because that happens sometimes as do other truths when I let go of this tight grip,

when I let the robe slip off my shoulders, when it’s just me and my voice in front

of the stage lights, the audience waiting.

For more information on poet Christie Collins, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Nomadic Trials

By E.R.J.

The blood did not drip or drop,

But it was there, in the void cracks within the sidewalk.

We sprinted home,

Our hearts overpowered the sound of our footsteps.

The door closed behind half-strong hands,

But they cheered for us as if we were heroes.

You leaned with arms crossed.

Your eyes bit me like the sun,

For those things we had to do.

For more information on poet E.R.J., please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

So Long

By Ilyssa Goldsmith

Here are our leaves of grass,

Although they may have been picked up by the wind

They will never be gone.

Look for me in the scattered pages stroked by the print of your finger

And we will meet again.

So long.

For more information on poet Ilyssa Goldsmith, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Deleted Hindsight

By Bob Eager

Often times relying on hindsight,

Is like

Midnight Quarterbacking on a

Sunday Evening;

Delete your hindsight!

Easy to say but what about circumspection

Put your finger on the delete button instead of send

practice;

before that one last drink,

one last text

Hold finger in the air

practice the key called backspace.

Describing in conclusion.

The mistakes have been made

and the correction installed;

Focusing on Foresight

For more information on poet Bob Eager, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

St. Francis

By Kyle Martindale

The sparrow sees

rainbows with more rods

and cones than I do.

Sees colors I don’t—

—can’t.

But I judged the world

correctly as a child,

having unearthed

countless

bones with only

a butter knife.

Surely, there are

flocks to be

disinterred from

the sky and told

what they do

not see.

For more information on poet Kyle Martindale, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Even Though He Grew Up With Six Sisters

By Ryan Loveeachother

My husband, the ob-gyn, looks at other women’s “lady parts” all day. Red pen in hand, I grade

essays. This one fears the vagina, arguing for abstinence. The quotation marks get me. I imagine

my husband in an onslaught of yoga pants, spandex ass cheeks. The gentle insertion of his

medical instruments. My pen pools ink, bleeds on the page, as I drift, wondering why the word

spreads, or the wet loins, fingers trembling, her, me, him . . . our shrink is right. I do have trust issues.

I take another paper, hoping for something different. But they’re all the same.

For more information on poet Ryan Loveeachother, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

The Phoenix

By Kyle Martindale

I like to peel my oranges

into a one-piece beast. Once

removed, the peel still complete:

like one of those maps trying to

act like it used to cover a globe;

for example, the Goode

Homolosine Projection;

the translation of the earth’s surface

into the language of flatness—

at times these maps intrigue us, or satisfy

a taste for something precise;

at others, they frustrate: that such

a thing was flattened in the first place;

that it cannot, really, ever be un-peeled—

It is patient work

for a thumb.

Fail to keep whole, the peninsulas of peel,

and your floor will flower with petals,

orange flesh of peel, wilting—scattered

on the floor, the first moltings of a new myth.

For more information on poet Kyle Martindale, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

An Unfinished Canvas

By Ilyssa Goldsmith

The sky, an unfinished canvas

where infinities never dissolve

and cloudy blues mingle with pure white.

When the mountains stand tall,

their shadows create a mirage

like those in the backdrop of a

Broadway musical.

Give me your diamonds, riches, and glory

the sky is relentless

for soul and heart reside in those

dream-tinged hues.

Color is a construct of emotion

the wispy clouds are chalk on

a blackboard, the mountains are

earth and the sun is spirit

while a perpetual blue remains

to be of the confines of a shifting

soul.

For more information on poet Ilyssa Goldsmith, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Headlights Tossed Forward

By Michael Lee Johnson

I live in a sketched out rusty truck world

alarm clock on the dashboard legs stretched out.

I am a coffee shop manager whores found on the road

hitch hiking to their next adventure.

My world is colored gray with half tones.

My tires are whitewalls half-flat and half rolling.

My world revolves around travels poverty my poems.

I cannot see forward the storms brewing adventures in my eyes.

Words flip-flop right to left window flapping in frozen fog.

The pace of winter nights confuses me.

I travel most of these black tar roads fender damaged, alone.

All earthly goods, tees and sweatshirts, old memories stuffed

in the back, old black quarter ton truck.

Begin, and end, headlights tossed forward.

For more information on poet Michael Lee Johnson, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

The Trail

By Dinesh Sairam

they’re gone . . .

their footsteps

in the sand

right where they

left them

For more information on poet Dinesh Sairam, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Nothing More

By Rinat Harel

Do not bury me in your ground.

Do not cover me with clods of earth and mourn

My departure.

Do not put me in the cursed soil, where soldiers’ boots

Loomed over my great-grandmother.

(Her namesake, I carry her ashes in my bones; she holds

No grave, to remind you.)

I do not wish to lie under a shattered headstone, my name

Swastika-sprayed.

Do not entomb me in the burning land that bore me;

The shrapnel-soaked earth will grind my rotted flesh,

The thunder of war will disturb my final rest.

Do not cage me in a coffin; the tree should remain

Standing in the forest, not house my remains.

Do not shove me in a burial-drawer; build a school instead. A home for the newly wed.

Have flowers rise from the dirt.

I will be among the shrubs, within the wings of an early morning breeze.

For dust am I.

Nothing more.

For more information on poet Rinat Harel, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

I Pissed in the Street

By Ryan Loveeachother

The surging arc hit the pavement and dispersed. Splattering back, molecules of my own waste

clung to my wet feet.

The rain was falling in broken lines. It wasn’t eight o’clock in the morning.

I poured coffee into our burnt orange mugs. Some dripped down the side of the pot and

onto the floor. She threw her arms at me.

God, you’re spilling!

You spilled!

I lost it. I was mute.

All the words pulled their pants down and pissed in the tub of my head, with drain plugged,

swirling together, inaudible and vile:

You’re always fucking nagging me, always on my case, I mean I was pouring you a cup of coffee, I mean it’s the first thing in the morning, and it’s always like this, you’re always on me, always nagging me about something, like the fucking toilet seat or watering the plants or whatever, I mean, jesus fuck we waste so much goddamned time arguing, explaining our intentions, promising next time this or next time that, so many goddamned apology conversations— I stood very still.

Getting pummeled by sheets and sheets of rain, I pissed in the street. I did spill the coffee.

When there was nothing left, I shook the last drops free, and limped back in.

For more information on poet Ryan Loveeachother, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

June Cleaver’s Pearls

by William “Chip” Miller

They were a perfectly

smooth string; she wore

them whether she

cooked or cleaned.

And they seemed

to glitter in the

dry martini she mixed

for her husband.

He never looked up

from his glass,

said he had a pearl

of his own …

Secretly, she longed

to strip and screw

the mail man,

her pearls in place.

A double life was twice

the life her lady friends

had, no string

around their necks.

She wanted to be

buried in hers,

for many to marvel at,

all the Junes in one box.

For more information on poet William “Chip” Miller, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRY

Medical Imaging

By John Grey

The doctor informed Marie

that she was having a boy

which meant that

the odds of it growing up

to become a serial killer

were fifty times greater

than if it had been a girl.

He told Deborah

that hers was a girl,

and the odds for her sex

were fifty times greater

that she would be

a serial killer’s victim.

When you spend

day after day,

week after week,

year after year,

doing nothing

but wave an ultrasonic transducer

over the swollen bellies

of expectant mothers

you live for moments

like these.

For more information on poet John Grey, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRYCONTRIBUTORS Thomas Balkany Thomas Balkany is Hotchkiss Professor and Chairman Emeritus of the Department of Otolaryngology at the University of Miami where he specialized in ear surgery for deafness. His poems have appeared in The Cortland Review, Flamenco and Pharos and he has authored 4 books, some 250 scientific publications, and 14 patents on Cochlear Implants. He lives with his wife Diane in Florida and Summit County Colorado.

Alicia Brall Alicia Ochoa Brall is a Phoenix native and received her BA with creative writing emphasis from Northern Arizona University. Her work has previously appeared in Four Chambers.

She resides in Phoenix with her husband and stays home with their two daughters, writing poetry only when the sky is midnight black and a series of volatile stars have become perfectly aligned.

Christie Collins Christie Collins holds degrees from Mississippi University for Women, Mississippi State University, and is currently working toward a PhD in English & Creative Writing from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. She is a full-time instructor in the Department of English at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. Her creative work has recently appeared in the journals So to Speak, Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian Heritage, Canyon Voices, Still: The Journal, and Reunion: The Dallas Review. Her chapbook Along the Diminishing Stretch of Memory was published by Dancing Girl Press in 2014.

Bob Eager Bob Eager believes too much time is spent reflecting on what could have been. He would rather spend time focusing on sort of stopping events of the future. Most of this consists of practicing hitting the figurative and literal backspace key of life. He is a Contributor to the Subject Matter Universe (Up and Coming Project). Bob Performed at Space 55 in Downtown Phoenix and almost performed at Trunk Space. Bob has been published in Leaves of Ink, Stray Branch, New Beatnik, Eskimo Pie and Right Hand Pointing.

Lind Flowers Lind Flowers is a senior at Hollins University. She is pursuing a major in English with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Social Justice. Though she has always written, she has recently discovered that creative nonfiction allows her to tell the stories that she has always wanted to tell, but didn’t know how. She is presently working on a memoir that she feels certain she will someday finish. She sees on her horizon both photojournalism and documentaries. This year, she will be writing her senior thesis about the history of slavery on her beloved Hollins campus, where she will be working with the campus and state archives to share the memory of the forgotten founders of her university.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRYCONTRIBUTORS Ilyssa Goldsmith Ilyssa Goldsmith was born in Syosset, New York in 1995. She attends college at Arizona State University and is pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in Communication. Her poem 5 Minutes to My House was posted on Poets.org for National Poetry Month. Although she has yet to publish her works traditionally, she continues to write creative novels and short stories in her free time. Also, she enjoys photography, both film and digital, and if she is not doing any of these pursuits, then she is most likely sipping tea, reading Leaves of Grass, and enjoying conversations with fellow college students.

John Grey John Grey is Australian born short storywriter, poet, playwright, musician, Providence RI resident since late seventies. . Has been published in numerous magazines including Weird Tales, Christian Science Monitor, Greensboro Poetry Review, Poem, Agni, Poet Lore and Journal Of The American Medical Association as well as the horror anthology What Fears Become and the science fiction anthology Futuredaze. Has had plays produced in Los Angeles and off-off Broadway in New York. Winner of Rhysling Award for short genre poetry in 1999.

Rinat Harel Born and raised in Israel, Rinat moved to the U.S. in 1991. Having earned a bachelor and master’s degrees in fine art, she is now pursuing an MFA in creative writing, and her story Africans, White City, and a Pint of Guinness had recently received the Emerson College 2015 Writing, Literature & Publishing Graduate Writing Award in Nonfiction. (Judge: Robert Atwan, editor of Best American Essays). She had also won the GrubStreet Boston Spring 2014 scholarship. She is currently working on a memoir on her experiences as an operations-room sergeant in an Israeli Air Force squadron. Her work has been published in magazines such as the East Coast Ink, The Masters Review, and Consequences Magazine.

E.R.J. E.R.J. is a private guy who values content, rather than gimmicks, in his poetry.

Michael Lee Johnson Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a citizen of Canadia and USA. Today he is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 880 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. Author's website http://poetryman.mysite.com/. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN: 978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRYCONTRIBUTORS Cassie Kellogg Cassie Kellogg is a writer, poet, and Phoenix-native. She is an Editor for Pants on Fire Press, and her first short story, "Dirty Feet, Squashed Tomatoes," was published in the Summer 2014 edition of The Writing Disorder. This is her first poetry publication. You can follow her on Instagram @cassiikel for insights into the daily musings of a recent college graduate and aspiring author.

Nevine Khan Nevine Khan is a college sophomore who studies Biology and French. Her life so far has been split between the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico. She is passionate about all forms of creative expression, especially the literary, musical, and sartorial arts. Her writing is an attempt to tame and organize her countless ravings and indecisions. Her primary influences are punk subculture, mystical poetry, and science fiction.

Ryan Loveeachother Ryan Loveeachother lives and writes in Milledgeville, GA. He is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Georgia College and State University. To stay moving along the timeline of existence, Ryan balances on a slackline, falls off, over and over again, ferments things just to see what happens, disassembles plastic coffee pots to use the bottom part as a heating unit, dreams of days without dreaming of days, and studies the subtle art of not rocking the marital boat.

Kyle Martindale Kyle Martindale makes poems, leads creative writing workshops and teaches English at Antioch High School in Nashville. Mr. Martindale's students are known to report displeasure for having excessive amounts of homework and strange, "artistic" assignments. The same students are also known to perform excellently. A Southern California native, he holds a BA from the University of San Diego and an MFA from San Diego State University's Creative Writing program. His work often operates at intersections of ecology, zoology, fan-fiction and faith. He and wife Jessica, work locally and travel internationally for charitable missions while raising their dog-child, Lucky Adele: the stray-turned-diva, Lhasa Apso-terrier mix.

Michael McDaniel M. Tristan McDaniel hails from the verdant climbs of the Pacific Northwest, where he gained his BA in History from Western Washington University. His work provocatively explores critical questions in the often tumultuous realms faith and politics. He is a writer of “bright sadness,” wrestling with the stark brokenness of life, while grasping tightly to hope. He is currently pursuing his MFA in Dramatic Writing from the University of Southern California.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

POETRYCONTRIBUTORS William ‘Chip’ Miller William Miller teaches in the MFA Program in Children's Literature at Hollins University.

He is a widely-published poet and children's author. His poems have appeared in many journals, including The Southern Review, The South Carolina Review, The Hollins Critic, Nebo, Shenandoah and Prairie Schooner. His books for children include The Bus Ride, with an introduction by Rosa Parks. He lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.

Dinesh Sairam Dinesh Sairam, 24, is a student in business management and an aspiring poet from the shady regions of Southern India. He's quasi-traditional and a sucker for good music. He reads lots of books, but prefers non-fiction. He has a love-hate relationship with his gym.

A good night's sleep and refreshing nature walks are his ideas of fun. In a way of saying, he takes life as it comes. He likes to think of himself as an imagist with a side of romanticism. He sometimes writes haikus and short stories, too. Poetry, he believes, is a self-content search for beauty in the simplest aspect of things.

Thirsty by Sheryl Tsosie.

CANYONVOICES

Please visit the Artwork section for more work by this artist.

SPRING2016

Poetry Contest Winners

The School of Humanities, Arts & Cultural Studies

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH CONTEST WINNERS First Place

The Future and Whatnot

By Megan Huffman

Twice a week we get together and we talk about

The Greats.

The Great Writers and Poets that came before us.

The Ones that we aspire to be.

Those dead men with their dead books and dead words

That cashed in their trust funds

To move to Europe so

They could write how pretentious it all was.

And we laugh and say,

We’ll be famous but not like that.

So, we turn to our own writings,

A look to the future of our own masterpieces.

Jordan’s wrote another poem

About one of the many girls he’s fucked

But cares so little for

He keeps them alive in his poetry.

Trisha’s writing another metaphor

A burning cigarette for a burnt up life

Or something.

She smiles huge at her own cleverness.

They’ve circled around to me

Wondering what secrets I have for them.

But I’ve stopped listening

And watch children play

Obnoxious games,

Knowing one day they’ll be like

Jordan, Trisha, and the rest.

I look back and I tell them I have nothing.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

Poetry Contest Winners

The School of Humanities, Arts & Cultural Studies

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH CONTEST WINNERS Second Place

The Long Road

By David Redkey

Step.

A Step.

Forward.

Walking in

Towards my

Chance to help

To make my voice

Heard by all in line.

Counting the time, my

Time to cast my ballot

For the only nominee who

Represents me and my family.

But Helen Purcell decided that my

Vote did not count, our vote did not count.

If this is supposed to be a Democracy, why

Am I the one who is ignorant of these changes?

Why am I the downtrodden, cast aside ballot smeared

With ashes and tobacco and broken promises and unfulfilled

Dreams? Is this Democracy or a parlor trick made to make me Mild and complacent, accepting and reinscribing the lies, the deceit Of 20,000 not counted, not accepted by the Establishment, the corporate

Interests who silence the people’s will to no more a mutter, tearing asunder our Constitution so we can still be under their whip, bound by their chains, succumbing

To their disease while we are told that our voices matter, our movement matters, but Only if it agrees with Kochs, the Buffets, and the other big money interest stealing our

Democracy. So, we become their willing slaves, perpetuating their willing lies while we all Choke down their poison profits in the provided flask containing the tatters of a symbol, shattered Symbol that is naught but kindling, dancing in the spring breath, hoping to exonerate us from it all.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

Poetry Contest Winners

The School of Humanities, Arts & Cultural Studies

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH CONTEST WINNERS

The Long Road

By David Redkey Single Font Size Version

Step.

A Step.

Forward.

Walking in Towards my Chance to help To make my voice Heard by all in line.

Counting the time, my Time to cast my ballot For the only nominee who Represents me and my family.

But Helen Purcell decided that my Vote did not count, our vote did not count.

If this is supposed to be a Democracy, why Am I the one who is ignorant of these changes?

Why am I the downtrodden, cast aside ballot smeared With ashes and tobacco and broken promises and unfulfilled Dreams? Is this Democracy or a parlor trick made to make me Mild and complacent, accepting and re-inscribing the lies, the deceit Of 20,000 not counted, not accepted by the Establishment, the corporate Interests who silence the people’s will to no more a mutter, tearing asunder our Constitution so we can still be under their whip, bound by their chains, succumbing To their disease while we are told that our voices matter, our movement matters, but Only if it agrees with Kochs, the Buffets, and the other big money interest stealing our Democracy. So, we become their willing slaves, perpetuating their willing lies while we all Choke down their poison profits in the provided flask containing the tatters of a symbol, shattered Symbol that is naught but kindling, dancing in the spring breath, hoping to exonerate us from it all.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

Poetry Contest Winners

The School of Humanities, Arts & Cultural Studies

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH CONTEST WINNERS

Third Place

Untitled

By Sarina Guerra

Sleep has escaped me

Like young love and memory

In old age to come

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

Poetry Contest Winners

The School of Humanities, Arts & Cultural Studies

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH CONTEST WINNERS

Honorable Mention

Public Display

By Patricia Colomy

The slackly hung door rattles behind me.

You sit on the unfamiliar ceramic toilet

as I stand- my legs straddling over you.

Determined fingers lift my skirt

and settle my weight onto your lap.

Tightly wrapped around each other,

you fight the wobbling of the loose

toilet seat and I oblige your

surprisingly thick pressure until

we locate our own rhythm.

The first feel of you sends my knees

upward into the sharp metallic spire.

The pang of steely chrome echoes

through my flesh and I know

I’ll have a bruise later.

The outer door slams shut,

quaking our four fragile walls.

A stranger enters and begins to fill

the urinal beside our plastic bedroom

with golden melody.

The sharp smell of antibiotic soap

battles the scent of grime while sticky

sick grit coats the bottom of my velvet heels,

and they rip at the foreign floor each time

your hips lift me from the ground.

You close my mouth with yours,

in attempt to silence my pleasure,

but he will undoubtedly notice our

teeter tottering feet below the stall.

Our lips vibrate with my stifled giggles.

With my chin rested on your head

and your warm breath fogging my skin

I notice some writing carved into the

back of the stall…

Your final thrust closes my eyes

and I remember that I love it here.

“Janey is a WHORE”

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

CREATIVE NONFICTION

Just Breathe by Maggie Schmiegelow (See Artwork for full image)

Kathleen McAvoy Namaste Hannah Castor An Unfettered Life: My Rant Against Compelled Motherhood Renee G. Rivers What’s in a Name?

Patricia Martarella Calling the Whales Rinat Harel Africans, White City, and a Pint of Guinness Kathleen McAvoy The Redoubtable Mrs. Browning Eunice Kim Places of Knowing Lind Flowers Windmill Seeds

CREATIVE NONFICTION : KATHLEEN McAVOY

Namaste

By Kathleen McAvoy

I

cursed the Chinese chef under my breath. Couldn’t he cook quicker?

I’d called in the carry-out order before leaving the yoga studio and picking up the kids. Twenty minutes later, I was in the lobby of the restaurant, waiting. The food should have been ready. As I watched my children grow restless and fidgety, I completely lost the peace and contentment of Power yoga followed by a long Savasana. Instead, I was filled with frustration. Finally, a halfhour and several complaints later, I was handed a plastic bag stuffed with Styrofoam containers of lo mein, egg foo yung and beef with broccoli. As I loaded food and kids into the SUV, I was bombarded with whining: Mom, when are we going to eat? Mom, I’m starving.

Mom, I’m going to die of hunger.

Assuring them that we were only five minutes from home, I pulled rapidly out of the parking lot and onto the boulevard leading to our sub-division.

Then I saw the boy. He appeared to be no more than 16 or 17 years old. He was sitting on the sidewalk about six feet behind the ruined car, slowly rocking back and forth, knees clasped to his chest. He seemed to be in great pain, and his face was deathly pale. My mom-instinct told me that he was about to throw-up. I saw cars stopping and parking, witnesses getting out, cell phones pressed to ears. I thought about stopping too, but what had I seen? Nothing at all…we had clearly arrived moments after the accident occurred.

I saw the car first. It was an economy vehicle, nondescript except for the crumpled driver’s door and the fact that it was positioned awkwardly on the sidewalk, not the street. Its back-end was tilted upward, balanced across some rocky landscaping, the hood pointing downward and propping the car in place. I decelerated, my stomach churning with dread.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

CREATIVE NONFICTION : KATHLEEN McAVOY

I glanced quickly in the rear-view mirror. My sixth-grade daughter had a bird’s-eye view through her window. However, her unconcerned expression indicated that she hadn’t seen a thing. Headphones dangled from her ears, and perhaps in her mind’s eye she saw herself dancing to the tune playing on her iPod. Ditto for my son, the fourth-grader. A wireless headset was firmly clamped around his ears, and the built-in TV monitor had been pulled down from the car’s ceiling. My son’s attention was riveted to his current favorite DVD.

Relief flooded through my limbs that the children hadn’t noticed the grisly sight. At the same time, I became aware of my heart hammering in my chest. The truth was astoundingly plain to see: if the Chinese chef, whom I’d silently cursed, had cooked a little quicker, we might have been in that accident. The children and I could have been killed or injured. Like a mantra, my thoughts swirled around this fact: It could have

But the truth was, he hadn't climbed out of that car. He had been in a different vehicle, one that I hadn't noticed. He was, in fact, the driver who caused the fatal accident.

The next morning our local newspaper reported the following: after failing to stop at a stop-sign, the boy and his passenger sailed across five lanes of traffic at a high speed, ultimately Tboning the economy car that I had mistakenly assumed to be his. The car perched precariously on top of the landscaping had belonged to a 24year old woman on her way home from work. Unbeknownst to me, she had been inside the vehicle, still strapped to her seat when I passed by, and she died at the scene. The young man who caused the accident, as well as his passenger, sustained only minor injuries.

The truth was astoundingly plain to see: if the Chinese chef, whom I’d silently cursed, had cooked a little quicker, we might have been in that accident.

Several days later, the local newspaper supplied even more information about the accident. I had estimated the age of the young man to be around sixteen years old, and indeed he was. In fact, he had just received his driver’s license a few hours prior to the crash. A roadside grave was built at the street corner where the accident occurred: lavender and pink Care Bears sat among flowers and crosses. The newspaper reported that the victim, the young woman, had worked at a local bank by day and attended nursing school by night. Her fiancée was devastated; her parents heartbroken.

been me. If the Chinese chef had cooked faster, I could have been in that exact spot at the wrong time. I vowed to never curse slow chefs again.

When I arrived home minutes later I told my husband about the accident, conveying my profound relief that we hadn’t been involved. As I spooned hot, savory-scented noodles, rice and meat into bowls, I mentioned that I honestly couldn’t imagine anyone surviving that wreck.

Each time I passed the roadside grave – often every day, during trips to the grocery store, the dry cleaners and my favorite coffee shop – I felt anger well-up inside of me. I couldn’t stop thinking about the close call I’d had, basically a

“The driver’s door…oh, I don’t even want to think about it! That boy was so lucky to have climbed out of the car alive,” I said, shaking my head.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

CREATIVE NONFICTION : KATHLEEN McAVOY

brush with death. I was furious with the sixteenyear-old driver, and brooded upon the brash, cavalier attitude of young people these days.

Inexplicably, I also berated the parents of the boy, mentally criticizing their poor parenting skills which had inevitably led to such an irresponsible, dangerous offspring. Look what

After a long, awkward pause, my instructor continued. “Namaste,” she said, “translates roughly to: ‘I see in you another me.’ In saying that, we offer each other a gift, a tangible reminder of what yoga is really about; that is, breaking-down dualities, finding the common ground, discovering unity.”

they unleashed into this world! I thought, angrily and self-

She smiled, then finally bowed her head.

righteously. I won’t allow

"Namaste, class.”

“Namaste,” we chanted in return, bowing respectfully. I kept my head lowered a bit longer than usual.

As I rolled up my mat and gathered my things, I pondered what she had shared with us, and the implications of this

that when my children turn sixteen!

But sometime during the week after the accident, I attended a particularly memorable yoga class. One that exemplified the magic of yoga and its mind-body-spirit connection. At the end,

word Namaste.

Driving home slowly, I became aware of a memory, dislodged from the far corners of my subconscious. A memory of a time and place that I hadn't thought about for nearly thirty years. A memory of myself, younger and immature – foolish even. I winced. This memory still hurt.

the instructor gently roused us out of Savasana, or Corpse Pose, and asked us to find a comfortable, seated position. Closure and farewell always comes next; most yoga classes conclude with hands in prayer-position, and both the teacher and the students recite “Namaste.” But Kat, my instructor, paused before this ritual was complete. Staring intently at us, she asked no one in particular: “You say it after every class, but do you know what ‘Namaste’ means?”

The details are vivid: I am working nights and weekends at my very first job, a local discount store, and the owners rent a hall and host a Christmas party for the employees. I am sixteen years old back in 1980 – a time when parents were less paranoid (or less concerned) about their children’s whereabouts. I am unchaperoned; the party is unchaperoned.

Chuck Tunacliffe, the older warehouse guy

The room was silent. Why is she delaying us? I thought. Yoga is over – it’s time to go.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

CREATIVE NONFICTION : KATHLEEN McAVOY

whom I have a crush on, gets me drinks from the open bar. Lots of drinks. He wants to get me drunk. He hopes to take advantage of me, to invite me out to his car to make-out, maybe get lucky, at least get a blow-job. He doesn’t get laid, but I still remember the nauseating taste of cum mixed with alcohol. When it’s over, he walks back to the party, snowflakes swirling around his lanky body. I remain in the parking lot, ashamed of what I’ve done, of how cheaply and easily I allowed myself to be taken advantage of. Being 1980, it doesn’t occur to me that this was date-rape by a predatory guy who deliberately set out to take advantage of an under-age girl. I am simply disgusted with myself. I turn and walk to my car, unable to face anyone, knowing that Chuck will boast about his score, feeling betrayed by my boss who didn’t think to monitor an open bar.

My parents had not asked me to call when I arrived at the party, nor did they request that I use the pay-phone before I left. Neglect and indifference reigned supreme in my family for the duration of my childhood. No one was awake to smell the alcohol on my breath when I finally arrived home safely, despite my efforts to the contrary. No one witnessed my stumbling, drunken gait. Would they have guessed that I’d tried to turn on my car with the windshield wipers instead of the ignition? I doubt it. Would they have predicted that I’d stop for red lights only after I’d passed through them, my reaction time being so compromised? No one would have even asked.

Christmas. Or even worse, guilty of vehicular homicide, my own life ruined along with the lives of my victim(s). It was a miracle I’d managed to drive home drunk without an accident. And the ultimate irony to this memory? I had gotten my driver’s license just one month earlier.

After that yoga class, after the distant memory surfaced, I still felt badly about the fatal car accident each time I drove past that intersection in my neighborhood, but I noticed that my selfrighteousness weakened. My thoughts didn't focus on condemning the boy and his parents anymore. Ardha-uttanasana…half forward-fold…

Naturally, I had quite the hang-over the next day.

Whether my parents recognized it or not—I’ll never know. I certainly don’t remember them shouting at me or even lecturing me on the responsibilities of being sixteen and borrowing the family car. The only thing I do remember is the sobering realization that I could have been killed – dead at sixteen, buried just before

CANYONVOICES

straighten your spine and melt your heart.

Maybe my heart was melting. But was it melting

SPRING2016

CREATIVE NONFICTION : KATHLEEN McAVOY

into a river of self-pity, or could I muster some compassion for my sixteen-year old self as well as for the sixteen-year old boy who killed a woman the day of his driving test? That’s the thing about judgments: we rebuke ourselves just as often as we condemn our fellow human beings.

or virtual strangers? I think we feel compassion for the good neighbors more than we do for the ones who leave their Christmas lights on until April, or allow their trash barrels to sit at the curb until the day before the next pick-up. Who hasn’t felt rankled when driving by the neighbor three doors down who keeps an engine on a block on the side of his driveway? Or irritated by a slow-cooking Chinese chef? These “bad” neighbors, whom we judge, remain strangers to us because we know they’re not the kind of person we’re interested in getting to know. They are forever banished to the tier that doesn’t require compassion, only condemnation and judgment.

Ever since I began practicing yoga a few years ago, my awareness has increased significantly about just how many judgments roll through my head each day.

This awareness has improved my parenting skills. I am less prone to judge my middle school daughter’s everpresent attitude, or my ten-year old son’s head-in-the-clouds irresponsibility. I can let

That’s the thing about judgments: we rebuke ourselves just as often as we condemn our fellow human beings

So if it’s safe to assume that strangers – folks we don’t bother to get to know – are ripe fodder for the wrath of our judgment, then my question is this: why are we so hard on ourselves?

Many of us “beat up on ourselves” when we’ve acted inappropriately or downright wrong. Often, we avoid serious introspection because it’s just too painful to dredge up the foibles of our childhood or teenage years and face those shadows that may still haunt us. Although nearly three decades had passed since the Christmas party of 1980, I still felt shame and anger towards my younger self rather than fury at Chuck Tunacliffe for date-raping me.

go of my momentary irritation, and choose my battles more wisely. I’m even trying to be less judgmental with my husband. For example, when he inevitably treats us as his “staff” on weekends, suggesting what needs to be done and who should do it, I try to remind him that he’s not at work anymore and to just relax. Let go, allow things to be as they are.

This new approach is certainly more rewarding than my old style, which was to get indignant and offended and invariably pick a fight.

Compassion is the magical ingredient at the heart of my new awareness. I believe it is the balm and tonic that allows us to by-pass judgment and condemnation of those around us. But what I’ve noticed is that there are tiers or different levels of applying compassion. For example, we love our immediate family – husbands, wives, kids – so we want to extend compassion to them and hence, it’s easier to be less judgmental. But what about our neighbors,

CANYONVOICES

Perhaps, if I’m able to allow compassion for this sad chapter in my own life, I can likewise extend compassion towards strangers who do bad things, such as the sixteen-year old boy who ran a stop sign and killed a woman. Instead of bristling with anger, perhaps I can empathize with how he – and his parents – must feel, and refrain from passing judgment.

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CREATIVE NONFICTION : KATHLEEN McAVOY

At yoga the next afternoon, my mind wandered during the vinyasa flow. I kept thinking about the dilemma of compassion versus condemnation.

Nobel Peace Prize recipient Elie Wiesel said: “The opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference.” Is compassion the magic which allows us to transcend indifference and thus make this world a better place? Maybe, when we see a tragedy on the evening news or on our own street corners, our mantra should not be “There but for the grace of God go I” but rather: There I go. Or: I see in you another me.

over and pressed the top of her head between my shoulder blades. She was physically pushing me, straightening my spine. Her breath felt warm on my neck.

“Adho mukha shvanasana, downward-facing dog,” Kat called out to the class. “Carefully place your right, then your left shoulder blades onto your back, supporting your heart. Then reach your sacrum up high and curve your tailbone under. And good luck with that one!”

She walked beside me, paused, and then bent

Namaste.

CANYONVOICES

“Kathy, I need you to melt your heart more,” she whispered. “That’s it! Beautiful!”

She moved on and addressed the class: “With every inhale, reach your tailbone higher. With every exhale, melt your heart a little bit more.”

I melted my heart.

For more information on author Kathleen McAvoy, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

SPRING2016

CREATIVE NONFICTION : HANNAH CASTOR

An Unfettered Life My Rant Against Compelled Motherhood

By Hannah Castor

I

don’t want kids. I don’t want them now; I don’t want them in five years, ten years, or twenty. My mother tells me I’ll change my mind, but I won’t. My father tries convincing me to adopt a new perspective, but I don’t want to, and I’m not the only one. Gretchen Livingston and D’Vera Cohn share, “Nearly one-in-five American women ends her childbearing years without having borne a child.” Emma Gray from The Huffington Post further elaborates on this trend; out of the same population from 2014, nearly fifty percent of these women didn’t have a single child. I guarantee that at least some of these women are mentally stable, without traumatic childhoods or emotional impediments. So what if I lack the desire for children? If half of all women share this same thought, I’m obviously not crazy.

with a grin. Kids are great, as long as they’re not mine.

Choosing not to produce offspring wasn’t a hard and fast decision. I’ve watched movies geared toward childbirth and babies and thought on several occasions how wonderful it would be to have that experience. Thankfully, I snap out of this false euphoria and come back to my childless habitat. I once watched a video about men experiencing the horrible pains of childbirth, and their reactions to the contraction simulators were hilarious. Hearing their cries of pain, I cringed and promised my internal organs that they would be forever safe from such misery. Once the simulation ended, the doctor in charge said that childbirth was the worst pain she had ever felt. I nodded, mentally adding this to my list of reasons for avoiding potential offspring. Then she added that every woman should experience childbirth. Wait. What?

Excuse me? Describing how several women liken the pain of popping out a baby to being set on fire, and insisting every woman should experience this? Does she secretly hate women, or am I missing something?

I’m nineteen and a sophomore in college because I graduated high school a year early. I’m an intelligent, independent woman who knows what she wants, and tiny babies and screaming toddlers are just not on my bucket list. Crying when my child starts her first day of Kindergarten is not on the list.

Shouting matches with my teenaged son who refuses to pick up his dirty laundry are not on the list. Walking out of the college dormitory knowing that Mommy is no longer needed is not on the list.

I once heard there is nothing quite so miraculous as the birth of a child. This may be true, but I already have a strong faith, thank you. I don’t need to lie in a hospital bed screaming and squeezing a life out of me to believe in God. It’s awesome that women can have such cherished memories of the moment their child is born, forgetting all about the pain as soon as their baby is in their arms. My mother has assured me that, even though she has a decidedly low pain tolerance, she was able to have both my brother

I love kids. Babies are adorable when they’re not screaming or spitting up. Toddlers are cute monsters, especially when they draw unidentifiable pictures and hand them to me

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and I naturally. The term “naturally” is enough to send horrified shivers throughout my body. Of course, considering her phobia of needles, her option to have an epidural was out of the question. Mom had no choice but to suck it up and deal with the horrendous pain of pushing two babies out of…there.

tanks. The poor creatures could barely swim.

Mom cleaned the tanks out—no harm done— but this vengeful five-year-old somehow found a tube of Orajel and squirted the entire thing into my fish tank, leaving the empty tube floating in the numbing water.

Oozing diapers, spit-up, vomit, pee on the toilet seat…don’t even get me started on germs! I cannot handle the contagions a child will bring. I once assisted my stepmom at our church’s preschool, and what happened? I came down with one of the worst colds I have ever had. Why? Because half the kids there were snotty and coughing and spreading their little germs on everything. It took me weeks and probably a hundred bucks worth of medication to get over that!

And people think I’m just going to have a couple of kids and not freak out whenever one of them sprays mucus all over me? I think not.

In response to my “I’m not having kids” statement, everyone—family, friends, strangers—has told me with a sad, sympathetic expression, that I will one day marry a nice guy and change my mind about childbearing. What is so distressing about my decision? I may not know exactly where I’ll be in five years, but I’m certain it’s not going to be in a multistory home with a two-yearold running through my kitchen without pants.

Oozing diapers, spit-up, vomit, pee on the toilet seat… don’t even get me started on germs!

Babies on screen and off are adorable, but I know what they grow up to become. I’ve seen the chaos a toddler can create. The projectile vomit down the stairs, dogs rushing to the scene and devouring the half-digested food, my mother scrambling for towels and Clorox wipes.

The same child who blew chunks down the stairs has, on more than one occasion, taken off his nasty diaper and painted his room with his own poop, thinking it hilarious. Both our parents were forced to scrub brown smears off walls, dresser, bed, and floor. Not even a year after this incident, my brother came downstairs with brown stripes across his bare chest and stomach. Poopy Picasso had struck again.

Someone could pay me a million bucks to have a child and I would refuse it. Why? Because the same child who took up poop painting and tried to murder my precious fish shares my blood and DNA. If my parents think I’m going to ignore that small detail, they have severely underestimated me. I don’t want to sound like a child-bashing, insensitive jerk, but the next time they pine for grandchildren, they can hit up Poopy Picasso turned Beta Butcher for some offspring to call them Grandma and Grandpa.

Not only did my dear brother paint himself and his room with his own waste, but my beautiful, purple and blue beta fish met a near tragic end when my brother was sent to his room for mouthing off to our mother. Originally deeming it wise to leave him alone, she later discovered that he had stuffed toys into both of our fish

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For more information on author Hannah Castor, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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What’s In a Name?

By Renee G. Rivers

To further complicate things, my fiancé had months ago stipulated—half joking, half not —“No name. No wedding.”

[T]hat which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet…

– Shakespeare

Romeo and Juliet

H

"

What was I to do, other than grapple with the argument that had been brewing since my engagement over a year ago? So I grappled.

The name? It’s a common word. In fact, it’s a base word, a vile word, a curse word. Anyone passing through a school hallway has heard it.

Its utterance still produces a schoolgirl singe on my face.

ow will you take his name and continue to teach? Teaching’s hard enough without dealing with that name.” Mom was right, but I was juggling a lot of balls: graduate school, a house deal, wedding plans, job interviews, and, rearing its head in the middle of it all—the name.

The name is Dick. The word is dick. The word was slanged to death during my school days. It was so horrific to me, the only time I would say it was in association with classmates of that name—classmates who endured a gauntlet of teasing and unmentionable tacked-on nicknames.

It popped up as I walked across campus, haunted me as I radio surfed driving home, and dogged me in class: “This week’s writing assignment, thanks to Henry Louis Gates, is: ‘What’s in a name?’” I wanted to hide. After we talked about our writing projects in class, Doris, a returning student in her sixties, spoke of how she loved her maiden name and felt she lost both a personal and ethnic identity by taking her husband’s. An early-thirties Gretchen hadn’t taken her husband’s name. She was sometimes at odds with this. Her children often asked, “Why can’t we be Robinson’s like you instead of Smith’s like dad?” As for my predicament, I kept my mouth zipped.

After class, I stopped Doris, and told her I appreciated her thoughts. “I’m having difficulty taking my husband’s name.” Making sure no one was in earshot, I said, “It’s Dick.”

Puzzled, Doris asked, “Why-whatever-on earth is wrong with that?”

Gritting my teeth against a rising blush, I said, “It’s what Mr. Bobbit had cut off. D-I-C-K. Dick.”

Meanwhile, my mother—the so-called traditionalist—kept calling: “Shouldn’t you keep your own name?” “You can convince him.” “You’ve hitchhiked across Europe.

Aren’t you a feminist?”

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“Dick? OH!! Dick!” Putting her hand to her mouth, Doris said, “My! I see what you mean.”

Even my ultra-conservative aunt had said, “Why, I don’t suppose you could even hyphenate that:

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‘Renee Rivers-Dick?’” Admittedly, that was worse than not having my own name at all. I had to hand it to my aunt. I hadn’t even thought of that.

name—a name with a reputation, a name known

My name is my identity. I am “Renee G. Rivers.”

After months of contemplation, it struck me.

I’ve published, written music, and performed at

Why not change this respected German name into its English equivalent? If Ellis Island

and respected throughout Germany because of his father, Dr. Dick’s, work with DASA, Germany’s equivalent of NASA.

music festivals and on radio under that name.

My name fits the circumstances of me. It has

changed immigrant names throughout history,

never failed to rise to that occasion. The name

we could do it. Smiling all the way to the dictionary, I opened it to discover this four-letter

“Dick,” somehow ironically, promised to do just the opposite.

word in German had now become a three-letter word in English. The word?

This name also limits what I can name my

FAT.

children and expect them to survive childhood.

Using names of dead ancestors poses a

Perhaps it was time to return the wedding dress.

particular problem. Our cherished family names of Hatta, Ayda, and Etta are far too suggestive

to pair with Dick, and names like Marcus A. or Harry are out of the question. Yet, the fiancé is

For more information on author Renee G. Rivers, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

as proud as a peacock of that name. He even went twenty miles out of his way to a dentist because he had the same surname. As I write,

“What’s In a Name?” first appeared in The Feminist Wire.

the bill of one Dr. Dick, DDS mocks me from where it is taped to the monitor.

My fiancé loves his name. When he asked me why I wouldn’t take his name, I said, “How would you feel if I asked you to take my name?” He flared back that his was a good

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Calling the Whales

By Patricia Martarella

December 27

O

vercast clouds loomed over San Diego long after we’d begun our journey to the drugstore to buy hats and gloves and parkas to protect us from the inevitable promise of rain. It couldn’t have been more than forty degrees, the air biting our cheeks and numbing our reddened noses. But our spirits were bright, even after I’d reluctantly agreed to fast-food breakfast so we could move through the morning as efficiently as possible, making our way to the docks. I was excited, knowing no matter how the day turned out, it would leave a story to tell.

interfere with sleeping or eating or whatever lackadaisical plans he’d invented for himself.

After a forced promise on his part, we scheduled our date and began the long two month wait for final exams and Christmas to pass.

Arriving at the docks some ten hours after we’d made it to San Diego, we found our venue quickly, without issue, and the reserved lot was vacant, offering us convenient parking, likely due to the inclement weather threatening to ruin the day.

“Waters’re rough today,” the window attendant breathed furiously. A burly man with strong, calloused fingers. “We’re still goin’ out, but it ain’t for the faint uh heart. You gotta be prepared.”

Two months before, Frannie and I sat on my back porch, wasting time talking about a lot of things that wouldn’t matter in six months.

Weaved into the conversation, we’d discussed the ethics of SeaWorld and though I’ll never remember which of us brought it up, I’ll happily take credit for inserting the idea of whale watching into the discussion. It was quickly agreed that December, a month in which sightings occur at incredible rates, would be the most opportune time to engage a wild whale watching voyage along California’s Pacific coast.

“Well, I’m still down,” Vince said, looking between Frannie and me as he bit at the corner of his bottom lip, making it bleed.

Vince stood at an athletically woven five-footeleven with a lazy confidence in his body’s ability to withstand things it probably shouldn’t and eventually won’t. Once, he jumped off a cliff and deemed himself “Professional Cliff Diver” for the next two months. He didn’t count the broken collar bone or the fake incisor or the habitual clicking of his rotator cuffs as any indication he needed to be more careful. His body, he believed, would take care of itself. His hair was longer then, black as pitch, waving in heavily to his ears. He adjusted his beanie,

Upon gestation of plans, we formulated an implied agreement between the two of us that Vince would be invited, my long time travel companion, always prepared to embark on an adventure so long as it didn’t

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pulling it down to the crux of his distinctive nose.

“Like afraid to feel sick or afraid you’ll vomit on everything?” I asked.

“That makes me really nervous,” Frannie admitted with little resolve, brushing her long brown curls behind her ears before tucking her hands into her red Grumpy hoodie, visibly nervous. She didn’t trust her body the way Vince did. She questioned it, cautioned it, a characteristic I recognized in myself, but often times ignored for the sake of experience.

She narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t know…”

“I’ll be fine,” Vince intervened. “I kind of pride myself in not throwing up. I haven’t vomited in two years.”

“I think I vomited last week,” I joked, trying to ease Frannie’s trepidation with light jest, making fun of the perpetually running joke I was the brunt of.

Once, on a night of what should have been “casual drinking”, I vomited half a bottle of port and four beers on my other best friend’s driveway. Since then, my incredible talent in drinking atrocious amounts of alcohol and kind-of gracefully regurgitating it back up seemed to be the contribution I’d been made to the butt-end of jokes.

At twenty-six, Frannie might as well have been forty. Or fifty. Or ninety. The oldest of our group of friends, her reasonable carefulness often set her in the way of old-age jokes, as if her two or three year’s seniority to any of us greatly altered her wisdom.

“Do you think you’ll get sick?” she asked.

But it wasn’t wisdom; it was common sense.

Although Frannie didn’t seek adventure, if it happened upon her, she wouldn’t likely pass up the opportunity. You know, unless it was a stupid idea. Like cliff diving. Frannie thought cliff diving was a stupid idea.

I shook my head. “I was on a speedboat in the ocean once. That time I went parasailing? That seemed okay.” I paused, seeking words of comfort for her.

I didn’t have any.

She was reason amidst more questionable judgement.

“If you vomit, you vomit,” I shrugged. “And if you vomit, I’ll vomit. You know, out of sympathy.”

“I’m afraid to get sea sick,” she admitted.

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“We came all this way anyway,” she sighed, forcing a smile over her nerves. “Alright... Let’s do this.”

the boat had a small cabin area, with six booths on either side of an aisle leading to a vending counter where candy and assorted snacks and drinks could be purchased.

A half hour later we were standing on the dock, staring at the small fishing boat we were promised to embark on, the Adventure 80.

We eventually rooted ourselves at the very front, taking turns posing against the wind as if we were a young Leonardo DiCaprio showing Kate

Sea lions played in the aftermath of small fish churning from some filtration system at the boat’s stern, occasionally nipping at seagulls diving just beneath the surface, trying to get their share of the chaos. Vince toyed with the GoPro, a filmography gadget he’d borrowed

Winslet how to have a good time. The Titanic jokes got old quickly, mostly because everyone else boarding was doing the same thing, not knowing we’d orig-inated the very clever parallel. Despite being slightly perturbed, it was the perfect opportunity to take inventory of our company without their notice.

A half hour later we were standing on the dock, staring at the small fishing boat we were promised to embark on, the Adventure 80.

An Asian couple and their two children, four or five years old, huddled together on a white block bench attached to the cabin’s front, just behind us. If the ship wrecked, they would likely be the most useless. I decided they would be dead weight if we were stranded, isolating themselves as a family, only interested in providing for their children. They wouldn’t look out for the betterment of the group.

from his favorite older brother for the trip. He secured the little camera to the handheld monopod, allowing him to extend it over the water before dipping it beneath the murky surface. After a few seconds, he allowed it to resurface, pulling it to him to press buttons and adjust settings before submerging it again.

Frannie and I huddled together, thoroughly entertained by the bustling of activity around us, soaking in the dull chill of brine-laced air.

Then there was the Shorts family, hugging the lip of the boat to our left as they snapped a million pictures of themselves and laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. They were a tall family. Very tall.

But the most distinctive characteristic of the group lay in the oldest, tallest son, adorned with thick, mussy blonde hair and wire-framed glasses. This fool was wearing shorts. These people weren’t even prepared for the cold. How were they going to be prepared to live for an extended amount of time on an island? The Shorts family wouldn’t likely survive the wrecking to even make it to the island.

We were eventually allowed to board, handing our ticket to a different burly man donning a strawberry blond beard, a rolled beanie, and olive green coveralls. His name was Skip. He was the first-mate and promised Vince’s inquiries that the best views would be at the bow.

We explored the vessel separately for a while, as we were accustomed to doing in new environments to acclimate our own feelings without interrupt from one another. The center of

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Of the forty-some odd passengers, our best bet on teaming up with people who did survive was

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probably going to be the two middle-aged men

The tides were rough, as promised, but certainly not as bad as I’d imagined they’d be. Frannie held tightly to the lip of the boat, along with most of the other passengers around us. I stood beside her, challenging my balance against the rock of the waves, patterned enough so I could, for the most part, ride them out without catching myself against the side of the boat.

Vince stood just behind me to the left, asserting his balance on the ocean as if the ability not to fall was a personal achievement, a game he was winning against the waves.

who were talking about The Perfect Storm. They hadn’t made any Titanic references and were obviously preparing for the same potential shipwreck I was. We needed planners if we were going to make it.

We stayed silent for the majority of the journey towards open ocean, lost in our own thoughts as the captain echoed through the script he had droned through a million times before, with strangely timed jokes which often fell short of the punchline. We waved appropriately at a small ferry boat full of touristy-looking people who would be warmer much sooner than we would. A long floating dock patterned with piled blobs of sea lions basking in the cloud-covered grey of daylight bobbed up and down in our wake, barely rousing the creatures.

“We’re gon’a go a’ead and change course up ‘ere!” the captain bellowed through the creaking speakers.

“Jus’ got’a patch in from our pals The Intrepid and it looks like they’ve gone and got thems’lves some whales in sight. Two’r’three.”

I looked at Frannie, pushing my cheeks against the freezing cold air in a big, stupid smile. Her almond eyes sparkled back at me in an equal excitement.

Just passing the Coronado Naval Base, we’d traveled far enough out so only a spread of ocean met the sky on either side of our boat; land grew smaller and smaller behind us until eventually it disappeared entirely.

“Water gets’ah little rougher ‘gainst the tides so y’all in the front ‘ere need’tah grab ont’ah somethin’.”

We were at sea, rolling with the direction of the current as it headed us towards deeper, darker waters.

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Frannie tightened her grip and I rested my right hand on the edge, still ready to test myself against the waters but heeding caution to those

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who knew better. I moved closer to Frannie for Vince to step forward, to give him space to grab onto the boat.

I screamed, opening my mouth to the saline investment of sharp, salted water. This was not a normal, fearful scream. From my lungs poured a blood-curdling, irrational scream of surprised terror that sent burning dryness to the base of my throat.

He shook his head, smiling a broad, eyecreasing grin.

“It’s like surfing!” he said excitedly, laughing the easy laugh he did when he entertained himself with a joke that wasn’t funny to anyone else because it hadn’t really been told.

With the crash, my legs gave out beneath me as the salt water-slickened fingers of my right hand clenched down on the lip of the boat. Frannie’s grip held, causing her only slightly bump into my side, assisting in my left arm’s reach to grab in Vince’s direction. My fingers clutched his right forearm, pulling him swiftly forward to hold on beside me.

The boat turned sharply and we were suddenly and inexplicably airborne, seeming to float. It was if time had frozen. Only the maternal hum of wind and the slight creak of our vessel could be heard as quiet but forceful gusts of chilling air pulled the hood of my jacket off the top of my head. It was confusing and eerie.

Within seconds, a second rise and crash, shortly followed by another, our vessel bobbing up and down against the torrential fight of the current. We continued on this way, but soon began laughing and joking about the dramatics of it all. The initial shock had worn and we’d adjusted to the rhythm of the ocean’s assault, likening it to an intense ride at an amusement park. You know, except on this attraction there weren’t any safety bars or seat belts and you risked falling into freezing water and drowning if you were brave enough to “Vince” your way through the ride.

The broad horizon of ocean which had cradled our journey disappeared from view and all that could be seen was the shadowy paleness of sky.

This misplaced calmness was unnerving and I realized quickly the strange, floating sensation was a very literal suspension of the boat tilting upward in the water.

In seconds, the waves shifted and gravity angrily intervened, shoving the bow down with swift voraciousness. Icy water sprayed in the wake of the fall, spilling onto the deck, baptizing us with unforgiving ferocity.

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“The captain yelled at you,” Frannie said

“At me?” I asked.

“At both of you.”

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I looked at Vince, who seemed similarly perplexed.

having had the experience of walking upright for

“Why?”

I started to hate them for their ease in perusing around as the boat careened through the sea and decided that if they survived and made it to the deserted island, they would now be outcast not for their selfishness in only looking out for one another, but because they had shown off their incredible balancing techniques while the rest of us had to swallow our pride and hang on.

maybe three years.

“He told you to stop screwing around when you fell over.”

“We weren’t even screwing around! We almost died!”

Frannie rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“You did not almost die.”

I turned to Vince.

“Didn’t we almost die?”

“Maybe you almost died,” he responded.

He then looked over the top of my head, to Frannie. “Did you hear her scream?”

With the waters slightly calmer and anticipant, bated breathing fogging the air between us, they were spotted: two massive bodies several hundred feet away in the distance, spouting great spurts of water into the sky.

With the waters slightly calmer and anticipant, bated breathing fogging the air between us, they were spotted: two massive bodies several hundred feet away in the distance, spouting great spurts of water into the sky.

She nodded, a Cheshire grin plastered to her face.

“I did not scream,” I said, trying to remember whether or not I had. It certainly sounded like something I would do. I shook my head. “I wouldn’t have screamed.”

Beginning in the Bering and Chukchi seas, this pod of California Grays made its annual migration across the Eastern Pacific, traveling approximately 75 miles per day.

The company of our fellow passengers equally found themselves glued to the edge, shrieking in excitement with the three of us as the jolting bobs continued. That is, with the exception of the Asian couple and their children, who maneuvered from one end of the boat to another with annoying capability, seemingly unaffected by the tipping of the vessel. The children, whom I’d named Garth and Lucille just for my own entertainment, were equally agile, despite only

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Soon enough, the boat twisted, settling, and the captain ordered us to scan the horizon for signs that whales had surfaced; we’d reached the coordinates sent to us indicating potential sightings in the area.

“Their migration is the longest known annual migrate pattern of any known mammal,” I said aloud, parroting the usual little-known-fact knowledge I peddled everywhere I went. I’d appropriately done my research beforehand.

“Awesome,” Frannie muttered, neither of us removing our eyes from the creatures in front of us.

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We were smack in the middle of the phenomenal influence of nature, first-hand witnesses to the power of time and environment working in poetic, symbiotic tandem.

disappeared beneath the shadow of the paled azure horizon.

The second of the pair lingered, its dorsal hump shifting forward before blowing another incredible spray of water into the sky.

In awe, my breath escaped me. I soaked the wonderment into my skin, allowing it to permeate my bones and erupt in the core of me.

These creatures, ancient, aquatic giants, majestically traversing their environment, sought warmth and safety and companionship. In that very humanistic respect, they were no different than anyone else on this embittered vessel.

“Awesome,” Frannie muttered again.

Eventually, the captain creaked through the speakers, interrupting our graceful entrancement, announcing that he’d received coordinates of another sighting, and warned we’d be turning and heading back against the tide.

“Where are they going?” Vince asked.

“In just a few weeks, they’ll reach the lands of your ancestors,” I laughed lightly. “There are calving lagoons in Baja California,” which would complete their almost seven-thousand-mile journey. “They have whale sex and give birth there. They’re there for a few months while the calves gain blubber so they have the energy and an extra layer of warmth when they make the migration northward.”

Translation: This shit’s about to get real again.

Uncharacteristically, without word to either of us, Vince turned and made his way carefully to the block bench attached to the front of the cabin where we’d seen the Asian couple seated with Garth and Lucille before our departure. With controlled, calculated posture, he fingered buttons and knobs on the GoPro, disengaging as the boat rose up again in its turn.

A wide, charcoal fluke arose then, close enough to us so that we could just make out the white mottling of barnacles patching along the surface of its skin before it

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I braced myself as we followed our new heading, the current no less forgiving than the last. Brief annoyance tainted my thoughts in

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response to my friend’s quick disinterest and blatant dismissal.

and barely fell into place against Vince as the tilted floor leveled forward.

Was the experience not living up to his preconception of National Geographic closeups? Did he think there would be whales breaching fifty feet out of the water, slamming gigantic waves into our boat? Flipper slapping and boat bumping? Had he expected a wild petting zoo type of experience?

This was no good.

A shipwreck? I could logic my way through that.

I’d already planned out my wreck-mates. Being thrown overboard? I’d float or hop on a whale for a ride to Mexico. But nausea, on a boat relentlessly rocking against the tide in the middle of the open ocean… nausea… this was how I was going to die.

I peeked at Frannie out of the corner of my eye, catching her brilliant smile, confident and unequivocally content with her continued laughing at the rise and fall of the waves and found myself easing back into giddiness, allowing her mood to permeate my own.

“I don’t feel very well,” I said matter-of-factly, struggling to keep my composure.

“Oh, yeah?” He paused, turning from his camera to look at me as if he were about to bare his soul. “Me neithers,” he sighed, defeat washing over his features.

But before I could shift my mood entirely, without warning a deep, rolling biliousness bloomed inside of me, dizzying me to the point of disillusion. I fought it away as it crawled up my throat, attempted to subdue it with the joy I had been reaching for just moments before.

When I couldn’t remember joy, I struggled to find the burst of annoyance at Vince, but that, too, died in the wake of nausea; it continued its terroristic assault, pooling in the pit of my stomach and sending dull, aching sickness through my chest.

“Straight on! We’ve got a mother and her calf!

Straight on!” the captain announced excitedly.

Frannie, like George Washington traversing the Delaware, stood proud and effervescent, the leader, illuminating our journey forth. She was spectacularly radiating, enough for the three of us. Which was nice because the only thing radiating from me and Vince were our rising temperatures despite the frigidity of the weather, making our skin clammy. Commiserating in our seasickness, we huddled together against the cold, and waited for the excursion to come to an end.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, as I began quickly calculating the chances that I could make it the ten feet from where I stood to the white plastic platform where Vince had taken up residence.

In total, our boat saw seven whales, including the mother and her calf. Cheering and awesharing hummed about us as we tried to peer between them from our perch, ultimately satisfied with between-hooded-heads glimpses.

Any interest in mustering the strength of

With shaking legs, in the middle of an upward heave of the bow, I made my move without word to Frannie as to why I’d so suddenly abandoned post. I gracelessly stumbled across the deck

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attention to persevere beyond half-assed glancing at the ocean was lost.

She jarringly moved away from me, almost comically, and whispered, “Oh, okay, dear.

That’s fine.”

The captain announced our heading back to the docks, at which point my grip on Vince’s arm tightened. If I held on long enough I could ride out the waves for just a little bit longer…

They dispersed then, the whole row of wrinkled company, disappearing around the corner of the boat I’d just come from, as if a game of telephone had successfully been played out, I the originator. Alone, I piled my unmanageable curls atop my head, ready.

“I think I need to vomit,” I sighed, no longer able to ignore the thumping, constricting pangs at the base of my throat.

And then, it came.

“Oh, yeah?” He paused for a moment. “You need to go somewhere else,” he nearly ordered.

Instead of arguing his tone, which would have ordinarily been my initial instinct, I mentally obliged, understanding his desperation to not be a witness.

Slowly, mucosal cells lined my throat, prepping my esophagus for battle, my body bending over in familiar digestive defeat.

Finally, with jarring resolve, the first of several powerful, pugnacious purges, spewing greasy, bile-laced breakfast sandwich into the wind. The liquid streams frayed just before hitting the water and I considered in this state of extreme vulnerability whether or not I’d be able to catch myself if the tip of the vessel overthrew me. And then I decided that I didn’t care if I couldn’t.

I thought about it for a while, long enough for our vein of travel to adjust enough so that the rock wasn’t so rocky, the jostle less jolting.

People were starting to pry themselves from the edges and slowly move about, keeping their hands raised just above the ledge.

I wretched the last few heaves of emptiness and made my way to the stern, plopping down exhaustedly on a bench facing the back of the cabin.

“I think I would feel better,” I said aloud.

“Do what makes you feel better,” he encouraged.

And then there, right in front of me, were two doors swinging wide and proud, framing the open entrance to the cabin. Inside each, a toilet and a sink.

I stood quickly in newfound resolve, finding my balance enough to turn and catch myself against the railing along the side of the boat where a line of six or seven older women stood happy and comfortable and not vomiting.

I was momentarily annoyed with myself, frustrated that I hadn’t had the privacy to vomit in the correct space. I vomited into the sea, where animals live. I vomited on fish. I had polluted the Earth with my selfish bowels because I hadn’t had the decency to notice onboard bathrooms.

I turned to the woman directly beside me, her poufy corn silk hair bouncing defiantly against the breeze and her face chapped and reddened with the cold, abrasive wind.

Reconsidering, however, everyone should have the opportunity to watch the contents of their

“I need to vomit,” I told her apologetically.

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stomach projectile from their mouths and streak through the ocean. Not everyone can say they have vomited over the side of a boat. But now I could. And vomit was organic waste. Like manure. I had helped the ecosystem. I’d fertilized it. It was a biological duty I’d carried out for the betterment of the world.

caring that puddles of diluted vomit overflowed onto the deck, threatening my All-Stars.

Vince rounded the corner then, sitting beside me in a mirror position of how we’d been miserably perched on the bow not long before.

Skip smiled a tobacco-laced grin and with halfhearted sympathy replied, “Not soon enough for you, girl.” Then he laughed to himself and I thought of how much laughing he wouldn’t do if I accidentally pushed him overboard. “Probably about forty minutes,” he chuckled.

“How long does it take to get back to the ground?” I whined, pulling my feet off the floor as he tossed the still-leaking hose into a secret boat box at the end of the bench.

“How’d it go?” he asked, not knowing that I hadn’t made it this far in my vomitus journey.

“That’s forever,” I sighed dramatically, hoping that he hadn’t heard.

“I feel a little better,” I responded. My skin was still clammy and the remnants of nausea swam in my core.

Regardless of whether or not he had, he continued about his first-mate duties before disappearing, yet again, to I knew not where.

“I think I’m going to vomit as well.”

“Really?”

Door number one swung open then, beating the side of the cabin back and forth as Vince ushered himself out. Emerging, his usually brilliant caramel skin had blanched in the wake of illness and a light glaze of sweat shone along the pane of his forehead.

He sighed loudly with dejected resolve. “Yeah.”

I was surprised. He, The InVinceable, was going to allow himself the vomit we had both needed.

If I hadn’t felt so badly that he felt badly, I would have been jubilating.

He was the color green.

“Will you hold the GoPro please?” he asked, offering it to me like it was the last bit of his salvation.

Pale green. Like the color cartoon characters turn in sickness. He looked as though he were on the edge of death, his lips chapped and taught, colorless. It made me sad. But more than anything, I felt a renewing wave of nausea bloom inside of me.

I took it and watched him disappear behind door number one.

Skip appeared then after having been mostly unseen for the better portion of two hours. He dragged a running black hose behind him and unceremoniously kicked door number two agape. His thumb over the end, he began attacking the orange spattered remnants of the victims before me who had been told of these elusive bathrooms I’d been unaware of. He sprayed the walls and all over the toilet, not

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I looked away—looking at him made me want to vomit all over again.

“You want to come inside?” he asked, motioning to the warmth of the cabin in front of us.

I shook my head, embarrassed by the unexpressed excitement welling within me at the

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chance to have his sickly face out of view. “I think the cold air is helping a little bit.”

Frannie came long after the rest of our shipmates had taken shelter inside, turning the corner with a great, beaming smile that almost made me happy.

“Okay,” he answered, staring longingly into the cabin space. “Well, I’m going to go inside.”

I nodded, knowing him well enough to know what he sought.

He weakly paced into the cabin and with unapologetic enthusiasm slid into an unoccupied space of booth across from an unassuming elderly woman. Within seconds, he’d folded his arms in front of him and buried his face, falling asleep to protect himself from consciously having to feel like I did.

“I turned around and you guys were gone!” she exclaimed. “Where’s Vince?”

And then I looked at my friend, really looked at her, her face radiant and warm despite the unbearable frigidity that enveloped us…

“No way!” she said, peering through the doorway, in-between people, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Her exclamation was not shock—it was the ironic disbelief any of us felt every time Vince reinforced our preconceptions: the fuel for future jibes.

“We threw up,” I admitted, offering an excuse for his disengagement.

I teetered back and forth, silently hating him for being able to escape, but unwilling to let him out of my sight. What if we had to fight off seafaring pirates? He was at an immediate disadvantage, willing himself unconscious to avoid ill-feelings.

One of us needed to be on watch.

“Both of you?” she asked.

I nodded.

Silence stood between us and I wanted nothing more than to Vince-out right there in the rain.

It started to drizzle, the sky finally releasing the precipitation it had been pregnant and looming with all day. Passengers began filing inside the small cabin, one by one. Occasionally someone would catch my eye and shoot me a tight, sympathetic smile.

“This is amazing. The best day of my life!”

And then I looked at my friend, really looked at her, her face radiant and warm despite the unbearable frigidity that enveloped us, the frame of her dripping curls cascading her shoulders.

Frannie, always the wizened, tattooed “old” lady, the reliable, foul-mouthed artist, she was the heroine of our journey. More so, she felt it and believed it, too, invested in it so resolutely that it shone through her.

“She’s the girl that almost fell on her ass trying to show off,” I bet they thought. “She vomited Jack in the Box over the side of the boat and didn’t even try to throw up in one of the bathrooms.”

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I breathed a laugh and motioned inside. “That fool knocked out.”

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“Better than your wedding day?” I asked, standing and moving to lean against a small spiral staircase leading to the roof of the cabin. I entangled myself around the ironwork, finding comfort in the coolness of the metal against my fevered skin.

The rain had ceased by the time we docked and if Frannie and I hadn’t been drenched, Vince wouldn’t have even known it had rained.

My knees shook with renewed control on the planks of the dock and it was decided that Frannie was the only one capable of driving. The first twenty minutes of time in my car, however, was spent in front of the air conditioning vents attempting to soak warmth back into our shivering bodies.

“Oh, definitely. Did you have a good time?”

I thought about that.

None of us taken out of our arid Phoenician environment and plunked into open ocean had been anything we’d expected to be. I had always felt like the organizer, the director of my life and the lives of those around me. Here though, I was The Vomitor, companion to Vince, The Vomitor 2.0. But Frannie, she would have been the leader of the survivors, the one our stranded wreck mates would have to look to as we constructed a new civilization.

“I’m starving. Aren’t you guys hungry?” Frannie asked, putting the car in gear and backing up.

“I should be,” Vince replied, rubbing his empty stomach, saddened by his neglect of needs.

“I just want to sleep.”

“Me too,” Vince agreed.

Frannie laughed. “You just woke up,” she chastised, throwing the car into gear. “And you’re both hungry.”

We were changed by this ocean, even just for an instant, and despite my and Vince’s humbling, it was exactly what was supposed to happen; this graceful epiphany of person was what my best friend needed. So moved by these tidal accomplishments, her empowerment was elegant and moving.

I just nodded and closed my eyes, refusing to make waves.

Of course, I wasn’t so altered that I would tell

For more information on author Patricia Martarella, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this

her that.

section.

“It was cool until I wanted to disembowel myself.”

Frannie laughed, her tone laced with sympathy. “I just looked back and you two were white, like ghosts. You both looked so miserable.”

“I considered jumping into the ocean just to get off the boat.”

“Oh, stop. It couldn’t have been that bad.”

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Africans, White City, and a Pint of Guinness

By Rinat Harel

"A

pub in Tel Aviv,” I type into a fresh document that has been staring at me like a pristine canvas stretched in its wooden frame. Though it’s Friday night, a popular evening for the locals to go out, it’s only six o’clock, and save for a handful of customers the place is empty.

introduces the newcomers to his freshly gained pal, and all four move to a table near me— uncomfortably near—and so my eyes travel back to the bar where I find an additional point of distinction: the bottle display is not crammed full, as if the booze is just an excuse for a social gathering. In Europe and the U.S. the shelves overflow with alcohol, and the patrons usually keep to themselves. Common to pubs everywhere, a pleasant wave of wood and hops reaches my nostrils, awakens my taste buds.

There is something informal, almost improvised in the local pub scene. I scrutinize my surroundings, trying to pinpoint the causes for this vague notion. It might be the unassuming furniture. Yes, that and the casual atmosphere. Take for example the young man with tight braids raining down from his head like the supple branches of a willow tree. Straddled on his stool as if horse riding, he nonchalantly angles himself toward an older gentleman two stools to his left, who is slowly imbibing his beer with a gaze fixed on the large plasma screen. Now the older man turns toward his new mate and a chat ensues.

“Nice computer!” I am startled out of my ruminations by a young woman who plants herself in the chair beside me, eyeing my laptop. A bright smile illuminates her face from within, and her ebony curls fall onto the table in long strands, spreading a rush of flowery perfume. The white summer dress shines against her dark skin. No jewelry or make up, and none are needed; she wears her youth and effervescent demeanor, like diamonds. I push away my envy.

“I want to get one just like that,” she conveys,

My eyes wander to the door through which another man, in tandem with a thin and longlimbed woman, a headscarf tied over her short hair, walks in and stops by the dreadlocks guy. The two greet each other in a ritual of arms and palms, Dreadlocks

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“but they’re crazy expensive.”

“They’re not cheap,” I reply.

“Your keyboard has English characters,” she realizes. “You got it abroad?”

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“Yes, I live abroad.”

“How about some beer?” she asks, I nod, and she adds with a simper, looking pleased with herself, “On the house, the barman is my boyfriend.”

“Oh, lucky you!” she says, then adds without extending her hand, “I’m Maya.”

I introduce myself as well.

I follow Maya with my eyes. The bartender’s face shines when he notices her at the counter. He’s a tall man, probably a few years older than her, with a light brown ponytail brushing his nape, and a slightly receding hairline. His blue tank top—another noted difference between pubs here and elsewhere —reveals a large tattoo adorning his right shoulder: flower, butterfly? I can’t tell from this distance.

“I really like your laptop,” she repeats and leans in, peering over my shoulder. “Oh, wait, you’re writing our chat, translating it from Hebrew to English.”

“I am.”

She leans back in her chair, a thin crease forms on her brow. “But why?”

“It’s a writing exercise, to sit in a public space, describe what I see, and record conversations I have or overhear.”

I follow Maya with my eyes. The bartender’s face shines when he notices her at the counter

With smooth and flowing gestures he seems at ease with himself and his surroundings.

Handing Maya two spume-dripping pints he brims at her the way boyfriends smile at their girlfriends, with that sweetness on their lips and tenderness in their eyes, and she sends him an air-kiss in return.

“Oh, cool,” she says with a smileless nod, clearly baffled.

“I’m a creative writing student,” I explain.

“Practicing during summer vacation so I won’t get rusty.”

“Guinness!” Maya announces, banging the glasses on the table. “I like my beer dark and strong, like my men,” she adds with a giggle.

“Ah, okay, I get it.” She glances around. “What’s to write about here? Not very interesting.”

I smile as if it is the first time I’ve ever heard this phrase.

“I would love to write about you,” I say in the soft tone of invitation.

She takes a swig from her glass, sweeps the foamy mustache off her upper lip with the back of her hand, and says, “So, what do you want to know?”

“Really?” A spark is lit in her dark brown eyes, and her curls bounce a little. “Let me get us some drinks, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” She hesitates. “Well, almost anything,” she adds with a blush.

“Anything,” I answer, eyeing my beer; the last time I had a Guinness I woke up with a throbbing hangover the following morning.

She points at my empty glass, asking, “What are you having?”

“Well,” she opens and pulls herself up in the chair; her shoulders push back, and her chin lifts up a smidgen higher. “I’m about to finish my

“That was Diet Sprite,” I admit, sensing she won’t approve of my virgin beverage.

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army service in a week. In fact, I’m on my discharge vacation.”

“Well,” Maya says, her voice just above whisper.

“I wasn’t exactly what I just said.”

“What do you … what did you do in the army?”

“Oh.”

“I served in the Air Force,” she says, looking at me as if to examine my reaction, then goes on in a speedy flow of excitement, which my fingers cannot follow, describing the thrills of working alongside pilots in a squadron’s operations-room.

“I’m sorry … you seemed … so interested, and I wanted to give you a good story. Nobody is ever interested in me.”

“The guy in the bar is,” I remind her.

“We’ve been dating for only a month,” she says in slight dismissal, glancing in his direction.

“They’re always excited in the beginning, aren’t they?” I murmur in sympathy, and she looks at me with doe-like eyes. “But you, you were interested in me, know what I mean?”

“Yes, I think I do,” I say.

When she breaks for a breath I get a chance to say, “That’s remarkable!

It was a long time ago, but I too was an operations-room sergeant in a squadron. I’ve actually started writing a memoir about my time in the army, and maybe —“

“Just for the record,” she says with an index finger pointing up, “I did serve in the Air Force in some boring office.”

“Okay. And just for the record, being an operations-room sergeant isn’t as glorious as one might imagine. It was mostly clerical work, and the pilots were outright annoying. But why won’t you tell me something else, like where you live?”

A tentative smile spreads on her lips, then quickly shifts to a playful smirk. “Can I tell you where I want to live?” she asks.

“Seriously?” she asks with widening eyes.

“Sure.” I know people’s fantasies are just as telling as their biography, and often more.

“Well, so far I just sketched an outline, but…“

“Yes. Why?”

With head tilted sideways, eyes half-closed, she says, “North Tel Aviv, looking at the Mediterranean from a penthouse in one of those fancy tower apartment buildings; every morning I wake up, open the windows, breathe the beautiful smell of the sea, listen to the seagulls, catch some sunshine, and feel super happy.”

The air seems to be seeping out of her. She hugs her beer with both hands, eyes lowered.

“I doubt all those who live in expensive towers are happy,” I comment, disappointed with her

“No, I mean, did you really serve as an operations-room sergeant?”

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cliché choice of accommodation. “But why won’t you tell me where you’re actually from? I bet it’s far more interesting.”

Oh my, she is as I feared. Though her views are not uncommon in this neck of the woods, it is my first time to converse with someone from her camp. Ironically, during Israel’s early days, droves of Jews were brought here from Muslim countries, and Maya’s family was most likely among them. Alas, as soon as these Sephardic Jews arrived in the Holy Land the dominant population of East European Jews perceived them as culturally inferior and even a safety threat. I wonder if my grandfather, who emigrated from Romania in the early 1930s, was among the discriminators.

Maya shrugs, looking a tad deflated again. “I bet it isn’t,” she slices out the words through her teeth. “South Tel Aviv, where all the Africans live.”

The resentful way she pronounces “Africans” makes me cringe; I dread where this conversation might lead, though her reply also piques my curiosity.

“I read a lot about that situation,” I say with the lightest tone I can muster. “I’d be happy to hear about it from a local.”

Maya gulps the rest of her beer. I take a hesitant sip from mine while she signals to her boyfriend, who appears at our table with a generous smile, a fresh pint of Guinness for Maya, and a friendly nod for me. I somehow get the impression he isn’t the talkative type, but being a bartender he’s probably a good listener. I take another swallow while I wait for Maya to continue, surprised to find myself enjoying the beer’s rich heaviness with a hint of coffee flavor. Maya sinks into thought, and I give my fingers a break.

Besides, nothing she is saying is new to me. I resist my desire to reply to her accusations and remind her that only about a handful of those Africans were found guilty of sexual assault, which is a relatively small number for a population of tens of thousands. But I hold my tongue and keep a straight face. I invited her to tell me her story, not to enter an argument.

“It’s awful,” she grumbles. Her shoulders droop.

Her face turns sombre. “I know you can find them all over the city, even sleeping in parks, but many of them live in my neighborhood, which wasn’t great before they came, and now it’s even worse, much worse.” She draws a deep breath and takes a mouthful of beer, neglecting to wipe the foam off her lips.

“You know,” she carries on, “we live in slums, houses falling apart, lots of folks unemployed, some kids going to bed hungry. We just don’t need those Africans, they’re not our problem, even if they had it bad wherever they came from, and most of them aren’t refugees as they claim, they just want to find jobs, but we were born here, we deserve the jobs, not them.” She briefly pauses for air. “Not to mention all the assaults on women that’s been happening. My parents always call me when I’m out in the evening to make sure I’m okay, and they send one of my brothers to fetch me like I’m a little girl. Those people illegally come into our country and then attack us?” She shakes her head. “No, no, they should go back to where they came from!”

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“Sorry, I … I was …” Maya finally says. “I was thinking about Baby Kako, the …“

She stares into space again.

“Yes, I know about her,” I say, and on intuition ask, “Are you familiar with the family?”

“Well, that’s the thing. They live just two streets away from us, but I never noticed them until … how terrible … What kind of monster stabs a baby in the head with scissors, and only

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because she’s black? Thank goodness she didn’t die, but she will never …”

After Maya leaves I drink some more of my beer, hoping I won’t regret it tomorrow, and think about the demographic shifts in Israel since I had left in the early ‘90s.

Her eyes glisten with tears as her voice fades away, and she falls silent again, face crinkling in thought. She snatches a single lock of hair, coils it around her finger, and just as absentmindedly uncoils the long curl and sets it free. She hasn’t touched her second beer yet; the thick milky froth at the crown of her glass is firm, the white and the dark holding each other in balance.

Having grown up here during the ‘70s, the only black people I knew of were American NBA players recruited by Israeli basketball teams.

These extraordinary athletes boosted our national pride and were naturally admired. In fact, one of them lived on my street and was the only black man I had met as a child. He was married to an Israeli woman, and they had a daughter who was a little younger than me. With her golden-brown complexion and a wave of soft Afro the color of café au lait, she was unusual-looking, but as far as I can recall the neighborhood kids didn’t treat her any differently. I was curious about her, but kept a shy distance.

“They say the man who did it is crazy, but I don’t know,” Maya says when she regains her composure. “There was so much talk against the Africans, even people from the government came to the neighborhood and said terrible things about them. So maybe that man is insane, but he turned his craziness to that baby after he heard all that talk. He did say to the police he wanted to kill a black baby, didn’t he?

That’s what I personally believe, but I keep it to myself. People in my neighborhood don’t like to hear anything nice about our black neighbors.”

She sighs. “That’s just the way it is, what can I do? We are squashed from all sides.” She pauses before adding, “Just like them.”

From 2006 until very recently, about sixty thousand undocumented Africans, mostly Sudanese and Eritreans, had entered Israel by way of the Sinai Desert, often falling victim to cruel smugglers. By and large, Israeli authorities have been regarding them as infiltrators, and refuse to consider the vast majority of their asylum requests. More recently, a few thousands have been confined to a detention camp in the depths of the Negev Desert.

Surprised with this U-turn, I dare ask, “Would you consider helping them somehow?”

“I don’t know, probably not. My family won’t approve of it, anyway.”

*

I say I understand, and thank her for sharing her story. She swills down her Guinness and returns the empty glass gently to the table.

*

The pub, by now teeming with chattering folks, has turned stuffy. I tuck a tip under my half empty glass, click shut my laptop, slip it into the backpack, and walk out to the refreshing dusk outside, marveling at the magenta-tinted sky peeking between heads of buildings.

“Well,” she says and gets to her feet, “I gotta go, but it was nice talking to you and good luck with that army book.”

I wish her the best of luck with civilian life; she thanks me with a mock salute that sends her ringlets frolicking, and slips into the gathering darkness outside.

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*

I round the corner, enter Rothschild Boulevard, and amble along its sandy central strip lined with ficus trees, shikma in Hebrew. The long arms of entwined branches hold up crowns of

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green bouquets; the curly canopy of the old trees a fresh breath of air in this dense city. I move my fingers on a heavily veined trunk; the ropes pipe up and around toward the boughs, their skin smooth and cool against my skin. A feeble breeze plays with the treetops’ leaves.

Crickets serenade with their seductive tunes in the bushes. Farther down, random clusters of concrete picnic-tables with no diners, and a fenced pond, rich with green as if transplanted from a different landscape, houses well-fed goldfish.

Though the municipal authorities had dismantled the movement’s encampment a few short months after its inception, now, three years later, the ghosts of that community are anything but gone.

As I snail down the lane, the shadowy outline of that long-gone tent city rises in my path. I hear fragments of heated discussions—accompanied by energetic hand gestures—in the improvised

Beyond the ficus trees, along either side of the street, refurbished Bauhaus buildings stand proud; some are elegant, others flashy. Named The White City, Tel Aviv, other than this area, is rather grey.

Yet with these gorgeous residencies, the city has been reinventing itself. Alas, rendered unaffordable for most locals, these abodes are mostly owned by wealthy foreigners who reside here only partially. The spacious rooms are vacant more often than not; the sizable windows remain shut.

living rooms, sofas and all, scattered under the trees. Traces of hope and rage, mixed with smells of sweat and outdoor cooking, move in the air in flashing waves.

But not all of this street’s early 20th century architecture has been restored: some buildings are tarnished with car fumes; others have their crumbling walls covered with graffiti. A worn out awning shields a grimy second story porch.

Among the inhabitants were residents of South Tel Aviv, demanding improvement to their forsaken neighborhood.

The posh and the fatigued live shoulder to shoulder.

The bitter echoes of the dismay that followed this remarkable summer reverberate along the avenue, and far beyond, to this day. A probable correlation between the Occupy Movement in the U.S. and this Israeli movement had been

It’s no coincidence the social justice movement has sprouted right here during the summer of 2011, choosing the French Revolution’s emblematic date of 14 July to mark its kick off.

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pointed out. The latter most likely inspired the former, as it preceded it.

wish it was different, you don’t deserve to be treated like that.”

I see him before he notices me, sitting on a bench, his long legs stretched forward. I let go of my backpack’s left strap, hug the bag with my right arm, and glance around. Rotten luck, nobody’s anywhere near. I could turn around, or cut into a side street…no, that might prove counterproductive. Well, I’ll just put on my combatant demeanor. As Maya mentioned, you can see them everywhere around the city, so no big deal, just keep a steady pace.

“If you care, you tell government,” he says in disdain with his face still turned away.

‘You marry me and take me to America,’ he announces, taking a confident step forward. ‘I make you very happy.’

“Right, the government,” I sneer. “If only they had ears.”

His eyes meet mine again; I see a hint of amusement in the corners of his mouth.

I take a step forward, saying, “It’s not an easy country, you know. Even for Israelis.”

As I pass him, I realize he is looking at me, and my eyes can’t help but meet his. I issue a tiny smile and keep walking, hoping my steps seem poised.

“Better than my country,” he mutters, then asks, “You no like it here?”

I suppose for him Israel is a version of the Promised Land.

“Well, I don’t live here, I’m just visiting,” I reply.

His brow springs up. “Where you live?”

“You Israelis think we Africans bad people,” I hear him complain behind my back.

“America.”

His face softens as he gets up from the bench.

Glancing at my left hand, he grins.

I stop and slowly swing around.

“No husband?”

“I beg your pardon?” I say.

Caught off guard I say, “No.”

“You hear me,” he replies, turning his face away from me.

“Ah,” he exclaims, his eyes glimmer with warmth, then narrow when he inquires, “boyfriend?”

“Well, I don’t know you, but I don’t think you’re a bad person,” I say.

“Eh … well …” Hesitant to lie, I search for an elegant way out.

He nods with exaggerated motions. “You do, you do, all of you.”

”You marry me and take me to America,” he announces, taking a confident step forward. “I make you very happy.”

“No, really, I don’t.” I take a step in his direction.

“Look, I know about all the trouble your people have been going through. I read about it in the newspaper all the time, and I’m really sorry. I

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I observe him more closely. Not a bad looking guy: pleasant features, broad shoulders, and

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that smooth coffee-tinted skin. I could be his Stella, and he will bring back my groove. Well, he’s not that much younger, but he probably has some groove for me, even if it lasts no more than five minutes.

Unable to resist the temptation, I stand in the tree’s deep shadows and eavesdrop.

He looks at me and his face gives off fumes of fondness. He takes another step forward.

“I know,” her voice turns gloomy. “I participate in the demonstrations for the asylum seekers, I volunteer with the refugee kids. I’m sorry things aren’t working out as we hoped.”

“I just want to help,” she mutters.

“We want job, no donation!”

“I’m a lesbian,” I hear myself declare as I flinch back, embarrassed for my false statement, yet relieved to have found an exit.

“Is okay.” His voice is softer now. “You are good woman, is okay.”

His face freezes for a brief moment, then twists into revulsion.

“I wish you the best of luck,” she says. “Really.”

“I no marry you!” he spits the words at me, his arm slicing through the air as if pushing me away. “You be shame to yourself!”

“Thank you,” he replies, and then suddenly asks, “You live in America?”

Feeling obliged to defend my declaration for the sake of those it represents, I say, “There’s nothing wrong with being gay, it’s perfectly normal.”

“No, I live here, in Tel Aviv.” She sounds surprised.

“No, no normal,” he retorts. “The Bible says…“

“I know what the Bible says!” I cannot help but cut him off, my voice sharper than intended. “Do you really want to live by the Bible? You might not like all the rules and regulation in that book, you know.”

Unable to resist the temptation, I stand in the tree’s deep shadows and eavesdrop.

‘I just want to help,’ she mutters.

“Ah,” he utters in disappointment, then says, “But you no lesbian, right?”

“What?!”

But the exchange is clearly over; he flounces himself around and slumps into the bench facing up street. I walk away feeling ill at ease though uncertain as for what I could have done better.

With a hand tight on my mouth to stifle a chortle, I scurry off, sorry to miss the rest of the encounter. I’m still grinning when I reach the borrowed car at the bottom of the leafy avenue, already missing this vivacious city.

“You’re hungry?” I hear a woman’s voice behind me as I slow down to admire a particularly veined tree about ten steps from the bench.

“Here’s twenty shekel for some food.”

For more information on author Rinat Harel, please

“I no beggar,” the African’s voice rises in indignation.

CANYONVOICES

visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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CREATIVE NONFICTION : KATHLEEN McAVOY

The Redoubtable Mrs. Browning

By Kathleen McAvoy

knew, and I knew, that she had diabetes, possibly gout, and definitely rheumatoid arthritis, but Mrs. Browning – English tutor extraordinaire – preferred real cream in her coffee, nothing fake.

B

ack in high school, my son had issues. The problem was his I.Q.—it was high, off the charts, geniuslevel. And yet, he had struggled with school since the 5th grade.. Our district did not have a department for dealing with high-IQ anomalies such as my son.

As improbable as it seemed, his educational needs and differences would at least be accommodated because of this placement.

And so it came to pass that we would receive the privilege of in-home tutoring for some of my son's more challenging or "trigger" classes. Mrs. Browning, retired from nearly forty years of teaching, came to our house twice a week for over a year. I would always put the coffee on and get out her favorite fine bone china cup – the one with the daffodils. I also kept a fresh bottle of heavy whipping cream in the fridge. She

One day, after a tutoring session ended early and my son had retreated to his bedroom, I offered Mrs. Browning a second cup of coffee. She readily accepted, and appeared to settle in for a chat. I wanted, desperately, to tell her about the dream I’d slowly slip away. A weight lifted, a burden ended. So powerful was this dream, so realistic, that upon waking I ran into the bathroom, turned on the shower and sobbed while I sat on the tile floor, until there were no more tears left in me.

had the night before. In this strange and unlikely dream, I knelt down before Mrs. Browning and shared with her the terrible stories of growing up with my mother, all the things she’d done to me over the years. In the dream I was sobbing, and Mrs. Browning gathered me into her arms, murmuring, “There, there, child. Everything will

But I didn’t tell Mrs. Browning about my dream.

Instead, we sat at opposite ends of the table sipping our coffee, and she stared at me, not saying a word. I began to fidget as a burning

be all right.” And as I sobbed into her bosom in the dream, cocooned in softness and motherliness, I began to feel the decades of yearning for a better mother – a kinder mother –

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me, everyone anxious, but obviously relieved that I was out of the woods. But then my fatherin-law suggested lunch.

need to confess welled up inside of me, devouring my resistance, urging me to say something – anything – to this calm, kindly, retired Special Ed teacher sitting before me like a Mother Superior. Finally, I decided to confide in her. I would tell her about my mother. So I chose my favorite story – my most painful story.

The one that I believe says it all.

“No,” my mother replied, bluntly. Adamantly.

“C’mon Kay – Kathy needs her rest. Let's all give her some space. My treat.”

My father-in-law was a semi-retired ear, nose and throat specialist.

Twelve hours after the birth of my first child, I awoke in a surreal, drug-induced haze. I saw my husband sitting in the corner of the hospital room, crying quietly, while my doctor paced restlessly.

“Where are her parents?” Dr. Cunningham demanded.

“In Ohio,” my husband replied. “Why?”

Mom glared at him. “If I want to sit here and watch my daughter breathe, that’s what I’ll do.”

Twelve hours after the birth of my first child, I awoke in a surreal drug induced haze.

And that was all it took. My mother began screaming and swearing at my dad, and then she beat her fists against my husband's chest when he attempted to calm her down. In the end, two large orderlies rushed into my room, gripped my mother under the elbows and half-carried, half-dragged her out. A notice banning visitors was posted on my door, since I still had abnormally high blood pressure and was on a cocktail of medications. Creating a scene like that could have cost me my life, or placed me in a wheelchair or on a ventilator. Stress, in those early days, was dangerous. I was released from the hospital ten days later, and for the next nine months my mother screened her phone calls and refused to speak to me, only breaking her silence when I sent her a letter announcing our imminent move back to Ohio.

“Well, it’s time to call them. Have them fly up immediately.”

Gosh, this doesn’t sound good, my befuddled brain briefly registered. Then orderlies flooded the room and my gurney was wheeled out, headed to the ICU. I remember the huge double-door elevator, cold grey steel, and then nothing else.

Although the baby was fine, I nearly died during childbirth. My body had rebelled against pregnancy with a severe case of pre-eclampsia, and my blood pressure remained uncontrolled and in stroke-range. After three days I was stable enough to be released from the ICU and sent back up to Maternity. The plan was that being able to touch and hold my baby, to actually set eyes on her for the first time, would help me to recover. My parents, long-married and then long-divorced, had flown in from Ohio to the hospital in Brunswick, Maine. They, along with my in-laws and husband, gathered around

CANYONVOICES

Then my dad spoke up: “Kay, you’re being unreasonable. Come and get some lunch with the rest of us and let Kathy rest.”

Mrs. Browning finished her coffee; mine had gone cold long ago.

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CREATIVE NONFICTION : KATHLEEN McAVOY

I felt numb, yet oddly elated. As I carried the cups to the sink, our conversation drifted over to my son’s progress, the homework she’d assigned, and then we said our good-byes.

But I merely hovered on the fringe of this final exchange, simply going through the motions. Inside I felt electric, on fire. I sensed that something had shifted.

For two days, Mrs. Browning’s words – your

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Browning breathed.

“Just like that she refused to speak with you, as if it was all your fault?”

mama’s ill – simmered and stewed inside of me, both consciously and unconsciously. On the third day I called my mother. We hadn't spoken during this particular period of estrangement for nearly a year. Naturally, she didn’t pick up the phone. But I left a message, and told her that I loved her. She didn’t call me back. Strange thing was: it didn’t hurt so much. In fact, it hardly hurt at all. I called back the next weekend – nothing – and then my sister in Ohio, whom my mom sees regularly, told me to call the following Sunday, because our mother was guaranteed to be home.

“Yes," I replied. "It’s always been that way.”

I was trembling. Had I confided too much to this virtual stranger?

Mrs. Browning placed the delicate cup on its saucer, clasped her hands in her lap and leaned back in her chair.

“Sweet child, your mama is ill.”

“Umm, she tends to be a bit narcissistic,” I agreed.

My mom answered that call. It was awkward at first, but then we caught up on the last year of our lives and before I knew it an hour had passed. Now we speak every weekend; or rather, she talks and I listen, for that’s the way it works best with my mom. For the remainder of that semester, when Mrs. Browning walked through my door on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I kept wondering if I should tell her how she

“That’s right,” Mrs. Browning exclaimed, leaning forward, her palms gently slapping the table.

“And that’s a diagnosable personality disorder, and she’s probably got a few more. Maybe needed meds her whole life…might’ve changed things.” She smiled sadly at me. “She can’t help it, child. She’s ill.”

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managed to reshuffle my perspective on mothers and daughters. How she succeeded in erasing some of my pain. Notify her about her guest-appearance in my dream. Part of me wanted to relay all of those things, but I never did. Perhaps I didn’t want to break the spell.

completely changed, and that legacy has endured into the present.

Perhaps dreams really do come true sometimes. Maybe in order to transcend the banal and mundane and tragic elements of this life, we need to look to our dreams as guides or markers which can lead us down the best path, when there are so many crossroads to choose from.

Years have passed now, but I still meditate on the words from the dream – There, there, child, everything will be all right. They represent tangible proof, for me, that sometimes the line between so-called reality and reverie is blurred.

Because of that dream and Mrs. Browning's subsequent observation, I was freed from a lifetime of wondering what I'd done wrong.

Moreover, my relationship with my mother was

In dreams I trust.

For more information on author Kathleen McAvoy, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

CREATIVE NONFICTION : EUNICE KIM

Places of Knowing Or Torrance in the Manner of Mohammed Dib

By Eunice Kim

I. Pathways of Remembering your memory of the outside world turns back inside to become an object of the imagination, a substratum of reference which dangles at the rim edge of nostalgia.

This search is all the more piercing if you forget the past and allow the memories to strike at you as they would an object. Like objects, they pelt the windows of your mind and, like an object, your mind can only succumb. The time that will be wasted, as well as the loneliness

associated with this task, is all part of your good fortune.

Remembering is one way to capture the world. It occurs when you take a step back from both the world and the act of remembering. A revelation occurs in this meditative space, in this world without atoms and light waves, a space that is devoid of whispered secrets and knowing glances—devoid, in fact, of all human presence. For at the beginning of creation were place and memory, existing before human beings came to life, then to consciousness.

You wonder why you must deprive yourselves of human presence. After all, memory isn’t concerned with whether your windows are teeming with human faces or with phantom breaths inhaled and exhaled. But…if you wish to remember a place, you must temporarily deprive yourselves of the people who do not matter, the people whose images do not periodically strike at your cheeks with fresh emotion. In the act of remembering, you must abandon them in order to keep the people and things that— because of the sensuous clarity with which you perceive them and the vividness of their words and movements—have carved out for themselves places in your souls, places of eternity in which to dwell.

Before the eyes first gaze upon the objects of a place, the consciousness and the place have already established a relationship, engendered memories. This relationship must be rediscovered. So, with eyes wide open, you must begin a secret labor in which

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II. A Child in a Cityful of Children The people who inhabit these places—these places of eternity —are part of each memory that contains them. These people have earned their places by the extraordinary nature of their actions. And sometimes, these people can be our own past selves.

I’m looking through my photo album, the one my mother sent me a week ago. It is an old album, the vinyl page covers useless—when the hospital staff examined it with gloved hands, looking for contraband, I held my breath for fear that the photographs would fall out and lose their arrangement.

Ultimately, the item was approved and remains intact; now, it sits on my nightstand, opened to a page documenting my preschool years. In it, a blurry photo shows me in the middle of a barren park, sitting on an enormous brass ostrich that possesses a camel’s head. To the left of the odd character with whom I must be identified are the outstretched arms and leg of her brother, reaching towards her, his face and trunk cut off from the photograph. She is the one I then was —I can’t do anything about it—and here’s how I would describe her: she is wearing a brand new magenta T-shirt with a picture of Big Bird on it, her hair is tied in a loose ponytail, and both her hands are caressing the neck of the ostrich, while her head leans against the ostrich’s head with a patient gaze. The T-shirt is enormous, yet appears to fit perfectly around the four-yearold’s body like a robe with abundant folds. I can’t get over it, the amorous posture in particular delights me. And scandalizes me.

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Fortunately, I have a hundred thousand memories which most certainly do not involve an obvious motif of large birds and my caressing them, embarrassing behavior which had only the park for a theater.

III. Flour We lived in the intimacy of flour. Ours was not for the purpose of baking bread, of being mixed with egg, sugar, or milk, of being the center of its purpose. For isn’t flour the soul of bread? Our flour, mixed with water, was used for glue—that is, for its function of keeping things together.

The “things” were vegetables—zucchini, pepper, onion, angelica, perilla leaves, all in diced form —and they would be fried together in single cakes. We ate those cakes more than anything else. Because the presence of flour was purely functional, only the minimal amount was used,

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the amount that was just enough to keep the main ingredients together. As a result, a considerable amount of flour would be left over, which my mother would make into large, flat circles of fried dough. Without knowing what else to call this savory veil that had drifted to our mother’s pan from the face of the most beautiful angel in heaven, we would cry, “Give us flour, give us flour!” Once they were cool, she would drape the sheets of fried dough over our eager, outstretched hands, and we would examine them, their plump smoothness glistening with oil, their skin traced with brown burn marks that looked as delicate as lace. Thinking of fried dough made us think of our mother and, conversely, thinking of our mother made us think of fried dough. Its taste was the taste of a beggar’s excessive gratitude at being offered a single coin, and its heat was the heat of awakening from a long nap on a humid day.

Consuming fried dough was like consuming both your mother and the world which revolved around her.

my palms—and my mother—the one who asks me over the phone if I’ll be released in time for Thanksgiving, and to whom I respond, “Only if I don’t do anything crazy”—have become two separate people, possessing neither soul nor dimension.

The other patients are already awake—they watch television, berate the orderlies, work on thousand-piece puzzles, anything to pass the seconds and minutes that do not exist in our secluded world. I walk over to the eating area where my breakfast awaits me in a Styrofoam box, which I then open to find a plastic fork sitting on top of the eggs and bacon. When I’m done eating, I throw away the box and the greasy fork, and then look for a napkin. There are none in sight. I stand at the window. The palm of my hand is covered with a thin film of oil, now mantled with sunlight. In the dark of my mind, I watch my mother searching the garage with nervous hands, looking for boxes in which to send me albums, old toys, pictures I had drawn as a child, anything to remind me that I, too, had once known happiness.

Standing at the window, I am inert.

IV. Houses of Eternity What? Should I speak of my city? After all, wasn’t my original purpose to do so? Very well, then. It doesn’t matter how reluctant I am, how much I’d rather talk about myself, my mind, and the artifacts within. If I must speak of my city, I will.

At first, this memory of my mother, consumed, remains undigested. I call her on the hospital’s payphone after the nurse checks my blood pressure, and my mother—the one who used her spatula to slide a blanket of fried dough onto

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Torrance has a total area of 20.553 square miles and its coordinates are 33º50’05” north and

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CREATIVE NONFICTION : EUNICE KIM

118º20’29” west. If I were in Torrance right now, I would drive two miles east from my house to Western Avenue, four miles north to Redondo Beach Boulevard, nine miles southwest to Torrance Beach, and five miles southeast to the Rolling Hills Country Club, in order to drive through the outermost points of Torrance. As I drive through the southernmost point, I would be able to see the one-lane roads, the infinitely long white fences, the messy dark tangle of Chinese elms, the golf course beyond like a sheet of green—all of these sights representing the one part of Torrance that earns Wikipedia’s startling description of it as “an affluent city in the South Bay region of Los Angeles County, California, United States”—startling, considering the 4,145 families living below the federal poverty line. After driving through every corner of Torrance, I would sit down at a café and settle my accounts with the city. But why bother?

Let the city settle its own accounts.

If I were driving in Torrance right now, and if I did not wish to go through the hassle of driving around an entire city, I would drive east on Artesia. Then I would soon reach the South Bay Galleria Mall, but I wouldn’t enter it. I’d only pass by on my way to the houses of eternity.

of the week, I would have time to fly home from Massachusetts and spend Thanksgiving in California. Of course, it depends on their whims as much as it does on my behavior.

Hardly anyone was ever seen among the houses of eternity, hardly anyone to people the murmuring shades of trees that covered their world, hardly anyone, except to come and go for school and work, and the old man, forever invisible to me, sat alone like a man in a desert.

One may assume that we are speaking of a graveyard. We are not. The houses of eternity are not in a graveyard.

After I hang up the phone, I continue my daydream. I arrive at the houses of eternity, I am there; real houses, in fact: sylvan, solemn, alive. Some of my most radiant memories come back to life, for one of those houses was my home. Whenever my family went out for a drive, we’d be greeted on our return by a neighbor, an old man sitting on a lawn chair in front of his house which was only three houses away from ours, and he would wave his hand slowly as though beckoning for us to stop living in constant motion, to join him in the bliss of frozen time. No, I never saw him. I was always looking down, making sure that the jagged edges of the broken audio system never hurt me. This was because my family had purchased a car that cost $200 and was worth even less, because my father was in the habit of making sudden stops, and because I always sat in the front middle seat, since I was the smallest. As soon as my mother said, “He waved at us

“How are the houses of eternity?” I ask my father over the phone, breathless with impatience. If the doctors release me by the end

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“Your mother and I drive past it every day for work.” I feel my heart shrivel with envy. “She tells me that nowadays, teenagers go there at night to scare themselves.”

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again,” I would sense the silhouette of his moving hand, creating imperceptible movements of wind that would wander hesitantly here and there until the day of his death.

old man’s house, the bicycle house, and the green tea house are now nothing more than old haunts for high school students looking for a newfound appreciation for each other’s presence.

Once I’m released from the hospital, once I fly home, I wouldn’t mind driving through the neighborhood from time to time, not particularly in memory of my old life or even that of the old man whom I never saw, but to immerse myself again in the stillness preserved by the hundreds of voices that drift in the trees, voices both heard and unheard. And I would look through the windows of my old house. I would imagine a little girl living in that house, a girl who hardly goes outside except to walk barefoot on the beautiful rocks that cover the driveway. I would imagine her neighbors brawling in their own driveways and the girl pacing proudly, proud of how beautiful those rocks are, proud that her family is too dignified to brawl outside like everyone else. I would imagine that the girl is me, because she was me,

One neighboring house had a bicycle painted on the garage door, an abstract painting composed of nothing but circles and solid black lines of varying thickness. Another house was painted in a shade akin to green tea. Every house looked the same, at the same stage of ruin; only, they were painted differently from one another. Hardly anyone was ever seen among the houses of eternity, hardly anyone to people the murmuring shades of trees that covered their world, hardly anyone, except to come and go for school and work, and the old man, forever invisible to me, sat alone like a man in a desert.

and because I did walk barefoot across the driveway as a little girl. But reality means nothing here. For nothing can be remembered and known unless it is first imagined.

After the old man died, after my family moved away, the houses of eternity were abandoned.

They were condemned by the city so that the neighborhood could be torn down for a school to be built; but funding fell through and the houses remained empty. And so my house, the

CANYONVOICES

V. The Pool After talking to my father, I go back to my room and sit at my desk, album in hand. I hear a nurse

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walk by. I feel her eyes gazing in disapproval, for I ought to be outside with the others. Smoke break is the only time we are allowed the luxury of sunlight; I sacrifice sunlight for memories, and this sacrifice has turned me into a withdrawn, isolated patient. But I can’t take my eyes away from a particular photograph that fills me with its own kind of luminosity. It is a picture my father took, in which my

hands are placed carefully on the ledge of our swimming pool. Hundreds of times I had scraped my hands against that ledge, for a child’s fingers, once they are wrinkled by water, stand no chance against concrete and pebbles.

I posed for the camera by hanging on to that ledge the way a wisp of cotton clings to a dry leaf.

allowed my Korean friends to swim in the pool with me. While we bounced up and down in the water, I would look up at the rotten wood of our dark brown pergola which made checkered shades on the patio ground.

While we swam in the pool, the rest of my family would sit around it, relax, sip tea —but not very often, for there was never enough time. If you were me, living in a broken-down house with a swimming pool that fills your patio with a blazing coolness and a sense of wealth beyond imagining, then surely you know happiness. While I swam, I would watch the adults sitting under the pergola, and I would wonder: what was it that would bring my father, uncle, and grandmother to sit so closely together? Was it the smallness of the shade?

Was it a conversation so serious that they would squeeze together as if in a tight space? Soon, my uncle would leave for work and my father would leave to look for work.

In the summertime, one of our favorite activities consisted of swimming here, our own private pool, which from far away looked like a rectangular aquamarine cast upon a dusty field.

My brother and I would swim in this enormous liquid gemstone, while the neighboring children quietly peered in, enviously, over their fences.

Whenever they asked to join, I would refuse without giving my brother a chance to reply, and they would say, “Why? Is it because we’re not Asian?” But I lie to myself; they never said it; but I knew they were thinking it, because I often

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I look at the photograph, contemplate the moist transparency of its blues and oranges. As I close the album and walk outside (because, after all, I must do my part and cooperate if I really want to be released), I realize that I have already begun my migration, setting off on a journey which, without yet taking me abroad, is leading me

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back to Torrance, from discovery to discovery, and that the more I push ahead, and the more I wander into new places, the further I would travel, simultaneously but unknowingly, down the road leading to myself. To more of these places of remembering.

It goes without saying that what is thought is also read through this compass.

VI. The Compass

We have every section of society at our doorstep. To the north is the lower class, where the racial diversity is richest, where the houses of eternity lie untouched.

To the east is the lower middle class, the city hall, the historic downtown, the patriotism. To the west is the upper middle class, the Bohemian beach culture, the intellect, the higherranked public schools. To the south is the upper class, the hidden Spanish gatehouses, the hilly parks, and music academies.

I would like to be more concrete and give an example. Torrance, and its cardinal directions. I can’t think of a better example.

As a high school student, I would tutor young children who lived in these wealthier neighborhoods. When I was there I was at the very edge of the city, which to me felt a bit like being abroad. How else would I describe the slopey depths of those gated communities nearly hidden by walls and ceilings made from shade? The wind in the trees and the wind chimes would create such a clamor, drowning human voices in shadow. I would enter one of the houses but immediately have the feeling that I had dropped in from the other side of the world.

Perhaps we are always brushing up against

You only know what you know and nothing else, nothing beyond that. And unbeknownst to you, what you know becomes the compass through which you read the world.

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foreign universes without realizing it. I would climb up the stairs and enter a room where an apathetic child awaited me, and on the desk would be two glasses of juice and two small treats—usually mochi or fruitcake—brought in by the child’s mother. My skin still flushed from the heat outside, I would sip the juice as guiltily as if I were tramping through a marbled hall wearing muddy boots.

South, to me, is wealth.

Wealth, to me, is south.

categorize the sections of South Bay; for example, each direction can have more than one criterion. The south—wealthy and unimaginative.

The west—wealthy and imaginative. The north— poor and imaginative. The east—poor and unimaginative. Thus, the compass of South Bay, though cruel and woefully inaccurate, is what it must be—a circle, slightly twisted in a clockwise direction. For Torrance, represented by a more accurate compass within the larger compass of South Bay, the circle is twisted slightly counterclockwise.

…my compass will tremble less and less, will grow less resistant to my system of references, until I have reached my place of knowing.

So it would only make sense for each cardinal direction to represent a different social class, as I illustrated above.

But you cannot revel in these generalities for too long, for the matter is complicated once you consider the cities bordering Torrance. Once you do, more generalities must be added to the ones already made. To the east is dusty Carson with its junk food restaurants and sprawling hospital bungalows, where my parents often took me as a child because of my fainting spells. To the south is Palos Verdes, snobbish in look but haunting in atmosphere, where I never stepped foot until I learned how to drive. To the west is Redondo Beach, with its artistry and vintage mien, where we would often go to take in draughts of sea air. To the north is Gardena, ragged but demure, which my parents drove to at dawn every day to open up their store. And then there is Compton to the northeast, Manhattan Beach to the northwest, Palos Verdes Estates to the southwest, and Lomita to the southeast. This arrangement may seem to possess an utter absence of order, but a system must prevail, because life is simply more interesting that way. Like political beliefs, gradations can be made to more accurately

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After I am released from the hospital, as my plane inches closer and closer to Torrance, my compass will tremble less and less, will grow less resistant to my system of references, until I have reached my place of knowing.

The fragility of my compass does not make it any less far-reaching. A universal hierarchy can be created among the cardinal and ordinal directions; Manhattan Beach, by virtue of being both lovely in appearance and located in the northwest, makes the act of driving northwest an act of nobility (Is the northwest lovely because Manhattan Beach is in it? Or is Manhattan Beach lovely because it is located in the northwest? I do not know. Let the world settle its own accounts.). The influence of this compass, which is centered in Torrance, radiates throughout South Bay, followed by Los Angeles County, followed by the Pacific coast, and eventually followed by Earth itself. Reaching far beyond Earth, it will create staggering biases —Cassiopeia and Andromeda, by virtue of being

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northwest, will make Ursa Minor seem paltry in comparison.

places and things. The topography of my Torrance is complete; I live with the world’s biggest map unfurled in my mind now, Torrance at the center and the universe around it. Even if I forget about this map, it’s there, in the dark refuge. Maps can defy compasses—after all, they provide a far bigger picture. Besides, what else can I do with a system of reference except look for ways to defy it? After all, if I can search for nobility in Lomita, in Long Beach, in the South Atlantic Ocean, in Antarctica, for the very reason that they are southeast and thus ignoble according to my compass of values, then I can search for it anywhere else, even in what awaits me in Torrance. That is what I am supposed to do, after all. For what is joy but to search? My life depends on it.

Once I am released from the hospital, once I board my flight, I will be unable to escape this universal compass I have created. After all, I will be flying in a southwest direction, the direction of wealth and imagination. How noble! Not as noble as the northwest, of course, but far better than staying in the northeast, for I will return to a land of snowless climates, a land of racial diversity, a land of crashing waves, a land of familial sympathy. But at the same time, I am returning to the fact that my parents were assaulted in their store last summer, to the ignobility of my family’s financial state, to the reality of my forfeited education. The needle of my compass, and the direction in which it points, will puncture my sensibility and cause it to bleed with ignominy.

For more information on author Eunice Kim, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this

But perhaps I can defy it. I have been struck by the manifold memories that constitute a place.

The Torrance of my mind has been molded in from the outside, by memories of people and

section.

All photographs accompanying “Places of Knowing” were provided by the author, unless otherwise noted

Photo: pixabay.com

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SPRING2016

CREATIVE NONFICTION : LIND FLOWERS

Windmill Seeds

By Lind Flowers

anywhere with Dad before. I had only ever been in the car with my mother. My dad never went to the places I did. He didn’t drop me off or pick me up from day care. He didn’t go to church. He didn’t go to my friend’s house.

I. Seed Description •

The maple seed is the combination of a seed pod and a surrounding wing. The weight of the seed is concentrated in the seed pod at one end, maximizing the spin, and therefore the drift of the seed as it floats to the ground.

The seed must travel outside the shadow of the parent tree to receive the sunlight necessary for seed germination. The wing of the seed serves this essential purpose.

He went to work. And sometimes he would take my brother to go get a sub from a sandwich shop near Peebles at the Walnut Hill Mall in Petersburg. It was the largest sandwich I had ever seen. I don’t remember which kind he would get; I never tasted it. I just remember that he always brought the same one home.

I also remember there being raw onions on it. I thought raw onions were gross, but I wanted to go even if it meant that my brother fussed a bit.

Is it strange that all of my memories from the time we lived with my father are dappled with sunlight? I can’t remember a single day of gray. I can’t even remember rain or mud. Only during the night did sunlight not spill in My father agreed on my going with through the blinds and curtains of the the condition that I wouldn’t cause windows of our home. As clearly as I any trouble. I had to sit in the back Image provided by author remember where the bathroom was seat and be quiet. I climbed into the light blue Duster sliding across the fraying split and my bedroom and the kitchen and where we seams of its leather seats, noticing the old car opened our Christmas presents in the den, I remember scent that I knew so well: dust. I sat in the golden rays of sunlight suspending the dust in the air. middle. My brother flopped into the front It’s as much a part of our home as the floor plan. There passenger seat in a huff. Why does she have to was always light seeking to get in, like warm fingers come? I could hear his thoughts as he buckled reaching for me. the great, blue seatbelt.

We lived in a trailer park inside Prince George County, Virginia. I’m not sure if the trailer park is still there, but I remember that a maple tree grew in our yard.

My mom says that they used to play catch at the park; they used to be a quintessential father and son; I do not remember this. My brother and I have different histories though we lived together under the same roof. Some pieces of my father were already gone by the time I came along – my father began showing signs of his illness around the time I was born. I was too late to get to know him.

I was four. My brother was nine.

I wanted to go with them this time. My brother complained. He wanted it to be just him and Dad like it always was, but I had never gone CANYONVOICES

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CREATIVE NONFICTION : LIND FLOWERS

Maybe my brother’s memories are what made him resent me tagging along. He wanted his dad back. Subconsciously, my presence reminded him that he couldn’t have that anymore.

What is schizophrenia?

Schizophrenia is a severe brain disorder in which people interpret reality

I sat in the center of the long bench seat and was content to not make a sound, to get out quickly when we parked the car, and to not ask any questions. My short legs hurried to keep up as we walked across the parking lot. No one held my hand. I convinced myself that my father was proud of how well I was holding up my end of the deal. I had made myself as unnoticeable as possible and I was happy to do so. It felt like a treat.

abnormally. Schizophrenia may result in some combination of hallucinations, delusions, and extremely disordered thinking and behavior.

Contrary to popular belief, schizophrenia isn't a split personality or multiple personality. The word "schizophrenia" does mean "split mind," but it refers to a disruption of the usual balance of emotions and thinking.

It’s the happiest memory I have of my dad and I.

Schizophrenia is a chronic condition, requiring lifelong treatment.

We moved back and forth a few times when I was little based on his being on or off of his medication. My mother didn’t want to leave him.

My father didn’t know he was sick.

~ Mayo Clinic I typically remember my father as being in the living room on the couch or in his chair… even when I was blowing out the candles of my birthday cake in the kitchen. Even while my mother and brother sang to me… he was still on the couch… I thought he just wasn’t interested. I’m not sure if my father loved me.

I’m not sure if he was able to by then.

I don’t know how old I was when we first called it a name, but we had moved out by then, for the last time.

“Brittney, your father is sick,” my mother told me. But I think I always knew that. I had always held a sense that something was wrong. I knew that he needed more of me than I did of him. So, I didn’t want more, because he didn’t have it to give. It’s strange to be so young and living with that reality, to be caught in the limbo of thisisn’t-right-but-it’s-not-his-fault. I’m still caught in that limbo. I still can’t tell what parts of him were selfish and what parts were sick. Schizophrenia bled into the cloth of him and I hadn’t known enough of him beforehand to distinguish what had changed. I couldn’t separate it from him or him from it. My dad was schizophrenia.

CANYONVOICES

II. Seed Creation •

Maple seeds develop from the spring blooms that cover aged maple trees….By early to mid-fall the seed is fully formed and floats to the ground when the wind catches the wing.

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CREATIVE NONFICTION : LIND FLOWERS

My brother and I shared a room back then. We had bunk beds. He had the top bunk. I had the bottom.

When I was little and my father came home from work I ran up to him, “Daddy! Daddy!” Every time he pushed me away saying that I was wrinkling his uniform or getting him dirty. I don’t remember him pushing my brother away, but I also don’t remember my brother running up to him.

I was about four years old and I remember waking up in the middle of the night to fear. I was afraid to move, afraid to be noticed, afraid to breathe, as if my blankets could hide me from the danger, but I didn’t know why I was scared.

My brother was sleeping above me. I can hear him breathing even now, deeply, innocently unaware.

III. Seed Dispersal •Maple seeds are usually ready for dispersal by August of each year. When the wind blows, it catches the wing surrounding the seed and the wing lifts from the tree.

Somehow I knew that my father was outside of our shut bedroom door. I couldn’t hear anything from my father. I just knew he was there. I stared at my dresser, something was draped across it. A doll blanket? A shirt?

I couldn’t tell. The nightlight didn’t reveal enough of it. My stuffed bunny sat on top of the dresser, looking back at me, neither of us knowing why we were so afraid. I knew somehow that even the bunny was afraid. I laid there staring at shadows and unknown familiar things, waiting, feeling the suspense of something awful.

Nothing happened. Eventually, I began to breathe regularly again, and I fell back asleep.

WINDMILL SEEDS (that’s what I called them) came from the Silver Maple trees of my childhood.

Sometimes I found them still rose-tinged, not quite faded to brown: hued clues of what they once were on the tree. But seeds don’t stay on trees. They fall.

Each seed can recollect the winds and rattling and shriveling on the branch: moments that ushered them down. Each seed remembers how the shaking was hidden by red and yellow leaves: camouflage for their breaking.

Years later, when I mentioned it to my mother, she stopped what she was doing. “You remember that?” I didn’t know what she meant.

“Your father used to load his gun and pace in front of your door at night. He wouldn’t tell me why. He wouldn’t speak at all. He just kept pacing. I couldn’t talk any sense into him, and it scared me to death. It’s why we left.”

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No one notices the seeds dropping one by one, littering the ground. They notice the blaze of leaves, the change of season. The falling goes unnoticed.

No one commends seed flight, how life falls through light and space, how it travels distance and

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CREATIVE NONFICTION : LIND FLOWERS

______________________

relocates. They admire instead, the color of leaves; they take them home as keepsakes.

I watched him walk away. It’s funny how that wasn’t traumatic for me. I was seven.

Meanwhile seeds find their resting places, like broken wings from family trees. They make their own, new roots by first falling and spinning. It’s similar to crashing. By then, their wings are supposed to be browned and brittle: easy to break, but perfect for flight, their grooves looking like a cross between windswept sand and crackled earth.

I glanced across the aisles, three registers down, and I knew him. Checking out at our local K-Mart, there stood my father paying for his things. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, but I knew him immediately. Perhaps it was the shape of his head, the broadness of his shoulders, or the way his weight shifted as he dug for change in his pocket, but I knew him in an instant and without question.

Sometimes they fall in pairs, still connected to another, and maybe they’re intended to, but I’ve only ever found them singular, strayed from their beginnings.

All of the protection or provision I had ever received had come from my mother’s hand. So, when I saw him, I felt no need to run to him, to have him fill some void. I just wanted him to see me, to recognize me.

Some fall right at the base of their tree, while others are found where no maple can be seen. I am of the latter variety. I fell far and wandered long. I spun, and bounced, and tumbled, and rolled far, far away, nowhere near where I began. I can only remember brief fragments of yesterday when we still lived in a trailer, hidden by maple leaves.

He was foreign to me and more distant than the aisles that separated us. I knew nothing of him. I didn’t know how he laughed. I had no point of reference for his expressions or his turn of phrase. Even then, I could not remember his voice. Yet, before he turned to show me his profile, before he had finished paying for his things, I knew the build of him – the way he stood, the way he moved. I knew that he was my father.

I think I was expected to fall someplace else, but my wearing, my grooves, and the wind brought me here. I grow someplace else.

I’ll bet you didn’t know that if you pick the seed too soon, you will find that it’s slippery. Pink wings are too heavy and will not spin. They must dry and age in preparation. Their shriveling must create the right surface area for propulsion. They must become light enough to spin.

Our own items were being scanned at the register and placed into white, plastic bags. My mother rummaged the checkbook from her purse and I stood there frozen, hoping that my father would see me. I couldn’t speak. I’m still not sure of why. Perhaps it was more moving for me than I can recall, or maybe I just didn’t know what to say. Maybe there were no words.

I must have dried out at the age of four or five.

August came when I was young. Though, my edges must have still been slightly rose-colored.

Beside me, my mother wrote her check for the typical $20.00 over, just as she usually did. She signed her name at the bottom in rounded, barely-connected letters and dotted her “i” with a circle (the same way I do, now). She had done this a million times. Soon, the register sucked in her paper promise, chewed it for a moment, and

But whatever was in me to plant, the weight of that seed, propelled me to the ground, and my single, fragile wing spun wildly in a desperate attempt to break my fall. I don’t remember landing. I remember more the tumbling that commenced.

I remember finding myself alone.

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then spit it back out. The drawer opened with a ping. Cash was counted into my mother’s hand.

All of these things went on much as they always had, but I didn’t see them. I saw him.

faced me, walking backwards, still being sucked away, as if his feet were stuck on a conveyer belt that led him from me. But there was no belt.

His feet carried him. And even now, I struggle to know the dividing line between the propulsion of events versus his choice in leaving.

He gathered the last of his things, a couple of white plastic bags, scarcely filled (I think I remember there were batteries), and then, he must have sensed me somehow, waiting. He turned around and looked me right in the eye, hesitated on the recollection of me snagging on some thought, and swiveled to face his cashier again, the one that stood beneath an illuminated block letting us all know that he was at register 4. She dropped coins into his hand (there was a nickel, some pennies, maybe a quarter) on top of a paper receipt, all of it crumpling up in his grip.

He slid the change back into his pocket and turned to see me again. He walked toward the doors.

He gathered the last of his things, a couple of white plastic bags, scarcely filled (I think I remember there were batteries), and then, he must have sensed me somehow, waiting.

Somehow, I always knew he would leave. That was no surprise. I knew that he couldn’t be my father. Based on what I knew of the world and how I fit into it, his actions seemed natural, almost uneventful, and as ordinary as going to K-Mart, itself. I had no hope invested in that moment. The only excitement that I felt was in realizing that I knew who he was. The only emotion or suspense was wrapped up in him knowing me. From the moment I spotted the back of his head, I just wanted him to know me. And he did.

My mother and I stood an additional three registers away from those doors, the automatic ones that slid open when your weight was detected on the black rubber pad beneath them.

Only I felt the distance. Only I was aware that I was further away from the exit than he.

For more information on author Lind Flowers, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this

Three or four times more, he turned to look back at me, but he never stopped walking. Away.

Steadily. Toward those doors. At one point, he

CANYONVOICES

I’ll never forget how confused he looked, like a child, how almost incapable of staying he seemed, as if he had no other option and he didn’t understand it any more than I did, why his feet had to carry him away. I’ll never forget the frozen uncertainty in his face, but I’ll also never forget that he kept walking.

section.

All images from Pixabay.com, unless otherwise noted.

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CREATIVE NONFICTIONCONTRIBUTORS Hannah Castor Hannah Castor is a dedicated, lifelong follower of Jesus Christ, to whom she gives all credit for her writing and other academic talents. She is a student at Indiana University East and is preparing to enter her third year as an English major with a concentration in Technical and Professional Writing. Although this mouthful suggests a decided lack of creativity, Hannah also thoroughly enjoys the freedom that comes with creative writing.

She has written several fictional novels, and although she has not yet attempted to publish them, she plans to eventually pursue this idea when time allows. She loves to read and uses such authors as Ted Dekker and Dee Henderson as inspiration.

Lind Flowers Lind Flowers is a senior at Hollins University. She is pursuing a major in English with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Social Justice. Though she has always written, she has recently discovered that creative nonfiction allows her to tell the stories that she has always wanted to tell, but didn’t know how. She is presently working on a memoir that she feels certain she will someday finish. She sees on her horizon both photojournalism and documentaries. This year, she will be writing her senior thesis about the history of slavery on her beloved Hollins campus, where she will be working with the campus and state archives to share the memory of the forgotten founders of her university.

Rinat Harel Born and raised in Israel, Rinat moved to the U.S. in 1991. Having earned a bachelor and master’s degrees in fine art, she is now pursuing an MFA in creative writing, and her story Africans, White City, and a Pint of Guinness had recently received the Emerson College 2015 Writing, Literature & Publishing Graduate Writing Award in Nonfiction. (Judge: Robert Atwan, editor of Best American Essays). She had also won the GrubStreet Boston Spring 2014 scholarship. She is currently working on a memoir on her experiences as an operations-room sergeant in an Israeli Air Force squadron. Her work has been published in magazines such as the East Coast Ink, The Masters Review, and Consequences Magazine.

Eunice Kim Eunice Kim is a schoolteacher and novelist who received her MFA from Otis College of Art and Design and her BA from Amherst College. Previously, she has been published in Lumen and Canyon Voices. In her free time, she advocates a sustainable lifestyle that seeks beauty in all its material and spiritual manifestations. Her fiction and nonfiction works are inspired by fairytales, meditation practices, and improvised music, and revolve around place, object, symmetry, and abstraction. Originally from New York, she is currently living in Los Angeles with her pet turtle Soren.

Patricia Martarella Patricia Martarella is a student at Arizona State University pursuing concurrent degrees in Psychology and English with a projected graduation of May 2016. For the last four years, Patricia has worked as a Program Specialist for Student Life and Leadership at Glendale Community College, channeling her love for higher education into event programming for the campus’ cultural and advocacy recognitions. She has a deep appreciation for the cultural richness abundant in local art scenes and invests herself in expanding the capacity of her life’s bookends through thoughtful immersion in theatre, music, and filmography.

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CREATIVE NONFICTIONCONTRIBUTORS Kathleen McAvoy Kathleen McAvoy holds a bachelor's degree in Psychology and a master's degree in Women's Studies. She lives in Phoenix, AZ with her husband, two college-aged children, and two black and white cats. She writes YA and Middle Grade fiction, and is also working on a self-help book for women which combines the unique paths of Women's Studies and yoga.

Renee G. Rivers Renee G. Rivers is a writing instructor, education activist, and traveler. She holds an M.A. in English from SUNY Brockport, a B.A. in Special Education, and a B.A. in German from the University of Alaska Fairbanks via the Goethe-Institut Muenchen. She teaches at Arizona State University. Renee’s publishing credits include stories in PBS Filmmaker Jillian Robinson’s Change Your Life Through Travel, Raising Arizona Kids, and Canyon Voices literary magazine. Her writings have garnered national and international awards from SouthWest Writers, SUNY, New Millennium Writings, and Tin House. As Renee accompanies her father to the Everest Base Camp this fall, follow her at unpackedwriter.com and on Twitter @unpackedwriter.

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SCRIPTS

Daniel Rubin The Absurd Job

Marieke Davis Disappearing Act

George Thornburg Inside Voices

Benjamin Graber End of Limerence

Phil Harding On the Block

Will Hightower TBA

Kate Currie Mocking Bird

Mountain by Monique Munoz (See Artwork for full image)

SCRIPTS : DANIEL RUBIN

The Absurd Job

By Daniel Rubin

Characters: DUCK: A man in a DUCK mask who sits in the passenger’s seat. Speaks with a refined voice.

RABBIT: A man in a RABBIT mask who sits in the driver’s seat, driving the van.

Speaks with a slight New York accent.

WOLF: A man in a WOLF mask who sits in the back of the van. Speaks in a somewhat monotone and sarcastic tone of voice. (most of the time)

Scene: FADE IN EXT. A BUSY CITY STREET – MIDDAY INT. A PLAIN WHITE VAN DRIVING DOWN THE STREET Three men in business attire and various animal masks are in a van together. The tone is casual.

Duck: I’m not so much as a pessimist as I am an absurdist.

Rabbit: What’s the difference?

Duck: Well as I understand it, a pessimist believes life is pointless. God is dead.

We live only to die. Now an absurdist isn’t like that. He doesn’t know if we have purpose and believes that any attempt to discover that purpose, if it should exist, isRabbit: Absurd.

Duck: Bingo. Make a right here.

Rabbit: (Makes the right) Wolf: (Who is in the back of the van looks over towards RABBIT) What was that?

Rabbit: What was what?

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SCRIPTS : DANIEL RUBIN

Wolf: You didn’t use your turn signal.

Rabbit: How would you know? You are supposed to be looking out for the cops.

Wolf: I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice it when you don’t use your turn signal.

Rabbit: (Breaths knowing he’s been caught) So what? No one uses their turn signal anymore.

Wolf: No no no.

Rabbit: (Talking over him) Yes yes yes. How many people do you really see using their turn signals?

How many?

Wolf: Just because they don’t doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. It’s a common courtesy thing.

Duck: Make a left here. It’s gonna be a mad house on Roosevelt this time of day.

(RABBIT makes the left) Wolf: Unfreaking real.

(RABBIT snickers with a satisfied grin) The three men go silent for a while as if trying to think of something to talk about. WOLF: is occupying himself by carefully stacking the money in the back of the van into neat little piles.

Duck: Kirk or Piccard?

Rabbit and Wolf at the same time: Piccard.

Duck: Good. I mean I don’t like conflict, but I was gonna argue that one all the way to the bank if you had said Kirk. (Laughs) Rabbit: You? You hate conflict?

Duck: Is that really so surprising?

Wolf: Hey isn’t that Rocko coming up here on our right?

Duck: Yeah it is. Hey slow down for a second. (He lowers his window) AY YO ROCKO! (Drawing a pistol he fires a few shots out of the van as it drives by. Screams can be heard coming from various street patrons.)

(WOLF AND RABBIT make shouts of protest at DUCK:) Wolf: Oh sure. Attract more attention to ourselves.

Rabbit: No shit! What the fuck did you do that for?! He sleep with your mom?!

God damn it!

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SCRIPTS : DANIEL RUBIN

Duck: (Calmly) What? Oh no no. It’s just this whole (He sniffs) this whole thing…

(Pause) How much did we get anyways?

Rabbit: Don’t try and change the subject here!

Duck: I’m not… but how much did we get?

Wolf: (Sighing, he looks down at the money in the back of the van that has been stacked carefully) Ahhh… looking like somewhere around five mill.

Rabbit: Not a bad haul.

Wolf: Could have been better.

Rabbit: Don’t be a pessimist.

Wolf: I’m not a pessimist. I’m an absurdist. (He says in a mocking tone of voice.)

(Duck shakes his head) Rabbit: How are we going to split it anyways?

Duck: Nope.

Rabbit: But IDuck: Nope.

Rabbit: Listen I am just curiDuck: Nope.

Rabbit: (Huffs frustrated) I just want to make sure I don’t get screwed on my take like I did last time.

Duck: Your concerns are noted but, you ask this question every single time and I keep telling you the same thing. There are three things you don’t talk about with people you want to stay on good terms with, politics, religion and how you split the money.

Rabbit: Yeah but we can avoid talking about the first two. Eventually we are going to have to talk about the third.

RABBIT drives over a slight bump in the road causing one of WOLF’s stacks of money to topple.

Wolf: (In almost a whisper to himself) Fuck. (Begins to restack the money) Duck: (Responding to RABBIT) Yes we do. But that has its proper time and place and this is neither the time nor the place.

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SCRIPTS : DANIEL RUBIN

Rabbit: You don’t have to talk down to me like that. You know you’re always doing that.

Duck: Talking down to you?

Rabbit: Yeah what with your “Ohhh I’m so smart look at me, I know about philosophy” attitude.

Duck: Just trying to make conversation.

Rabbit: No you are trying to prove to everyone how smart you think you are. You do this every freaking day and quite frankly man, quite frankly, I’m sick of it. And do you know what else I am sick of? (He points to his mask) Why the FUCK do I always have to be the bunny? I am sick of being the bunny! I want to be the WOLF: for once!

Why do I always have to be the bunny?!

Wolf: It’s a rabbit.

Rabbit: Why do I always have to be the fucking RABBIT?!

Duck: Because Mr. Happy back there is the Wolf. (He thumbs to WOLF) We can’t have two wolves.

Rabbit: Why can’t we have two wolves? (Speaking louder) Duck: Why can’t we have two wolves?! (Seemingly speechless before turning around and speaking to WOLF) Can you believe this asshole?

Promised by Sheryl Tsosie.

Please visit the ARTWORK section for more work from this artist.

Wolf: (Quietly to himself) You’re both kind of assholes…

Rabbit: Asshole?!

Duck: What else do you call something that spews out shit all day?

Rabbit: Know what?! (Slams on the breaks causing WOLF’s entire money stack to fall over making him visibly upset)

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SCRIPTS : DANIEL RUBIN

Duck: Oh what you are going to do this now? You are going to throw one of your little temper tantrums now?

(RABBIT stubbornly crosses his arms and does not respond) Wolf: Guys…

Duck: No no, do you know what? It’s fine. Let baby throw his fit. I got time.

Sirens can be heard in the distance Wolf: Cmon guys justRabbit: I don’t mind going back to the slammer.

Duck: You’re full of it.

Wolf: They are getting closer.

The sirens get louder.

Rabbit: Not as full of it as your ass is gonna be once they take you to Riker’s.

Duck: They are going to take you in you too bunny!

Rabbit: I’M A RABBIT MOTHER FUCKER! Wolf: (Losing his temper, draws his gun and aiming it at the windshield in between the two arguing men, the gun goes off right next to their ears.)

Duck: GAH! Rabbit: FUCK! Wolf: START THE FUCKING VAN! (RABBIT angrily floors the gas as the van burns out and takes off) Wolf: Thank fucking Christ it’s a fucking miracle! I AM SO GOD DAMN SICK OF PLAYING THE STRAIGHT MAN! (Kicks the back of each of their seats with a foot) The group falls into an awkward silence. RABBIT: drives as DUCK: painfully rubs the ear that was exposed to the loud gunshot. WOLF:, breathing heavily and attempting to calm down, keeps an eye out for any cops that were still tailing them and now has his back to the other two, seeming to have given up on the money stacks, looking out the back windows.

Rabbit: I mean I get it. You are smart. Good for you. Why are you doing this then?

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SCRIPTS : DANIEL RUBIN

Duck: I will have you know that I had a very good reason for shooting Rocko.

Rabbit: No no theDuck: Oh the whole bank robbing thing.

Rabbit: Yeah. I mean why r—oh look at this. How the hell am I supposed to drive with a windshield that has been practically shattered thanks to your stupid bullet?

(WOLF without looking back at the other two, raises his middle finger for them to see as RABBIT continued to speak) Rabbit: Why risk your life doing shit like this if you are so clever?

Duck: (After a long moment of thinking about it, answered) Albert Camus, an author that was big on the whole absurdism thing, said that the most rational and logical response to being faced with the idea that one does not have a purpose is suicide.

Rabbit: Sounds like a right jolly fellow. So that’s what this is then? Just a long and drawn out suicide? On every job do you secretly hope that some cop sweeps up behind you and plugs you right in the back of the head?

Duck: You didn’t let me finish. While he says that suicide might be the answer that makes the most sense, it’s also cowardly. Instead he offers a sort of… acceptance.

Rabbit: You’ve lost me.

Duck: Of course I have.

Wolf: You wanna start again?

Duck: Not having a purpose is the only way someone can truly be free. All I am doing is enjoying that freedom.

Rabbit: That’s bullshit. (Pauses, seeming to consider it) Accepting it huh?

Duck: I told you I wasn’t a pessimist. Take a left here.

(RABBIT makes the left) Wolf: SONNOVABITCH! Rabbit: Heheh. I’m enjoying my freedom too.

--SCENE-

For more information on author Daniel Rubin, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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SCRIPTS : MARIEKE M. DAVIS

Disappearing Act

By Marieke M. Davis

Characters: LENA- a beautiful, blond woman, age 40

SARAH- Lena’s younger sister, age 37

JANE- Sarah’s daughter, age 16

REPORTER 1

REPORTER 2

LORRAINE- News Channel 5 Reporter

JEFF- the Channel 5 Camera Man

YOUNG MAN

Assorted Extras for the CROWD- Children and parents, non-speaking parts

Setting: The present, one afternoon summer day in June. A small, mid-western town in America.

The play opens on a small carnival. There is a miniature merry-go-round, a face painting station, an arts and crafts station, and a station prominently advertising: “$5 Head Shaving – Help Raise Money for Cancer Awareness!”

All around, parents are enjoying being with their children, some of whom have shaved heads, but all are no older than five or six years old.

LENA stands on a wooden platform in center stage. She beams proudly, slightly swaying from side to side to show off the pink cotton dress hugging her slender frame. The Press love it, as REPORTERS wildly snap picture after picture of her.

SARAH, Lena’s sister, is stage-left, sitting at a wooden picnic table with a beer in hand. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and her clothes are plain and loose-fitting. She wears little to no make-up, and refuses to look up from the table.

On the far side of stage-right, JANE, Sarah’s daughter, is seated at another wooden picnic table. Her hair is red and stringy, and her face is pale and gaunt. She hides her thin frame beneath a loose, black hoodie and ripped jeans. For the moment, she appears lost to the world, as she reads her book with her ear-buds shoved into both ears.

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SCRIPTS : MARIEKE M. DAVIS

LENA: (Smiles.) I’m so glad you could all come! Your presence today means you’re not only supporting Jane and her struggle, but the struggles of all children battling childhood leukemia. Thank you!

REPORTER 1: Miss Lena? How are you planning to help your niece in her fight with cancer?

LENA: Well, I’m glad you asked. (She gestures toward the carnival around her.)

Half the money that we make today will go to help Jane and her mother pay for chemo and other medical expenses. The other half will go to the Foundation for Childhood Cancers. We’ve already raised over two thousand dollars so far!

The CROWD claps and cheers wildly.

REPORTER 2: Miss Lena! Can you tell us anything about the release date for your next film?

The CROWD laughs.

LENA: (She smiles and laughs.) June 15th. Midnight screenings are on the 14th.

But today’s not about me—it’s about Jane. (She opens her arms wide.) So, enjoy, everybody! Get your faces painted, have your heads shaved...and remember, it’s all for a good cause! (The CROWD begin to disperse, but she stops them) Oh, and I almost forgot! Our magician is running a bit late, but he told me he’ll be here soon. So, tell your kids not to worry! (She leaves the platform and walks over to where SARAH is sitting, and LENA no longer smiles.) Sarah? Where’s Jane? I’ve got some people I want her to meet.

SARAH: (She looks up at LENA. Grimly.) Over there. (She gestures with her head in JANE’S direction.) She’s doing her homework, so you’ll have to get your photo op later.

LENA: (She narrows her eyes and looks scornfully at her sister and the beer she is drinking.) Do you have to drink that around the kids?

SARAH: What? This? (Holds up the beer.) Don’t worry—it’s the only one I brought. Besides, indulging in our “family affliction” is the only thing that shuts up the screaming in my head. (Takes a gulp from the can.) As you well know.

LENA: (Snorts.) I kicked that habit a long time ago. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

SARAH: (Laughs weakly.) Today? You’re right here today...right back where you started. Same town, different role. What is it this time? The conquering hero?

It’s too late for the return of the prodigal son— (Pauses, as she considers) — or daughter.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : MARIEKE M. DAVIS

LENA: Oh, spare me. Dad gave up on me a long time ago...and the feeling was mutual. You should have left when you had the chance.

SARAH: And stick him in some home?

LENA: Why not? He dug his own grave—literally.

SARAH: Sorry. I couldn’t be so heartless...especially when he never remembered anyone or anything—

LENA: (Skeptically.) —or so he wanted you to believe.

SARAH: I do believe one thing: running away doesn’t solve anything. It’s just too easy.

LENA: Running away? As far as I’m concerned, I left home to save my own life.

SARAH: —or, rather, you saved yourself from a life of mediocrity. Either way, Sister. I’ll drink to that.

SARAH starts to drink again, but LENA stops her hand. SARAH sighs and puts the beer under her chair.

SARAH (cont.): (Grumbles.) It isn’t me everyone is here to see, anyway. I don’t know why you’re doing this.

LENA: You have a problem—

SARAH: That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, I don’t know why you’re doing all THIS. (She gestures to the carnival all around her.) You have the money...Lord knows, you have the money...to pay for ALL of Jane’s treatments. All her pills, all the co-pays, gas money—all of it.

LENA: (Defensively.) I just thought this would be a good way to raise awareness—

SARAH: About what? A disease that affects thousands of people every year, all over the world? (She looks at LENA with a mixture of doubt and amusement.)

I think people are pretty aware, don’t you? (She leans in closer.) Oh, I know you think you mean well. People do. People see suffering and they get scared. And, sometimes, this is all they can think of to push back against something beyond their control. But I know you, Lena. I love ya’, Sis, but I know you. And I can’t think of anything you have ever done that wasn’t in your own best interests. So, why are you really here?

LENA: (Nervously.) What a silly question. I’m here for Jane.

SARAH: (Tilts her head; skeptically.) Are you now?

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : MARIEKE M. DAVIS

LENA: (Indignantly.) Yes, I am!

And I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I’ve done a lot of work like this, and I’ve helped a LOT of kids just like your daughter! And now—if it’s okay with you— I’m going to go talk to her.

SARAH: (She shrugs and retrieves her beer from under her chair.) Do so at your own risk. But—some advice?

Leave your own baggage behind.

LENA snorts and walks to the opposite side of the stage, where JANE sits reading.

LENA: (Smiling, she bends over JANE, speaking loudly.) How are you?

JANE: (She looks up, dazed, and pulls out her ear-buds.)

Huh?

Cancer Sucks By Nicole Simmons Please visit the ARTWORK section for more work from this artist.

LENA: I said, how’s the homework going?

JANE: (She looks down at her book and shrugs.) Okay, I guess. I have to write a paper on Kubler-Ross for my Psych class next week.

LENA: (Looking surprised, and a little guilty.) Oh...well, I’m glad you could be here anyway.

JANE: (Somewhat resentfully.) Yeah…Mom said I had to come.

LENA: (She nervously fusses with her dress.) Well, of course you didn’t HAVE to come...I just thought this would be a nice break from all your treatments.

JANE: (She arches an eyebrow.) So...this whole thing is supposed to help me forget that I have cancer? Being surrounded by little kids with cancer, the parents of little kids with cancer, and people who don’t have cancer but just want to look like they do? (She points over her shoulder toward the headshaving station.)

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : MARIEKE M. DAVIS

LENA: (Smiles nervously.) We also have a magician. (She looks around.) If he ever gets here. (She looks back at JANE, then sighs and sits beside her.) Look, I know what you’re going through.

(JANE snorts, but says nothing.)

Lena (cont.): No, seriously. I do this type of work all the time. (She reaches into her purse and pulls out her wallet. She opens it up and shows JANE the photos inside.) That little boy right there?

His name’s Joey. He was four when I met him. He had a horrible case of kidney cancer. It was all over the network news.

(She beams proudly.) But I organized an online fundraiser to pay for his treatments, and...well...he’s ten, going on eleven now. (She turns the page to another photo.) This is Sophia. She was diagnosed with retinoblastoma when she was three. Lost her right eye when she was four. Probably would have lost the other one if I didn’t help pay for an experimental treatment her parents’ insurance wouldn’t cover. Doctors told the press that they’d never seen anyone do something so kind. (JANE’S expression softens slightly, and she smiles faintly as Lena flips to another photo.) And this one’s Bobby. He was nine when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I helped pay for his first surgery and his chemo— (LENA suddenly stops and squints at the photo in confusion. After a short pause she laughs, embarrassed.) Oh...sorry. That’s Jordan, not Bobby. (She points at her own hair.) Once they lose their hair it gets hard to tell who’s who. You know?

(She playfully nudges JANE, who is no longer smiling.)

JANE: (Mumbling.) I should get back to work—

LENA: Oh, in a second. I have a surprise for you.

LENA waves her arm, and two people emerge from the crowd: a woman with a microphone and a man with a large camera—LORRAINE and JEFF. They stand next to LENA. LENA: Jane, this is Lorraine and Jeff. They work for Channel 5 News, and they’d love to interview you!

LORRAINE: It’s great to meet you!

(She reaches out to shake JANE’S hand, but JANE only stares at her, and LORRAINE becomes a little nervous.)

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : MARIEKE M. DAVIS

LORRAINE (cont.): I...uh...just wanted to ask a few questions—if that’s okay.

LENA: Of course! Go right ahead.

LENA moves to get up, but JANE clings to her wrist.

JANE: (Whispering.) Aunt Lena? I don’t really want to do this.

LENA: (She puts reassuring hands on JANE’S shoulders.) You’ll be fine—trust me! Just be yourself.

LENA walks over to JEFF—the Camera Man—who has already started filming, and stands behind him. LORRAINE takes a seat next to JANE. JEFF: (Counting, as he shows his fingers.) We’re on in three...two...one. Rolling!

LORRAINE: (She holds the microphone to her face.) Good morning, and welcome back to Channel 5 News! I’m here today with Jane Brown, whose aunt—beloved actress Lena Bell—has organized this fundraiser to help her niece in her fight with leukemia. (She turns to JANE.) Jane, so how are you feeling?

Paradise Between 2 By Hee Sook Kim Please visit the ARTWORK section for more work from this artist.

JANE: (Shrugs.) Okay. Kinda nauseous.

LORRAINE: (Laughs.) Camera shy?

JANE: (Frowns slightly.) No. Chemo.

LORRAINE: Oh. (Pause.) Well, you look great! You haven’t even lost all your hair yet.

JANE: (Unsure.) Thank you?

LORRAINE: (She nervously looks through her notes.) So, your aunt tells me you’re fourteen.

JANE: Sixteen.

LORRAINE: Oh, wow! Congratulations! Are you excited to start driving soon?

JANE: I was, but the doctors don’t want me driving. They’re worried I’ll faint at the wheel. Chemo makes your blood pressure screwy.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : MARIEKE M. DAVIS

LORRAINE: (Sympathetically.) Sounds like this whole thing has been pretty hard for you, huh?

JANE: (Pause.) Yeah.

LORRAINE: Well, I just want to say you’re really brave for doing this. And I—

JANE: (Quietly irritated.) Why do people keep telling me this?

LORRAINE looks puzzled, and LENA wrings her hands nervously.

LORRAINE: (Faltering.) I’m sorry. I just thought—

If you had cancer, would you just sit around and do nothing because you’re afraid of needles? Or doctors?

Probably not.

JANE: If you had cancer, would you just sit around and do nothing because you’re afraid of needles? Or doctors? Probably not. That would be really stupid. (She leans closer to LORRAINE.) I’m not fighting cancer because I’m some kind of mythical warrior straight out of Greek lore. I’m doing this because I don’t want to die. I’m doing this because it’s LOGICAL.

LENA: (She moves in front of Jeff.) Uh—cut! (She seizes JANE and moves her away from LORRAINE.) We’ll be right back.

LENA drags JANE to the middle of the stage. LORRAINE looks stunned and confused.

JEFF: (Into his headset, to the unseen TV producer.) Quick— CUT! Technical difficulties! Technical difficulties!

LENA: (Angrily.) What the heck’s the matter with you?!

JANE: (She crosses her arms; defiantly.) You SAID “Be yourself.”

LENA: I didn’t tell you to be rude!

JANE: Well, sorry Captain, but it’s not like I wanted this in the first place!

Honestly? If it were up to me, I’d be at home catching up on homework, or maybe I’d be at the mall with friends. But, no! I’m here. I’m here, because that’s what YOU wanted!

SARAH, noticing the commotion, gets up and watches JANE and LENA from a distance.

LENA: (Furious.) I’m trying to help you! Like it or not! Could you at least PRETEND to be grateful? Hmm? Could you at least PRETEND to be the decent person that I need you to be for five fucking seconds?!

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : MARIEKE M. DAVIS

JANE and LENA stare at each other for a moment before JANE pushes past her, trying to choke back tears as JANE EXITS. LENA is left massaging her forehead in frustration, while SARAH, still drinking her beer, calmly walks over to LENA. SARAH: (Mildly amused.) Wow. Looks like you handled that perfectly.

LENA: (Annoyed.) Your daughter’s frustrating. You know that?

SARAH: Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. I live with her. And I thank God for every frustrating day she’s still in the world.

LENA: I don’t know how you do it.

SARAH: (She sighs.) Look, I know it’s been a while since you’ve had anything to do with us. I know how busy you are with the whole movie biz, and all, but you’ve got to understand that Jane’s not the little girl you remember. She’s a teenager.

LENA: So? I know that.

SARAH: So...think back. Try to remember. What do all teens want, Sis?

LENA: (Shrugs, exasperated and annoyed.) What?

SARAH: To be normal.

LENA: Not me. I just wanted to be free.

SARAH: Yeah, but you never had to worry if you’d ever get a chance to grow up, did you? At this time in her life, Jane just wants that chance. And she wants to fit in.

LENA: (Reflects.) I always wanted to be extraordinary.

SARAH: And so you are, Sis. But Jane is not you. (She puts a comforting hand on LENA’s shoulder.) Jane is extraordinary in her own way, and I hope that— someday—the world will get a chance to see that. But it will be for what she does, not for her disease. Right now, living to the next day is all we ask.

LENA looks at her sister, then bows her head in defeat. A few seconds later, a YOUNG MAN from the crowd walks up to LENA and taps her on the shoulder.

YOUNG MAN: (Nervously.) Miss Lena? Sorry to bother you, but I just got off the phone with the magician. His car just died. He’s not going to make it.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : MARIEKE M. DAVIS

LENA: Shit! (She sighs. A CROWD of parents and little kids start to form around the stage.) Guess I’d better go deliver the bad news.

LENA turns to grab the beer from her sister’s hand, and—to Sarah’s surprise—she drains it in a few gulps. LENA then walks past SARAH and heads toward the platform. LENA walks up to the microphone and motions for silence. The CROWD goes quiet. JANE quietly re-emerges, unbeknownst to everyone else, calmly takes an electric razor from the head-shaving station, and joins the crowd.

LENA (cont.): I’m so sorry to tell you all, but...our magician can’t make it here today.

There is a collective groan of disappointment from the CROWD. LENA motions for silence again.

LENA: Now, now...it’s okay. There are still plenty of fun activities for everyone, so—

LENA stops abruptly, as she sees JANE climb onto the platform, the razor in her hand. JANE regards LENA’S shocked expression with an air of calm disinterest.

LENA (cont.): Jane? What are you—?

JANE: (She raises her eyebrows.) I’m going to do a magic trick. (She turns on the razor, and to everyone’s surprise she proceeds to shave her whole head.

When she is done, she turns off the razor, holds out her arms, and bows.) TaDAAA! She’s gone!

JANE walks across the platform, stopping when she gets to LENA, who is still in a state of shock. She takes LENA’s hand, and gives her the electric razor.

JANE (cont.): This is what you wanted, right?

Without another word, JANE leaves the platform and EXITS the stage. The CROWD remains quiet, too stunned to speak, as the scene fades to black.

The End For more information on author Marieke M. Davis, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : GEORGE THORNBURG

Inside Voices

By George Thornburg

Characters: Robert- Husband

Cathy- Wife

Man- Robert’s conscience

Woman- Cathy’s conscience

Waiter- Waiter

Roy- Restaurant owner

Setting: Robert and Cathy are sitting at a nice restaurant. Three people currently sit a table. Cathy, Robert, and Cathy’s consciousness, represented by a Woman sitting next to Cathy. Robert is aloof, and distracted by everything and nothing. Robert and Cathy are celebrating their 18th wedding anniversary.

(Cathy, Robert, and a woman sit at a table. Robert is spaced off) Cathy: Rob, I think we should talk to Michael about his relationship with Maria.

Robert: (Not listening automatic response) Yes, yes. That sounds good. (Robert looks around) Woman: (Laughing) Holy Shit! We just got here, and he’s already stopped listening to you. Tell him you fucked his brother. He’d probably say *mocking Robert* “Oh, yes, yes. That’s sounds good.”

Cathy: I think we should take a vacation to the moon this year.

Robert: If you think we can afford it.

Woman: Run with it Cathy.

Cathy: They say the weather is lovely in the spring. (Cathy finishes her glass of wine, and starts looking for the waiter) Woman: Where is the goddamn waiter? Oh, there he is. (Cathy lifts up her glass to indicate she’d like a refill to the waiter) Woman: He’s got one job. Tell him to leave the fucking bottle. (Waiter walks over, and fills Cathy’s glass)

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : GEORGE THORNBURG

Waiter: I’m so sorry, I hope you weren’t waiting long.

Cathy: No. Of course not. Thank you.

Woman: (Laughing) Oh my god, you spineless bitch.

Waiter: (Talking to Robert, indicating to his wine glass)And you, Sir? Woman: Look at who you married. You should be so proud of yourself.

Waiter:Sir? (A man’s voice from the other side of the restaurant – running towards their table) Man: Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. What’d I miss?

(Robert acknowledges the waiter. The Man comes across the room and sits down next to Robert.)

Man: Ok. Waiter holding a wine bottle. I still have some wine. I’m good.

Robert: No, thank you. I’m good right now.

Woman: Oh, look. The sleeping idiot awakes.

Divine in You by Monique Munoz Please visit the ARTWORK section for more work from this artist.

(Cathy takes a sip)

Man: I can’t believe they don’t have a TV in the lounge.

Somebody had to get married during the playoffs. Why am I even here? I should be drinking a beer, watching the game, and eating a bowl of bar peanuts.

Cathy: What are you going to get?

(Robert flips through the menu) Robert: I haven’t decided. You? Cathy: I’m thinking about the chicken Caesar salad.

Man: Oh good for you, Cathy. Really went outside the norm on that one! Now let’s wait for the condescending look when I order the filet mignon.

Robert: Oh, that sounds good. What do you think about me getting a small steak?

Woman: Can you believe this guy?!

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : GEORGE THORNBURG

Cathy: Rob, you know the doctor wanted you to cut back on red meats.

Man: It’s one fucking night! Can’t she give me one fucking night, and treat me like the red blooded American I am? If I want a steak, I’ll get a damn red, bloody rare steak!

Robert: I know Cath, but being a special occasion and what not, can’t I have one night off?

Man: There you go, Robert! You pussy. Maybe I’ll crawl under the table and get my balls back at some point during the meal.

Woman: If he wants to kill himself, let him. God knows I have a large enough life policy on him.

Cathy: Of course, Robert. Have whatever you like. I’m just glad you’re here.

Man: Oh ho ho. I’ve heard that voice. This is far from over. I plan on hearing about this for the next five years at every doctor’s appointment. *Mocking a doctor “Robert, your cholesterol numbers are still a little high.” *Mocking Cathy “I told you Robert. You shouldn’t have had that steak 5 years ago on our wedding anniversary”.

Robert: Ok, that settles it. I’m going to get me a nice 6oz filet mignon with a side of asparagus.

Man: I wonder if they make it any smaller. Maybe I can just have them bring one by so I can smell it.

Woman: Why do I even try? Remember Nick? I wonder what Nick is doing?

(Waiter walks back over to their table) Waiter: Are you all ready to order?

Robert:(Robert sets the menu down and looks at Cathy.)

I believe so. Cathy?

Cathy: I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad. And a refill when you get a chance.

Robert: …and I’ll have the 6oz filet mignon. Medium. With a side of asparagus.

Ranch with the salad. And by any chance do you know the score of the game?

Woman: Will somebody get me a fucking refill?!

Waiter: Oh, I’m sorry, Sir. I’d love to know too, but restaurant policy is against any radios or cellular devices while we’re on the clock.

Cathy: (Laughing) You men are all the same, aren’t you?

Woman: I’m surrounded by complete idiots.

(Waiter walks away) Man: Just take your phone out, and look at the score.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : GEORGE THORNBURG

Woman: It’s just eating him up. Look at him squirm. If he pulls his phone out, so help me…

Man: Ok, Robbie. Let’s do the old quarterback sneak.

Robert: (Standing up) Excuse me for a second dear.

Cathy: (Cathy puts on a concerned look) Yes, of course honey. I hope everything is alright.

Robert: Yes. Yes. Just too much water. (Kisses his wife, and the man stands up too) (Robert and Man start walking towards the restroom) Man: Now this is what I’m talking about!

Woman: Does he really think he’s being that clever? Poker every Tuesday night with the boys? I bet someone owns our house by now. (Cathy takes another drink.)

Woman: What do I have to do tomorrow? I feel like I’m forgetting something.

Monday… Monday… Monday… Aww god, the vet appointment. Well, at least I had the mind to set it 11. (Roy, the restaurant owner, walks over to Cathy carrying a bottle of champagne. He bends over and kisses both sides of Cathy’s cheeks.)

Roy: Happy anniversary, Cathy. (Roy looks around) Where’d Robert run off too?

Cathy: Oh, you know Robert, had to run to the bathroom. *Rolls eyes*.

Roy: (Roy laughs) Well, expect a sullen face. The Bears are down 7.

Cathy: (Cathy chuckles) Oh, great!

Woman: How did I get here? How many wrong turns does one have to make?

Maybe it was when I stole Jennifer’s scissors in kindergarten. God really holds a grudge. (Robert and the man return. Robert shakes Roy’s hand.)

Robert: How the hell are you doing, Roy? Roy: Just about as good as one can do owning an overpriced restaurant during a depression.

Woman: No shit. (Robert and the Man take their seats.)

Robert: (Robert talking to Roy) Well, you can’t be making any money giving away your best champagne.

Roy: (Looks at the bottle of champagne) Oh, you think this is for you? No, no, no. This is only for people I like.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : GEORGE THORNBURG

Robert: (Jokingly) You hear that Cathy. Grab your stuff. Let’s get out of this hell hole. (They all laugh) Woman: Yes, for the love God. Cathy: Oh, shut up Robert.

Roy: With all sincerity, I’m so happy you all are celebrating your anniversary here. I want you to have this bottle of champagne for your celebration, and especially with what you and Cathy have done for me and Sarah, I owe you so much more.

Man: Haha Sarah, that crazy bitch.

Woman: Does it have alcohol? Just leave it, and walk away.

Cathy: Oh my goodness. Anything for you two. We have always considered you family.

Robert: That’s right, Roy. We’d do anything for you. And we really appreciate you picking up our tab.

Woman: That joke again, you broken record.

Man: If he really wants to pay you back for all those shitty late night conversations, maybe he can poison Cathy’s salad.

Roy: You guys are really the greatest. If you need anything, and I mean anything.

Please don’t hesitate. (Roy pops the cork) (Everyone at the table does a celebratory ehh) Woman: And the rivers shall run with booze.

Man: More bitch juice for Cathy Roy: Enjoy (Roy walks away) (The waiter returns with two flutes) (Waiter pours two glasses) Waiter: Congratulations. Mr. Roy wants me to make sure you have everything you need.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : GEORGE THORNBURG

(Waiter walks away) (Robert picks up his glass of champagne.)

Robert To us.

Cathy: To us.

Man: My God, look how old she looks.

Woman: I wonder when was the last time he was able to see his penis without the help of a mirror.

(Robert and Cathy set down their Champaign flutes) Man: I bet you could stab her in the eye with an olive fork, and she wouldn’t even notice.

Cathy: Rob, I’d like to discuss Michael and Maria’s relationship.

Man: Oh this is grand.

You fuck up our lives and move on to our sons.

Robert:What’s on your mind sweetheart?

Woman: Sweetheart?

You condescending prick.

Cathy: I love Maria. I think she’s a doll. But she’s going to end up swaying Michael’s decision concerning his college choices.

We have – He has worked too hard to settle for a second rate university.

Man: My god she’s right. I’d be doing him a disservice if I let him walk the same road I did – marrying your high school bitch girlfriend.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : GEORGE THORNBURG

Robert: I completely agree. How should we handle this? He’s going to hate us.

Man: Maybe I’ll just persuade him into getting a vasectomy then throw him the keys and say, “Go nuts, kid.”

Woman: Well, at least he agrees. I didn’t expect any ideas from Lord Mastermind.

Cathy: You’re absolutely right. I think the best way to go about, and it’s going to cost us, but offer Michael and Maria 5 tickets a year, round trip. That way it’d feel like we are supporting their relationship, but more importantly he’d be going to a better school.

(PAUSE) Man: She’s always been good. Always smarter than me. Fuck I hate everything about her.

Robert: I can get behind this 100 percent. I can’t find any arguments that he’d have.

Woman: Regular Mensa candidate we have over here.

Cathy: Oh, that’s terrific. I still don’t know how all of this will go down. But I’m glad we’re on the same page.

Robert: Come on Cathy. You always have the best ideas. I couldn’t imagine what gutter I’d be living in if it wasn’t for you.

Man: Oh, but it’d be a glorious gutter.

Cathy: Robbie, sometimes you can say the sweetest things.

(They lift up their glasses to cheers) Man: I hate you so much.

Woman: I’ve never bought a gun for the fear of shooting you in the face.

Robert: I love you.

Cathy: I love you. *CLINK

For more information on author George Thornburg, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : BENJAMIN GRABER

End Of Limerence

BY Benjamin Graber

Characters: MAN Eighteen months after love at first sight.

WOMAN Eighteen months after love at first sight.

Age, etc are not significant but MAN and WOMAN should be reasonable together as a couple.

Setting: Time: Night

Place: Reading in bed.

Performance Notes: Love and Limerence by Dorothy Tennov PhD. was written in 1980 and is an explication of romantic love, a condition that shares similarities with affective mood disorders (manic depression) and lasts a maximum of eighteen months after which the relationship either ends or morphs to companionate love, much less passionate but more stable.

This play works best when there is reason to believe that the couple doing it care for each other, have a real connection, and are skilled at bantering with each other. The rhythm of the volleying is critical to the piece being perceived as humorous as it is unfolding but then continuing to gnaw afterwards.

It is anticipated that theatrical representation will be used for the bed, but if a company chooses a realistic bed, that would be fine.

The lighting is simple, but important. The Voice Over can be recorded or live but must be during blackout prior to first Light Up. The lights should go out at the end exactly when the end table lamps are turned off. (Representational, tables, lights and switches are fine.)

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : BENJAMIN GRABER

The script attached is a minimalistic production, hence the simple voice over At Rise. The play has been wonderfully produced with more flourishes- e.g. replacing Voice Over with a projected dictionary definition of Limerence followed by couple dancing to a tango and then dropping Woman in bed while Man cuts or bites his toenails before saying his first line.

AT RISE

LIGHTS OFF Voice Over: Eighteen months after love at first sight.

LIGHTS UP on MAN and WOMAN, in bed reading.

MAN puts book on nightstand.

Man: Let’s.

Woman keeps her book in front of her Woman: Really?

Man: Yes.

Woman: Now?

Man: No?

Woman: Later.

Man: When?

Woman: Soon.

Man: Why?

Woman: What?

Man: Soon.

Woman: Sorry?

Man: Now!

Woman: You?

Man: Yes!

Woman: Now?

Man: Yes!

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : BENJAMIN GRABER

Woman: No.

Man: No!?!

Woman: Right.

Man: Huh?

Woman: NO!

Man: Why?

Woman: Huh?

Man: Not?

Woman: Headache.

Man: Bullshit.

Woman: Asshole!

Man: Bitch!

Woman: Shit!

Man: Prick teaser.

Woman: Not.

Man: Are.

Woman: Ain’t.

Man: Cute.

Woman: Am?

Man: Yes.

Woman: Really?

Man: More.

Woman: Really?

Man: Absolootytooty.

Woman: Awwww.

Man: Yeah.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : BENJAMIN GRABER

Woman puts her book on night table Woman: You.

Man: What?

Woman: Too.

Man: Cute?

Woman: Close.

Man: Handsome?

Woman: Colder.

Man: Me!?!

Woman: Silly.

Man: Huh?

Woman: Getting!

Man: Huh?

Woman: Colder.

Man: Oh.

Woman: So?

Man: What?

Woman: Guess.

Man: Sexy?

Woman: Bingo!

Man: But.

Woman: What?

Man: Why?

Woman: Feisty.

Man: Like?

Woman: Sometimes.

Man: Hmm.

Woman: Vanilla.

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SCRIPTS : BENJAMIN GRABER

Man: Ice Cream?

Woman: Silly.

Man: Thanks.

Woman: Sure.

Man: So?

Woman: What?

Man: You know.

Woman: That.

Man: Yes!

Woman: Men!

Man: Want?

Woman: What?

Man: Men.

Woman: Huh?

Man: Threesome!

Woman: You!

Man: Tryin’

Woman: Very.

Man: Clever.

Woman: Sometimes.

Man: Modest.

Woman: Flirting?

Man: Tryin’.

Woman: Maybe.

Man: Huh?

Woman: Maybe.

Man: What?

Woman: Let’s.

Man: Threesome?

Woman: No!

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SCRIPTS : BENJAMIN GRABER

Man: What?

Woman: Let’s.

Man: Us?

Woman: Yes.

Man: Now?

Woman: Yes.

Man: No.

Woman: What!?!

Man: Headache.

Woman: Louse!

Man: Tryin’.

Woman: Succeeded.

Man: Night.

Woman: Night.

Man: Loveyou.

Woman: Loveyoutoo.

In synchrony, turn out lights and lie down, back to back.

LIGHTS OFF END OF PLAY

◼︎ ◼︎ ◼︎ For information on author Benjamin Graber, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

ON THE BLOCK

By Phil Harding

Characters: OFFICER ALVAREZ Slightly exaggerated Hispanic accent. Young but experienced. Partner to OFFICER GALAVIZ on level 5 of jail.

OFFICER GALAVIZ Strong East Coast Italian accent. Older with a humorous outlook. Partner to OFFICER ALVAREZ.

OFFICER WILLIAMS Female co-worker to Alvarez and Galaviz.

SERGEANT NEWBERRY Bureaucratic. Oversees jail functions on level 5.

PETER Inmate. Antagonist.

PREACHER Older, passive inmate.

INMATES AND OFFICERS AS EXTRAS

Setting: The scene opens on a housing unit on the 5th floor of the Jefferson Street Jail. The control tower is located front stage right. A large 5 is painted on the wall of the tower. Rear stage left is a row of cell doors and metal bolted-down tables and benches that mark the inmate housing pod. The lighting in the pod and around the tower is dim as if a gloom perpetually hangs over the entire jail. Inside the tower the light is a little brighter, but still subdued. A control panel shines with green lights and switches. A short narrow staircase leads out of the tower. Two detention officers lean back in rolling chairs, their heads resting on panels, cushioned by pink inmate towels. They appear to be sleeping. The voice of OFFICER WILLIAMS is heard over the speaker, startling the two sleeping officers awake.

Williams: Heads up. Sgt. Newberry’s on his way in.

Both officers quickly stuff their improvised pillows beneath the control panels and wipe the sleep from their eyes.

Galaviz (speaks toward the ceiling): Great! Hey Williams, what does Crunchberry want?

Williams: He’s got that new inmate meal plan.

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SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

Galaviz (disappointed): And it was shapin’ up to be such a quiet day.

(ALVAREZ picks up a clip board and pretends to look busy.)

Alvarez: There goes the shift.

Galaviz (stands up and stretches): Hey listen, if we’re gonna have to handle this thing today, I gotta get me some coffee.

Alvarez: Oh, man! That ain’t right. You’re gonna leave me alone with Crunchberry?

Galaviz: Hey, buddy, I’ll make it up to you. You want coffee or what?

Alvarez: Yeah. But you better make mine a Mocha Latte Grande.

Galaviz (with jovial conviction): I’m on it, buddy.

(GALAVIS walks down the stairs, out the door and exits stage right. A few moments later SGT. NEWBERRY enters stage left stage.

NEWBERRY opens the door and climbs the stairs. ALVAREZ looks up, still holding the clipboard, continuing his attempts at looking busy.)

Newberry: Officer Alvarez, have you or Officer Galaviz mopped up around the tower yet tonight? It looks pretty dirty out there.

Alvarez: No, not yet. Galaviz just went for coffee so . . .

Newberry (in a lecturing tone): Officer Galaviz, you mean? We’ve talked about this before, Officer Alvarez. We address each other with professionalism and respect. The inmates pick up on that. If we respect each other then the inmates will respect us as well. You read the new regulations that just came down from HQ, didn’t you?

Alvarez (dismissively): Yeah, yeah. I forgot, Sergeant Newberry. Officer Galaviz is going to do it when he gets back.

Newberry: Sorry, but that won’t cut it. You know it’s supposed to be done at the beginning of the shift. I’ll need you to write a memo for you personnel record stating why it didn’t get done on time.

Alvarez: A memo? You serious? For not mopping?

Newberry: Yes, I’m serious. The new regulations apply to everyone, officer and inmate alike. Please bring your memo up to level control when Officer Galaviz gets back. (pause) Speaking of memos, I need you to post this one in the pod window. Tomorrow we start the sheriff’s new meal plan. Here’s a list of the menu items.

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SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

(NEWBERRY hands ALVAREZ a sheet of paper.)

Alvarez (incredulously): Grits, powdered eggs, raw vegetables, bologna sandwiches!? These guys are gonna riot, man! This is messed up.

We’re gonna have to do shank-sweeps every day before chow so they don’t end up in our backs!

Newberry: I know they’re not the most attractive selections, but the sheriff feels that the steak dinners and shrimp scampi they get now are not putting the taxpayers’ money to good use. This program will save the taxpayers $12 million every year. I know the first few days will be a little challenging, but I have every confidence in our professional detention staff. I’m counting on my officers to implement this new program smoothly. There is a lot of media attention on this and the sheriff does not want any negative publicity. So let me know if there are any major complaints and we’ll handle them before they get out of control. I’m sure you can handle the normal griping. If you need anything, just give me a call up at Level Control.

Alvarez: Yeah, alright Sarge. Um, Sergeant Newberry.

Newberry (reciting as a motto): Remember, “Be professional. Be safe.”

(NEWBERRY walks down the stairs and off stage right. As soon as the door shuts ALVAREZ kicks the computer console and then sits down to write the requested memo. After a few moments GALAVIZ returns with a coffee cup in each hand. He fumbles with the door a little before getting it open and climbing the stairs.)

Galaviz: So how bad is it, buddy?

(GALAVIZ hands ALVAREZ a styrofoam coffee cup while sipping from his own) Alvarez: Check this out.

(ALVAREZ hands the paper to GALAVIZ, who looks over it and whistles.)

Galaviz: Ouch! We’d better turn off the water now. When they get a look at this, these guys are gonna flood their cells.

(GALAVIZ pauses as he continues to study the paper) Galaviz: This is gonna get pretty rough, I’m tellin’ ya.

Alvarez (taking a sip from his coffee): Not as rough as this coffee, mano.

(ALVAREZ takes another sip and puts the cup down as he stands up)

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SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

Alvarez: Still, I got a bad feeling about this. I don’t know. It’s like I got some premonition or something, like this ain’t gonna end very good, you know. (pause) You know my nana down in El Salto was a fortune teller. A good one too. Not one of those rip-offs like Miss Cleo.

Galaviz: You’re pulling my chain.

Alvarez: No man; it’s true. Maybe I got some of her gift, you know. Like family voodoo or something. She once told this guy that she saw a dark aura around him and the next day he got run down by a herd of goats.

Galaviz (laughing): Goats? I don’t know, buddy. That sounds a little kooky if you ask me.

Alvarez (defensively): It’s true, mano. I swear on my papa’s grave.

Anyway, this ain’t a good idea, feeding these guys junk like this.

Galaviz: I don’t know. Feeding these guys the way we have been is kinda like rewarding them for breaking the law. I mean, they eat better then I do. And they’re the criminals. I think jail should be a little rough on ‘em, you know. Keeps ‘em from wanting to come back.

Alvarez (resigned): That’s kinda what Crunchberry said. It’s gotta be a white guy thing or something.

Galaviz (with mock indignation): Hey now, hombre. Wasn’t your mom white?

Alvarez: Half-white. But the chica in her was muy fuerte than that thin white blood she got from her papi. She could salsa like a real bailarina Mexicana.

(ALVAREZ puts one hand on stomach and sways to imaginary salsa music) Galaviz: Alright, amigo, put it away. I think George is watching.

Alvarez: You mean “Lucy.” He… she got her name changed last week.

Galaviz: No kidding? I didn’t think he… she’d do it. I guess there’s one inmate in here that won’t mind getting bologna for lunch.

Alvarez (with a grimace): Chale, homes! Chale! You better not let Crunchberry hear you sayin’ that. He was in here talkin’ about respect and regulations again.

Galaviz (excitedly): Did he give his professionalism speech.

Donuts by Linneah Hanson.

Please visit the ARTWORK section for more work from this artist.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

Alvarez: Yeah, man. It was somethin’.

Galaviz (with melodramatic disappointment): Oh, gee, I missed it? Tell me, (with mock sincerity) did you feel the warm fuzzies? That bit of pride tuggin’ on your heart? It never fails to move me, I tell you, buddy. It’s inspiring. Makes me wanna give my life for the department. I think I feel a tear coming on. (pauses, looks up at the ceiling and blinks his eyes quickly) Nope. False alarm (dismissively).

Alvarez (takes the memo back and picks up a radio): Time for my walk.

Might as well get this over with.

Galaviz: You want I should call Newberry down here to get your back?

Alvarez: Man, Crunchberry ain’t got nobody’s back. He ain’t the one who’s gonna be in here when the inmates start looking for someone to shank.

All he’s worried about is looking bad to the sheriff and the cameras. But (sarcastically and in a mock American accent) Newberry has full confidence in our professional staff.

Galaviz: Oh, yeah? How come he wants to hold my hand when I’m in the john?

Alvarez: Aw, man, that’s just ‘cause he’s got a thing for Italian chicks.

(ALVAREZ walks down the stairs and then calls back.)

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

Alvarez (cont.): By the way, mano, you get to mop the floor around the tower when I get back.

Galaviz (with mock sophistication): Oh contraire mi amigo. I did it yesterday.

It’s your turn.

Alvarez: No way, ése. You left me hanging with Crunchberry. You owe me.

(ALVAREZ walks out of the tower and tapes up the new menu on the wall in the pod. As ALVAREZ leaves the pod, inmates gather around the piece of paper. They begin talking angrily to each other, and then begin shouting and banging on every surface they can find and throwing bedding, clothing and paper into the air. ALVAREZ holds the radio to his ear as a call comes in. “Inmate riot in Henry 6, Charlie pod. Inmate riot in Henry 6, Charlie pod.” One inmate, PETER, stands on a table and silently stares at ALVAREZ for a few moments before taking up the protest. From the radio, another voice calls out, “Inmate riot in Henry 3, Bravo pod. Inmate riot in Henry 3, Bravo pod.” As ALVAREZ walks back to the tower, another call is heard on the radio, “Inmate riot in Henry . . .”

(Fade to black.)

Scene brightens on GALAVIZ handing out trays to a waiting line of inmates. Hateful looks and complaints are abundant as each inmate receives their tray of bologna sandwiches, green cherry tomatoes and

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SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

boiled potatoes. Some throw their trays in the garbage as soon as they get their food. ALVAREZ watches attentively from the tower with radio in hand. A small, older man known as the PREACHER approaches Galaviz and takes his tray with a smile.

Galaviz (as a maître de): I hope you enjoy your meal, Preacher.

Preacher: (smiles) I doubt it. I sure am going to miss Smoked Salmon Saturdays. But you know, for jail food this isn’t all that bad. (quietly to Galaviz) Have you ever been in a Mexican prison?

Galaviz: Can’t say that I have, buddy.

Preacher: If you don’t have any money, or if your family doesn’t bring you any food, you starve. The Mexican government complains when their illegal citizens are treated poorly in another country, but no one says anything about the way they treat legal tourists who get into trouble down there.

Galaviz: Rough night on the tequila, eh Preacher?

Preacher (with a devious smile): You might say that. Although, the details are a little fuzzy, if you know what I mean. (hoists his tray) Thanks for lunch.

(As PREACHER turns away, PETER, who is waiting next in line, bumps him with his shoulder.)

Peter: Kiss-ass!

(PREACHER sits at a lone table and bows his head over his food.

PETER approaches with a scowl on his face. GALAVIZ hands him a tray.)

Peter: Bologna. Really? What the hell is wrong with you people? I ain’t eatin’ this.

Galaviz: Hey, c’mon. My momma fed me bologna as a kid and I turned out alright. Besides, bologna is an Italian delicacy.

Peter: Yeah? Well I ain’t Italian. And I don’t eat bologna!

Galaviz (in a childish rhythm): Would you eat it on a train; would you eat it in the rain? Or in a box, or with a fox?

Peter: Oh, so you’re a funny Italian prick, huh?

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SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

Galaviz: Hey, look. You don’t like it. I don’t like it. I’m just trying to make the best of things here. You should try it out sometime. (pause, then in a conspiratory tone) Hey, I got it, buddy. Maybe if you ask nicely, Preacher can go to the Big Guy and have him change your sandwich into a pizza.

Maybe add a beer while he’s at it. Cheer you right up.

Peter: You still think this is funny, clown?

(PETER throws his tray across the pod. All eyes turn to him) Peter: You got us in cages, but we ain’t animals! And we ain’t eatin’ like animals!

(Looks around the pod and notices that all eyes are on him.)

Peter: We ain’t animals! (becomes a chant) We-ain’t-animals! We-ain’tanimals!

(The chant is picked up gradually by the rest of the inmates, who also throw their food, climb on the tables and start banging and throwing food, trays and paper. Galaviz pulls out his pepper spray and backs toward the door, shaking his head. PREACHER, who had been sitting with his head bowed finally looks up and begins eating his food, ignoring an inmate who stops on the table next to his tray. The inmate finally kicks PREACHER’s tray across the room, leaving PREACHER with only his bologna sandwich in hand. PREACHER calmly eats his sandwich.)

Alvarez (speaking into his radio): Inmate riot in Henry 5, Charlie pod. Inmate riot in Henry 5, Charlie pod.

(Fade to black.)

Scene brightens on WILLIAMS, GALAVIZ, ALVAREZ and NEWBERRY all crammed into the tower. They wear grim faces, except Newberry, who attempts to maintain an air of optimism.

Newberry: With Peter coming back from lockdown, I want all of you to be on your guard. I’m leaving Officer Williams here to help you guys out for the next few days.

Alvarez: Maybe if you bat your eyes at Peter he’ll behave. I think he’s got a thing for you, hermana.

Williams: I don’t think I’m his type. I heard he’s into little kids. At least that’s what his file says.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

Newberry: Officer Williams, we don’t discuss an inmate’s charges, even among ourselves; especially those kind of charges. The other inmates will kill him if they get word that he’s in here for a sex crime.

Alvarez: Try eight of ‘em.

Galaviz: Yeah, that’s something I don’t get. He’s gonna have a hard time with those charges when he gets to the pen. How come the goomba didn’t take protective custody when he had the chance?

Alvarez: I don’t know, mano. Explains why he’s got a chip on his shoulder all the time though. He’s gotta act like the baddest hombre in the barrios so if it does get out the other guys’ll think twice before messing with him.

Williams: Great, a Cho-Mo with something to prove. Why am I getting drug into this again?

Inmate riot in Henry 5, Charlie pod.

Inmate riot in Henry 5, Charlie pod.

Newberry: We’re a family, Officer Williams. We help shoulder the burdens of our family members. (to the group) Now at the first sign of trouble from Peter, I want him separated from the other inmates. We can’t legally put him back in lockdown for another 48 hours, but maybe sitting in his cell will make him reflect on his course. Who knows, maybe he’ll realize that he’s getting no where with this behavior.

Galaviz: So, basically, Sarge, we’re gonna send him to his room? You want me to give him a good spankin’ too, or what? Maybe rub his nose in it? Whack him with a newspaper?

Newberry: No, Officer Galaviz. I got a call from Captain Barkley up at county. Word is getting out about our little trouble in here and I need you officers to make sure that things don’t get out of hand. That means we need to put our minds together to make sure things are kept under control.

Galaviz: I mean this respectfully and all, but since all the new rules came down, it’s been like tryin’ to swim in a straight jacket, you know? And now we have to treat these guys with kid gloves. We can’t do nothin’ to noodle-heads like Peter without breaking one of the new regs.

Newberry: I understand your frustration, Officer Galaviz. But the new regulations are there to improve the functionality of the jail and to make it a safer place for everyone. Even Peter. We’ll have to think outside the box to resolve this. He’s just looking for validation for his behavior, so let’s not give him any. Don’t show him that he’s getting under our skins and he’ll give it up. I think he’s the kind of inmate that responds to

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SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

isolation, so let’s go with that. Within the constraints of the regulations, of course.

(An officer enters stage right with a cart loaded with meal trays and waves.)

Newberry: Chow is here so you all know what to do. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be up at Level Control if you need me.

(NEWBERRY leaves the tower and the others stare at each other in bewilderment.)

Alvarez: He means hiding out in his office while we cover his ass.

Williams: Yup. (to Galaviz) Hey G-man, is Sarge taking online classes again?

Galaviz: You picked up on that too, huh? Must be Psych 101 this time.

Alvarez, you should have been here when he was taking Philosophy.

(ALVAREZ scoffs and shakes his head.)

Williams: Hey, how’s Peter’s hunger strike coming along?

Galaviz: He ordered 50 bucks in junk food from the canteen, so I’d say it’s going pretty good for him.

Alvarez: Hunger strike? He’s in there stuffing his face with Slim Jims and chips and yelling about how he ain’t being treated fairly. Some hunger strike.

Williams: I don’t care how he goes about his “hunger strike,” but if he starts bitchin’ again he’ll get the other inmates going.

Alvarez: Man, it took us a week to get everybody calmed down, even with Peter in lockdown. Since he came back this morning you can almost feel the negative energy in there.

Hunger strike?

He’s in there stuffing his face with Slim Jims and chips and yelling about how he ain’t being treated fairly.

Galaviz: Hey now. Don’t start with that Miss Cleo stuff again. You’ll scare Williams.

Williams: I don’t know how a skinny white guy became the union boss in here, but everyone seems to play off of him.

Galaviz: He’s just saying what they’re all feelin’.

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SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

Alvarez: The vato’s and the brotha’s are willing to join in as long as he’s the one that keeps getting busted. They make sure he’s the loudest one.

Williams: I know it’s against the new regs but maybe we should start putting some of the other inmates in lockdown. That way we can use them to keep Peter in line.

Alvarez: Isn’t that what you’re here for? You know, to tame the beast, hermana?

(WILLIAMS flips ALVAREZ off and leaves the tower. She begins inspecting the food cart.)

Alvarez (following Williams with his eyes): Man, she’s smokin’. Hey, what do you think my chances are, uh?

Galaviz (with a little surprise): Who? With Williams? I don’t know, buddy. I don’t wanna burst your hormone bubble or nothing, but I hear she can bench press a Volkswagen. She’s pretty tough. Kinda like one of those Amazon chicks, you know.

Alvarez (with an excited grin): Hey, mano. I’d let her beat me up any day.

(GALAVIZ shakes his head as ALVAREZ leaves the tower. ALVAREZ and Williams wheel the cart to the entrance of the pod.)

Williams (calls out in a loud voice): Chow time! Let’s go! Line-em up!

(The inmates line up along one wall, PETER stands opposite, eating a bag of chips. Inmates throw various items in the trash and a few throw items on the ground at the officers’ feet. A few take their trays and go their way. PETER gives the more compliant inmates dirty looks, but they ignore him. When PREACHER walks by, PETER knocks the tray from his hands and the food scatters on the floor.)

Alvarez (sternly): Let’s go Peter. Àndele!

(PETER walks up to WILLIAMS and stands across the cart from her.)

Peter: This bologna isn’t you, baby. Why don’t you come back to my place and I’ll show you some real American beef? We’ll make our own sandwich. C’mon, baby. How ‘bout it?

(PETER leans over the cart and kisses at WILLIAMS. She grabs the back of his shirt and slams his head down on the cart. ALVAREZ cuffs PETER’s hands and leads him to his cell. PETER swears loudly and

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SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

struggles but ALVAREZ shoves him in his cell. WILLIAMS hands another tray to PREACHER and gives him a smile. PREACHER takes his tray into his cell. WILLIAMS and ALVAREZ go back to the tower.

PETER is heard kicking the cell door in protest.)

Alvarez: You think we can leave him in there ‘til dinner? The regs say we can’t leave him in his cell with the cuffs on, but I say screw him.

Williams (disgusted): Let’s wait until lights out and then strip him down and coat his “American beef” with pepper spray. I bet the little pervert would enjoy that.

Alvarez (in macho approval): Whoa, girl! Hearing you talk about mutilating another man’s junk, (places his hand over his heart) it does something to me.

Galaviz: Yeah. Makes you wanna hide your own junk. (pause) Let’s let him sit in there until dinner. If he screws up again, he’s going to lockdown.

Forget the red tape. That’s the way I see it anyway.

Alvarez: Sounds good.

Williams: I’m in.

(Fade to black.)

Scene lights up on GALAVIZ standing outside PETER’s cell, taking the handcuffs off him through the bars. WILLIAMS hands out food trays from the entrance to the pod. GALAVIZ opens the cell door and PETER walks out, notably irritated. He pulls a Slim Jim out of his waistband. ALVAREZ watches closely from the tower.

Galaviz (mock pleading): Now try and play nice with the other children, huh.

Peter: Piss off.

(PETER stalks past them and goes to his usual spot. GALAVIZ joins WILLIAMS handing out trays as the rest of the inmates line up. A few throw their trays in the trash without eating, but most sit down and eat their food quietly. PREACHER approaches.)

Preacher: Bologna again, huh. Well, I guess it could be worse.

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SCRIPTS : Phil Harding

Galaviz (in a sympathetic tone): To you non-Italians, you know, it’s… an acquired taste. But hey, forget about it. It’ll grow on you in no time.

Preacher: I guess I’ll take your word for it. Though I think I’ll be out of here before that happens. I spoke with my lawyer today and he’s getting the charges dropped.

Galaviz: Well hey, that’s good news, buddy. Congratulations. (Calls out to everyone.) Hey listen up everybody. Preacher’s getting out. Lunch is on me.

(PREACHER smiles amid faint, half-hearted applause and takes his tray to his cell. PETER watches him with hateful eyes and disappears into his own cell. WILLIAMS and GALAVIZ finish up and leave the pod. When the door closes, PETER emerges from his cell with a shank in hand and rushes in to PREACHER’s cell.)

Alvarez (horrified): I knew it! Oh, man, I knew it! (Calling into his radio) Inmate assault in Henry 5, Charlie pod. Inmate assault in Henry 5, Charlie pod. Inmate down. Send Medical. I repeat: inmate down; send Medical.

(PETER walks out of the cell with hands covered in blood holding PREACHER’s sandwich. He sits down and begins eating it as a group of officers rush toward the door.)

(Fade to black.)

THE END

For more information on author Phil Harding, please visit our

Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : WILL HIGHTOWER

TBA

By Will Hightower

Scene: Lights up on a room with a small table and two chairs. KYLE walks in with a camera/ tripod and begins setting up. As he is setting up, KAIGHLEIGHE enters carrying a headshot/resume.

Kaighleighe: Oh sorry. I’m supes early.

Kyle: It’s cool. I’m running a bit behind schedule. You know how it is. Come on in.

You must be...

He checks his list Kyle: (Not sure how to pronounce it) Kai...

Kaighleighe: Kaighleighe, yes.

Kyle: Beautiful name.

Kaighleighe: Oh, thank you. My parents chose the spelling, but it’s spelled just like it sounds K-a-i-g-h-l-e-i-g-h-e, Kaighleighe.

Kyle: I’m Kyle, nice to meet-Kaighleighe: Oh you’re the director! So nice to meet you. The audition notice said you were the writer as well?

Kyle: Yeah, I’ll be the lead too.

Kaighleighe: Totes cool! A man of many talents! A director, writer, and actor, you’re like that guy from Garden State.

Both: Zach Braff!

They laugh and share a look.

Kyle: Well, uh, have a seat and we’ll get started in a bit. You brought a headshot?

Kaighleighe: Yeah, here.

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SCRIPTS : WILL HIGHTOWER

Kyle: Thanks.

Looking at the resume Kyle: Oh, you know Carl?

Kaighleighe: Yeah! Well, I know of him. It was “The Carl Method” Class but Tony was teaching it. So, kinda? I hear he’s nice— Kyle: Total D-bag.

Kaighleighe: Yeah.

Kyle: He was supposed to be my reader for today but bailed.

Kaighleighe: Bummer.

Kyle: Yeah, so I’m gonna roll camera and then I’ll jump into frame and we’ll just improvise a bit.

Kaighleighe: Can you tell me about the film first?

Kyle: Oh yeah, sure. So “TBA” is a romantic comedy about Zach, a guy living in L.A. who has to go back to his home state of New Jersey for his mother’s funeral. While he’s in the waiting room at the doctor’s office— Kaighleighe: For his mom?

Kyle: No his mom is already dead.

Kaighleighe: Oh, supes sad.

Kyle: Yeah, supes. And he meets this girl Natalie-Kaighleighe: That’s me.

Kyle: Yeah. And they strike up a conversation. So that’s the premise. Some parts are still in development, you know how it is.

Kaighleighe: Which parts?

Kyle: Just little things like the locations, characters, and plot. But it’ll all come together at the end.

Kaighleighe: Sounds awesome. Like, award-winning awesome.

Kyle: Thank you. So we’ll just improvise a short “date scene” between Zach and Nat. No pressure, just be yourself. Cool?

Kaighleighe: Totes.

Kyle: Alright. Rolling ... and action.

Kaighleighe: So how did your mom die?

Kyle: Cut. Really?

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SCRIPTS : WILL HIGHTOWER

Kaighleighe: Well I wanna know. And you said be yourself.

Kyle: But the character, Natalie, doesn’t know about his mother’s death yet.

Kaighleighe: Oh! Okay. Got it. My bad. I’m ready Kyle: (Sighs) Okay. Let’s try again. Action.

Kaighleighe: How’s your mom?

Kyle: ...What ever do you mean, girl who I just met?

Kaighleighe: Like, is your mom, like idk, dead or anything?

Kyle: Funny you should mention that, my mom is quite dead. I’m Zach by the way.

Kaighleighe: Natalie. It’s spelled G-N-A-T-A-L-E-I-G-H-E. Kyle: No it’s not. It’s just the normal spelling.

Kaighleighe: 1. Are you telling me how my name is spelled?

And 2. Are you implying that my spelling is not “normal”?

He looks at the camera/audience and sighs.

Kyle: No. Nevermind. So tell me about yourself Guh-Natalie.

Kaighleighe Silent G. And I’m great. How did your mom die?

Kyle: She drowned. Do you have any hobbies?

Kaighleighe: How? Did you do it? I heard you can drown in two inches of water, you know.

Dude, you can’t keep denying what I’m saying. It’s improv, you gotta say ‘yes, and.’

Kyle: She drowned in the bathtub. That’s a cute dress, where did you get it?

Kaighleighe: Macy’s. You didn’t answer my question! Did you kill your mom!?

Kyle: I...

Kaighleighe: PLOT TWIST! I love plot twists. It’s like when Bruce Willis was dead at the end of the Sixth Sense. PLOT TWIST! Kyle: I...

Kaighleighe: Oh, did you not know? Supes sorry! I totes thought everyone knew that already. So, you killed your mom. Go on.

Kyle: I didn’t kill her. So what-Kaighleighe: Cut. Dude, you can’t keep denying what I’m saying. It’s improv, you gotta say “yes, and.” It’s rule 1 of “The Carl Method”. Let’s try again.

Action.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : WILL HIGHTOWER

Kyle: Cut. It’s an improvised scene based on my film. So I get to guide the scene. Action.

Kaighleighe: Cut. You said it’s still in development so my amazing and insightful improvised input is making huge dramatic improvements. Rule 2: You can’t spell improve without improv. Action.

Kyle: Cut. Okay. Rule 1 is designed to sell more classes. Buy this class? Yes, AND that one. Rule 2, you can always spell improve your way, I-M-P-R-OU-G-H-V-E. Rule 3, Carl can suck it. Action.

Kaighleighe: Cut. Are you-Kyle: Cut. What are you-Kaighleighe: Cut. Don’t cut me off with your cut.

Kyle: Cut. I’m the director. Don’t call cut and action any more. Action.

Kaighleighe: Cut. Sorry. Won’t happen again.

Both: ...Action Kyle: Okay! Since we’ve stopped. I’m going to fast forward a bit. Now, Zach and Natalie are in Natalie’s’ room at her mother’s house. There is romantic tension building between them. Let’s stand up and I’ll reframe the shot.

They stand and move the chairs out of the way.

Kyle: Okay, action. I’ve had such a great time with you today.

Kaighleighe: (Using a soft, whispery, “sexy voice”) Yeah, me too.

They begin to move closer.

Kyle: What should we do now? Something that no one has ever done before and that no one will copy throughout human existence?

Kaighleighe: Yeah, like make out.

Kyle: Yeah?

Kaighleighe: Yeah.

Kyle: Yeah?

Kaighleighe: Yeeeaaahhhh...

Kyle: Yeah?

They are about to kiss.

Kaighleighe: Did you kill your mom?

Kyle: Cut. Okay I give up.

CANYONVOICES

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SCRIPTS : WILL HIGHTOWER

He starts packing up the camera.

Kaighleighe: What? What’s going on? Did I get the part?

Kyle: No. Kaighleighe: Are you sure? I was really good. Maybe you should watch the tape.

Kyle: Honestly Kaighleighe, there is no film.

Kaighleighe: You’re cancelling the production?

Kyle: No. There never was a film. Carl dared me to host auditions as a way to meet girls. Like, “auditioning for a girlfriend”.

Kaighleighe: PLOT TWIST! No, but for realzies?

Kyle: For realzies.

Kaighleighe: Bummer. Okay well, I had a lot of fun tonight anyway.

Kyle: Yeah, me too.

Kaighleighe: Yeah?

Kyle: Yeah.

She goes to leave.

Kaighleighe: So is there a callback audition?

Kyle: I just told you, there is no-Kaighleighe: I know. But I’m still interested in the role.

Kyle: What?

Kaighleighe: You have my number. Totes looking forward to hearing from you.

Kyle: Totes.

Kaighleighe: Tootles.

She exits. Kyle looks around the room. Looks at the headshot. Then...

Kyle: This is unethical.

SCENE

For more information on Will Hightower, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : KATE CURRIE

Mockingbird A Love Story

By Kate Currie

Characters:

LYNN: A woman in her late twenties. She wears close-fitting black clothes and black gloves. A bag is slung cross-wise over her shoulder. A gun hangs in a holster at her side.

TYLER: A man in his late twenties, but older than LYNN. He wears a close-fitting black shirt with black cargo pants and black gloves.

Scene:

The master bedroom of a mansion.

Time:

Current Era. Nine o’clock at night.

Setting:

An elegant, posh, and obviously rich bedroom. The room is dark and empty, lit only by moonlight streaming in from a window. A dresser sits STAGE RIGHT, a large jewelry box sitting on top, centered. A large bed takes up the middle of the room. The door to the bedroom is STAGE LEFT.

At Rise:

A clicking sound is heard from the door; a lock being picked. Enter LYNN, humming “Hush, Little Baby” to herself. She crosses to STAGE RIGHT to stand in front of the dresser, tossing her bag on the bed along the way. She begins to examine the jewelry inside the box.

Lynn: (singing) Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.

Mama’s gonna steal you a mockingbird.

And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

Mama’s gonna steal you a diamond ring.

(holding aloft a large diamond ring) Ah, there you are, precious. Come to Mama.

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SCRIPTS : KATE CURRIE

(LYNN places the ring on her finger, admires it, and continues to rummage round in the mess of jewels. The distant sound of a grandfather clock chimes the time.)

Where are you, Tyler? You should be here by now...

(LYNN moves back to the bed, grabbing the bag and setting it on top of the dresser. She unzips it and tosses a necklace inside. Distantly, there is the sound of a door shutting. LYNN freezes, then smiles, returning to the jewels as if she has not heard the door. While she is engaged, enter TYLER.) Tyler: Lynn?

Lynn: Tyler.

Tyler: What are you doing?

Lynn: Getting here before you. Again. You’re late.

Tyler: You shouldn’t be here.

Lynn: (teasing) Are you sure about that?

Tyler: This isn’t your heist.

Lynn: They never were my heists. That never stopped us before.

Tyler: We talked about this.

Lynn: When?

Tyler: Before you vanished off the face of the earth with—

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.

Mama’s gonna steal you a mockingbird.

And if that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna steal you a diamond ring.

Lynn: Stop being so melodramatic.

Tyler: Melodramatic? Lynn, I came home to an empty house. No note. No phone calls.

I haven’t heard from you in over a month. What was I supposed to think?

Lynn: That we needed some space? Some R and R?

Tyler: You don’t do R and R.

Lynn: I’ve been trying. What more do you want from me?

Tyler: I want some honesty. What are you doing here?

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SCRIPTS : KATE CURRIE

Lynn: (sighing)

You wanted me to be normal again, Tyler. So I’m being normal. I’m a thief, so I’m stealing.

Tyler: My heist? You know how long I’ve been planning this.

Lynn: I can see why. I mean, check out this rock! What do you think it would fetch for us, huh? Two thousand dollars? Three?

(LYNN shows off the diamond ring on her finger. TYLER tries to be obstinate, but gives in and examines the jewel.)

Tyler: Three and a half, maybe. Four, tops.

Lynn: (coyly) Only four?

Tyler: (grudgingly) Well...maybe five or six, if we find the right buyer.

Lynn: (smiling)

Enough for a big-screen TV and a DVD collection big enough that it would need its own room.

Tyler: (pulling her into his arms) Or enough to finally take that trip to Hawaii we were always talking about. What do you think? I could help you ‘R and R’ there. Away from my heists.

Lynn: (dreamily)

Sandy beaches and no worries?

Tyler: (pulling her onto the bed, spinning the story) We could steal ourselves the keys to a five-star hotel suite, spend days inside together, ordering room service to survive.

Lynn: (laughing) So long as we leave the clothes at home.

Tyler: The babysitter can watch them just fine, I’m sure. Unless we bring Jake with us.

Family R and R.

(LYNN flinches, pulling away. He looks hurt.)

What? Lynn?

Lynn: Don’t.

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SCRIPTS : KATE CURRIE

Tyler: (confused)

Don’t what?

Lynn: Talk to me like that. Like nothing’s happened.

Tyler: Nothing has happened.

Lynn: Everything’s happened, Tyler! We’re not teenagers living on the edge anymore.

We’re not meeting ‘accidentally on purpose’ in some old biddy’s mansion, trying out her bed to see how the rich do it—

Tyler: Except we are meeting ‘accidentally on purpose’ in some old biddy’s mansion.

(pats the bed) We could even try out the bed for old times’ sake if you want?

(LYNN ignores him, turning back to the jewels and tossing another piece into her bag.)

Lynn?

Lynn: Things have changed, Tyler. You can’t make me starry-eyed with your promises anymore. So just... stop.

Tyler: I’m not trying to—

Lynn: Go home. I don’t want you anymore. This is my heist now, and I’ve got work to do.

(pause. TYLER struggles with staying or going, but finally decides to stay.)

Tyler: Are you going to keep the ring?

Lynn: (sighing, looking at the ring) Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know, Tyler. Probably. You never got me one of these when we got married.

Tyler: You would have fenced it in a week.

Lynn: Maybe. Maybe not. Depends.

Tyler: On?

Lynn: On how pretty it was. Who you stole it from.

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SCRIPTS : KATE CURRIE

Tyler: (raises a brow)

What if it had been that ring? The one you’re wearing now.

Lynn: (considers the proposal, turning the ring this way and that in the moonlight)

Fenced. The weight would have thrown off my lock-picking.

Tyler: And that’s why I never got you a ring like that. I got you better things instead.

Lynn: (bitterly)

Like what? A baby?

Tyler: Don’t make Jake seem like a burden. You love him. You’re devoted to him.

Lynn: You are devoted to him. I’m just the mother. What does it matter what I feel?

Tyler: You’re happy with Jake.

Lynn: I’m happy stealing. I’m happy with the thrill of breaking into somewhere I’m not supposed to be and taking what isn’t mine to get money I don’t deserve. That’s what I love, Tyler. I’m thief, not a mother. Motherhood is only pain and nightmares. You’d know that if you had ever bothered trying to be a father.

Tyler: I did try, but you didn’t want me there.

Lynn: (turning on him, gesturing about the room) Because you still had this! Because you came home every morning with things like these—

(grabs a handful of jewelry and shakes it in his face) —all the while telling me how great it was and how you could never, ever give it up, even if you tried!

Tyler: Lynn—

Lynn: I hated you for that. I still do.

(pause) Tyler: You could have told me. I would have stopped.

Lynn: Stopped stealing, or stopped telling me about it?

(pause) Tyler: I don’t know.

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SCRIPTS : KATE CURRIE

Lynn: (laughing humorlessly)

And that is why I had to leave.

Tyler: Because you were a little dissatisfied? This is a marriage, Lynn. You’re my wife, not my girlfriend. You took a vow. That means you don’t leave when things get hard; you tell me about them.

Lynn: Things were not hard, Tyler. They were unbearable. If I’d had to hear about a heist one more time, I would have snapped. Bad things would have happened. I hate you, but I still love you enough to know that I would have regretted it then.

Tyler:

And what about now? A month later and you’ve forgiven me? That’s not your style.

Lynn: (exasperated) I don’t even know what my style is anymore! My days for the last four years have been filled with nothing but Jake. Jake this. Jake that. How is Jake doing?

Jake’s up in the middle of the night with a nightmare. Again. But you would never know that, because you’re busy stealing. Again. Which I can’t do because, what? I pushed a baby out my vagina?!

Tyler: Because if something were to happen to me, he’d still have you, Lynn!

Remember? That’s why we couldn’t just hire a babysitter every night we went out. That’s why one of us had to give it up.

Lynn: And it had to be me, didn’t it? It’s always the mother.

Tyler: (bitterly)

He loves you more than me.

Lynn: He saw me more. I was Mommy. I was safety. I was the one that read him bedtime stories and let him watch cartoons all day Saturday. You, on the other hand, were the familiar stranger who maybe walked in the door every other week. Small wonder he didn’t ever recognize you!

Tyler: So you hate him, too? Resent him for stealing your life from you?

Bruksela Mala by Maja Wronska.

Please visit the ARTWORK section for more work by this artist.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTS : KATE CURRIE

Lynn: He’s four, Tyler. I can’t hate him. I can hate you, though.

Tyler: You told me you loved me a few minutes ago.

Lynn: That was a few minutes ago, Tyler. When I thought you might have cared for me a little, too. I disappeared for a month, no word, and the first thing you say to me is ‘What are you doing’?

Tyler: You were calm. Prepared. You weren’t stolen from me if you looked like that.

Lynn: See, and that’s another thing that bothers me. You thought. You didn’t feel.

Tyler: I feel plenty!

Lynn: If you felt, you would have come up behind me and pulled me into your arms like you used to, like I was the only thing that mattered. But I’m not, am I? Jake is the only thing that matters to you now. (pause) Tyler: That’s why you took him, isn’t it? To get back at me? To prove you were right?

Lynn: Am I wrong?

Tyler: Where is he now?

Lynn: Why? Tyler: Because you obviously don’t want him, Lynn. But I do.

Lynn: Do you love him enough to give this up? Stealing? If you take him from me, that’s what you have to live with. Or are you too good for that?

(She puts the last of the jewelry in her bag, shouldering the bag, and moves to exit the room, but TYLER blocks the doorway.)

Get out of the way.

Tyler: Where is my son?

Lynn: I mean it, Tyler. Move.

Tyler: (angrily)

Damn it, Lynn! Where is Jake?

(pause, stare-down. TYLER moves towards LYNN. She pulls the gun and levels it at him.)

Lynn: You want to know where your son is? He’s in a better place. He didn’t deserve me. I know it. You know it. Everyone who saw us knows it. I was never meant to be a mother, but you made me one anyway.

Tyler: (dreading)

What did you do?

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SCRIPTS : KATE CURRIE

Lynn: Why couldn’t you just leave this alone, Tyler? Why couldn’t you have just forgotten him for a moment and let us be happy for once? Like we used to be.

Tyler: He’s my son. I love him.

Lynn: (hysterical)

And I’m your wife! You’re supposed to love me.

Tyler: What did you do, Lynn?

(pause) Lynn: (adjusting her grip on the gun)

I did what I had to. I couldn’t live like that anymore.

Tyler: You killed him?

Lynn: Something had to give.

Tyler: (stunned)

You killed our son. You killed Jake.

Lynn: (as if reaffirming herself)

I made it quick. Painless. It wasn’t really his fault, was it? It was yours.

Tyler: Mine?

Lynn: You forgot about me, Tyler. So I tried to make you see me again. Night after night, I tried. I tried again tonight, taking over your heist like I used to. But you ignored me again!

Tyler: (furious)

How long ago? How long has he been dead? Lynn—

(LYNN fires the gun. TYLER falls. Shakily, she drops the gun.)

Lynn: You made me do it, Tyler. You could have just left it alone.

(TYLER tries to speak, but fails. He dies. LYNN pulls herself together, picking up the gun. She hums the song again as she pulls the diamond ring off her finger and lays it on his chest.)

Lynn: (singing) And when that diamond ring runs away, Don’t hope that it’ll come back another day.

You’ll notice it’s cracked and you’ll notice it lies.

You’ll notice that until your heart has died.

(LYNN exits.)

(BLACKOUT) (END OF SCENE)

For more information on writer Kate Currie, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTSCONTRIBUTORS Kate Currie Kate Currie is an alumna of ASU’s New College, having been gifted with a Bachelor’s Degree in these new-fangled gadgets called computers and a certificate in making Dragons and Heroes sound perfectly normal in May 2015. Since graduating, she’s continued to add to her resume of weird by working with a full Hand of blacksmiths that also insist that dragons are just spiffy.

Marieke Davis Marieke Michelle Davis is “a visually impaired visual artist”—a BFA Art (Drawing) major at Arizona State University with half her field of vision in both eyes (hemi-anopsia), a consequence of three brain surgeries and fifteen months of chemotherapy since age ten for recurrent tumors. She has excelled in her studies, earning multiple scholarships and Herberger Dean’s List honors every semester. Her writing and art has been published in the ASU student anthology, Marooned. Currently, she is creating the first installment of her graphic series, Ember Black, for which she is also producing an audio companion for the blind and visually impaired. Ms. Davis was inducted into The Honor Society of Phi Kappa Phi this spring.

Benjamin Graber Benjamin Graber M.D. (University of Michigan) M.A. in Theatre (University of Nebraska at Omaha) M.F.A.W. (Spalding University). Prior to following his muse and pursuing a career in playwriting, he was a Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Nebraska Medical School and Chief of Psychiatry at the Omaha Veterans Medical Center. He was Core Apprentice at the Playwrights Center in Minneapolis, and a finalist at the WordBRIDGE Playwrights Laboratory in 2011. He aided in the development and initiation of a Playwriting Track for the University at Nebraska at UNO's low residency MFAW program where he is currently a mentor and Playwright in Residence. Eighteen of his plays have been produced or had staged readings.

Phil Harding Though necessity requires him to work in a more economically practical field, Phil Harding is a passionate, part-time writer and ASU West alumni. With three books in the works (a political fantasy novel, a young adult novel, and a Russian thriller), a dozen short stories, and several plays, he’ll probably complete at least one before he dies. He draws inspiration from a unique range of careers and experiences including law enforcement, military, dairy farming, congressional casework, and growing up with 11 siblings. Phil’s victory over terminal cancer in 2015 has further informed his exploration into the nature of life and the necessity of death as part of our human experience. Phil currently resides in Utah with his wife and two daughters.

Will Hightower Will Hightower is a graduate of the ASU's Herberger Institute for Design and the Arts and is a local actor, writer, and teaching artist. Will's work have been featured at festivals, such as Phoenix Theatre's Festival of New Plays and Musicals, Short Play Fest, and Short + Sweet Corporate Theatre Festival 2012 in Bengaluru India (Audience Choice Award). He has also collaborated with students and faculty of ASU West on film projects and Food!: A Play with Music. Will was previously featured in Canyon Voices (Spring 2012) for his plays titled "Shelter" and "Ari's Ona". He is the writer/creator of IDK Comics at EasierSaid.net where you can read more of his plays and comics.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

SCRIPTSCONTRIBUTORS Daniel Rubin A 23 year old graduate of ASU with his major in communication, Daniel Rubin grew up with two strong loves: classic literature and action films, both of which he attempts to show off in his creative writing. Born in New Jersey, his family moved to Los Angeles when he was six before finally settling in Phoenix at age fourteen causing him to grow fond of city life, finding just as much beauty in tall skyscrapers as others seemed to find in nature.

George Thornburg George Thornburg was raised on a small cattle farm in north central Missouri. From 2006 to 2010, he served with the 82nd Airborne Division located at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, deploying twice to Iraq. From 2011 to 2015, he attended Moberly Area Community College before transferring to Arizona State University West. He is currently enrolled at the University of Missouri. When George isn’t watching the Kansas City Royals, he often can be found outside fishing, fossil hunting, or golfing.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK

Geneva Benton

Erin Doty

Gabriel Evans

Brianna Graw

Linneah Hanson

Romaine Jacquet-Lagreze

Cole Keister

Hee Sook Kim

Keri Lawrence

Liz Miller

Monique Munoz

Victoria M. Savka

Melissa Schleuger

Maggie Schmiegelow Nicole Simmons Rachel Smith Sheryl Tsosie Maja Wronska

Beautiful Transformation by Nicole Simmons (S ee A rt wo rk for full im a ge )

ARTWORK : GENEVA BENTON

Geneva Benton

Arcencelia : Digital Art CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : GENEVA BENTON

Arcencelia : Digital Art

More artwork from Geneva Benton can be viewed at www.genevab.com/

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : ERIN DOTY

Erin Doty Erin Doty was born April 17, 1984, in Sacramento California. Erin pursued an education in art practices at in early age, exploring different mediums and styles. After attending schools such as Oxbow School of the Arts, School of the Museum of Fine Arts, and California College of the Arts and Crafts, Erin is currently working towards a bachelor’s degree in Art History at Portland State in Oregon. Presently Erin lives in downtown Portland, with her partner and son.

Tetons 2 CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : GABRIEL EVANS

Gabriel Evans Gabriel Evans is an Australian artist and illustrator.

He works in traditional mediums, including watercolor and gouache, to create whimsical images reminiscent of classical illustrations with a twist of contemporary flavor. As well as painting he enjoys playing endless ball games with his border collie, Lacie, and growing different varieties of oak trees. Website: gabrielevansartist.com

CANYONVOICES

Evening Entertainment : Watercolor

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : GABRIEL EVANS

Into the Light : Watercolor

Waiting : Watercolor CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : GABRIEL EVANS

Peak View : Watercolor

Extract, The Mice & the Shoemaker (Five Mile Press) : Watercolor

Road Hogs : Watercolor CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : GABRIEL EVANS

Tree Faces : Watercolor

Little Red Riding Hood : Watercolor CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : BRIANNA GRAW

Brianna Graw

Brianna Graw is a graphic design major at Portland State University. Her passion in life is photography and one of her greatest inspirations is skateboarding. She is moved by the perseverance and the grace of the sport. She tries to capture the raw emotion of skateboarding through her photos.

Deshutes : Photo collage

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : LINNEAH HANSON

Linneah Hanson Linneah Hanson is a 19 year old freshman at Portland State University. She is currently studying art practices and has been doing art since her junior year of high school. She experiments with a wide variety of mediums including acrylics, oils, watercolors and digital media. She works mostly from photos and her favorite things to capture are portraits. Her artist photo features herself with two high school art teachers.

Pancakes : Acrylic on Canvas

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SPRING2016

ARTWORK : LINNEAH HANSON

Old Woman : Watercolor

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : LINNEAH HANSON

Donuts : Acrylic on Canvas

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : ROMAIN JACQUET-LAGREZE

Romaine Jacquet-Lagreze

Romaine Jacquet-Lagreze is a French fine art photographer living in Hong Kong where he shoots most of his projects. In 2011, he started working on his first photo book Vertical Horizon focused on the vertical growth of Hong Kong. This series was first published in Hong Kong with Asia One. It has since then been reprinted as a second edition in 2014. The same year his second photo book Wild Concrete was released. It depicts the resilience of nature in the middle of Hong Kong’s busiest districts by portraying banyan tress, also called strangler trees, which are spreading their roots on the concrete of buildings still inhabited. Since 2013, he has been featured in major publications across the world, such as, National Geographic, Huffington Post, CNN, and The Wall Street Journal. For more information, visit www.rjl-art.com, www.instagram.com/romainjacquetlagreze, or www.facebook.com/rjlart

VH #99

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : ROMAIN JACQUET-LAGREZE

VH #84

VH #97

VH #95 CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : ROMAIN JACQUET-LAGREZE

VH #84

VH #33

CANYONVOICES

VH #71

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : ROMAIN JACQUET-LAGREZE

VH #30

VH #27 CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : ROMAIN JACQUET-LAGREZE

VH #16

VH #07

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : COLE KEISTER

Cole Keister

Cole Keister is a photographer, traveler, and student, majoring in computer science at Portland State University. Growing up in a secluded area in the Pacific Northwest, he was constantly surrounded by nature. Inspired by the world around him, Cole has been taking photos since he was six years old. Traveling everywhere from France to Israel, he finds happiness when he is exploring the world with his camera. Through social media he has accumulated over seventy thousand followers, across Instagram and Tumblr. Photography has always brought peace of mind to his life that could not by achieved by anything else.

Untitled #1 CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : COLE KEISTER

Untitled #2 CANYONVOICES

SPRING2016

ARTWORK : HEE SOOK KIM

Hee Sook Kim

In my most recent work, I’ve taken the subject, both in form and imagery, of Korean historical landscape painting, (specifically so-called Longevity Paintings or Sipjangsaengdo in Korean), which were typically made only by men for the Korean upper class known as Yang Ban. Printing patterns (using Western oil colors) on top of the landscape traditionally used in Asian paintings (using water-based colors) transforms the masculine initial layer, now seen through a feminine veil.

The painting’s surface, covered with glass beadwork using shimmering rhinestones, speaks against the power of men in Korean cultural history and still prevalent in contemporary Korean society.

The work is a construct/destruct/re-construct.

In all my work, I use my personal experiences as a woman who immigrated to the United States twenty-seven years ago, after living in Korea until I was twenty-eight years old. This almost equal length of experiences in two completely different countries makes possible a hybridity that presents both cultures through the eyes of my own particular feminist perspective: raised in fear as a woman, now living in complete confidence as a woman.

When I started my career as an artist, I used the dream of a butterfly found in the writings of Chuang Tzu, the Taoist Philosopher, as a symbol of female identity, of being a woman in the world. Later this also became a minority issue, not just about being a woman, but also being an Asian immigrant in the United States. I escaped from male dominated Korean society only to find that my new home has its own complicated versions of racism, sexism and classism. My longevity paintings, as with most of my recent work, represent both places with its many different problems and my own place between.

So where then is the Paradise?

Sipjangsaengdo contains ten elements of long life—sun, mountains, water, clouds, rocks/stone, pine trees, mushrooms of immortality (Bullcho), turtles, white cranes, deer along with bamboo and the peaches of immortality (replacing either mountains or rocks)-- which represent a place of immortality, Paradise: a place of peace, spirituality, happiness and (especially) healing. In my longevity paintings, peace, spirituality and happiness are found between myself and the places created in my work. A healing process, one that can be re-created by each viewer, a “Paradise Between.”

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ARTWORK : HEE SOOK KIM

Paradise Between 7 : Multimedia

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ARTWORK : HEE SOOK KIM

Paradise Between 2 : Multimedia

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ARTWORK : KERI LAWRENCE

Keri Lawrence

Keri Lawrence is a sophomore at The University of Rio Grande in Southeastern Ohio. She is currently studying Graphic Design and plans to go to Graduate School for Ceramics. Keri’s artwork is often based on different aspects of honey bees. She grew up raising honey bees on her family’s farm and finds a lot of interest in the ways in which they live. Keri also bases some of her art work on her hobbies. She is a competitive runner and also enjoys hiking and the outdoors. Keri enjoys making art work for her friends and family and hopes that someday all of them will have something she made hanging in there houses.

Pointillism

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ARTWORK : KERI LAWRENCE

Ink

Earthenware

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Digital

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Graphite Drawing

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ARTWORK : LIZ MILLER

Liz Miller

Liz Miller is a senior at the University of Central Missouri. She works with oil paint on cotton canvas and loves to make large paintings with bold colorful patterns. The main theme of her recent works involve animals with significant patterns. Her paintings all display a message of the confinement of animals in captivity. Each of the patterns speaks about the endangered animals in her work and calls attention to the interaction between humans and the animals in our world.

Eventually Liz would like to be able to use her paintings to raise awareness and help support different wild life organizations as a way to aid in the fight for wildlife.

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ARTWORK : LIZ MILLER

Octopoda

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ARTWORK : MONIQUE MUNOZ

Monique Munoz

I was born in Toronto, Canada on June 28th, 1989. I'm just a girl that likes to laugh and explore a lot. Most of the time, I have my head in the clouds thinking about anything and everything. I'm in love with life, cute chubby animals and the beautiful, caring people around me. I've been drawing since I can remember. My art is a way for me to express inner emotions that I simply cannot communicate verbally. I always use personal experiences and my feelings associated to that moment as inspiration for most of my art.

Since color choices are nearly infinite on computers, my favorite medium is digital. I’m very fond of bright colors since I feel it reflects my optimistic personality. I enjoy making people smile or feeling any kind of emotions through my art. I want to create art that anyone can connect with, regardless what your interest, background, or age. Bringing people together is something that I value a lot. I draw from my life experiences and how I perceive the world...which is beautiful and perfect in it's own way

La Senal: Digital Art CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : MONIQUE MUNOZ

Lotus Kids : Digital Art CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : MONIQUE MUNOZ

Reflection : Digital Art

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Divine in You : Digital Art

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ARTWORK : MONIQUE MUNOZ

Awaken : Digital Art

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Scar Tissue : Digital Art

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ARTWORK : MONIQUE MUNOZ

La Senal: Digital Art

Mountain : Digital Art

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ARTWORK : MONIQUE MUNOZ

Moon Lanterns Festival : Digital Art

End is Where We Begin : Digital Art CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : M. VICTORIA SAVKA

M. Victoria Savka

A local of Rochester, New York, M. Victoria Savka is currently earning her BFA in Fine Arts Studio and Illustration at Rochester Institute of Technology. She enjoys dabbling in watercolor, creating faces out of small lines and shapes, the softness and smell of new paintbrushes, malt strawberry shakes and a good hammock. Victoria has shown her art at various venues in upstate New York. She has recently won Grand Prize in the 2016 Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival’s 2016 Poster Contest and will be part of the Society of Illustrator’s 2016 Student Scholarship

Show this

May.

Blueberry Jeepy

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ARTWORK : M. VICTORIA SAVKA

Lydia IV

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ARTWORK : MELISSA SCHLEUGER

Melissa Schleuger

Reformed paralegal and financial analyst who surrendered to her true creative calling. Dynamic painter of abstract expressionism with a creative mind and flare for design. As a student of Fine Art and recipient of the Beth E. Ells Scholarship at Scottsdale Community College, Melissa’s paintings are continually selected for the school’s annual juried VORTEX and articulate publications . Her work continues to gain recognition with showings in local venues including Art Intersection, the Herberger Theater and the Gammage Theater at ASU. Recently, she was named one of the finest emerging artists in the valley by the 2015 Chancellor Award Winners of Maricopa Community Colleges

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ARTWORK : MELISSA SCHLEUGER

Le Arsenal

L7

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ARTWORK : MAGGIE SCHMIEGELOW

Maggie Schmiegelow

Spirit Animal

Untitled

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Just Breathe

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ARTWORK : NICOLE SIMMONS

Nicole Simmons

Nichole Simmons is a student artist who is exploring her developing skills in art since Spring of 2015. With a prominence in emotive and expressive art styles, she appreciates multiple mediums such as pastels, pencils, and acrylic paint. She has been highly influenced and driven forward by professors from Portland Community College and Portland State University: Una Kim, Joseph Mann, Marie Sivak, Rachel Hines, Steve Brown, and Michelle Liccardo.

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ARTWORK : NICOLE SIMMONS

Beautiful Transformation

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Cancer Sucks

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ARTWORK : RACHEL SMITH

Rachel Smith

Untitled No biographical information for Rachel Smith was available at press time.

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ARTWORK : SHERYL TSOSIE

Sheryl Tsosie

Sheryl was born and raised on the Navajo reservation, and they are currently attending Glendale Community College. Sheryl aspires to become a skilled Veterinarian, and in their free 5me they pursue more crea5ve outlets such as: Photography, and both digital and tradi5onal arts.

Thirsty

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ARTWORK : SHERYL TSOSIE

Ledge

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ARTWORK : MAJA WROŃSKA

Maja Wrońska

Maja Wrońska- architect and freelance illustrator from Poland. She’s been creating watercolor paintings from around the world since 2012. Her works were exhibited at Biennale of Architecture in Venice in 2014, International ArtExpo in Venice 2015 and several American TV shows. To view her portfolio, please visit: https:// www.behance.net/takmaj

Bruksela Mala

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ARTWORK : MAJA WROŃSKA

Parasol

Coffee

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ARTWORK : MAJA WROŃSKA

Zegar

Most Cincinati

Tuk

Woods

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE Digital by Keri Lawrence (See Artwork for full image)

Brett Bezio The Depths That Words May Reach A conversation with

Rinat Harel

Patricia Colomy Writer or Just Writing it Down?

Transcribing poetry

with E.J.R.

Rome Johnson Just Do It! A chat with writer

Daniel Rubin

Miranda Gross The Art of Fantasy An interview with

Ariana Schaeffer

AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : RINAT HAREL

The Depths that Words May Reach Brett Bezio sits with Rinat Harel Let’s start with some background: You grew up in Israeli, and served as an operations-room sergeant in the Israeli Air Force. What led you to decide to be a sergeant, and what led you out and into the art world?

Rinat Harel’s writing appears in the Fiction, Poetry, and Creative Nonfiction sections of this issue.

That was not my decision. First of all, army service is mandatory in Israel. You can try to wiggle out, but in my time, that was… there is more flexibility now, I see it with my nieces. But in my time, thirty-some years ago, everyone went, unless you were really sick—even sick people volunteered. But it was not my decision. If it was my decision, I would not have gone into the Army. It was not my thing.

With your “prison sentence,” then, how would you say that that has shaped your perspective with Israeli society and how has that affected your writing?

You go into the army when you’re done with high school, or if you didn’t do high school, you enlist when you’re seventeen. Then you go through all sorts of medical exams and cognitive exams to fit you with what to do in the army. And when you’re in boot camp, they give you a questionnaire with all kinds of jobs. And I didn’t know anything, but there was an operations-room sergeant in a squadron. I had no idea what that meant. My psychology back then was to treat my army service as a prison sentence, though I had done nothing wrong. It was just two years that needed to be done with. I had a very negative attitude that led to a lot of weird things. I’m writing about it now. It’s a little interesting to pick up a lot of that stuff, to go back there.

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I think that I buried it. My service was a very difficult experience for me, mostly because I am insubordinate. I’m not very good with authority.

My parents gave me a lot of freedom. They had no choice because they were overwhelmed or young. So having my freedom taken away, having to wear a uniform, possible punishments —you could go to jail for a succession of minor mishaps. Once I was in some base, and I couldn’t find my way. I went to the first person I saw, which was a disciplinary officer, and asked him for the way. He couldn’t reply; he just glared at my red socks. You aren’t supposed to have red socks. You’re supposed to have white socks only. If you can believe it, you can approach someone with a question and end up with a fine.

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : RINAT HAREL

So after the army, I was on the loose. I tried photography. A friend that was with me in the army but finished before me went abroad for a while and came back when I was released. We were both just walking the streets in Tel Aviv, not knowing what to do. And she suggested, “Oh, let’s study photography.” And I said, “Okay, let’s sign up.” I did, and she didn’t. I took the course anyway and I enjoyed it. Then, I had another friend who wanted to go to art school. She really wanted to do graphic design, and, to encourage her, I applied with her for fun, not expecting to get in. But I did, and she didn’t. So I thought I would go back and do photography. My friends’ dreams led to mine, to me doing the arts.

creative language. For years, I thought, I can’t reproduce good enough work; it’s not my first language. Only now I’m saying, hey, I see Americans make mistakes all the time. It’s fine.

Since you’re both a visual and literary artist, what do you think you can get out of visual art that you can’t get out of literary art, and what do you think you can get out of writing that you can’t get out of drawing or photography?

With visual art, I think you get a more instant interaction with the viewer. There’s something very immediate there. There’s the image, there’s the video, there’s the person speaking. It’s very immediate. It doesn’t take a lot of time to establish a relationship with your viewer. But with writing, I find I can go deeper, much deeper, explore more layers that I couldn’t quite do with video. Photography is different, but I think I can compare video with writing. I feel I can go deeper and potentially reach more audience [with writing].

I was always an artist and a writer. When I was eight, I really liked what I thought was painting, but later on realized was drawing. I was an addicted doodler, one of those kids who would sit in class and just cover the whole notebook with doodles. But I also wrote stories and poems that, as a child, I got published in all those school magazines and won awards. So I asked myself what I wanted to be when I grew up, whether I wanted to be a visual artist or a writer, and I thought, ah, I could do both.

Only now am I fulfilling the other half of my determination as a kid. And I think part of it is because I moved to my second language as my

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In 2011, I cocurated a huge Israeli exhibit at Boston University and I worked on it for a year, and the team put together everything in the last couple of months. It was a lot of work. I think a good bunch of people saw it.

But there was such a disproportion

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : RINAT HAREL

between the amount and the quality of work and the amount of people that saw it. I thought, just to break even, thousands of people needed to see it, and maybe a couple of hundred did. Then I thought, I really want to reach a bigger audience. Plus with every art exhibit, it’s very limited in its time and space, in order to see it in its optimal way. When you put it online, it’s not the same. With writing, writing is the same. It’s printed words. It’s much simpler. You don’t need much technology. I appreciate the immediacy. I have an idea; I put it down. I don’t have to get my technology. And technology always changes.

The camera I used in grad school, I put it in the trash because it’s outdated.

There was a lot of discrimination from the former eastern European towards the foreigner Jews that came from foreign countries. They saw them as inferior. But the fact that we’re all Jews still hasn’t sunken in years later. So there was a lot of nasty discrimination that now you see towards the African refugees. The issues that I raise in [“Africans, White City, and a Pint of Guinness”] I never see or hear about it. I think the people outside of Israel aren’t really aware of those layers. But those things affect the political arena at large. All those inside frictions and challenges of Israeli society affect the government. Right now, we have a very problematic government, to say the least. But it’s not only affected by external things, but also internal things. In that story that you published, I thought about the fact that we all have the potential for discrimination, the fear of the Other.

There is a reason we see the Other as other. It’s to protect ourselves; it’s very instinctual. But being aware of it is the only tool we have to determine how we actually behave. I know discrimination is not just us vs. them. It’s not black and white. It’s much more gray. I think that’s true for any society, but I depict it in this one. When I have those interactions with the characters, I slice through all the layers of everything back to the past, back to the girl’s family, who probably were discriminated against, to people like my grandfather.

You said that you “imagine the words slice through the varies layers of Israel.” Can you tell us about the layers you are slicing through and the challenges underneath you hope to explore in your writing?

If you think about American society, for example, and how you imagine it’s viewed outside of America—or even inside America— the media catches the highlights, and more and more it’s becoming more like fast food. It’s easily digestible and it’s in easy packages. It leaves you with very few calories, very low nutrition, or the wrong nutrition. For example, the whole thing with how Israel started, it started by people, like my grandfather who came from Romania, to build it, before the Holocaust. And then, because of what happened in Europe, more people came to Israel, which included the other side of my grandparents, and they kind of establish a country. Then in the 50s and 60s, Jews from the Muslim countries came—North Africa, Iraq, which was influenced by the Nazi Regime (the Jews had it good for a long while).

And that amalgamation created, still today, a lot of tension and social/political issues. So how do you [discuss] that without preaching? You have to catch it in a character.

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Why did you choose to focus more on creative nonfiction instead of fiction?

I do both. I also do a combination. My army project is a combination. The main characters are real characters. The truth of the story is there. The facts are correct. But I had to recreate and sometimes fictionalize interactions and dialogues and scenes to bring it to life. I don’t know if you’ve heard of Tim O’Brien, who wrote The Things They Carried, but he’s fabulous. He wrote about Vietnam. He was like me, he didn’t

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : RINAT HAREL

want to be drafted. He served a year and then he got injured. He wrote several books about his experience but The Things They Carried was from the perspective of fifteen years later, so it’s less raw. But it’s all based on real characters with their real names, and real events. And you know it’s real because he dedicates the book to those people. But he says that it’s fiction. Some of his stories are metafiction, where he talks about the act of writing. You read that something happens, and in the next story, he contradicts it, so he plays with that. But it’s all based on his experience in Vietnam. He says that getting the truth of the story is more important than the happening of the truth of the story, of the facts. With the facts, either you don’t remember, or maybe they’re scattered and maybe a little boring, but when you put it all together, and you use a lot of the creating of scenes, but you leave the truth of it intact, you can get the truth of the story much more clearly.

So I do fiction and nonfiction, and sometimes it’s tricky. “Is it fiction or nonfiction? Do I have to say? It’s just a story.” Maybe the categories need to be changed.

workers. [In his writing,] it became very clear to me that he did not put ideas in front of the characters. His characters convey those ideas, those dilemmas, those depictions, and arguments. In his writing he really gives the full stage to his characters, and not vice versa. And sometimes I think I get it wrong. I have to give the stage to my characters. If I create good enough characters they will carry what they need to carry. The propagation for me to give them the full stage and make them vessel of my ideas, I think Chekhov taught me.

What do you see in the future, beyond your army memoirs?

I have a short story collection of Israeli stories, which “Africans…” is one of them.

The army one is still sprouting.

Actually, I see it as a short TV series. Even as I write the stories, I write them not as a script, but I see them as if I have the video in my head, and then I just describe the things. It’s entertaining, there are young people, there’s a lot happening, a lot of dialogue. I actually started. Today I sent an email to the European Foundation. They sponsor ARTE. I don’t know if it’s shown here, but it’s very strong in Europe. I’ve started looking into Europe, more, now. In the history of Europe and the history of Jews, there’s a lot of overlap.

There’s a different interest there than there is here, a different audience. So I see myself getting back into the moving image, not by myself, but with others. I’m just writing the story.

To be involved in that, that’s a burning dream of mine.

So do you have any other writers or journalists you also find very inspiring or influential to your writing.

Chekhov. I studied him last year. I read him before, but I studied him deeply in a book club, and I realized how he was an activist. He was mostly a physician, because he cared about people, the peasants, the poor, the factory

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : E.J.R.

Writer or Just Writing it Down?

Poet E.R.J. Transcribes Poetry with Patricia Colomy Do you come from a family of creative people?

E.R.J.’s poem “Nomadic Trials” is featured in the Poetry section.

Nah, not really. I come from a sort of quiet family. My parents are from Sweden and I think it’s just a cultural thing to be sort of distant. We don’t talk about a lot. I never really ever come home and tell my mom if I had a shit day, ya know?

When you say “from Sweden” you mean they emigrated to the U.S.?

Yeah. Supposedly my family descends from Swedish royalty. The story is that we are 100% Swedish. Like straight up Swedish.

I used to get in a lot of fights when I was younger and sleep through all my classes. So, everyone thought it would be best if I just dropped out.

Pure bloods, huh?

Yeah. [Laughs] Exactly. Pure blooded Swedes.

That’s wild! I can’t believe something like that would actually be encouraged by teachers.

Where did you grow up?

Well, here I am, a year away from graduating college. So, fuck them.

I was born in California and then my family moved a lot, eventually to Oregon. My parents had trouble finding a house there, so we came to Arizona when I was a junior in high school. I was sixteen or seventeen.

I agree. So, When did you start writing?

[Laughs] Well, I started off writing some pretty shitty poetry in high school.

Was it tough moving around?

Don’t we all?

It’s hard to make friends when you move a lot, but it’s not that bad. I’ve never thought I had it real bad. Things can always be worse. I mean, there's kids in third world countries. I know what it’s like to be hungry, but I’ve never been that kind of hungry, you feel me?

[Laughs] Yeah, it was edgy, angsty poetry that I used to vent about things.

What prompted your angsty poetry?

My high school girlfriend. We're chill now, though.

What about school? Did moving around make it rough?

Do you typically write from personal experience?

When I was in high school, my teachers and counselors tried to get my parents to encourage me to drop out and get my GED because I wasn’t “getting it” or some crap.

Mostly. It’s usually the things in life that have stuck out, moments that I find the most memorable.

What? What do you mean by “getting it”?

Like academically? Socially?

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Do you find it necessary to write in this manner?

As someone who has read multiple poems of yours, I’ve noticed a similar tone. Do you find it important to have a specific voice within your writing?

I can do anything. [Laughs] I guess personal experiences tend to make my writing feel the most genuine, so I just do that.

I think I come off as reminiscent in my writing, so that’s probably why there tends to be a consistent voice. When I write, I'm looking back.

I’ve heard others refer to your writing as “dark.” Do you think that is because you write about difficult times in your life?

Do you think it’s important for writers, in general, to have a distinct tone?

Like I said, I don’t think I ever had it that bad. I don’t look at my writing as “dark.” Experiences are just experiences. They don’t have to be sorted out as “good” and “bad”. Shit man, I write about some of my happiest memories and people call them “dark." And I’ve been through some shit, but everyone has. You don’t need hardships to be a great writer.

I think people should stick to their own voice. If you write “old school” then write “old school”. If you write weird shit, like I do, then stick with that.

If it’s not natural, don’t do it. That’s how people lose themselves.

Do you mainly stick to poetry or do you write in other genres as well?

Helps though, doesn’t it?

I stick with poetry. I think poetry is a form all its own. I still don’t know why it’s taught in English classes. I always thought it should be taught like an art class.

[Laughs] Yeah, absolutely.

Aside from using experiences, is there any place you go or thing you do to find creativity for your poems?

Do you think about toying with structure is important when writing poetry?

Not really. I think poetry is happening all around us. You can transcribe it, but you’re just the person writing it down. You can find poetry anywhere, even at this bar table.

Sure, but I don’t know how. [Laughs] If the writing is good, spacing and all that fancy shit isn’t going to matter, ya know? The content is what’s most important.

In saying that, do you think that anyone who observes poetry around them can be a great writer?

Is your goal to become a professional writer?

I’ll write anything someone wants to pay me to write. [Laughs] Writing for television is my plan right now. Honestly, I’ll always write creatively, for myself, but this will probably be my only deliberate effort to get published. I’m not going to be a struggling artist.

I think there has to be a combination of things. I don't know what those things are. The top ten percent of great writers have something that can’t be explained. I don’t have it, but there are people who do. [Laughs]

Do you consider yourself to be an artist now?

Who does have it?

Eh… I don’t know. There's a fine line between someone who writes and someone who's a writer. And I’m not sure where I am on that line.

I don't know, really. I only read Bukowski and Jack London. But Kendrick Lamar, he’s the greatest poet of all time. Kendrick has it.

[Laughs]

Wow. I think we should stop there, because I couldn’t even dream of a more poignant way to end this interview. Thank you so much for your time. Is there anything you would like to add?

Why have you chosen to publish your work under your initials, rather than your full name?

I just don’t want people I know to read my shit and form opinions of me. Also, I never really thought the name or title is more important than the feeling and content.

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Don’t make me sound like an asshole.

[Both laughing]

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : DANIEL RUBIN

Just Do It! Rome Johnson Chats with Daniel Rubin I met with Daniel Rubin in the Fletcher Library one warm Saturday afternoon in March. He is wearing a smart suit and assures me that he just came from a job interview and did not dress up only to come to the library. We find a booth in an isolated area, and after catching up on the affairs of each other’s lives since our scriptwriting class together, I turn on my recorder to begin the interview.

Daniel Rubin’s play, The Absurd Job, appears in the Scripts section of this issue.

What inspired you to start writing?

Well I suppose I was inspired to start writing when I was inspired to start reading. I was in middle or high school and I wasn’t reading what’s typical for that age, I was reading Shakespeare and Ray Bradbury, and of course Albert Camus, who plays a big part in The Absurd Job. I think after a lot of reading those I was inspired to take a crack at it, I figured maybe I had read enough to at least try to imitate what they did a little. But that went terribly wrong, so I had to discover my own style while just keeping some of the lessons I learned from these people, who I consider to be the forefathers and masters of creative writing.

ever get sick of. I did get the idea from basically combining my two great loves, cinema, specifically Tarantino style cinema, you know like Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs, and classic literature, especially Albert Camus as I mentioned before. He was basically the inventor of absurdism, which as you know is the theme of the script. So yeah, I combined those to and put together this Tarantino style story with the themes of Camus absurdism.

Was there something that drew you specifically to scripts as opposed to other writing styles?

Well I tried my hand at just writing books at first, and I wasn’t very good at it. I love writing dialogue, I’m great at dialogue, but when it came to more action I realized that I was so terrible at describing things in a way that was necessary for readers to get a picture of what I was seeing in my head. I could never put in

The Absurd Job is a very unique piece, where did you get the idea for it?

(He laughs) I wouldn’t say it’s unique at all. I think it is a story that certainly has been told before, but it’s a story that I don’t think people

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : DANIEL RUBIN

words what I had in mind. I figured the solution was to change the format and create something that could be seen rather than just imagined.

to keep everything together and organized and just can’t handle it when things fall apart.

Do you have any advice for new authors or people wanting to know how to get started?

Well I can’t speak for everyone, but I’ll make a huge assumption and say that everyone has had an idea and said “That would be a great script” or “I would watch that movie, someone should write that”. Never say “someone should write that”, just do it. Never write something thinking it has to be a Nobel-Prize winner, as young as three or so you have ideas but for whatever reason you don’t write it down either because of fear or you don’t think you have the skill.

Writing is not as hard as everyone thinks it is.

If I can do it any schmuck can. Humans are born with an innate sense of imagination and that is all you need to be a great writer.

People think to be a great writer you have to be a genius, a Shakespeare or Socrates, but all it takes is something you are born with.

Just do it, you have these ideas, just put them on the paper.

Where do you draw the humor of The Absurd Job? It’s very funny.

I’m a firm believer that humor is just another side of tragedy. I can’t remember now who said, “Comedy is tragedy plus time” (I looked this quote up while transcribing this interview. It was Mark Twain.) I think some of the funniest things in the world also happen to be some of the darkest, that dark humor. I think anyone can be funny, they just need to find their niche.

Life is funny, it’s all about how we interpret it and I chose to observe it in a dark cynical way.

That makes me to more or less funny than someone who observes it in an optimistic way.

Do you have any character in The Absurd Job that you see yourself in?

I think there is a bit of myself in all three of the main characters. It’s very hard for an author to say “no there is no part of me in my work” because we always put ourselves in the characters, not just when we write but when we read as well. Writing takes that to the next level, you have to put yourself into it.

I think Rabbit, Wolf, and Duck are all parts of me. Rabbit is the more angry side of me, the more passionate and rough around the edges side. Duck is the really cynical and absurd part, the part that is clever but also a bit insane. Then Wolf is the part of me just trying

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Do you have any new pieces you’re working on?

I had no idea The Absurd Job would ever see the light of day after the class I wrote it for ended. Once it got accepted into Canyon Voices I suppose my ego got inflated, because now I’m thinking of making it a longer three-act play, because I’m not done with these characters. All I have is ideas, but I’m not done.

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : ARIANA SCHAEFFER

The Art of Fantasy Miranda Gross Interviews Ariana Schaeffer How long have you been writing and what drew you to it?

I have been writing since I was six or seven and wrote my first story (with terrible spelling) about a mouse who wanted to be a schoolteacher. When I was seven and eight, I wrote two longer children’s books about flying horses. I figured that, as a kid, I could write better children’s stories than adults who didn’t know what kids were interested in. I think

what drew me to writing was the amount of books I read. My mom taught me to read at three, and she would go to the library and get over a hundred books for me and my younger siblings. I’d read them all in one or two weeks. I loved words, I loved spelling and grammar, and creative stories. Writing is a passion that hasn’t wavered in my whole life.

Ariana Schaeffer’s short story, “Jew Boy,” appears in the Fiction section this issue. just have to write. When I have an idea, I write a few pages, and then I get scared that my first draft won’t be good, so I stop writing for a while until I get the courage to come back to it. And that’s the thing—first drafts are supposed to suck. The second and third drafts are the drafts worth reading. But I can’t revise if I don’t have anything written down. So I write, pause when I’m scared, get over myself, finish the first draft, send it to my peers without even looking at it, cringe when I see their replies, then go about fixing the things they noticed so I can send it back to them.

Tell us a little about where you draw your inspiration. What inspires you to write?

Nature inspires me to write. I love trees and grass, clouds and storms and wind. (Probably comes from living in a desert.) With my recently completed fantasy novel, clouds and storms were the main inspiration, and were the foundation for the magical powers in that story. I like to write stories with outside settings, especially forests. Rainy weather helps my “mind gears” turn faster. Music is also incredibly helpful in guiding my writing and the feel of my scenes. For my short stories, dreams are the biggest inspiration. Besides the one published in Canyon Voices, nearly every single short story I’ve written was based on a crazy cool dream I had.

And my dreams are inspired by reading fiction, scifi and fantasy.

Do you set any goals for yourself when working on a story?

Deadlines are helpful for me. When my teachers don’t give me deadlines (e.g. finish a 10-page draft for a story or you’ll fail the class), I tell my friends I’ll send them a story or a chapter in three or four weeks. That way, I feel horrible if I haven’t gotten the story done in time, and that feeling of shame drives me to finish what I said I’d write. My friends could care less, but that’s what works for me. I’m about to start a writing blog (once I graduate), and I’ve set a goal to post one thing a week. It can be a paragraph, a whole story, a scene, a comment on

Once you have an idea for a story in your mind, how would you describe your writing process?

Writing my novel this past year has taught me a lot of things—namely, to get past writer’s block, you

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : ARIANA SCHAEFFER

my writing process—whatever. It’s helpful for me to set feasible goals, so if I have a bad or busy week, it’s still no problem to post a paragraph or something short.

Suzanne Collins’ writing quality (The Hunger Games), but I find her main character of Katniss very unlikeable, which is difficult for me when reading a book. To each his own I suppose.

What would you say is the most important part of your writing process?

Practice. Reading other good books in my genre is important, but practice is what makes my writing better. The first few chapters of my novel, from a year ago, are awful excuses for writing compared to my most recent chapters.

Seeing my progress just over the course of a year has inspired me to practice more. “Taking a break” from writing just makes my writing worse. Making habits of practicing (e.g. every Friday for three hours, having a special place in my home decorated with inspiring pictures, etc.) keep me from slipping two steps backward in my craft.

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

Haha. Yeah. There’s a lot of great advice out there —positive encouragement on following your dreams and developing your talents and not being afraid to try—which is awesome—but I’ll just say this: before you sit down and start writing the next Divergent or Harry Potter, think about your goals. If your goal is to develop your talents and hopefully contribute a great work to humanity someday (likely posthumously), it may be easier to find inspiration and not quit. If your goal is to make money and be famous, you need to look at those authors who are and see what they’ve gone through.

Writing takes so much work.

Seriously, I burn calories typing at the computer. I also get a knot in my shoulders for every thousand words I write. (I’ve calculated this :) Read great books (more than once), write something at least once a week, and look at blogs from authors like Veronica Roth to see their advice on getting published etc. And don’t be afraid to share your work! Most authors I’ve met (me included) think their stories are terrible and no one would want to read them. That’s not true. Even if your friends aren’t interested, there are tons of other writers out there who not only want to read your stuff, but also want to provide good feedback to help make you better. When you get that feedback, never take it personally, or your writing will stagnate. I have always found others’ perspectives on my stories to be immeasurably more perceptive than mine. The reader has a fresh look on things the author may have overlooked.

Writing takes so much work.

Seriously, I burn calories typing at the computer.

What are your hopes for the future with your writing?

I hope to get published—when my novel is agentready, I will send it to a million agents and hope that one of them likes my voice. It would be great if I could make a career out of writing, but I don’t care so much about making a living from it as I do that people read my stories and connect with my characters. I love hearing what others think of stories—whether it’s another author’s story or my story. Humanity learns so much from stories—they are indispensable to our growth as a society.

Care to share some authors you admire?

J.K. Rowling. Yes, I am a Harry Potter fan of course, but the more books I read, the more I recognize Rowling’s writing as excellent. Not good —excellent. Other authors who have helped me in my craft and pulled me into their amazing stories and worlds are Christopher Paolini (Eragon), Gregory Maguire (Wicked), Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson), Shannon Hale (Goose Girl), and C.S. Lewis (The Chronicles of Narnia). I appreciate

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Anyway, that was more than I thought I’d say. Hope it was helpful. Enjoy writing! It’s an amazing privilege that in this day nearly everyone is educated in reading and writing!

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ABOUT US CANYON VOICES LITERARY MAGAZINE is a burgeoning journal

dedicated to displaying the works of emerging and established writers and artists. Founded in the spring of 2010 at Arizona State University’s West campus by one professor and six students, this journal strives to bring the creativity of its writers and artists to light within the community and beyond. Supported by students and faculty of ASU’s New College (HArCS), CANYON VOICES accepts writing and art from undergraduates, graduates, faculty members, and the community.

The work of maintaining and producing this magazine is entirely student driven. Since its formation, CANYON VOICES has expanded into a full credit, hands-on class, offered through Arizona State University New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences. Students build a full literary journal each semester, heading every aspect of production, including soliciting submissions, editing, marketing, design and layout, and publication. We eagerly anticipate further involvement from students interested in magazine publication for our future issues.

OUR MISSION

CONTACT US

At CANYON VOICES our mission is to provide an online

Questions, comments, feedback? We would love to hear from you.

environment to highlight emerging and established voices in the artistic community.

Contact us via email at: CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com.

By publishing works that engender thought, Canyon Voices seeks to enrich the scope of language, style, culture, and gender.

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You can also visit us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/asucanyonvoices.

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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

SUBMITTING WORK To submit your work, please send it to CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com. Be sure to attach all the work you wish to submit to the email. You may include an author biography and a photo, which will be included in the magazine should your work be chosen for publication. We are affiliated with Arizona State University, and we uphold academic standards. If your work is accepted we reserve the right to make changes, such as grammar and punctuation. You will be contacted should your work require more extensive edits. We accept simultaneous submissions.

All documents submitted should be double spaced with a 12 point font, in either Times New Roman or Arial. Poetry may be single spaced. All written documents must be submitted in (.doc) or (.rtf) format. Artwork may be in JPEG format.

All work submitted must have a title.

FICTION

POETRY

Up to two stories may be submitted per issue. Each story may be 20 pages or fewer.

Up to six poems may be submitted (no longer than two pages each) per issue.

CREATIVE NONFICTION

SCRIPTS

ARTWORK

Up to two scripts may be submitted per issue. Script maximum 15 pages.

Up to four stories per issue. Two pieces may be 20 pages.

Up to ten pieces, with at least 300 dpi or JPEG format (<1 MB). Include detail on medium.

EXPLICIT MATERIALS

READING PERIOD

Because this is a university magazine, submissions containing sexually explicit material and explicit language will be reviewed and determined eligible for publishing depending on the context of the material in the work. Material deemed inappropriate or gratuitous will be rejected.

Our editors read submissions in August, September, and October for the fall issue. The reading period re-opens in January, February, and March for the spring issue.

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STAFF PAGES : EXECUTIVE BOARD

Julie Amparano is the founder, publisher, and advisor of the CANYON VOICES literary team. Serving in the School of Humanity Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, Prof. Amparano oversees the school's Writing Certificate and teaches a variety of writing courses that include scriptwriting, cross-cultural writing, fiction, persuasive writing, and others. She received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Antioch University in Los Angeles in 2006 and is working on a collection of short stories.

Julie Amparano

Publisher

Megan is a graduating senior, earning her BA in English. This is her third issue of CANYON VOICES and she has spent so much time working on it she has forgotten what her hobbies used to be. After graduation, she hopes to only be moderately without direction. One day, though, she hopes to move out to Massachusetts where she’ll live under a bridge and ask strangers three riddles before they can pass.

Megan Huffman

Co-Editor-In-Chief

Sayed Karimi is Junior at ASU West, completing his bachelor’s in English.

This is his third issue of CANYON VOICES. When Sayed is not busy imitating foreign accents, Indian in particular, he prefers to spend his time writing poetry. After graduating from ASU, he hopes to move to Boston where he can attend graduate school and get published.

Sayed Karimi

Co-Editor-In-Chief

Olivia fell in love with CANYON VOICES during her first semester at ASU, and has participated in its publication every semester since. She is sorry to leave it when the semester ends, but trusts that students’ dedication to the works of emerging artists will lead to its long and prolific life. In May, Olivia will graduate with a bachelor’s in English and a Creative Writing Certificate with summa cum laude honors. She will continue her education in an MFA program in Paris or her home state of New York.

Olivia Tejeda CANYONVOICES

Managing Editor, Design Director

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STAFF PAGES : FICTION

Kaitlin Thern is a psychology major by day and an aspiring author by night.

She grew up in Eagle River, Alaska where she discovered her love for telling stories. She is currently involved in writing poetry, novels and scripts, and hopes to one day be involved in creating something beloved by many. In her spare time she is the vice president of the ASU West organization, Spectrum, where she works to raise awareness of the LGBTQIA community. Kaitlin also enjoys spending time with her fiancé, playing PC games, and television shows such as Adventure Time and Steven Universe.

Kaitlin Thern

Lead Fiction Editor, Lead Art Editor Sarah Edwards is a junior at ASU and is in the process of earning her English BA and Writing Certificate. After enjoying two years as a freelance writer, she has come back to school to finish her education. Her classes, professors, and like-minded classmates have motivated her to expand her writing into the creative realm. She has started working on a coming of age novel dealing with the themes of mental health and self identity. Most of her creative writing reflects her Chicana background and personal experiences. When she's not writing, she has her nose in a book and her goal is to read through the literary canon. When she's not reading or writing, she can be found in downtown Phoenix at a cultural event or safely snug in her bed watching cartoons.

Fiction Editor

Sarah Edwards

Miranda Gross is a senior at Arizona State University, graduating with an English BA and a minor in Women and Gender Studies. Passionate about both reading and creative writing, she is overjoyed to be a Fiction Editor this semester with CANYON VOICES . Apart from writing, she enjoys creative outlets including acting, songwriting, and creating art and hopes to continue working creatively after she graduates. In her spare time, she loves to curl up with a cup of coffee and a good book.

Fiction Editor

Miranda Gross

Becca Smith joined the CANYON VOICES team her senior year hoping to get a behind the scenes look at what publishing a magazine looks like. After she graduates, she hopes to help to create stories in some form, maybe books, video games, etc. She’d like to work in speculative fiction because (A) It's more fun and (B) Sometimes you need a little fantasy to deal with reality. For now she's content to write small things on her own time, hang out with her friends and family, read, and play video games. She'd like to thank her dog for always believing in her. And also her parents.

Becca Smith

Fiction Editor CANYONVOICES

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STAFF PAGES : POETRY

Patricia Colomy decided to return to CANYON VOICES for the second semester because of the vibrant energy that comes from the entire group of editors and the top notch writing submissions that flood the tables. As an English major, she originally intended to finish her B.A. and become an editor, but after some of her own creative writing was received with honors and awards, she decided to focus on her aspirations of becoming a published writer. CANYON VOICES gives Patricia the pleasure of reading creative writing from a vast variety of authors and the ability to share this writing with the world.

Patricia Colomy

Lead Poetry Editor

Manny decided to join CANYON VOICES to be a part of a group of people who truly enjoy creative writing. He enjoys to read and write poetry, fiction, and scripts. In his spare time Manny enjoys the outdoors, heavy metal music, handheld gaming, and professional wrestling. Manny can be contacted at Metalliaz77@yahoo.com.

Manny Felix

Poetry Editor Shannon McSorley is enjoying her last semester as a senior in the Interdisciplinary of the Arts and Performances program at ASU before continuing on to receive her masters in English with an emphasis on creative writing, and a minor in Japanese. She is currently working on her senior project, Chronic: A Portrait Of Illness, an interactive art installation with spoken word, poetry, photography, and digital media, portraying her life living with a chronic illness. Shannon writes almost daily, and has been working on multiple novels, one of which she started working on 12 years ago in middle school (it's a really long book)! She aspires to work with teenagers and young adults with chronic or terminal illness and help them heal using Art Therapy.

Shannon McSorley

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Poetry Editor

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STAFF PAGES : CREATIVE NONFICTION

Astrid Castaneda is a junior at Arizona State University majoring in English.

Ironically, English was her worst subject up until a few years ago. She enjoys reading and writing creative fiction and poetry while listening to the sound waves of classical music to inspire her writing. Astrid hopes to get into editing and publishing after earning her B.A.

Lead Creative Nonfiction Editor

Astrid Castaneda

Kaitlyn Pierson is currently completing her junior year at Arizona State University and is pursuing a BA in English with a Certificate in Secondary Education. As a fifth generation Arizonan, Kaitlyn’s ties to the community and its history have a major influence on her writing, which she hopes one day will be published. In her free time, Kaitlyn enjoys writing, golfing, cooking, and spending time with family and friends. After graduation, Kaitlyn plans on teaching High School English and pursuing the publication of her fiction novels.

Creative Nonfiction Editor, Art Editor

Kaitlyn Pierson

Brett Bezio is a Arizona State senior graduating with a degree in Social and Behavioral Sciences. He writes fiction and nonfiction addressing the idealization of, and subsequent alienation from, the real world. He hopes his work will bring to light the cultural and institutional powers that are exercised over the individual in contemporary society. With prior coursework in journalism and forthcoming essays in The Chaffey Review and Terra Firma Magazine, Brett seeks to continue writing about social, psychological, and political issues while editing for other literary publications. Eventually, he would like to start his own publication focused on innovative ideas and experimentation in both fiction and nonfiction.

Brett Bezio

Creative Nonfiction Editor, Lead Alcove Editor

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STAFF PAGES : SCRIPTS

Rome Johnson is a junior at Arizona State University, studying Philosophy, Religion, and Society. When not editing for CANYON VOICES, Rome is President of ASU West's LGBTQIA club, Spectrum, and a member of the Live Poets Society. Before ASU, they studied theatre in New York City, and now enjoys writing, acting, and directing for stage in their free time. They are currently working on production of their first full length show, Pickett Fence, in collaboration with fiancée and co-writer Kaitlin Thern. In their home, Rome is the ongoing Harry Potter Trivia champion, a toddler-talk translator, and holds the record for longest kitten playtime session. They are also an active follower of local, national, and world politics, and they hope to one day have a seat in the United States Senate.

Rome Johnson

Lead Scripts Editor Shelby Turner is a sophomore at Arizona State University currently working on her BA in English. Wanting to eventually become an English teacher and a part time writer, she felt joining the CANYON VOICES Staff was the perfect fit in accomplishing her goals. While enjoying her work with CANYON VOICES, Shelby believes it has been an eye opening experience and hopes to continue to delve more into the world of editing. Being a Scripts editor does not seem too far of a stretch to those who know her love of plays and films.

When not working with the literary magazine, one may typically find her reading or spending time with family (as they are an important part of her life).

Shelby Turner

Scripts Editor Alexis Watkins is currently a junior at Arizona State and this is her first year editing for CANYON VOICES. She joined the staff because she wishes to work in the publishing industry and hopes to gain knowledge of the process. She is also an aspiring author, writing scripts and short fiction and is currently planning her first novel and a short play. When she isn't writing she enjoys reading both novels and comics, but spends much of her free time playing video games or drawing. Her dream is to help publish stories that bring new ideas and originality into the literary world, as well as have her own novel published.

Alexis Watkins

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Scripts Editor

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Visit our ARTWORK section to see the full image of these and other works of art and beauty

End is Where We Begin by Monique Munoz (See Artwork for full image)