Canyon Voices Issue 17

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ISSUE 17 | SPRING 2018

FICTION

Jazzmon Cobb

Addison Rizer

Lew Caccia

AFRO

Always, Always

At Daylight’s Edge

Elizabeth Wallace

Sharon Browning

The White Light Package

Forty Years I Wandered on the Backside of the Mountain

Arthur Davis The Queen’s Ball

William Hope

National Poetry Month Winners

Potbelly Antiques

Joel Nishimura

William Hope

Ilyssa Goldsmith

The Kiss

POETRY John Grey Gas Station

Alejandro Perez

Jeffrey Timmons

Twice first

Into Day

1201 E. Weber

CREATIVE NONFICTION Susan Southard

Liberation Poetry

Nagasaki: Life After Nuclear War

James Croal Jackson

Aubrey Rychen

AN EXTINCT FISH WATCHES AN EPISODE OF PLANET EARTH

A H Smith

Alexander Burton-Vulovic

To My Giving Tree

Walkabout: The Slippery Slope Edition

The Vulture

Walkabout: Charles Atlas Edition

Juliana Schicho

Walkabout: Ménage à trois Edition

Morning Coffee

Borden’s Bed & Breakfast

Suzanne Bird Forbidden Forest

Walkabout: Second Amendment Edition

Alejandro Perez Nochebuena

SCRIPTS

Phoebe Preston

Cathy Krznarich

Alberto Escamilla

Community Spotlight: Thrifty Joe’s Books & Music By Kristin L Wesson

AUTHOR’S ALCOVE

ABOUT US

Diana Gabaldon

Contact Us

Addison Rizer

A Human and a God

Meet on a Bridge

Alex White

A Golden Ticket

Addison Rizer

Did You Know I Grew

Up Bleeding?

Finding the Heroine

Rachael King

William Hope

The Word and the Fist

ARTWORK Allen Forrest Gregory Hull Monique Wilkinson Paul Paul Ricardo Castro Catherine Craig Rachael Peretic Ryan Wesson

By Ilyssa Goldsmith

Confessions of a Software Automation Specialist By Ashtar Mikhail

Sharon Browning The Poet and the Mountainside: Forty Years in the Making By James Wahlstrom

A H Smith The Art Behind the Walkabout By Kristin L Wesson

Susan Southard Nagasaki and the Future By Amanda Beck

Addison Rizer

Darlene La Mere

A Young Voice Bridging the Human Connection By Kayla N Manganelli

Ruth Jolly

Yoli Kunst

Yoli Kunst

A Day-Long Obsession with Color By Rachel Passer

Nicole Marhong

Our Mission

Submission Guidelines Staff Pages

Publisher’s Note

CANYONVOICES

I must make a confession. I am prone to obsession. I still can’t stop playing the Hamilton cast album. You don’t want to look at my closet. I get fixated on new food fads. My children are happy I’ve moved on from my kale craze. Why am I confessing? It’s because I have a new preoccupation and it’s A H Smith, a writer in our Creative Nonfiction section.

Mr. Smith has written a series of essays called Walkabout, taken from his walks about and around town. They are a must read. What has me consumed is that so many people – including myself – miss so many things as we go through our day. I can think of the guy who mans my local Costco gas station. He always has a joke for anyone ready to listen. Or the man who rides around the neighborhood in his golf cart collecting trash. I am always left stricken when I see the homeless woman who uses a scooter to get around town. But once out of sight, they are out of my mind. Not the case with Mr. Smith. He notices such people and such things and then tries to make sense of them – tries to come to some bigger understanding.

This is what writers and artists do. This is what CANYON VOICES tries to capture on its pages. There are many A H Smith moments in Issue 17 and we hope you’ll take notice and take time to walkabout our issue.

All of my obsessing, by the way, is possible because of my student editors. These students spent the semester searching for the best narratives and art. Led by Kristin Wesson and Kayla Manganelli, they carefully curated each section, hoping that the pieces they selected would stay in your mind and maybe even become an obsession as well. I’ve already run into people mesmerized by the artwork of Alberto Escamilla.

I applaud my students, including one who is still in high school. Ethan Miller came to us from the Herberger Young Scholars Academy and spent the semester pouring over entries for Fiction and Scripts. To my students, I say: “I am in awe of your dedication, vision and hard work.” I think you will be too.

One last thing, I give deep thanks to my Division Director Louis Mendoza and Dean Todd Sandrin and Associate Dean Patricia Friedrich for their constant support — and for letting me obsess. CANYONVOICES

Publisher JULIE AMPARANO GARCIA Editors-in-Chief Kayla N Manganelli Kristin L Wesson Copy Editor Chief Kayla N Manganelli Kristin L Wesson Copy Editor James Wahlstrom Design Editors Kristin L Wesson Ashtar Mikhail Senior Fiction Editor Fiction Editors

Ilyssa Goldsmith Mandy Hall Morgan Hoper Kayla N Manganelli Ashtar Mikhail Ethan Miller

Senior Poetry Editor Poetry Editors

Kristin L Wesson Amanda Beck Angelita Cobbs Jiapei Li Rachel Passer James Wahlstrom Joseph Wilson

Senior Creative Nonfiction Editor Creative Nonfiction Editors Senior Scripts Editor Scripts Editors Event Coordinator

Amanda Beck Mandy Hall Jiapei Li Kayla N Manganelli Ethan Miller James Wahlstrom Ilyssa Goldsmith

Social Media Editor

Amanda Beck

Staff Photographer

Kristin L Wesson

Marketing Department

Ruth Dempsey

CANYON VOICES is a student-driven online literary magazine, featuring the work of emerging and established writers and artists. The magazine is supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts, & Cultural Studies at Arizona State University’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts & Sciences. To subscribe, please click here. Click here for submission guidelines. Cover image Canyon Serenity by Gregory Hull See the Artwork section for full image Uncredited artwork from Pixabay.com

Super Shooter by Rachael Peretic (See Artwork for full image)

FICTION

Addison Rizer

Always, Always

Elizabeth Wallace The White Light Package

Arthur Davis

The Queen’s Ball

William Hope

Potbelly Antiques

William Hope

The Kiss

Centuries Turn, Grace Remains by Yoli Kunst (See Artwork for full image)

FICTION : ADDISON RIZER

Always, Always By Addison Rizer

The jeering spilled out of the warehouse, the outside. I followed. My father’s yelling never vibrating through the street where the sounded this full of excitement.

streetlights slept and the cars beneath I slipped in through the proppedthem lay covered with sheets of open door, hung in the back of white to stop the burning of the “All of them were the room and leaned against sun by day. Down the street, it met me head on, the sound orbiting the two boys the doorframe. Inside, the was empty, of the boys inside. That’s in the center, asteroids warehouse gutted. It would’ve felt like how I found them. I had crashing. The room an ache, had there not been been walking through the a red spray-painted ring in hung with the stiffness neighborhood across from the center of the room with a mine, staring at the stars and of anger, everyone dozen boys surrounding it. All trying to outpace the yelling inhaling it.” of them were orbiting the two reaching its long fingers at me boys in the center, like asteroids from my own home’s open crashing. The room hung with the windows. The boy’s yelling, though, stiffness of anger, everyone inhaling it. It was wasn’t so harsh, spilling from the windows of a infection inflating their chests, tightening their building gray by moonlight, square and stiff from fists. I learned long ago not to let others’ anger

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FICTION : ADDISON RIZER

out with my own fists; there was too much in my home. My father’s anger was a canyon, unrelenting. The bruises I tucked beneath my sleeves and the yelling that had me flinching, all of it made me worry that the fists might be hereditary. I knew already the anger had been passed down. I was terrified I wouldn’t ever stop swinging if I started.

There were too many voices, too many bodies for the four blank walls to hold alone. I watched as one boy slammed his elbow into another’s crooked nose and couldn’t help thinking the sound of bones shattering would tear down these walls if the window hadn’t let it escape. Such damage in the sound, it seemed to have fists of its own. I dreamt about it after I fell into my own hand-me-down bed that night, found it waiting behind my eyelids.

The boys in this room were far more willing to swing their fists for the anger they found in the pocket of their older brother’s hand-me-down jeans. All of them came cloaked in someone else’s blood-threaded clothes. I was surprised by how many fights they were to have that night about everything: a spare word, dinner, where an eye had lingered too long.

I came back the next night, ducking from my father’s questions. I told him I’d found a nice girl and was taking her to the movies. It was a lie. The girls were not the ones I wanted to watch, nor anything playing on the movie screen. No, there in the warehouse, I could watch the boys in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to before. Worried at the whispers that might creep back to my father. That he might try to beat the beautiful boys from my head. No, in that

The concrete room was so grand, echo full and spilling into the night sky. One window against the far wall was shattered and I was glad for it.

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FICTION : ADDISON RIZER

warehouse, in that crowd, I could watch. Stare. The red ring, the others, all of them begged for eyes, begged for everyone to think they were beautiful there in the center. I could do that, I could stare and think they were the most beautiful things, and nobody would bleed that out of me.

sharpened into ice. He fought like his face: smooth, uninterrupted. He took blow after blow and didn’t notice the bruises.

Ian and Evan, they were ones I watched, but they were not the ones I watched the most.

Gany with the magnetic field brought me back when I should have been studying, should have Leaning against the back wall night after night, I been trying to sleep through the silence that fell began singling out the ones I loved to watch in after my father sank into the couch and began the fight. We went by middle names: They called to snore. Gany and the softness in his dark me Caleb when they spoke to me. Ian was the brow, the ease of his swinging arm. Broad first to acknowledge me, a short hello as he toed shouldered, bronze haired, he filled the ring off his shoes at the door on the second night. before the other boy even stepped into it. He The ones that fought did not keep their boots would fill the ocean, I thought, waist deep. He on, but bounced barefoot on the concrete did not lunge towards the boy across as they danced. I said hello back from him when the makeshift bell and that was all there was before rang. Did not jump or furrow his “I was built to Ian was moving into the center brow. His hands hardly made of the ring.

fight—large fists at all at his sides. There hands, light feet, In the ring, he was explosive, was no growling, no swearing, strong frame—but volcanic and erupting. Face nothing. Just his lungs lifting, I had long ago red, fists redder. After the torso glistening in the learned to shrink bell, a graveyard of blood was sharpened light of the left behind, spattered like the warehouse. When he fought, the myself.” stars glinting on the other side of chill of the night crept close. It the jagged glass. Some of it was his, wanted to watch him too. I brought a sliding from his knuckles to drip onto the jacket the days he was rumored to fight, floor at his feet. When he was done, he didn’t hiding the goosebumps beneath the fabric all patch up his hands. I could follow the drips of across my skin.

blood to his bedroom if I wanted to.

My father clapped my back each time I left the That night, Ian swung at Evan across the ring. house, sending a wink my way. I grinned and Evan with his blank blue eyes. Evan with his pretended it was for this. Pretended he would be cheeks that took up most of his face. They were okay with the way I thought about the an easy target for the boys’ anger. Ian’s fist over smoothness of Gany’s feet against the concrete and over tried to rearrange Evan’s cheekbone ring, the way he seemed to float atop it, like a into things distinguishable and defined. Out of ballet. The way I thought all of those boys would this moonlit room, Evan was smooth skinned, ill hold my heart forever.

defined. A dull, blue boy sitting in the back of The night all three were supposed to fight each my math classroom. I had only ever noticed the other, I did not go home. I thought my father blue tint to his cheeks before and made would be able to smell my excitement and assumptions about his family and his father would want to squash it with his fist. This early, because of them. When he fought, his eyes CANYONVOICES

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FICTION : ADDISON RIZER

it was only my three in the warehouse. Gany stood against the wall near me, blank-faced. Ian jumped around the ring, fighting a pretend fight. Evan sat on the bleachers staring at nothing. As he came inside, a boy with a split lip half healed asked, “You here to fight too?”

I shook my head. “I’m here to watch.”

I was built to fight—large hands, light feet, strong frame—but I had long ago learned to shrink myself. Buzz-cut blonde hair, baggy clothing, all of it drowned me. Hid me. I didn’t want eyes. Not when they usually meant fists to follow. No, I wasn’t here to do anything but watch the fight, watch the boys, see how they fought with a joy inside. How strange, I thought, to see the smiles at the end of that first night. How wonderful there can be joy even here.

The boy who asked moved further into the concrete gym and forgot about me in the doorway. Here, I was the awestruck stargazer without a telescope. I could only get so close to the things I watched, worried they would lose their beauty up close, outside of this room. I knew I had not noticed Evan before, though once he began to fight I could not look away from the sharp edges that grew in his anger. It couldn’t have taken much to erase him again.

lidded and dull brown before the fight began. Saw the way his fists stayed loose, watched his body grow lighter where it had before looked so heavy.

When it came time for the trio to fight, I moved from my usual perch, pushing through the crowd of boys to get a better view. I watched Gany take the center position, Ian and Evan circling him, red and blue, red and blue. Watched them orbit each other, moons of Jupiter in their synchronized dance. It had struck me curious, the way Gany never came in with anger on his shoulders, never had anything to say to the other boys beyond a nod to fight the next day or week or hour. I hadn’t ever seen a reason for his fighting. I watched closer, searching for it. When the other boys lunged at him, together, I saw his eyes light up, realized they had been a half-

CANYONVOICES

When they called the fight, and held up Gany’s hand in triumph, the light drained out of him again. I moved back, tapped the toe of my sneaker against the concrete wall and watched him slide his feet back into the boots that looked far too big to match the feet that hardly touched the bare ground before. He did not look up as he packed his backpack, nor as he stood. Now, with the concrete walls emptying and the room silent, he did not look so grand. There was no

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FICTION : ADDISON RIZER

one to compare him to but the walls of this old rock beneath the ocean, rotting away. I had warehouse long abandoned, made for keeping gotten too close to the stars, had found the people small, in line. Workers inside a destruction. Found it ugly, too.

warehouse were not meant to know anything The night turned cold, I wrapped my arms but following orders. Gany around myself.

seemed to become one of them before my eyes. Where He shrugged, said “I love to fight.”

he once looked as if he “Where he once could tap the moon with I only then began to understand. He looked as if he could one stretch, I wasn’t sure for the fight; he did not tap the moon with one fought he’d even reach the top of understand fighting for anything stretch, I wasn’t sure the doorframe. Not with else. Some of the boys might have the way his shoulders he’d even reach the mistaken his lack of anger for hunched in on himself as top of the weakness. But, what had a fight ever he moved towards the door.

left anyone with but bruises and

doorframe.”

He nodded at me as he moved to walk past and I fell into step beside him. I realized I was taller than him as we began to move through the room. Taller, larger, I kept wondering where all that power had gone that I’d seen just moments ago. “I’m Caleb,” I offered.

When he tossed a wave at me as I peeled off into my driveway, I paused a moment on the sidewalk. My house from the outside was pristine: our lawn my dad spent hours tending to, our house he painted himself every summer. I stared at it and swallowed the disappointment down. Gany had been so beautiful from far away, too, when he was dancing in the ring. Up close, there was nothing there that had caught my eye before. A dream did not make a sound when it shattered, at least I did not hear it. There would be no glass beneath my feet if I walked back to the warehouse.

“Gany,” he said, voice deep with the thunder we never got in this part of the country. Storms were too infrequent here. My mother said they were born into the boys instead, though I hadn’t known what she meant until Gany spoke to me. His was a dull thunder, rumbling and lost of lightning or storm.

I did not go back the next night; instead I walked past the warehouse to see what else in this world I could find. With my father’s yelling reaching for my throat from the spotless windows my mother cleaned each Sunday, I wondered if I could ever find anything that was beautiful always, always.

“Nice fight tonight,” I said.

“All of them are.” He turned at the sidewalk the same direction my house was. I kept walking at his side.

“All?” I asked him. He turned to me and his eyes were dead worlds, nothing moving inside. Had I passed him in the street, I would not have looked a second time. Would not have noticed him at first either. Hadn’t he been light just a moment ago? Hadn’t he been beautiful? Now he seemed not a planet, nor moon, but a hunk of

CANYONVOICES

blood?

For more information on author Addison Rizer, please visit our Contributors Page.

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FICTION : ADDISON RIZER

CANYONVOICES

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FICTION : ELIZABETH WALLACE

The White Light Package By Elizabeth Wallace

I know the most difficult part of watching my own funeral will be seeing Mom cry; to watch her mourn her first born child – her only daughter. As difficult as it’ll be to witness though, I think it’ll be worth seeing my family and friends one last time. Searing each individual’s image into my brain to recall for all eternity or… well, I’m dead and I don’t really know how much longer I have at this ghostly level of consciousness. I don’t think it will last forever, but I don’t really know. I’ve never died before.

Surely, mom will attend her own daughter’s funeral, right? I am her first born child and only daughter after all! Was. I was her first born and her only daughter. This is depressing. Maybe I should have chosen one of the other post-life packages offered at orientation. The old, bald guy at the desk recommended the Halo package, so I wouldn’t have to endure my own funeral. Of course, I just had to take the White Light option though, so I could snoop at my funeral to see who shows up and what they say. Jeez, maybe I have already messed this up. I couldn’t get living right and now I’m already failing at death.

Anyway, the point is I’m not going to bypass the opportunity to see my loved ones again. Well, hopefully… Holy crap! What if nobody shows up to my funeral? I hadn’t even thought of that.

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FICTION : ELIZABETH WALLACE

Oh, a car is pulling up! This is exciting! It doesn’t really look familiar. Who do I know… knew? Ugh tenses. Whatever. Who did I know that drives a gold Toyota Camry? Grandma? No, she doesn’t drive anymore. Someone is getting out… who the hell is that? That lady looks like my second grade teacher Mrs. Michaelson, but younger and shorter, so I guess she

Camry lady was clearly bringing a loved one an amazingly bright and colorful bunch of flowers to show respect and here I am harassing her for nothing. Thank goodness she can’t actually see or hear me. Maybe I deserve an unattended funeral after all.

I’m not a bad person, I’m not a bad person, I’m not a bad person. I mean, I

doesn’t look like her that much. It is certainly nice of her to bring me that beautiful bouquet of flowers. What’s she doing? She’s walking the wrong way. “Lady, my grave is over there!” I am shouting and pointing to nobody. Get it together, self! Why is she stopping at that random person’s grave?

wasn’t a bad person. Shit, was I a bad person?

Moment of truth, the hearse is finally here. Oh phew, I recognize all those cars following it. The anticipation is killing me! Ugh, stupid puns. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to handle this. Why did I choose this godforsaken post-life package? I should’ve just taken the desk guy’s suggestion. This funeral is going to be the death of me. Oh, good grief…

Oh. I’m an insensitive idiot. Nobody will come to my funeral for sure. Was I this self-absorbed when I was alive or have I become this way since death? That nice

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FICTION : ELIZABETH WALLACE

I hate puns. I hate being kind of, sort of dead too. Why can’t I just be deaddead? Why am I dead, but very much conscious? I’m not visible or audible to anyone, so what’s the point? Uh oh, car doors are opening.

said. “We are also here to celebrate the short, but full life she led. Based on the number in attendance this afternoon, she clearly touched many lives. We will now allow individuals to come up to the podium and say a few words. I believe Trevor Hudson will start us off.”

Am I nervous sweating? That is unreal! I shouldn’t have to put up with anxiety-induced perspiration in the afterlife. That should just be an automatic perk of dying; I no longer have to suffer stress sweat. Oh, there’s Graham! Oh… he looks way worse than I would have guessed. Was he taking my death particularly bad? I don’t know why he would. We were never close. It is Saturday afternoon; he should be watching college football with Devon and Seth. He should not be wearing a slightly-too-small gray suit at his sister’s funeral. We barely even spoke the last year and a half since he graduated from high school. Why does he look like he has never smiled in his entire life? Maybe he’s sad because he has figured out that he’s now the oldest sibling of the Hudson children, which is a fact I am just now figuring out for myself. Poor, little brother... Oh man, funerals are too sad. Nothing has happened yet and I already want to crawl under a rock and hide until it’s over. I definitely chose the wrong package…

I don’t recognize this pastor. He looks too young to even be a pastor. Maybe this is his first day. That is some terrible luck; he must have pulled the short straw. I picture a bunch of pastors standing around in a circle, pulling straws to see who will be the unlucky sucker that has to speak at some nobody’s funeral. I guess he delivered his lines well enough though. Do they just have a basic template for all funerals with an “insert dead person’s name here” space? Like for the next funeral of a dead young person, he’ll just switch out Eleanor Hudson for Jack O’Brian or something? He looks like he would rather be anywhere else in the entire world as he leaves the podium to sit in a folding chair off to the side of the podium. Not that I can blame him. I kind of want to be anywhere else in the entire world and this shindig is for me…

“Why did I choose this godforsaken post-life package?”

“I was ten years younger than Ellie, but that didn’t stop her from being my best friend.” Trev pauses to flatten the crinkled notebook paper on the podium. He adjusts his glasses and continues, “I don’t need to tell you how special she was. If you’re here, you already know. I just want to share a story. It’s one of my all-time favorite memories of my sister.” He looks up to make eye contact with his audience like we practiced for his English

Black is an interesting color for a casket. Aren’t they usually just wooden and brown? Am I making that up? Clearly I haven’t been to very many funerals. Maybe I just - oh, it’s starting.

“Welcome. We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of Eleanor Hudson,” he CANYONVOICES

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presentation this past fall. I love this kid. I can’t help but smile at my baby brother looking handsome in his black suit and green bow tie. His hair is parted to the side and smoothed down like I had never seen it before. I just want to hug him.

to mock-whisper into the microphone, “The two bites of pineapple butterscotch waffle weren’t doing much for me.” He straightened up and continues, “I got her lunch order for Two Dragons and left her to finish browsing and to purchase her books.”

“Now, you wouldn’t think a seventeenyear-old girl would be much into hanging out with her seven year old brother, but Ellie and I were inseparable for as long as I can remember. Every summer before she left for college, she babysat me while our parents were at work and Graham was away at basketball camp. Dad received a waffle iron for Father’s Day that year and Ellie was experimenting with different kinds of waffle batter when I walked into the kitchen one morning. The kitchen smelled like pineapple, melted marshmallows, butterscotch, and strawberry jam. It was a weird combination. The waffles she made from those ingredients were pretty weird too. Actually the taste of the waffles was

I remember the day he was talking about. I knew as soon as he mentioned the waffles, but I only now recall what was about to happen. I was scared out of my mind when I couldn’t find him.

“Turned out, Two Dragons had closed down,” he said, “so I went across the food court to grab us each a slice of pizza. I figured pizza was a pretty safe bet as a second choice. The line was crazy long, but I already knew what she would order, so I stayed. She panicked when she couldn’t find me. Even when she looked around the whole food court, she didn’t see me in the pizza line because I was so much shorter than the rest of the people standing around me. When I finally walked up behind her with the pizza slices, she whirled around with the most worried expression I had ever seen on her face. She yelled, ‘I lost you! I can’t believe I lost you!’ She pulled me in for a hug so quickly that I dropped our pizza.”

“He looks up to make eye contact with his audience like we practiced for his English presentation this past fall.”

way worse than the smell. They were disgusting.” He pauses and looks up from his prepared speech to his solemn audience once again. A few ripples of quiet laughter roll through the crowd.

“That afternoon we went to our favorite bookstore, Fauley’s. If you don’t know, it is a small store tucked in a corner of the mall next to Lawrence Diamonds. We spent two hours at Fauley’s before I got hungry and asked if I could go get us something from the food court,” he says, and then leans over and lowers his voice

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Again he looks up at my friends and family. The afternoon sun is shining bright on these people, but the mood of the group is anything but bright. I realize

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FICTION : ELIZABETH WALLACE

that is expected at a funeral, but it is depressing the shit out of me.

I’m currently doing – even worse than before.

“I told you this was one of my all-time favorite memories of my sister,” he says as he scans the crowd. “If you have been paying attention, you’re probably wondering what is so great about it. The point of this day, to me, isn’t that I ate part of a gross waffle and scared the crap out of my sister. This day is so special because I had a sister

My poor mother closes her tear-rimmed eyes and sighs before reciting, in the softest voice I have ever heard from her.

who actually volunteered to spend summers with me and who was thoughtful enough to make breakfast for us. I had a sister that read to me so much when I was little; we developed a shared love of books. I had a sister that loved me so much that when she thought for even a minute that she had lost me she searched the entire vicinity, about ready to call mall security. I was lucky I had Ellie as my sister and I never once questioned that after this particular day.”

“You were the sweetest baby I ever met,

And your love I will never forget.

Little Eleanor Mae, my eldest child,

“I’m not sure if

non-corporeal beings

can cry, but if they can, that’s what I’m doing right now.”

Twirling in circles, brown curls flow wild.

My loving daughter, beautiful and grown,

But where are you now? Are you all alone?

I miss my girl every day, every minute.

My heart is breaking, bit by bit.

You were the sweetest baby I ever met,

I’m so proud of this kid. He made it to the last sentence before getting choked up. He folds up his notebook paper and walks with his head down back to his seat. I’d give anything to hug him right now. I’m not sure if non-corporeal beings can cry, but if they can, that’s what I’m doing right now.

And your love I will never forget.”

Dammit, mom. Of course she reads it beautifully with only a constant glimmer of tears that never actually fell while I’m over here ugly crying and making all kinds of gross snot noises, which shouldn’t even be possible.

Uh oh. Why is mom getting up? Oh no, oh no, oh no. I’m pretty sure I’m sweating again. I know my mother. I know she is about to read a poem that will make me cry - or “cry” or whatever

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I think the pastor just said something, but I’m concentrating on burning the image of mom sitting between her boys into my mind. Plus, the racket I’m making with my sniffles pretty much drowns that newbie out.

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FICTION : ELIZABETH WALLACE

I’m feeling kind of a lull in the action; everyone is just staring at that jet black casket. I'm noticing now that it seems very shiny. Does someone clean the outside of caskets before burial? That seems slightly pointless. I mean, I know they want it to look presentable for the ceremony, but it is about to be buried in dirt forever. Oh jeez, you all are going to stand around it now, really? This is too much pressure. I don’t know why I’m feeling pressure to… perform. The top of the casket is closed. And also I’m dead.

Am I dying again? Or am I dying for real now? I think I’m dying for real. Oh fuck. Am I dead-dead when they finish lowering my casket? I need to see my mom again.

I might drown in my own anxiety sweat before they finish lowering me if they don’t hurry up. What am I saying? I don’t want them to hurry up. “I take that back, guys! Go easy on that button or crank or whatever you’re using.” I can’t hear anything anymore and I can barely see. I think that’s her! “Mom!” Oh my gosh! She actually looked up. I’m not over there, but we’ll pretend she can hear me. Focus, Ellie! Remember Graham’s face, remember Trev’s face, and remember mom’s face. I can’t hear or see anymore, but I’ll never forget my fami-

Okay, now the pastor is definitely speaking. Is he whispering? Is this amateur whispering? “Everyone has to be able to hear you, man! Sir? Father? Pastor sir? Speak up please!” Oh no, it’s almost over, they’re throwing dirt on me. Is it getting darker in here? What the fuck is happening? Why can’t I hear what’s going on? They are lowering my body and I can’t hear what anyone is saying! And why the hell is it getting darker? I’m definitely sweating again, dammit!

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For more information on Elizabeth Wallace, please visit our Contributors Page.

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The Queen’s Ball By Arthur Davis

I met Allison Bramley on April 20th in the Year of Our Lord, 1880.

I doubted either knew what Disraeli stood for nor, even as a Jew, the fact that he had made the Conservative party synonymous with the glory and power and expansion of the British Empire.

Black bunting flowed from every government building announcing the passing of Benjamin Disraeli. The 1st Earl of Beaconsfield was one of our nation’s most celebrated Conservative politicians, a skilled writer, orator, and aristocrat who twice served as Prime Minister.

They stopped at Madame Dorset’s, a shop with which I was familiar, if only because one of the clerks was known to a man in my rooming house. A sprightly girl whose presumptions annoyed me when I was first introduced, but who Pierre was quite pleased to have on his arm. Clarissa Marks possessed a thoroughly common tone and a slightly provincial sincerity.

I watched Allison, though at the time I was unacquainted with her name, and her companion walk along Hyde Park Lane, a smart boulevard in the center of London close to Victoria Station, the Grande Opera and many of the noteworthy fashion houses. Traffic was thick with commercial wagons and private carriages, the clack of metal rims and horse’s hooves against seasoned cobblestone.

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“She is so pretty,” he repeated as we walked through Shepherd’s Marketplace after the introduction some weeks ago.

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“She does have a modest charm, but surely you expect more in a woman?”

motionless and with some malevolence, in my direction.

Pierre had read a treatise on Renaissance painters some years ago and thoughtfully sprinkled his dialog with accounts of the insights he had gained. We discussed how close he was to his first promotion after four years work and shook hands as he entered the postal service building where he was a junior sorter.

Both women made more than a presentable pair. Their attire was current, classic and understated.

“I told you we must be more careful,” the older woman scolded, quickly catching my attention.

“These are troublesome times,” I said, first noticing that there were more similarities than differences between the pair, and any admirer of one might quickly be caught up in the equally fetching web of the other.

Madame Dorset’s elaborately decorated window drew the pair closer. Both women seemed entranced, as only women can when afflicted by color, fabric, and flourish.

The Winged Parrot, a small, pretentious cafe on the opposite corner, allowed me to continue my observation without interruption. They soon emerged with the manager who bowed in a most smarmy manner.

“I’m distressed about our apparent ignorance. Distressed and fatigued.” She was sincere and theatrical in one swoop, resting her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder.

“She does have a modest charm, but surely you expect more in a woman?”

I rose as the waiter approached for the third time, casually refolded my newspaper, nodded disapprovingly in his direction and, when a break in traffic appeared, walked directly toward the jubilant pair.

“Aren’t you quite young to be a solicitor?” the mother, and I was guessing here, asked.

“The key to staving off decrepitude, Madame, is not to let such complications and annoyances consume you.”

As I had hoped, the mother noticed me first.

“Madame, if I may be so bold, it may be none of my business but there is a fellow back there—a tall, dark, brooding tough with a red woolen cap pulled down tightly, I believe so as to conceal his face—who has been watching you for several blocks now. I was sitting right over there at the cafe reading my journal when his sly movement caught my attention,” I said, training my finger at the glare of the waiter who stood

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“But, excuse me, you must think I am as reprehensible a rake as that fellow,” I said taking my card from my vest pocket. “David Jamison Cutler, at your service ladies.”

The young woman would not be denied her opinion either. “And, is your life quite that effortless?”

I turned my attention to the young woman’s question. She was beautiful, though not disproportionately so. “Not really, but that does not make the axiom any less worthy.”

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Lawrence Harcourt, my erstwhile classmate, would have been distressed to know that I had given my card or, even more unconscionably, that I had been practicing law.

“A pleasure to meet you ladies, even if the circumstances are not what I would have preferred.”

“We shouldn’t be standing here, sir?”

My somewhat youthful countenance could be attributed to the fact that I had not been allowed, regrettably by issues beyond my control, to complete my final year at school. I found that to be a minor handicap as taking the exams was the only professional hurdle needed to practice the law and a certificate acknowledging successful completion of that task could be purchased for a pittance in certain circles.

“David, if you please, Madame.”

“Yes, of course, David, where there’s one, there may be others,” the mother said, looking over my shoulder. “And God knows what the empire will come to now without the firm hand of Disraeli to guide it.”

“Perhaps you would allow me to call a carriage?”

“Now it is I who should be chided for my unforgivable manners. I am Constance Stuart Bramley, and this is my daughter Allison.”

Constance Bramley insisted that I accompany them home, inviting me back for tea the following afternoon.

She was not as outgoing or approachable as her mother who looked to be several years beyond her fortieth birthday. I sensed Allison Bramley was a restrained, cautious young lady who would not easily be swayed.

I returned to my flat that afternoon and reviewed my circumstances. I had been laboring for three years, though perhaps that might be too strong a term as diligence was never my strength. Harcourt rightfully accused me of wasting intellect and instinct, and of being cursed by a disdain for authority and convention.

I recognized that life was a struggle and made no pretense of fair play, rather of the play itself. For those reasons I set out to conquer Allison Bramley, and the ghost of a childhood that forced me to leave home at the age of twelve with my father’s strap snapping close behind.

I had anticipated the effort would be a drawn battle of wills, after I was introduced to Alexander Bramley. Perhaps the speed of his initial acceptance was enhanced by the fact that a week later a young woman was accosted— although able to fend off an attacker with the help of passersby—not three blocks from Madame Dorset’s. The craven incident was

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storied in all the tabloids and the talk of London salons.

daughter of the inanimate old merchant enjoyed, possibly about past and preferred suitors.

Clarissa too, was moving up in the world. She had become the assistant manager of the shop overseeing two other saleswomen and a seamstress.

“To our hero,” Constance Bramley said lifting a glass of champagne to her sole guest the day after the attacker was apprehended.

The more I observed of Constance Bramley, the more I was taken by her passion and persistence. She bestowed compliments and adored admiration and, in the end, exacted even greater amounts of adulation from those who might be hesitant supporters. She was as gracious and charming a host as she was willful and disarming. I found myself admiring her, and felt an emotional kinship—a respect—for how she went about wielding and waggling, a woman naturally born to having her way.

Her husband sat with modulated enthusiasm for what was not yet confirmed in his soul—that I was more a cad than the thug who accosted the woman. However, his daughter seemed happy that I had called upon her, and his wife was pleased, impressed, to be certain. And, as I would soon learn from Clarissa Marks, he was unaware as to how these women’s feelings had deepened for their youthful guest.

I believed that had Bramley been younger or had continued to be actively engaged in his affairs, he might have seen through my manner and manipulation. Being some dozen years older than his wife and recently beset by poor health and, having sold the bulk of the family’s copper wire business, he had unwittingly settled into a routine that swiftly separated him from his acumen to distinguish between decency and deceit.

“My mother says she owes her life to you.”

Allison’s remark was concealed in calculation. I quickly learned that behind this soft, demure presence was a hardened spirit—circumspect, as if men had been wooing her all her life only to gain access to her father’s wealth.

“My mother says she owes her life to you.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m well, thank you David.”

I was neither aware of the convergence of circumstances that hastened my good fortune nor of the fact that the dress Allison and her mother were searching for that day was for the Queen’s Ball, and not her wedding.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Finally, her restraint broke. “I understand you perfectly.”

“Then, would you allow me to take you to the theater next week. A marvelous comedy has opened. I think you might enjoy it.”

The truth, advanced by funds sent Clarissa, with whom Pierre was now completely involved, into the streets to merchants and vendors to pry information loose about the Bramley’s tastes and preferences— about what the young

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“Then what?”

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“Then whatever you wish.”

“There are all sorts of pretenders, Allison. Some couch their intentions to further their avarice, still others, to advance their vanity.”

“You mean dinner?”

“I mean, whatever pleases you.”

“And are you faithful to your original intentions, those you brought with you when you alerted us to impending danger?”

“What pleases me at this very moment, having known you such a short time, would be to put my glass down and return to your apartment.”

“I have always been faithful to you, as well as to your mother’s kindness, and will continue to be attentive to you both, no matter what paths we take.”

“Return?”

“I was happy to see her, and unexpectedly wanting when she retired to her carriage.”

“Indeed, as I was to you when you set me and my mother in a cab and escorted us home.”

She was an intoxicating admixture of frankness and subtlety. Her spirit was becoming as attractive as her birthright. “From the moment I first saw you I wanted to see more of you.”

“Yet, I believe that neither of us are quite what we seem.”

“I was there, outside your quarters for quite some time yesterday. The driver of my cab questioned my intentions. I wasn’t quite as delicate about it as I might have been. He asked me several times how long I wished to stay. I told him as long as it took.”

“Is it possible for me to be startled by your insight and forwardness?”

“I think it is possible for you to be many things, as many as necessary.”

“And, how long was that?”

“Long enough to observe that you are a bit of a fraud David Jamison Cutler. Thankfully, not so much, or so much more than others, as to put me off.”

“For?”

“For you to achieve what you want in life.”

“You could tell all that from the street?”

“Forgive me for asking, but what would that be?”

She took my arm and continued the tour of her parents’ home. Her grip tightened as we entered the garden maze.

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The music played on in the main salon. Men lingered with their brandy and cigars in the drawing room. It was in these smoke-filled

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chambers that the future of the British Empire was decided. And now, with William James Gladstone, the powerful liberal adversary to the fallen Disraeli, yapping at the vacuum of power, a strong hand was urgently needed to continue guiding the nation towards its rightful destiny.

the new environment made in my attitude. I arrived early and retired late in the evening, working not simply for the petty remuneration, but as though I could not wait to demonstrate the scope of my intellect and legal dexterity.

“Lovely, and quite professional,” Constance Bramley said coming to my side on the street as I oversaw the delivery of additional furniture being moved into my new offices.

Her mother raced from clot to clot, advising, compelling, mitigating, always with a warming word for the newest addition to their circle of friends and with an energy and commitment one would have been hard to accept was simply to serve her daughter’s happiness.

“Lady Bramley, what a delight to see you,” I said, returning her warm embrace.

“I was nearby and Allison said you had just taken new quarters,”

“That has not yet revealed itself to me,” she said.

“Still, you believe it will.”

“New, yes, but hardly worth your time.”

“Most assuredly I do.”

“Not so at all my dear David, not so at all,” she said. “Allison and I want only the best for you, as you have already won the hearts of two very worthy women.”

“Why don’t you simply ask? Wouldn’t that be the quicker test of my forthrightness?”

I was happy to see her, and unexpectedly wanting when she returned to her carriage.

Without pause, “Then, if you are not what you seem, what am I to do? Cast you back into the street, or the Winged Parrot across from Madame Dorset’s?”

And, had I paid attention, I might have noticed that most of my new clients arrived at my rather callow door without explaining why they chose to embrace my skills. I moved into a larger apartment in a section of the city that was acknowledged as the next fashionable district.

The weeks that followed brought forth a remarkable transformation in my personality and prospects. Habits that were previously sculpted by sloth, frothed kinetic with energy and focus—my temperament, which had been too high strung for many prospective clients became modulated, if not wholeheartedly solicitous, though my indifference to mankind in general remained intact.

We had been in bed all morning, savoring the privacy and intimacy. “I am afraid to ask how you came in possession of such skillful grace,” I inquired, moving my lips softly over her stiffened nipples.

“You would be surprised,” Allison said rising from bed. She didn’t modestly wrap a sheet about her, or make artificial reference to my

I quickly upgraded my professional quarters and was heartened to see the palpable difference

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staring at her. She simply did what she needed and returned.

a special kinship as well as a striking resemblance to one another. A fact that I had only made vague internal reference to, but markedly pointed out by Clarissa who learned that mother and daughter favored comparable underwear, toiletries, and had almost identical tastes in food and the theater.

“Are you going to tell me or keep me in continued suspense?”

“If you’re asking whether I believe men should remain in darkness or be told truths they cannot understand or support, well, you know my answer to that.”

I was relieved to learn her expertise was gained from a supportive mentor rather than derived from experience. This conversation, the insights gained, stroked my growing attraction to Constance Bramley.

I took her into my arms. “Tell me where and how and who or I’ll throw you out.”

“You’re very strong, you know that David?”

“Strong enough to contain you?”

“We’re very close,” Allison said rearranging the comforter to her liking, “I consider my mother my best friend and confidant.”

“Strong enough indeed,” she said, folding herself back into my arms.

“Then you’ve told her about us?”

“Tell me!”

“She knows as much of us as I believe necessary.”

“My dear Constance must take the credit for that,” she said offhandedly. These women bore

“How discrete.”

“Just as you are discrete, and apparently the epitome of patience.”

“How so?”

“By not making more of yourself than who you are. By not letting such an opportunity rattle you or force you to assume possession of my heart before I was ready to give it. By befriending my mother as well as myself with nearly equal sensitivity. My mother can be quite disarming. That may be her greatest strength, to the uninitiated.”

“Am I one of those uninitiated?”

“You were, but then only briefly. My mother isn’t aware of the details of your professional guile and indiscretions. It’s not important for her to study the information that has come into my possession. That packet will remain our secret

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because I love you and believe we are a match that can color destiny.”

“And you, a most worthy escort.”

“A promotion up from scoundrel, I hope,” I said, as she and her mother had recently made several loving references to me.

I kissed her, more deeply and passionately than ever. Her beauty had grown with a radiance upon which Constance had already commented. “Fair enough. And I will not tell the world that you have the bedroom manners of a seasoned courtesan.”

Allison loved me. I also believed the connivance about my legal background bothered her less than she would admit. In that, she might reason —conclude—we were similar and less like her father whose unprincipled financial adventures, I had recently learned, had cost their family, and her mother’s great fortune, much.

She climbed on my chest, pinned my hands above my head and stared down into my eyes that were filled with the sumptuous flair of her bosom. “Fair enough, my clever rogue.”

Constance was the child of Marcus Stuart who built the first modern copper wire mill in northern England. Decades later, even with competition, he still had a death grip on the market. Through price fixing and bribery, extortion if necessary, he laid waste to ethics and morality, to competition and claims of manipulation.

With one note from Constance Bramley to the palace, I was scribed on the official invitation list of the social event of the year—the Queen’s Ball, as the escort of Allison Bramley with whom I was completely in love.

“The ballroom was choked with finery, powerful influential men and women…”

Alexander Bramley never forgave Marcus Stuart for leaving a legacy no son-inlaw could assume, much less live up to. The resentment was not immediate or evident. It was only after Stuart’s death that Alexander displayed an open hostility, finding singular zeal in the task of disassembling what his wife’s father had created.

The Queen’s Ball was held on the first Saturday of September and was, if not by invitation, the most prestigious and sought after prize of the social season. To be seen, to be recognized, to be quoted, would measurably enhance one’s social relevance. The preparation for all the entrants was elaborate. Newspapers printed the invitation list. The week before the festivities, all of London came to a standstill.

He spilled money away on horses, gambling, a series of disastrous investments in the “colonies,” as he deprecatingly called them, and women until what remained had to be taken over by Marcus’s daughter or old Bramley would be exposed. Constance’s ruthless intervention saved the family and further isolated an already faltering Alexander Bramley.

“You look beautiful,” I said, as we climbed into the family carriage, to which I had become accustomed. We pulled away from their home and moved into traffic. I never realized the distance from the Bramley mansion to the palace was so short.

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Allison paraded into the ballroom with me at her side, knowing that even in my most clever moments I was a supplicant at the feet of a woman so willful that she would have taken up the practice of the law without attending a class much less simply dropping out a few months short of completion because she had been caught with friends gambling in the bedroom of the daughter of the assistant provost of the college.

The ballroom was choked with finery, powerful influential men and women from the corners of the empire. In the Victorian era when the nation was at its zenith, it was a time of risk taking, of daring and industrial invention, of striking alliances and sealing deals that would be necessary to survival well into the next century.

Allison knew this because her mother had told her it was so.

And what Constance Bramley believed had an unerring way of becoming reality, not simply for her daughter, but for those who wished to become part of the vortex that rose up around her.

There were people in this great hall that knew her father, who had fought and been subdued and beaten and overwhelmed by him. There were others who owed their fortune and family to his profitable partnerships.

Marcus Stuart, who died in an accident in one of his precious foundries the day I was sent into the streets by my father. A singular moment in time I confessed that, once mentioned, was not lost on Constance Stuart.

These were the people whom Constance Bramley was bound to assemble on behalf of her only daughter and for the purpose of coalescing that power and influence, to contain and purify and transmit it into the hands of the next generation so they may benefit from her father’s legacy.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said, transfixed by the opulence and splendor.

“Few have.”

We were announced through the long narrow portal into a wide landing above the grand ballroom. Below, hundreds of couples swirled to the music that echoed in the large chamber, a roiling, heaving mass of colors and clutter, of muffled sounds and wishful thinking, of desire

And for that, she needed a replacement, an emotional and spiritual as well as ethical contemporary to replace the masthead that was

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She smiled reluctantly. “Memories.”

“Of your grandfather?”

“He was a tyrant. A huge, imposing man.”

“And you loved him dearly.”

“I did. Everybody did. Constance said you remind her of her father.”

Allison sounded unsure if she meant this as a compliment. “I’m flattered.” I noted pulling her closer.

“He had his faults.”

“Is that where your mother sees the similarity between me and your grandfather?”

“She thinks you’re very handsome and all too clever.”

“She probably loved him as you do.”

“Differently, but the same,” she said turning from the crowd. “You must see her affection for you has been obvious from the beginning. From the moment you set yourself up to impress us.”

“Impress?”

and abandon. These people, righteous and rightful, were the skim of the empire and, at this propitious moment, their influence on the rest of the world was incalculable and absolute.

“Don’t worry. It’s only a theory of mine.”

“If you think so poorly of me, why are we together?”

I recalled my father—threatening, abusive, controlling, and drunk. I wished he could see where his son was standing and then be unceremoniously escorted out of the palace to where the refuse was carted away every evening.

“Again, maybe my grandfather’s cynical influence.”

“Is there anything else I should know about him?”

“I’ve been coming here every year since I can recall.”

“He was a philanderer, David. He broke my grandmother’s heart.”

“You sound bored with it?”

In our brief relationship she had seen me transformed from an animal of the street, a

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predator of some skill and indifference, to a social citizen acquitting himself in court and in the presence of those he had come to respect.

“Yes, yes, I know all about the sincerity of your feelings for her. And what she feels for you. Don’t judge me too harshly tonight, David. This place, these people, bring back the past.”

Allison had fallen in love with me and it was only that love, her instinctive need to protect me from what I could not know, that kept her from taking the last step into our future.

“Your father?”

She looked up at me. “You would have liked him.”

Queen Victoria greeted Constance and Alexander, then Allison and I in an antechamber along with other families, bankers, and a select group of foreign dignitaries. It was brief. No need for remembrances.

“He had many admirers, I understand.”

“Just as many feared him.”

“Would he have approved of me?”

The empire moves forward, never standing still, and never looking back as the waltz played on.

She tugged jokingly, “You are not to worry about that, young man. It is I who grants the blessings in this house. For all our sakes’, you mustn’t forget that.”

“May I interrupt?” Constance was standing at our side, her arms outstretched, open, in my direction. Waiting. “It seems your father has abandoned me for the Duchess of Ascot. I fancy he thinks he will have a better time with her than I have given him this evening.”

“Sounds like I should be concerned.”

If Allison was resourceful enough to learn about my checkered background, then her mother was capable of probing into the most private secrets, certainly to expose the inquiries that Pierre or Clarissa had made on my behalf.

She wasn’t drunk. Then again, I concluded, she wasn’t entirely sober either. “Whatever pleases you ladies.”

“I do not make threats. And do you know why, sir?” she asked and without waiting for a reply. “Because I can have what I want without them.”

Allison stepped away cautiously. “Be kind to him, mother.” She backed off through the moving crowd and took up a position at the base of a rather undistinguished marble pillar.

“I imagine you could get whatever you want, any time you want.”

“My daughter has great affection for you, David Cutler,” she said tightening her grip on me, “if that’s your real name.”

“We shall soon see David Jamison Cutler, we shall soon see.”

“Your daughter means a great deal to me.”

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We finished the waltz. Constance made no attempt to move from my arms nor did I offer to release her. A smile passed between us, one that we had seen before, and we continued with the next musical offering. I was waiting for her to mention her stopping off to see my new offices but it never came up again, and I had already conveniently forgotten to mention it to Allison.

Her movement, once coyly flirtatious, had become more focused and determined. Constance Bramley was a beautiful woman in the way women are when they have been gifted by nature early on and have had the pleasure of money to groom that grace.

“I want to thank you for inviting me. This has been a magnificent evening.”

“I do many things well, David.”

“You’re a wonderful dancer.”

“Besides getting your way.”

“It can be wonderful, can’t it? The grandness and majesty of it all. It’s easy to be seduced by power and influence.”

“My way doesn’t have to be as disagreeable as you make it sound.”

“I would think that having your way could be quite pleasurable,” I said, and then realized I had all too effortlessly crossed the line of restraint. Though having taken that step, I was now certain of a warm reception.

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“I thought you would respond like that,” she said.

“Who would not?”

Constance Bramley’s gate slowed. “Without guile then, David Cutler, what is your preference?”

“And all the while, suffering and discontent surrounds us.”

“It has been there long before the Empire. This or the Romans’.”

“Is that an excuse?”

“Merely an observation.”

“I’m delighted that you find me so appealing.”

“And when the dance ends, then what? Will you miss the sight of my bosom?”

I forced myself to ignore what was already too evident to deny, and too urgently tried to explain my intentions. “As I have admired the figure of every woman who possesses such charm and grace and, please, if you will permit me, I apologize, greatly so, if I have offended you Lady Constance. Really, that was not my intention.”

Reluctantly, “It’s hard to avert one’s eyes from the disorder and poverty that follows us everywhere.”

“Disraeli or Gladstone, Conservative or Liberal, desperate people do desperate things to stay one foot ahead of starvation.”

“Well, we don’t want you to be that desperate, Mr. Cutler, now do we,” she said tugging on my sleeve.

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“To continue this dance, Lady Constance.”

“Offended, no,” she said almost wistfully, setting herself back into my arms, closer, this time and without pretense for propriety. “I’m delighted that you find me so appealing.”

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We continued the dance, and I continued to glance down as if there were no choice, as if that single drop of moisture that lay between her breasts was the spectacle that made the evening an event. I could feel the heartened tug of her embrace, and was acutely aware of the tug of mine.

The orchestra paused. “I think I have left Allison alone too long already, Lady Constance.”

“We shall continue this tomorrow, David,” she said, and started for Allison who was already surrounded by admirers.

“Continue?”

“I shall come to your office, say about eleven. We shall discuss this further.”

“Discuss?”

“Your continued good fortune, David. What else? After all, how else could you possibly be betrothed to one woman while attending to the satisfaction of another? One who has been and will continue to be your greatest admirer under any circumstances and as long as you please. That information, David, is the kind that turns fools into princes and princes into kings. The kind that cannot be bought by simply seeding the streets with henchmen.”

“Lady Constance?” was all I could bring myself to exclaim.

“It’s Constance, my dear David, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said turning her affection toward her daughter who approached us with a look of resignation, as if she were already too late to save me, or herself.

For more information on author Arthur Davis, please visit our Contributors Page.

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Potbelly Antiques By William Hope

Driving by Potbelly Antiques for the fourth time in as many days I found the "Closed, Please Call Again" sign had been replaced by "Yes, We're Open." It was a good thing. There wasn't going to be a fifth time. Up until now, I had been going from my brother’s place to the real estate agent’s office to arrange the sale of his place. Today, I was on my way out of town. While there were many miles between here and the motel where I had a reservation—a few minutes wouldn't hurt. I pulled into an empty parking spot a couple of shops down and waited a moment for the final bars of The Eagles "Witchy Woman" to finish before turning off the car. Walking to the door, I glanced up and down the street. There were a few worn and weathered people around, mostly sitting and watching the world pass by. Today, that world would consist only of an occasional tractor and myself. I never knew why my brother moved here so long ago.

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The family rarely heard from him after that. You would have thought he moved to another world.

I twisted the doorknob, realized that it wasn’t necessary and pushed the door open. A loud, drawn-out shriek from the hinges announced my entrance. The shop was dim with the only light coming in the front windows and a pair of large, dirty skylights. A heavy scent of furniture oil hung in the air. To the left and partway down the shop there appeared to be the sales counter. A Siamese cat sat on the near corner of the counter and watched me with lazy attention. At the other end was a woman with her head down reading a book. She looked up after a moment.

“Hello, can I help you?”

“I just want to look around for a few minutes.”

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"Okay. Let me know if you have any questions," she said.

"I am sorry. I didn't mean to pain you," she stammered again. Further embarrassed, her gaze returned to the floor with a hand near her lazy eye.

“Thanks.”

After regarding me for a few moments, she returned to her book. The woman was somewhat plain looking and appeared a bit younger than me. Her skin was slightly pale against her dark hair and eyes. She kept one hand near her face like something there was bothering her. The cat watched me with half-closed eyes as I started to move down the opposite side of the shop. There were a lot of shelves and cabinets with odds and ends crammed onto every surface. It looked like the remnants of all the farmhouses within 20 miles ended up in this place. A treasure trove of past lives. I was startled by the cat when it jumped up onto an old 9-drawer chest on my left.

"It's okay. We weren't close. I hadn't seen him in 20 years, and we rarely spoke. I'm just here tying up loose ends."

"Oh," she whispered and slowly walked back towards the front of the shop. Turning back to continue working my way down the aisle, I had forgotten the cat which startled me again when it hissed at me from the dresser. I was not fond of cats.

“Well, I am looking for kettles. Unusual ones.”

"Jezebel," called the woman, "leave the man alone!" The cat jumped down and walked after the woman's voice, tail stuck straight up with a slight crook near the end. I spent a few minutes finding my way to the back of the shop. As I turned the corner around a large armoire, I was surprised to see the woman standing in front of me with Jezebel in one arm. There was now a black eye patch over what must have been a glass eye.

The woman spoke from directly behind me, “I haven’t seen you around town lately.”

“You must mean my brother, David,” I replied as I turned to the woman, “I’ve only been here a few days.”

“Can I help you find something?”

“Oh, yes, David. You look just like him,” the woman stammered. Slightly embarrassed, she looked down.

“Well, I am looking for kettles. Unusual ones.”

"I have a few. They are right over here," she said as she led me up the next aisle. "Can I get you a cup of tea? It's my special leaf."

“We are, were, twins. My name’s Dan.”

"Well, I haven't seen David around town lately," she said and looked up at me. Well, one eye looked at my face, the other at my shoulder.

"Yes please, that sounds good," I said, trying to ease some of the woman's nervousness. I started looking over the small collection of kettles. I instantly decided to purchase one of them and pondered another. The woman returned with a steaming cup from which a delightful aroma tickled my nose. I accepted the

“David was sick for a little while. He passed away last week.”

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cup, and she gave me a pleasant smile. Jezebel watched from behind an old globe.

“Could you tell me the price of these two kettles, please?” I asked, pointing to them.

"The big one is $25. The little Asian one is 30."

I sipped the tea. A warmth ran through me that didn't seem to be related to its temperature. Intrigued, I took another sip. This time the warmth wasn’t as intense or quick. The tea left a pleasant aftertaste.

“How did you know my brother?” I called after her. Silence was the reply. Curious, I walked up to the sales counter. It was unattended. I heard a giggle coming from the back of the store. The place seemed to have some unusual acoustics.

“‘This is a very small community. I know everyone,’ she replied from wherever she had

disappeared to.”

“This is a very small community. I know everyone,” she replied from wherever she had disappeared to.

After spending the last few days in town, I couldn’t disagree and returned to where the kettles were on display.

“Wonderful tea. Do you sell it?”

“Everyone comes to see me eventually,” she continued. Her voice briefly took on a wispy quality.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. I can’t make very much of it. You are more than welcome to stop by and have some anytime.”

“While I’d like to, I live quite a ways from here. I doubt I’ll be back.”

"Oh," she murmured and looked down again. Jezebel rubbed against her legs.

“I’m glad you were open today. I had been hoping to stop in before I left,” I said, trying to be a bit more positive.

"Yes, I was recovering from a small accident with a sharp stick," she said.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said assuming that it was related to her glass eye and patch.

“It’s okay. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.” Again her hand hovered around her eye patch as she turned and made her way back to the front of the store.

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“You do have a lot of nice things here,” I commented. She giggled again.

“Sure. Will these be all?”

“No, I’m interested in one more.”

I took another sip of tea as I turned my attention back to the kettles. There was another kettle that I began to think would leave the shop with me. The air seemed to be a bit thicker. As I picked up the kettle a movement caught my eye. I looked up to see Jezebel in a mirror. I turned my head around to double check. The cat pretended to ignore me.

“Okay. Let me start writing up the receipt.”

I walked back and picked up the last kettle and my cup of tea. Returning to the counter, I noticed a small plate with perhaps a dozen cookies that wasn’t there a moment ago. I picked one up and bit into it. The taste hinted of ginger and complemented the tea very well.

"That kettle is priced at $45. It’s my favorite," called out the woman from the front of the shop. I couldn’t figure out how she knew I was looking at that particular kettle. I sipped the tea again as I looked around and failed to find another mirror. Strange, in an intriguing sort of way. I decided that $100 for three kettles was acceptable, set my tea on a marble-topped chest and took two of my intended prizes to the sales counter.

"These are good cookies."

“Thank you. My grandmother taught me to make them.”

“What’s in them?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s a family secret.”

"Can't go letting those get out," I said in an attempt at humor.

“May I set these here?” I asked.

"Yes, Grandma would not be pleased," she replied in all seriousness.

I finished the cookie and sipped the tea again. As she wrote up the receipt, I noticed for the first time that there were small round marks on her thumbs.

“That’s a strange place for a rash.”

“Oh, I think Jezebel bites them when I sleep. I’m normally a light sleeper, yet I never wake up when she does it.” She quickly finished the receipt and tucked her thumbs under her hands.

On cue, Jezebel made an appearance on the far end of the counter as I placed $100 in cash in front of me. The cat strutted down the counter as if working a fashion show runway and laid down on the money.

“Would you like more tea?” she inquired.

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"Umm," I hesitated. I didn't have the time.

embarrassed again. Instead, she gave me a big smile.

"Sure," I replied and set the empty cup on the counter. The woman picked it up and put it on a table behind her.

The air in the store seemed to lighten suddenly. The woman was more attractive than I had first thought. She began to wrap the kettles in brown paper. I felt compelled to stroke the cat. Jezebel looked up at me and started to purr.

“You don’t need to dirty another cup,” I protested as she poured the tea into a clean cup.

"She seems to like you," commented the woman. The cat looked at the woman who gave the cat a wink and a smile. "Normally, she won't let men pet her."

"It isn't a problem," she said as she picked up the dirty cup and stared at the inside for a rather long time. I helped myself to another cookie while waiting for her to finish. The air became stifling, and I cast about for an excuse to step outside when the woman broke her trance.

“I normally wouldn’t pet a cat.”

“Then I guess today is not a normal day.” She finished wrapping the last kettle and put all three into a paper sack. I sipped my tea.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "My mind just wandered off for a bit." I expected her to be

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"I'm okay," I said and started to rise. The woman's hand, soft and warm, gently held me down.

"Just sit for a moment," she insisted. After a few minutes, she let me get up. The dizziness had passed and I felt remarkably well— perhaps better than I had for quite some time.

"Well, I should be going," I insisted. The woman returned behind the counter and handed me my purchase. I took the opportunity to brush my hand against hers. She smiled. I stroked Jezebel one more time and walked away from the counter. I turned back as I reached for the doorknob.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

"It's Hannah," she said and gave me another big smile.

“It was nice to meet you, Hannah.”

“It was nice to meet you too, Dan. Perhaps we will meet again.”

"I do have an extra bit of tea," she said, opened a cabinet door under the counter and brought out a small bag of tea. She gathered the remaining cookies, placed them into another little bag and then put both bags in with the kettles.

"Perhaps," I replied. The door didn’t complain when I opened it.

Heading towards my car, I noticed that the town didn't look so dreary. The people didn't appear to be as decrepit as they had earlier. After starting the car and putting it into gear, I pulled out onto the empty road as the radio began to play Al Stewart‘s "Year of the Cat." By the time I reached the edge of town, I had decided to call the real estate agent and tell him not to sell the house right away.

“Thank you. How much?”

“Don’t be silly,” she giggled. “Consider it a gift.”

"Thank you, again." The cup was still half full and loathing to leave any, I downed the remaining tea. As I set my cup down, I started to feel dizzy.

"I don't feel well,” I said as I managed a step over to a plush armchair and sat down.

For more information on author William Hope, please

"I'm sorry, I should have told you only to take sips of the tea.” I found her kneeling beside me.

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visit our Contributors Page.

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FICTION : WILLIAM HOPE

The Kiss By William Hope

I wasn’t sure why I was here. The club wasn't in my neighborhood. The floor was worn and uneven. The music, being played in four song tandas, was barely acceptable. My previous visits had been unremarkable.

A compulsion brought me here. Apparently, it wasn’t to dance tango. Other than the customary tanda with Alicia, I had spent my time alone observing the room from a table in the back. A number of women gave me inviting looks; I declined each one. A group of diners left from a table midway down one side of the dance floor. Their departure revealed a petite woman with Asian features that I hadn’t noticed before. She had a round face, thin eyebrows and long hair clasped at the nape of her neck. Her dress was royal blue and her shoes were a perfect match.

Although not the most attractive woman in the room, she captivated my attention. I spent a couple tandas observing her. She sat with an upright posture, legs tucked under her chair, ankles crossed, hands in her lap. She glanced around the room in a manner suggesting that she was looking for something, or someone. She did not dance. Her thoughts were somewhere else. In the time that I had been watching, her eyes crossed my face a half a dozen times, and each time I failed to catch her attention. At the risk of being slightly rude, I stood and slowly approached her table to force an invitation to dance. She could still decline, and I could continue out the door or to another partner without anyone knowing of the rejection.

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I was almost to the point of passing her table when she finally noticed my intentions. Quick eye contact and a moment’s hesitation before she turned in her chair to stand, accepting my invitation. She turned out to be taller than I had expected, suggesting that a pair of extraordinarily long legs hid beneath her dress. We stepped onto the dance floor and I turned to face her.

Her eyes were downcast as she raised her arm to invite an embrace. The dress was sleeveless with a conservative neckline and a high slit up the right thigh. As I placed my arm around her, I found the dress was backless. While the embrace was close, there was tension in her body that kept it from being comfortable.

The tanda had just started as I eased us out onto the dance floor. Keeping her in close embrace, I slowly went through some easy moves to see how she would respond. I quickly increased the intensity as she was very light and proved that she knew the dance well. There was still tension in her body as I tried to encourage her to relax. On a whim, I bent a social rule and offered an inside gancho. She surprised me and accepted by wrapping her leg around my thigh. I almost hesitated. Instead, I managed a second gancho and a leg wrap that she executed with exceptional grace and more intimacy than all but my most regular dance partners.

As I opened up our embrace, her eyes locked with mine. While her eyes were clear and bright, there was a sadness hiding behind them. I invited her to draw a figure eight on the floor in an ocho and blocked her exit. She played for a moment and then performed a rather large, sweeping ronde. Obviously she was not familiar with the local customs as this was considered inappropriate. I offered her an opportunity for another gancho. This one was more intimate than the previous ones. Her expression shifted into a challenge as she caressed my leg with her CANYONVOICES

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foot and the slit allowed the dress to fall open around her leg. More I couldn't say as I kept my eyes on her face. She looked surprised as she stepped forward and allowed me to lead her back into an embrace. This time she settled closer. I could feel the warmth of her skin radiate against my cheek and a loose strand of hair tickle my nose. Her hand moved to the middle of my back. I responded by lowering my own hand to just above her waist. I finished the tanda without disturbing the embrace. When the music broke, I slowly relinquished my hold. She didn't rush to regain her own balance. Once she was again looking into my eyes, I inclined my head.

feeling of her body leaning into mine, hand on my neck, and breath against my ear.

Music filled and defined our world. Time ceased to have any meaning. The crowd on the dance floor became a blur of shapes and movements and the entire universe consisted of what existed between the two of us. Only when the final notes of “La Cumparsita” faded away did I become aware of anything else.

I looked up to see the few remaining couples reluctantly leaving the dance floor to settle accounts with the wait staff. The dancing was done for another night. I escorted the woman back to her table.

“Thank you,” we said together. Her voice was smooth as silk against my ears. Her language was one I did not know.

“Thank you very much for the enchanted evening,” I said.

“It was a pleasure dancing with you,” I continued.

She smiled and then quickly scanned the room as if to resume her earlier behavior. Feeling dismissed and with no account to settle, I headed for the door. Once there, I glanced back to see the woman following me. She smiled as I held the door open for her. She stepped down the wellworn steps and waited for me to join her. I offered my arm and she slipped hers into mine.

She just smiled. I expected her to turn away and return to her table. Instead she stood for a few moments, looking into my eyes. Although her eyes were now smiling, the sadness was still hiding behind them. The music started as the next tanda began and she raised her arms to invite me to join her. I gently gathered her back into an embrace and we resumed where we left off. Midway through the tanda I laid her right hand and forearm against my chest and placed my hand on top of her wrist. She placed her cheek against mine and moved her hand from my back to the base of my neck. I felt the tension in her body slowly melt away and the embrace softened as we melded into one. I navigated the floor with an unfocused gaze, absorbing the

“There was nothing I could do. I was a temporary escape from her world. Little more.”

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In the next block, I pointed to a small cafe. She smiled and let me lead her to a table outside. Without asking, I ordered a couple of pastries and tea. Dawn had advanced enough that I was able to study her face as she studied mine. Her features were delicate and well cared for. Fine wrinkles around her eyes gave the hint of an unhappy life. Her hands felt rough as though they had performed years of manual labor. I wondered what she concluded about me.

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After breakfast, we resumed walking. I took a minor risk and slid my arm around her waist. Her reply was to lean into me. After a night of leading her, I let her lead me. We walked many blocks in a manner that suggested we had a destination but were not in any hurry to arrive. As we approached a corner, she disengaged and my heart sighed as I relinquished my hold. We continued around the corner. Halfway down the block under the large awning of a nice apartment block, she stopped and faced me. Her smile had been replaced by a look of resignation and the sadness behind her eyes was readily apparent. She searched my eyes and after a moment, placed a hand on my chest and leaned in to place her lips on mine. Surprised, it took me a moment to respond. Before I could reach my arms out for her, she pushed herself away. By the time I opened my eyes, the woman had climbed a handful of stairs and was entering the building. She was gone.

I moved to lean against a nearby lamppost and spent a few moments with my mind in neutral, my heart thumping in my chest and my lips tingling from her kiss. As I struggled to think of where I needed to go, I became aware of a loud, deep, angry voice coming from an open window a couple of floors up. I stepped out into the street to look above the awning. The woman was leaning out of the window to pull it closed, silencing the stream of harsh words. She stared at me as she slowly drew the drapes closed. I returned to the lamppost to clear my head. There was nothing I could do. I was a temporary escape from her world. Little more. Feeling a bit foolish, I made my way home. It would be weeks before I danced again.

For more information on author William Hope please visit our Contributors Page.

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FICTIONCONTRIBUTORS Addison Rizer Addison Rizer is a junior at Arizona State University pursuing a degree in English and a minor in Education Studies with a certificate in writing and LGBT studies. She was one of six undergraduate writers selected for the Undergraduate Writers Showcase at Piper House in November of 2017. She is an interview editor for ASU's literary magazine Superstition Review where she has spent a year conducting interviews with authors. She has also had work published online for Kingdoms in the Wild, a literary magazine. This summer, she’ll be interning with the FBI Honors Internship. In the future, she plans on editing in the publishing industry.

Elizabeth Wallace Elizabeth Wallace is currently in her final semester of the Interdisciplinary Studies graduate program at Arizona State University where her academic path intersects gender studies with cultural studies. Lately, her time is taken up mostly by her applied project: the topic of her applied project focuses on the value of women’s individual and collective voice. This deeply personal, passion project is broken up into two parts. Part one, academic research paper, argues that women’s personal journal writing is a form of everyday political resistance. Part two, creative portion of the project, is a one woman show, entitled “The Stories that Made Me,” where Elizabeth ventures onto the platform of storytelling to share her journey in discovering the value of her own voice. Although Elizabeth is leaving academia when she graduates in May 2018, she will leave embracing her voice by always continuing to write.

Arthur Davis A management consultant who has been quoted in The New York Times and in Crain’s New York Business, Arthur Davis taught at The New School--a private, non-profit research university located in New York City, New York. He has also been interviewed on New York TV News Channel 1. He has advised The New York City Taxi & Limousine Commission, the Department of Homeland Security, Senator John McCain's investigating committee on boxing reform, and testified as an expert witness before the New York State Commission on Corruption in Boxing. With over eighty published tales of original fiction, and several dozen as reprints, Arthur’s work has appeared in Storylandia, a quarterly single author anthology, nominated for a Pushcart Prize; and he was twice nominated for The Best American Mystery Stories, receiving Honorable Mention in 2017. Find more at www.talesofourtime.com.

William Hope William Hope grew up an Air Force brat, moving around the Western US and abroad. Colorado and Oregon are places he calls Home. Since his eyesight was too poor to fly fighters for the Air Force, he ended up graduating from Oregon State in Computer Science in the mid-80s. He is currently a Software Automation Specialist working in Northern Virginia for a European financial institution. When he’s not writing stories for computers or humans, he likes to dance (mostly Argentine Tango), read Science Fiction & Fantasy, play games and spend time in his woodshop turning beautiful wood into sawdust. He is proud of his son and step-daughter and glad they both have good jobs. No grandchildren on the horizon.

Artistic expression has been part of humanity since the earliest pages of recorded time; and its contributors have long graced its canon with astonishing and extraordinary creations with their hands, their voices, and their minds. This issue of Canyon Voices Literary Magazine seeks to honor and exemplify up-and-coming artists and the development of their individual emerging creativity as they help to evolve the canon of art we know today.

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FICTIONCONTRIBUTORS

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Desert Purple and Gold by Ruth Jolly

(See Artwork for full image)

POETRY

John Grey

Gas Station

Alejandro Perez

Liberation Poetry

James Croal Jackson

AN EXTINCT FISH WATCHES AN EPISODE OF PLANET EARTH

Alexander Burton-Vulovic

The Vulture

Juliana Schicho

Morning Coffee

Borden’s Bed & Breakfast

Suzanne Bird

Forbidden Forest

Jazzmon Cobb

AFRO

Lew Caccia

At Daylight’s Edge

Sharon Browning

Forty Years I Wandered on the Backside of the Mountain

National Poetry Month Winners Joel Nishimura

Ilyssa Goldsmith Jeffrey Timmons

Twice first

Into Day

1201 E. Weber

POETRY : JOHN GREY

Gas Station By John Grey

So what it’s take to work at a gas station

on a desert highway

where it’s fifty miles to the next one?

And to live in the shack out back

of the greasy garage and the pumps

and the tiny store

that sells cigarettes and candy

and gives air-conditioning a bad name?

The grizzled ancient

in soiled gray overalls isn’t about to tell me.

His shaky hands are too busy

trying to link up the hose with my gas tank.

And his line of conversation starts and ends with,

“The credit card thingy ain’t workin.’ Cash only.”

How do you deal with the heat and the dry

and the solitude?

And the radio that crackles with some distant talk show?

And the pin-up calendar on the wall

that’s dated 1975?

And how does it feel to be all that stands

between a smooth drive to the next town

and a parched, cussing, searing stall-out

in the middle of some saguaro patch?

I pay him what I owe.

I just don’t know who I owe it to.

“Like many of my recent poems, ‘Gas Station’ digs deep into my past when I did my share of traveling on the cheap, including trips out west where it really does seem like it’s fifty miles to the next gas station. This poem wasn't inspired by a particular character but a composite. My wonder at how anyone can live in such isolation hasn't left me.” - John Grey For more information on poet John Grey, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY : ALEJANDRO PEREZ

Liberation Poetry By Alejandro Perez

Let me try to think of things
 that I like. I like the
 taste of coffee,
 but only when it has lots
 of milk and sugar.
 I like steak but not when it is
 too red on the inside.
 I like modern art, mere canvases
 with splotches of color
 given random names. I like fiction but
 only when unedited, raw, vulnerable.
 I like poetry like this poetry
 that I am writing now, which you may
 consider elementary or childlike.
 You may not even consider this to
 be a poem. But I like to think that
 poetry is only a cleansing of the mind,
 an exercise of liberation like yoga
 and not a competition like figure skating
 where the best twirls take the prize.

“I wrote ‘Liberation Poetry’ because I was thinking that poetry should be something liberating, something that leads to happiness and a greater sense of freedom. At least, when I write, I am searching for liberation and not perfection.” - Alejandro Perez For more information on poet Alejandro Perez, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY : JAMES CROAL JACKSON

AN EXTINCT FISH WATCHES AN EPISODE OF PLANET EARTH By James Croal Jackson

did you see me?

there

there–

“When I lived in Los Angeles, I spent many days on film and television sets as a background actor. When watching Planet Earth with my partner last year, it occurred to me that some of the critically endangered fish we were seeing were on the verge of becoming merely extras in a documentary.” - James Croal Jackson For more information on poet James Croal Jackson, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY : ALEXANDER BURTON-VULOVIC

The Vulture By Alexander Burton-Vulovic

On thermals high, the vulture slows

To watch the soldiers march in rows.

He waits, with patient watching eye

‘till leaden rounds begin to fly.

A feast, he knows, will be today:

Enough to fill a glutton’s tray

Enough to gorge, to eat his fill

A grist of children, for the mill.

He does not know of childish things

Of tops and balls, of hoops and slings

But nor today do those below

For life is short and death is slow

They die as boys and fight as men

All but the blood ‘yond vultures’ ken.

“For me, poetry is the ultimate evolution of literary form when everything that doesn’t specifically elicit the emotion the author intends has been systematically stripped away and discarded. This poem was written sitting in a panel discussion about child soldiers. Two hours of discussion, decomposed into twenty seconds of emotion.” - Alexander Burton-Vulovic For more information on poet Alexander Burton-Vulovic, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY : JULIANA SCHICHO

Morning Coffee By Juliana Schicho

i. sunday morning

“…and get your goddamn feet off the coffee table.”

I thought this sentence was strange because of the word because this word, to me, in my language, means

morning comfort and a way of starting a new day, something

about a new me “don’t talk to me before my morning and that’s exactly what she was doing. she was talking to me

while I still remained in my pjs on a Sunday morning, the

early rays of sun whispering on my shaved head.

of course, I removed my feet, but I didn’t hear anything else

she had said to me before that moment – before the table, so I was nervous. my skinny legs quaking in my

flannel pj pants – a Christmas gift; from her.

coffee

coffee”

coffee

ii. moments later

i can see myself in the reflection of our chipped glass

coffee table or i could. i could,

if you ever cleaned it a day in your life.

your worn suede slippers always scuff it

up . “are you even listening to me?

does anything ever get past

that thick bald head of yours ?”

keep quaking. i do not have enough Windex

in the world to keep up with the decaying rubber

off the soles/of your slippers.

off the coffee/on your shirt

off the lipstick/on your collar.

“‘Morning Coffee’ was my attempt at writing a small, tense scene from two perspectives, and it was inspired by a soap opera snippet I overheard.” - Juliana Schicho For more information on poet Juliana Schicho, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY : JULIANA SCHICHO

Borden’s Bed & Breakfast By Juliana Schicho

a smattering, a spattering : of

bobble-headed figurines, leering, staring ahead.

books and books and books, lizzie – did you

ever think you’d be this famous?

cookie cutters and keys and earrings take shape of

murder weapon. testify if this is the truth:

do your t-shirts really only cost $25?

two axes, two hatchets,

one without a head. at least I have a gift card.

if I make my reservation for the 4th of August,

do you think I’d be in time for the tour?

you kill between 9:00-11:10 in the morning,

we will walk through the house for 50 minutes –

the last tour is at 3:00pm, sharp.

“The transformation of Lizzie Borden’s house from a crime scene to a kitschy, albeit gruesome, bed and breakfast fascinates me. This poem is about the tourist trap it has become.” - Juliana Schicho For more information on poet Juliana Schicho, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY : SUZANNE BIRD

Forbidden Forest By Suzanne Bird

Wooden tentacles

Create dangling, tangled arms

Barring intruders.

“When looking at my husband’s photo of a tree located at Boyce Thompson Arboretum my first reaction was to regard it as a very foreboding image. Its labyrinth of branches and twisted limbs told me not to trespass, but to turn away. It spoke these negative vibes without uttering a single word.” - Suzanne Bird For more information on poet Suzanne Bird, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY : JAZZMON COBB

AFRO By Jazzmon Cobb

Form twisting roads of curls constricting peace

Rigid textures mimics my oppressed Roots.

Shapes of my dark globe veto cotton fleece

Fingers never granted the right to run

Coils of hair chain the curious Hands

The comb unable to tame Egypt's quicksand

Wild black thickets, deep and tangled to hide

Secrets, because inked feathers cover my ears

Sunless cashmere echoes African pride

Deceitful ringlets denying all fears

And yet,

Straight hair is praised for its luster and shine,

I love having soul, natural and mine!

“Naturally, Black hair texture defies confinement, quiescence, and assimilation--virtues which inadvertently embody the historical resilience of my African ancestors in America.” - Jazzmon Cobb For more information on poet Jazzmon Cobb, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY : LEW CACCIA

At Daylight’s Edge By Lew Caccia

Here in this tranquil clearing, cardinals

blur the synthesis of light to dark.

They rest hunched over, foraging

soft glowing light, refracting rays

scarcely visible, a state of obscurity.

They attack mirrored reflections,

relentless shades without molt

singing whistled song patterns

wheet, wheet, whoit, whoit,

cheer-a-dote, purdy, purdy, purdy.

Robust, strong-billed, territorial

cardinals don’t migrate, they pierce

the edge from dark to light

nesting in dense tangles, opaque

shrubs, chipping metallic in reproach—

sweet whistles awaken the truce.

“During summer evenings, I enjoy watching birds from my back porch. Among finches, robins, hummers, blue jays, starlings, and assorted other birds, Cardinals are usually the last birds in the yard before dark. So I wrote this little poem in a humble attempt to capture their essence.” - Lew Caccia For more information on poet Lew Caccia, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY : SHARON BROWNING

Forty Years I Wandered on the Backside of the Mountain By Sharon Browning

Forty years I dripped, dribbled, drabbled, dropped clots.

Dripped, dribbled, drabbled, dropped children,

unfertilized ovum, perfect follicles, lusting for sperm.

Forty years of dripping, dribbling, drabbling, dropping

fragments of uterine lining, my armies reinforced

with thousands of conscripted cells waiting for the command

to charge ahead, subdue the wayward egg now implanted

with twenty-three other chromosomes, now bastardized

into Homo sapiens sapiens destined to stand erect, bipedal.

Forty years of not hearing the General’s command,

they, these conscripted soldiers of erythrocytes,

wept their sadness, dripped their gloom, dribbled their mourning,

collecting in drabs their wailing, dropped their grief,

and I bled, another month with no baby,

a life lived with no legacy except for the tales of wandering,

in Midian, on the backside of the mountain.

“‘Forty Years I Wandered on the Backside of the Mountain’ was conceived to commemorate living with fibroids for over twenty-five years and the infertility issues that resulted.” - Sharon Browning For more information on poet Sharon Browning, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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POETRY CONTEST WINNERS

The School of Humanities, Arts & Cultural Studies

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH CONTEST

Granville Transit Buses by Allen Forrest (See Artwork for full image)

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POETRY CONTEST WINNERS

Twice first By Joel Nishimura

at her birthday,

when we told her she was two

she decided she was all twos

every two, in print or abstraction

she was the pair of swans

the last digit of the price of gas

Mommy's shoes, and separately daddy's

and both pairs together

a jug of 2% milk

and a binary star

and everywhere all the time

she was excessive

and she is growing

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POETRY CONTEST WINNERS

Into Day By Ilyssa Goldsmith

We walk into darkness together, guardian

hand on my shoulder, melting candle eyes

peering ahead. I know we are safe here,

navigating through darkness, curious halo

light creaking wooden floors. Bare feet testing

ancient grounds, we peel through the

empty hallways of our childhood, stripping

back the candy wrapper skin and burning

the lies our parents told us, draping from

our blue believing eyes, the darkness prods

our quivering backs. We forge ahead through

the glass attic into day; a candle, a faint

glimmer of cellophane-wrapped memories,

his warm hand lingering on my

shoulder

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POETRY CONTEST WINNERS

1201 E. Weber By Jeffrey Timmons

for Nick Petzak No where near Olympus a car honks in

Night’s center. A staccato snap from the

Rock club’s snare drum. Airplanes on descent, and

Take off, depending on the time. Fly by

Cars at fifty miles an hour. If only

The dogs stopped barking. We just stay in our

Rooms, doors shut. It’s easier that way. At

Least there are birds. Finches with their red heads,

Agile Sparrows. Inca Doves sit seven,

Eight, nine watching, scatter when they are ten.

Cowbirds, bloody-red eyes, twisting deformed

Beaks. Grackles squawk, whistle, run around like

Snotty athletes, strut with noses pointed

Up. It turned cold at last tonight and, for

Only a moment, the quiet lasted.

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POETRYCONTRIBUTORS John Grey John Grey is an Australian-born U.S. resident, a short-story writer, a playwright, a poet and a retired Financial Systems analyst for a Fortune 500 company. He has been published in numerous magazines including Weird Tales, Christian Science Monitor, Greensboro Poetry Review, Green Mountains Review, Prism International, 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.” He was the winner of the Rhysling Award for short genre poetry in 1999. He was a theater critic and a poetry columnist for a local weekly arts magazine in Providence, Rhode Island, and he has had plays produced off-off Broadway and in Los Angeles.

Alejandro Perez Alejandro Pérez is a Creative Writing major at Emory University in Georgia. His English poems have appeared in Star 82 Review, Right Hand Pointing, Foliate Oak and elsewhere. His Spanish short story “Las cosas se rebalsan” has appeared in Letralia, Tierra de Letras (Venezuela) and Revista Almiar (Spain). Being half American and half Guatemalan, he is caught between two cultures, just as he is caught between his desire to live in the real world and in the world of his imagination. Most of the poems he writes come to him while walking. He aspires to one day write a poem as great as Neruda’s “Walking Around”.

James Croal Jackson James Croal Jackson was born in Akron, Ohio, and graduated with degrees in Film Studies and Creative Writing from Baldwin Wallace University. His debut chapbook is The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). He also has a micro-chapbook, the vacant hinge of a song (Origami Poetry Project, 2016). His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Columbia Journal, Hobart, FLAPPERHOUSE, The Bitter Oleander, Rust+Moth, and elsewhere. He is the founder and editor of The Mantle, a poetry journal. After a wild few years working in the film industry in Los Angeles, he moved to Columbus, Ohio. Find more of his work at jimjakk.com.

Alexander Burton-Vulovic Once, I aspired to be an author. My friends and I would sit around in circles late into the night, throwing out ideas and scribbling down whatever came to mind on scraps of yellow paper. We dreamt of hundreds of pages of sprawling prose, the fertile soil from which settings, characters, and plots of everincreasing elaborateness would spring into a lush, literary jungle. Then I became a lawyer. I still write for a living, but somewhere along the way, law school drilled into my aspirations and surgically installed a page limit function. Sprawling epics? Out of the question: accuracy, brevity, and conciseness are key. Unnecessary words must be excised, like a surgeon with a metastasizing tumor. Now I am paid for the words I don’t use. Now I produce poetry, because – to paraphrase Blaise Pascal – I can’t help but spend time to buy brevity.

Juliana Schicho Juliana Schicho is graduate of SUNY Geneseo, where she majored in English creative writing. Her poetry has been featured in Runestone Journal as well as Geneseo’s MiNT Magazine, and her fiction has been published in the journal Gandy Dancer, where she first worked as an editor. She often writes forensic poems about crime scenes and unsolved murders local to her hometown in rural northwest New Jersey. She is also an award-winning competitive costumer and performer, and competes at conventions when she isn’t working or writing poetry. Juliana will be attending Rutgers University to earn her master’s in library and information science in the fall.

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POETRYCONTRIBUTORS Suzanne Bird Suzanne Bird is a native of Arizona and a graduate from Arizona State University (ASU). She survived 32 years on the front lines as a public school teacher before retiring from teaching in 2009 with no set plans on just where retirement would lead her. Her life was always so programmed and scheduled as a student and teacher that she wanted her remaining years on the planet to be a sort of ‘go with the flow’ mantra. Needless to say, many opportunities have emerged where before just earning a living and raising a family took all of her energies. Her faithful companion (no not the dog) is her husband, Larry R. Bird. He too enjoys the spontaneity that retirement has to offer. Together they navigate this new pathway of life with its unpredictable twists and turns!

Jazzmon Cobb Jazzmon Cobb has been a Phoenix, Arizona resident since 2002. She studied English with a focus in creative writing at Glendale Community College and Arizona State University, earning an Associate of Arts degree in 2016 and expecting her Bachelor's spring of 2018. A lover of liberal art, Jazzmon is a poet, fiction writer, songwriter, and editor. As a woman of color, LGBQT ally, and first-generation college graduate, Jazzmon deploys her talents to promote diversity, connect communities, and advocate for social equality through verbal expression, digital content, and print. For five months, Jazzmon partnered with ASU’s “Pen Project” to transcribe, edit and professionally workshop written works for local and national prison inmates, fostering rehabilitation through writing. Currently, she works for the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and serves as an editor for Write On! Downtown Literary Magazine. In her free time she enjoys creating music and watching 90’s cartoons.

Lew Caccia Lew Caccia lives in northeast Ohio and serves as a professor at Kent State University. He teaches courses in composition, rhetoric, professional writing, and literacy. Lew also served as Visiting Assistant Professor for four years at Youngstown State University where he taught graduate-level courses, mentored first-year graduate teaching assistants, and helped supervise senior projects for professional and technical writing majors. Once in a while, he visits the western United States, where he has hiked the foothills of both the Northern Rockies in Idaho and the Cascades in Washington. His recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the literary magazines Praxis, The Storyteller, hedgerow, The Write Place at the Write Time, and Red River Review.

Sharon Browning Sharon Browning writes poetry and prose in Tucson, Arizona. As a teenager, she felt that God had given her five vocations, of which four required youth to be part of the equation. Having lived past those dreams, she is on the fifth vocation—writing. She is working on her first novel, which has a black woman with supernatural powers as the protagonist. The plot is complicated by the woman’s mental illness, interracial/inter-otherworldly being love, and old family feuds. In between chapters, she likes capturing the human and natural world around her in poetry. When poetry proves daunting, she turns to short stories, essays and learning how to blog. She keeps herself motivated about her eventual book publication through faith, a running joke about waiting for Oprah to call, and the encouragement, feedback, and occasional purchases of paper and ink offered to her by close friends.

Artistic expression has been part of humanity since the earliest pages of recorded time; and its contributors have long graced its canon with astonishing and extraordinary creations with their hands, their voices, and their minds. This issue of Canyon Voices Literary Magazine seeks to honor and exemplify up-and-coming artists and the development of their individual emerging creativity as they help to evolve the canon of art we know today.

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Spanish Horse Roundup by Alberto Escamilla (See Artwork for full image)

Susan Southard Nagasaki: Life After Nuclear War

Aubrey Rychen To My Giving Tree

A H Smith Walkabout: The Slippery Slope Edition

Walkabout: Charles Atlas Edition

Walkabout: Ménage à

trois Edition

Walkabout: Second Amendment Edition

Alejandro Perez Nochebuena

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“The Day After”: An Excerpt Nagasaki: Life After Nuclear War By Susan Southard

“The Day After” is a short excerpt from Chapter 3 of Nagasaki: Life After Nuclear War. The chapter is titled “Embers” and begins in the pre-dawn hours of August 10, 1945, 16 hours after the August 9 atomic bombing of Nagasaki.

Nagasaki mayor Okada Jukichi had spent the night of August 9 atop a hill on the eastern border of the Urakami Valley, waiting in a panic for the fires below to diminish. At three a.m. on August 10, he made his way down the hill. In darkness lit only by scattered embers, he stumbled through debris and bodies to the place where his house had stood the day before, just a few hundred feet from the hypocenter. The soles of Okada’s shoes burned as he frantically combed through the hot ashes for his wife and children. Finding no trace of them, he hurried to the air raid shelter beneath his house to discover at least ten dead bodies, including those of his entire family. Simultaneously crazed and clearheaded, he proceeded to the next neighborhood over, where he identified the deceased family members of his deputy mayor.

Okada was one of the earliest witnesses to the still-smoldering hypocenter area, which had been totally unreachable the day before. Covered in soot, he ran across the low southeastern mountains bordering the Urakami Valley to the air raid shelter of the Nagasaki Prefecture Air Defense Headquarters near Suwa Shrine. The mayor reported what he had seen to Governor Nagano, estimating the

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death toll at fifty thousand people—far higher than Governor Nagano could have imagined. Stunned, the governor decided to request regular updates from police chiefs in each region of the city and to dispatch reports to Japan’s home minister in Tokyo every half hour with updated damages and fatality estimates from what he still called the new-type bomb.

While Okada was searching for his family in the middle of the night, a three-man documentary crew—veteran war photographer Yamahata Yōsuke, writer Higashi Jun, and painter Yamada Eiji— arrived at Michino-o Station, in the rural outskirts of Nagasaki two miles north of the hypocenter. The team, sent by Japan’s News and Information Bureau— the government’s military propaganda organization—had been given Pathway through the ruins near the hypocenter on August 10, 1945. orders to record Nagasaki’s (Photography by Yamahata Yōsuke/ Courtesy of Yamahata Shōgo) damages for use in anti-U.S. propaganda campaigns. Due to Nagasaki’s damaged tracks, Michino-o Station was as far south as the train could go.

After their eleven-hour journey, the men stepped off into the cool night air and began walking toward the city to report to the military police headquarters in southern Nagasaki. Their path took them along hillsides near where Taniguchi lay. From the top of a small mountain at Nagasaki’s northern edge, the vast atomic plain lay before them, dotted by small fires still burning in the ruins. Layers of smoke wafted overhead.

“We made our first steps into this macabre domain,” Higashi later wrote, “as though embarking on a journey into a different world.” With only the light of the crescent moon and the scattered fires to help them see, the men reached the main prefectural road running northsouth through the Urakami

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Valley, barely detectable beneath layers of ashen rubble. The air was hot. They stumbled over bodies and passed people lying on the ground begging for water. A mother, dazed and confused, held her dead child in her arms and whimpered for help. The men offered the victims kind and encouraging words, but there was little else they could do. Higashi, however, was aghast when he stepped on something “soft and spongy” and discovered that he was standing on the corpse of a horse, and he was terrified when a person suddenly surfaced from a hole in the ground and grabbed his leg, begging for help.

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The men walked for two hours, past the areas where Yoshida lay on the ground and Nagano and her father huddled in a crowded air raid shelter. They finally reached the military police headquarters, damaged but still standing. After reporting in, the team walked to the hills to wait for the morning light.

The sun broke over the horizon at 5:42 a.m., barely penetrating the smoky haze that blanketed the city. In the dim light, the massive expanse of atomic destruction gradually became visible to Yamahata, his colleagues, and the thousands of people who emerged from

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air raid shelters or descended from the hills where they had hidden during the night. Those who could move wandered aimlessly through the remains of the city or stumbled and crawled to flee the devastated region. “Even their eyes were burned,” Yamahata remembered. “The backs of the eyelids were red and swollen as though they had been turned inside out, and the edges of the eyes were yellow like the fat of chicken. Blinded, people groped their way forward with both hands extended in front of them.” As the team began its journey north, past the flattened Nagasaki Station and into the barren Urakami

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Valley, Yamahata focused solely on his task to photograph what one survivor called a “monochromatic, soundless hell.”

For more information on author Susan Southard, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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To My Giving Tree By Aubrey Rychen

I often compare my mother to the Giving Tree from the book by Shel Silverman. She gives up the fruits she bares, the leaves she grows, and the bark that makes her stand tall. She buds whfen her family is safe, and blooms when they are happy.

As children, my siblings and I took the kindness of my mother for granted, never fully understanding the selflessness and dedication in which she put us first. We would ask my mother to share the desserts given to her or steal her drink because everything always tasted better from her cup. Sometimes she would jokingly tease us about it, but in the end she would smile at us with her dark olive green eyes and offer whatever item she had without a second thought.

My mother is a Giving Tree and every time she gave to her family, she was happy.

“And the boy loved the tree.......very much. And the tree was happy.” “Would the Alligator group please come back to the horseshoe table,” Miss Clark called from the back of the room, shuffling the papers from the last reading session as a herd of students returned to their desks. The Tiger group, I acknowledged absentmindedly.

Everyone was separated into reading teams, each named after some exotic animal to make reading feel like an adventure; I was in the Leopard group,

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the one for the average to low reading level.

I turned to the girl next to me. Her skin was tan and she had warm, dark brown hair and eyes. She radiated a familiar warmth and sense of security. Amongst all the strangers in the room, she was the anchor fastening me to the ground, preventing me from drifting in the endless sadness and anxiety of my feelings and new environment.

“Do we have to remember all of this?” I asked worryingly, chewing my lip as I glanced at the worksheet I was having trouble filling out.

“Well,” my new friend considered me as she looked up from her nearly filled paper, “I think it’s really good to know all your phone numbers and where you live. Just in case of emergency.”

Looking down at my worksheet, I scrunched my eyebrows at the bits of pink eraser lying on the off-white sheet of paper. A testament to my incompetence. I glanced down at the question I was trying to answer: What is your address? I couldn’t remember how to spell Vista or Paseo. I was pretty sure they weren’t even words in the English language. I had just moved into my new house last month, and everything on this side of town is unfamiliar, even if it is just 40 minutes from the house I grew up in. How was I supposed to know where I live?

My address. Home. Where I wanted to be instead of this strange school in this strange classroom with these strange people. “I guess,” I answered hollowly, returning my gaze to the alarmingly blank worksheet. The longer I stared at my paper, the more I began to think. To think

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about how I didn’t want to be here, and how lonely I felt in this crowd of people.

“I-I need to stop crying,” I wiped furiously at my face, desperately trying to hide the evidence of my emotional breakdown in the middle of the quiet classroom. “I don’t know why this is happening.”

Everything seemed cold, deprived of the warmth I was familiar with at home. I wished my mother could be with me, rubbing my back and encouraging me to

“It’s okay,” she murmured again. “It’s okay to be sad and miss your mom.” This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Miss Clark had purposely moved me by the welcoming girl because she knew she was one of the few students who would comfort me. “It’s halfway through the day, and then you’ll be able to see her again.”

be brave. Be brave. Be brave. I repeated the mantra in my head, hoping it would be a dam for the tears that were threatening to spill.

I couldn’t cry. It would only attract more attention, and I didn’t need any more as the new girl. First graders didn’t cry for their moms, and definitely not if front of their peers. Without her, the world was large and unknown and there wasn’t anything tethering me to the ground. It felt like I was standing on the precipice of a cliff as my feet gingerly shifted closer to the edge, my stomach churning at the inevitable fall. It was this thought that released the first tear.

I truly appreciated her kindness and support with my anxiety about coming to a new school. It had been a month, but I still couldn’t adjust. The thought released a choked sob from my mouth, which I muffled with my hand. Would things get better? I missed my home. I missed my mom.

Then another.

“Aubrey…” she was starting to look really concerned now, glancing over to Miss Clark at the horseshoe table. Our teacher was still going through our reading book with the Alligator group.

And another.

And soon there were wet streaks dripping down my cheeks and salt bleeding and blurring the graphite numbers on the paper past recognition. Sniffling, I took the sleeve of the coat I brought to ward off the autumn wind and freezing classrooms, and dried my eyes with it.

I ducked my head. I hated this. I hated that I had to move here, how I couldn’t just stay home with my mom and little sister. I hated that everything felt unfamiliar, and that I was the new kid. I hated change. But most of all, I hated that I felt the way I did. Was I too emotional? Distraught? I questioned if I was losing it.

“Aubrey?” my friend’s eyes were wide with concern as I looked up at her from the corner of my eye, afraid to face her. She must have seen something in my face—fear or pain—because she moved her hand to my shoulder and whispered, “It’s going to be okay.”

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My friend must have sent some signal to Miss Clark because the next thing I know, my teacher is touching my back

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and bending down to my ear. “Come on, do you want to talk about it?” I nodded my head yes—anything to get away from the curious eyes of my classmates. Miss Clark guided me to the small room that connects our classroom with the neighboring one, and bent down to grab my arms.

The situation felt ridiculous and out of control, and the humiliation of it made me cry harder.

I grabbed at the silver necklace that dangled on my chest, the one my mother let me borrow. It felt like my only anchor.

“But time went by. And the boy grew older. And the tree was often alone.” I was a young girl sitting on my grandmother’s lap with my little sister by my side, the chattering of adults in the other room drowned out by my childish giggles. I think it was my dad’s 50th birthday.

The dim light from the ceiling of our small living room reflected off my grandmother’s wire-rimmed glasses, her auburn hair a twister framing her thin, tan face. She bounced us on her leg. Her undivided attention on me and Amy. Her smile wide and her bottom teeth slightly crooked. She looked like my mom. It’s one of the most distinctive memories I have of her. A flash in time that I see with such clarity, as if it were a photograph taken mid-laugh.

Over the years, my mom slowly revealed the complexity of her and my grandmother’s relationship. She was never one to hide the truth.

I knew my mom didn’t have the best situation at home when she grew up. Her mom had her at 15 years old, and her parents weren’t particularly the most nurturing. She told me stories about how she bounced between high schools because her parents were divorced and living in different states. Her stepmother was cruel, always accusing her of lying, and shaming her at every opportunity. The only way to escape her home life

After that night, I never saw her again.

There was never one moment when my mother sat me down and explained why Grandma Pati wouldn’t visited anymore.

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was to take mass amounts of AP classes and distract herself with homework, extracurricular activities, and a job.

grandmother. I don’t remember seeing my mother’s stepfather at my father’s 50th birthday, but then again, I don’t recall much from the party.

“Do you not talk to your mom because you’re mad at each other?” I asked my mom one day when I was 10, furrowing my eyebrows in concentration. Why can’t

“Yes. But he did something he wasn’t supposed to do, and I was scared you guys were going to get hurt.” My mother brushed my hair away from my forehead. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I wouldn’t have noticed my mom stiffening, her voice taking on a fighting edge. “I told my mom that she could come and visit, but my stepfather Danny couldn’t come. She came alone for your father’s surprise birthday party, but she refused to come without him after that.”

you guys just say sorry? I thought to myself, remembering all the times my mom and I fought.

“No, that’s not it,” she replied as she wrapped her arms around me, her head resting on my shoulder. “I would love to see her again.”

“Then why don’t you just call her?”

“I like to believe that’s when everything changed for my mom. The touch of a mother’s love for her child.”

“Aubrey, my mother hasn’t had the easiest life. She went through a lot of similar stuff I went through, but she never tried to work out her past.” I silently wondered if my grandmother’s lack of help is what drove my mom to become so serious about counseling and working out our problems. “Because she chose not to face all her issues, she stayed in the same situation and surrounded herself with bad people. She married a man while I was still living with her. He wasn’t nice, and he did a lot of bad stuff. When I grew up and married your dad, I was hesitant to invite my mom and him to the house. But I wanted to see my mom and give him a chance.”

“So she never visited you because you said it wasn’t safe for her husband to be around us?” I turned to look at my mom in the eyes, confused as to how a mother could treat her child in such a way. My mind was trying to put a puzzle together, but it felt like there were pieces missing.

“Yes. She chose her husband over me, but I don’t regret my decision.” She looked me over with fierce love. “You guys are my first priority, and it’s my job to keep you safe.”

“This was at the old house? When I was five?” I clarified, thinking back to the last time I remembered seeing my

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For years, this was the story I got—a picture with puzzle piece shaped holes. However, every time I heard the story I

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asked my mom if she regretted her decision, and she would reply with a strong no.

amazing and giving mine was. I forgot that not everyone had a loving mother.

I’ve never really had a mother, and it’s

It was Mother’s Day when I saw my mom’s resolve crack for the first time. I was in Sunday school when my she came to the classroom to pick me up. Church service had only begun 30 minutes ago, and I grew worried. Amy and I quietly followed her out of the church, and she wouldn’t meet either of our eyes.

just something that I miss. Something I never had. Her voice quivers as another wave of tears begin. I’ve never really had a mother’s love.

I got angry. How could one of the most loving, kind people not have a mother that cared? My mom’s such an amazing, natural mother that I forgot she never had parents that put her needs first.

At age 12, I took advantage of my new rights of sitting shotgun and I slammed the car door behind me. Amy buckled herself in the backseat. We pulled out of the parking lot, and I studied the profile of my mother’s face. Her lips were pursed, and eyes red around the edges.

I imagined my mom as a little girl, my age, all alone, no mom to hold her when she cried. No mom to comfort her when she was afraid, or to tell her secrets to. No mom that she knew would love her no matter what simply because she was her daughter. I imagined her like I felt in my new classroom all those years ago— like nothing was tethering you to the ground besides that one chain of silver bestowed to you by your safety net. Except she didn’t have a home to go to. She was alone.

“Mom?” I asked tentatively, “What happened? Why are you sad?”

She glanced over, and then burst into a fit of sobs, each more miserable than the first. I waited, scared of what could’ve hurt my mom so much. Even though my mind was racing with questions and possibilities, I was silenced by this window of vulnerability. I held my tongue and hushed my thoughts, and let my mother weep. After a few minutes, her tears slowed to gentle trickles down her cheeks.

I cried with her.

“And she loved a boy very, very much—even more than she loved herself.” One in five young girls is sexually abused. Seven out of ten sexual abuse cases are committed by someone known to the victim. My mother was one of them. So was her mother.

In church they were talking about mothers, she sniffled, gripping the steering wheel in a vice grip. I don’t know why, but it just really hit me hard today.

As this information soaked in, many of the stories my mom told me suddenly had context. The protective nature my mom had towards her kids when Danny

Mother’s Day. For me it was an exciting day — one where I got to celebrate how

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was brought up — a child predator who had hurt my mom when she was young. The comparisons my mother drew between herself and Grandma Pati— both victims to someone they knew: Grandma Pati abused by her father, and my mother abused by the same man. The blind eye Grandma Pati turned when the cycle continued when her new husband abused my mother. An endless pattern of shame and secrets. An endless pattern of shame and secrets my mother was determined to break. And break it she did.

abuse in itself. Her husband was never there, both physically and emotionally. He was an alcoholic and drug dealer. A ghost of what a husband should be.

So when my mom told me the story of my older sister’s birth, I didn’t have a doubt in my mind that she was telling the truth. The first time that I held Ashly was the first time I had ever felt true love. I like to believe that’s when everything changed for my mom. The touch of a mother’s love for her child.

It wasn’t until years later that my mom met my dad. They got married, and my dad happily took on my mom’s three kids as his own with love and devotion. After that, me and my sister came along. We were a blended family that fused together to make a home.

Though I had always been convinced that my mother was brave, I now knew that she was strong. She was resilient. Unshakeable. A tree rooted to the earth with endurance and grit.

I had known that family dysfunction passes on from generation to generation, more often than not if intervention does not occur. It made sense that it happened with my grandmother and mother.

The cycle was coming to a close.

"I want a house to keep me warm," he said. "I want a wife and I want children, and so I need a house. Can you give me a house?"

One day I eventually asked my mother how she broke the cycle of her family, and how she raised her kids completely different than the way she was raised. Her answer was simple: she loved us. I’m not sure if she fully understands how she had the strength to just stop—to understand and have the determination to change everything she knew as a child.

"I have no house," said the tree. "The forest is my house, but you may cut off my branches and build a house. Then you will be happy." And so the boy cut off her branches and carried them away to build his house. And the tree was happy. “You do realize we’re all adults, right?” Taylor insisted disbelievingly, his eyes tracking our mom’s busy hands as she dished out his dinner plate. “We can get our own food.”

My mother was kicked out of her house at 18, and she struggled to find her way in life without the help of her parents. When my mom was 20, she married her first husband. The marriage itself was a dysfunctional mess; a case of emotional

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“Technically I’m not. I have two years left of my childhood,” I said around a spoonful of stew, careful not to get the broth on my paperback book gripped in my left hand. Unlike all my friends, I wasn’t looking forward to all the new responsibilities that came with adulthood.

his bored tone he knows this a futile battle. When my mom makes a decision, she stubbornly sticks to it.

“It’s okay!” my mother brushed off, as she finished my plate of dinner. “It’s faster this way.”

It’s not, and we all know it.

“Well, I practically am,” Amy raised her eyebrows, a smirk playing across her lips. “I’m pretty much one of the most mature people in this room, let’s be honest.”

We let it slide, not wanting to start a fight and ruin her good mood. She finished up serving the kids and my dad (all six of us), making sure we have plenty to eat. She didn’t save any dinner for herself.

“Amy…you’re 14.” Ashly rolled her eyes.

“Ma, you can have some of my soup if you want,” I offered putting down the book and extending my bowl to her as

“Yeah, but basically.”

Smiling at our banter, my mother stood behind the counter top, ladle hanging in the air, stew dripping back into the crockpot. My mom wasted no time preparing supper, ignoring my brother’s sigh as she finished scooping up my little sister’s dinner. Adding the right amount of salt, pepper, and hot sauce, she handed Amy her dinner, just the way she liked it.

It’s impressive, really, the way my mom can memorize the entire family’s food preferences and prepare them perfectly, as if it were as easy as remembering our eye colors. She always makes sure that there’s something for everyone at dinner, especially since we are all picky eaters.

“Mooooom,” Taylor drew out in complaint, although it’s clear by

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she pulled corn tortilla chips from the cupboard. “I don’t think I’ll be able to finish all of this anyway.” She easily saw through my fabrication.

And the tree was happy.

My mother is a daycare provider, so it makes sense that she’s used to doing almost everything for the toddlers and babies she looks after. Taking care of people and serving them has grown habitual for her over the last 27 years, and I know she doesn’t mind doing things for us. In her own way, it’s how she shows us she loves us. It was her way of showing kindness, lending her time and energy to make the lives of those she cared for easier.

“Oh, no, it’s fine Aubrey,” my mom waved off, dumping a generous amount of chips on a plate followed by half a bag of shredded cheese. “I’m just gonna have some nachos. Go ahead and eat your food.”

Even though I knew she chose to skip dinner because she doesn’t like stew, I wondered why she would cook something for the family that she hated.

I knew that many kids didn’t have a mom like her, and that I was pretty lucky to have such a selfless, caring mother. She would take the time to sit by me and help me talk through my problems, patiently listening as I explained the ridiculous fight I had with my high school friend. I could always count on her for listening ears and wise advice. She would listen with enthusiasm as I recounted the plot to the book I was currently enthralled with, and she would detail her own book just as excitingly in return. I would lay my head against her petite shoulder, the smell of sunlight and vanilla rolling off her skin and melting my stormy emotions away. My mother was constant, loving, and giving of her time. She was my world.

“It’s not a big deal.”

There’s something in her light tone that I couldn’t place. Despite her happy demeanor and the fact that she was about to eat her beloved nachos, I heard an echo of longing. Of what, I wasn’t sure. It’s not until years later that I can finally place the underlying emotions in her tone that night. The hidden cadence that reveals her desire to be acknowledged and be taken care of herself in the midst of her own selflessness.

"I don't need very much now," said the boy, "just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired." "Well," said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could,

And so the boy cut down her trunk and

"well, an old stump is good for sitting

made a boat and sailed away. And the

and resting. Come, Boy, sit down. Sit

tree was happy ... but not really.

down and rest." Crowded against the far-right rustcolored wall lays a twin set of black

And the boy did.

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leather couches, slick cloth that reflects the yellow glow of the lamp from above. Although the leaves from the trees outside were long gone due to the frigid winter, the mahogany ceiling fan twirled and shook as the blades went around and around.

getting to the part where Nicholas and Etta had just jumped through their first time-travel passage together. My mother’s eyebrows were scrunched together in concentration as she used her pointer finger to jab the screen, frowning when her attack on the glass didn’t work.

I shifted from my place on the couch, hand bracing against the cool black material of its arm. As I settled back down, I flipped the dry, cream pages of the book I was reading. The smell and taste of coffee filled the living room as my older brother poured himself a cup of hazelnut coffee, his monkey coffee cup making a soft thud on the brown marble kitchen counter of the adjoining room.

“Mom, you’re getting pretty aggressive there with the screen,” I joked as I set my book down and shuffled to the other black leather couch. I sat next to her, our shoulders touching, and reached out for the small device.

“Can you help me order my free book?” she asked as she looked over at me, “’ll pay you five bucks for your help.”

My mind wandered to the rest of the family, wondering if my dad was checking his fantasy football scores or if Amy was still binge watching Once Upon a Time. My eyes flickered from my brother back to my book as he left to go back to his room, a packaged brownie hanging from his mouth.

“Mom, that’s not necessary.” I sighed, and she hummed in concentration as she watched me copy and paste the long code that was emailed to her into the submission box on the Maricopa

“They are a reminder of my Giving Tree, and what I hope to become when I’m a mother.”

Reads library site. Perhaps her offer would’ve been funny if I hadn’t known she’d been dead serious. She’d paid my little sister like that more than once. My mother has this ridiculous notion that she needs to pay us every time she asks for a favor. As if you have to pay someone for kindness.

“Aubrey?” My mom sat on the other couch, her reading glasses propped on her nose and legs curled up with a blanket as she looked at her iPad mini.

“Yeah mom?” I asked, still focused on the story in front of me.

“Really, I’ll pay you.” My mom insisted, turning her face so she was looking at my profile as I worked on the iPad. I quietly shook my head, and selected the

“I need help getting my free book from the library.” I looked up from my book Passenger by Alexandra Bracken, just

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book she picked out and pressed

“Leave them,” the tree tells me, “and go and play.” Instead, I pick up the leaves, put them in my basket, and bring them home. I tuck them away in special places that remind me of her and her love.

Submit.

“Voilà,” I announced dramatically, whisking the iPad back into her hands. “Your free book has been ordered.”

Her Jane Eyre book, in her favorite scene “Thanks Aubrey, you’re awesome.” My mother stared transfixed at the screen, not quite believing that I had completed the order with such haste and finesse. I told her it was no problem, and went back to my book. My mother couldn’t have looked more excited, and I didn’t understand how such a simple favor meant so much to her.

where the house gets set on fire. Her love for reading.

The pocket of her old dress that hangs in her closet. Her willingness to share clothes with me. The coffee pot that sits on our kitchen counter. Her caffeine addiction that I inherited from her.

My mother is my Giving Tree. Her trunk is strong and sturdy, rooted to the ground with a stubbornness that cannot be shaken. Her branches, although small and slender, hold up the leaves and fruits she bares without complaint nor protest.

The old copy of Goodnight Moon she used to read to me. Her presence when I was a child.

Her life is inscribed on these leaves, tokens I hold close to my heart. And each time I see these leaves, I remember the inspiration she fills me with, and the strength she gives me to lead a life of love and happiness.

She provides me with shade as I grow, generously offering whatever she can to help me succeed and feel loved. She is consistency, stability, home. When storms cloud the sky, threatening to twist and tear the tree, she holds her ground with strength and faith.

They are a reminder of my Giving Tree, and what I hope to become when I’m a mother.

She is not untouchable, and leaves dance to the ground in a sad waltz as the wind wages a war against anxiety and worry. She is used to standing alone, slowly losing leaves battle after battle. She does not weaken nor fall.

But until then I give up the fruits I bare, the leaves I grow, and the bark that makes me stand tall. I provide my mother and family shade when they need rest, and laughter when they need comfort. I bud when my family is safe, and bloom when they are content.

It’s spring when I find her, and my love for the tree is only a bud to what it will become. Her strength is beauty, courage. I look down at the fallen leaves on the ground that people have failed to notice or gather.

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“And the tree was happy.”

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Picture from The Giving Tree by Shel Silverman

For more information on author Aubrey Rychen, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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Walkabout: The Slippery Slope Edition By A H Smith

I am not a good person. I want to be. If you were to ask me if I am a good person, I would want to say yes, I am. But to be honest, I would have to say no. I am not a good person. I have demons. I fall back into old behavior. I want to be better. I am for a while. And then I slip. There is a red-eyed devil inside my soul that makes me do things I should not. My future is bleak. I had a great yard sale on Friday. Sold a ton of things that I had collected over years of hitting garage sales, dumpster diving, and picking and scrapping. It was so good, I really had nothing to sell on Saturday. I had a pocketful of money. I could navigate my sheds. My studio had room to move and breathe. Recently, I had begun to try and get 15,000 steps in a day. I was up at 5 a.m. on Friday. By six I was hanging signs for the yard sale. When I got back, there were already people waiting to buy my stuff. Even with no time to walk and just

is bulk trash pickup. A picker’s buffet.

moving from the street to my house, I got

There were times that with Tami and

in 20,000 steps! It was a good day.

Hess in the car on our way to dinner, I would spot something on the side of the

Fast-forward to Sunday. Cool. Quiet.

road, swerve to a screeching halt, and

Tami, Tulip, and Kitty Baby snoozin’. I

search for that illusive gold. They feigned

head out early on my walk. A few houses

embarrassment, but Hess never

down 4th Avenue I realize that next week

complained about the fully functioning 80-

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pound antique cast iron electric cash

fresh and untouched by the curb. In this

register I hauled home for him. He took

case, an old door, a pile of venetian

playing store to a whole new level. Tami

blinds, and several clean and undisturbed

hasn’t complained about the 300-dollar

cardboard boxes. I look away. I just sold

mint condition Waterford pen I found for

a ton of stuff, there is absolutely no

her in a box of crappy colored pencils on

reason that I need to cross the street and check out the boxes. None. But I am a bad person. I crossed the road and checked to see if anyone was watching me. When I walk in the park, the preserve, or on the canal, I am dressed in context for that activity. But when I am walking through the neighborhood, I am aware that I could easily be seen as one more chronic Sunnyslope transient. Digging through a box of trash on Sunday morning wouldn’t help that impression. I know this. I am fully aware of this as I begin to dig through the top box. I bury my shame and dig. Interesting find. It is a box of Halloween decorations. Little black lawn signs that say Boo! in bright orange. Halloween wrapping paper. A fluorescent scorpion. And then I see it. A huge black plastic rat sitting up on haunches, smiling at me. Instantly, I love this thing. It reminded me of a plastic rat I had in class that we called Ratso Rizzo. I had a white rat once as a pet — Crazy Earl. I used him when I

1st Avenue either.

took a film class in college. We needed a

I pass a pile of old rotted railroad ties; a

ghetto rat for a movie we were making so

pile of lawn cuttings with a rusted-out

I painted him black. He fell in a bucket of

wheelbarrow; and another pile of trashed

water once and we thought he drowned.

kids’ ride-on toys. And then I see it.

We gave him CPR and he came back from the dead only to be eaten by a cat

I have been doing this long enough that

several months later. I come back to

almost intuitively I can spot something

reality.

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I’m dressed like a bum, standing in the

quiet. I am alone. I am alone except for

street in front of a pile of trash, holding a

the rat in my head. I could have carried

large plastic rat. I look up and notice two

him with me. Heck, once I found a rare

little girls watching me from behind a

Italian road bike under a pile of palm

window. They see me looking at them

fronds one Sunday years ago when I was

and quickly disappear behind white

out riding my bike. I couldn’t leave it and

curtains.

go get my truck and come back and pick it up. The picker’s code states clearly: if

Here is why I know I am a bad

you snooze you lose; if you leave

person. I want that rat. But I am far enough away from home that taking the rat home is not an option. I could carry the rat with me. I hate carrying things when I walk which is why I carry my water in a cool belt. I actually think

“I’m dressed like a bum, standing in the street in front of a pile of trash, holding a large plastic rat.”

that with the tail of the rat I

it, you grieve it. So somehow I slung the bike and the wheels—I couldn’t leave the original wheels—over my shoulder and rode the three miles home. Have you ever had a steel bike pedal dig into your back as you bump your way home? I still list to the side when I walk.

could lap it over my Fuel Belt and be on my way. Great. Now I am

As I travel, I realize I did a good thing

not only a homeless guy walking down

leaving that rat by the curb. I don’t need

the street, but a homeless guy with a

it. Someone else will appreciate it just as

dead rat on his belt. I am smart enough

much as I would have. I don’t have to

to know that if I take the rat I won’t be the

drag another useless thing home just to

only one who thinks I’m a bad person.

have to get rid of it down the road. Maybe I am a good person. It is a sobering

“Gee, Officer, I am a retired art teacher

thought. I don’t have the rat, but now I do

who just can’t stop collecting things…

have an idea for a walkabout. Life is

really… seriously.”

good. I am on the road to recovery.

Ah, no. I put the rat back and I walk away. One rat is too many, a thousand

I walk my loop. Head back up my street

wouldn’t be enough. Today, a rat.

trash with the box of Halloween

Tomorrow a truck load of bowling balls.

decorations. Curious. The boxes are still

Where will it end? When will it stop? I put

intact. I was sure that by this time some

my head down and walk away.

knucklehead on a bike would have dug

empowered. Soon I approach the pile of

through the stuff. I cross the street and

I make my way to Sunnyslope High

check it out. Looking won’t hurt, I tell

School and then I’m on the canal. It is

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myself. I’m sure the rat isn’t there. I look

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“I found it on my walk. Cool, huh?”

in the box and sure enough he’s gone. And then, I notice, he’s not. I grab him, put him under my arm, and walk home. I

“Not really. It’s filthy. Get it off my

live in denial.

counter!”

Tulip barks as I walk up the driveway.

“It’s not an ‘it’,” I push back. “It’s a he. It

She is getting old. Kitty Baby smacks

has a name. I just don’t know what it is,

against my legs as I come through the

yet…”

door. Is this cat ever not hungry? I hear

“Why don’t you name it Art,” she offers.

Tami in the back bedroom. I put the rat on the counter in the kitchen and head to the computer.

I grab Art and walk outside. I’m really not a bad person, I tell him. But he doesn’t respond and just smiles at me.

I know the first line of today’s story will be “I am not a good person.” I’m working away. Typing like crazy. And then I hear a

loud scream. “EEEEK! What is this?” I realize Tami has discovered the rat. “Art!”

For more information on author A H Smith, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this

she yells.

section.

“Get this out of here!” she demands. “It’s not a real rat,” I explain. “I know that, you idiot. Where did it come from?”

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Walkabout: Charles Atlas Edition By A H Smith

“How old are ya!” yelled a voice behind

“HOW OLD ARE YA!” She amped it up,

me.

as did the dogs when I turned around.

Sunnyslope is the kind of place that when

I seriously try to avoid these people but

some random person yells something at

the fact that she was wearing a coffee-

you that person is either criminal,

stained “I love Chihuahuas” t-shirt over

eccentric, or bat shit crazy. More often as

what appeared to be a night gown, bright

not it is the latter. I turned around and

orange socks, and red crocs topped off

was not disappointed.

with a straw hat with plastic daisies attached to it won me over.

The voice had come from an old woman I recognized as the Chihuahua Lady because of her penchant for walking the

“68!” I answered.

neighborhood with seven hyper

“YOU LIE!” She stopped because one of

Chihuahuas—all on separate leashes.

the Chihuahuas had gotten his leash

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tangled around her leg. See what I mean

bark, and snap at each other. I’m afraid

about the bat shit stuff. “You don’t look a

they will all get loose and attack me.

day over 40,” she observed. “45 at the most!”

“Charles Atlas!” I respond.

At heart, I guess, I’m an enabler. “You’re

“Huh? Your name is Charles?”

right,” I said. “I’m 40.”

“No. Charles Atlas, you know, the bodybuilder. Charles Atlas’ course of

“I knew it!”

dynamic tension keeps me young and fit!” I flexed to prove my point.

This wasn’t the first time I lied about my age. When I was 15 years old and 7

She looked at me in the most puzzled

months I applied for a driver’s permit. In those days, one filled out the form in ink on green paper, which became your

way. Even all seven of the Chihuahuas stopped and looked at me. I used the

actual permit. Ever desiring to improve

moment of bedazzlement to make my

my station in life and my service to

exit.

humanity, I figured if I wrote the 9 in my

“Have a great day!” I yelled and put my

birth year of ‘49 in such a way as to not

earbuds in before I could hear if she

complete the top loop and curved the tail

answered. I was off. Into the park.

a bit, I could change the 9 to a 3 in the

Walking about.

privacy of my bedroom, thus making me eligible, at 22, to legally buy large cans of Colt 45 at a small mom and pop store that seemed more interested in selling alcohol than scrutinizing my ID. Lying to the Chihuahua Lady wouldn’t raise my social

If you are of a certain

“I used the moment of bedazzlement to make my escape.”

age and you were a young boy who read Archie and Jughead comics, then you would know who Charles Atlas was. He was an Italian American bodybuilder

status or popularity, but it would

who, in the ‘20s, created

get me on my way quicker. “How

a program and marketing

do you stay so young?” she queried.

campaign of image and body

can’t argue with her. I don’t want to be

improvement through isometrics–pitting muscle against muscle. His ad campaign

rude and blow her off. She is an old lady,

consisted of comic panels in popular

older than me at 40 or even, 68, and the

comic books where a young boy, a 97-

longer I stand in the road talking to her

pound puny weakling, out at the beach

the more the fleet of Chihuahuas jump,

with his girl would get sand kicked in his

There’s that bat shit crazy thing again. I

face by a bully and lose his girl.

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Defeated, the weakling would send away

Pedro’s barking had now awakened the

for Atlas’ course of self-improvement, buff

sleeping guy. He was yelling at Pedro to

up as if he were on steroids and months

shut the fuck up. And then I saw it. From

later return to the beach, beat the crap

the other end of the park, a medium-

out of the bully, and get his girl back. His

sized, stocky, black and white dog on a

story resonated with me.

tear straight for Pedro.

I don’t really know why I responded that

Several years ago, I was walking my own

way to the Chihuahua Lady. But it worked

dog Tulip in the park when a homeless

to secure my escape. Maybe it is a

guy’s dog made a beeline for Tulip and

condition of aging, but sometimes I say random shit now—without thinking. Like

attacked her. I was so freaked out that I kicked the attack dog under the chin which stunned him long enough

yesterday when I was at the dentist and

for the owner to come up

the sweet hygienist asked me

and grab him. Tulip

“what flavor did I want” when she polished my teeth and I responded Shrimp! Maybe crazy is contagious. My plan was to walk the circumference of the park and then head into the preserve. I was blasting Gary Clark, Jr in my ears. I was coming up

“…the Chihuahua lady was screaming her head off and all six little dogs were ready to rumble.”

wasn’t hurt and fortunately I wasn’t bitten putting myself in between two fighting dogs. Today as I watched the black and white dog approach, I knew I had to act.

to the playground equipment

Ever since a couple of

when I saw the Chihuahua Lady.

untethered dogs took

She appeared to stumble a bit, caught herself, didn’t fall, but one of her

exception to me walking down the street

Chihuahuas made a break for it, pulled

several months ago and got a little too

his leash free from her hand and took off running. I watched him circle a sleeping

aggressive for comfort, I now carry with me a can of pepper spray, pink, that I

homeless man sprawled on the sidewalk,

thought my wife Tami could use but no.

a blanket over his head and shoulders. As I fumbled to get the pepper spray out I took out my earphones. The remaining

of my pocket, the attack dog hit Pedro

six dogs were barking like crazy. The

with his chest. Pedro must have rolled

Chihuahua lady was yelling, “Pedro!

over three or four complete times,

Pedro! You come back here right now!”

jumped to his feet, and squared off at the attacker. Head and tail up. Pedro was

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outweighed and outsized, but he wasn’t

racks, disappearing for a couple of

about to back down. I didn’t think it would

horrific minutes until I caught him heading

end well if the two dogs mixed it up—

toward the escalator and Tami got a hold

besides the Chihuahua lady was

of him. I guess it’s a mom thing.

screaming her head off and all six little dogs were ready to rumble. I shot a

“Attaboy!” yelled the Chihuahua Lady.

heavy stream of pepper juice straight into

“You’re Momma’s tough little man!” I

the face of the black and white dog who

wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or

wheezed, sneezed, coughed and took off

Pedro, but I left it at that and headed

running away.

north.

Pedro was still standing at attention, barking his head off, but it gave the

Chihuahua Lady time to grab up his leash. She was scolding him and kissing

For more information on author A H Smith, please

him at the same time. Kind of like when

visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

my son Hess was little and in Penney’s and he ducked under one of the clothes

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Walkabout: Ménage á Trois Edition By A H Smith

I headed south to the canal. Yesterday, I

century modern makeover a number of

had seen workers at the abandoned

years ago as The Eye Opener, a

restaurant on 5th Avenue and I hoped to

breakfast and lunch spot. A grease fire in

learn the future status of the building.

the kitchen shut it down and the building

Years ago, the place was Pancho’s

sat vacant for several years. Transients

Mexican Restaurant, then Tom and

had taken a liking to the spot in recent

Tiny’s. The space had gotten a mid-

weeks and I had to investigate.

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An electrician was pulling wire from the

branching over the opening. There were

back of his truck when I walked up and

three large Christmas glass ball

introduced myself. I told him the

decorations hanging above the shed. I

neighbors were keeping an eye on the

decided to investigate.

place. He pointed to a large metal shed in the northeast corner of the parking lot

As I stepped to the out building, I noticed

and said that in the last two days they

several spots of color—tarps and

had run off three transients who had set

blankets—that hung over the edges of

up camp in there.

the shed. I have discovered in my walks that transients can be not only

The shed was heavy steel. 10 foot by 10 foot. 6 feet tall. Two heavy steel doors

resourceful, but artistic in the building of a camp. One fellow who squatted along the

that were padlocked shut. The top had no

canal had assembled his camp up

roof. The shed once housed a wheeled

against the back wall of a local residence.

steel trash dumpster. From the

He had scrounged a rocking chair and

restaurant, I noticed a palo verde tree

throw rug which he placed under a green

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tarp. He had nailed a large framed

I pulled it off without incident. I turned

painting of Jesus onto the wall. I had

back toward the restaurant and the

encountered a fellow who had cleaned

electrician, who had been watching me,

his area of all debris with a rake he built

gave me a thumbs up.

from tree branches. He had his possessions tarped securely in one area.

I crossed Hatcher and checked my

He had fashioned a two-shopping cart

camera in the parking lot of the old

garage next to his house. Seriously.

Visions of Hope building. The trash in the photo didn’t surprise me but the pile of

I didn’t know what to expect inside the

BMX bicycles, tires, and parts did. I did

shed, but I was frustrated in my attempts to get a glimpse of the interesting interior

not expect to see a young man asleep beneath a purple blanket. Glad I didn’t

that the Christmas decorations promised.

drop my phone on his head! That might

I couldn’t see anything through any of the

have been awkward.

cracks in the walls. The shed was too tall for me to peek over. I decided to use my

I walked the canal for an hour and

phone as a hand-held drone, and I held it

returned the way I had come, crossing

over the edge of the wall and took a burst

Hatcher back at 5th Avenue. The

of photos. I was really paranoid that I

electrician and his helper were gone. The

would drop my camera into the shed, but

restaurant was empty. I looked past the

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building and noticed the doors to the

“Sorry. But I do have a question, though.

shed were partially open. Against the

How does one guy manage to move

back wall leaned three fancy BMX bikes.

three bikes from one place to another?”

I had to investigate. “Normally, my girlfriends help me,” He As I was checking out the cycles, a voice

explained. “I let ‘em each ride a bike. But

came at me from the shed. “Wanna buy a

last night in the shed, just as we were getting down to it, they got into a

bike?”

big fight and both of them I turned and saw a young

left. Pissed me off. See

Hispanic man, the same man that was sleeping beneath the purple blanket, emerge from the shed. He had a thin mustache. He wore a gray hoodie, black long shorts, and white socks with black Vans.

“I have discovered in my walks that transients can be not only resourceful, but artistic in the building of a camp.”

how I’m jammed up?” Girlfriends? I thought. “You have two girlfriends?” “Shiiiit. I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one of

“I can make you a good deal

them!” he sang and

on a new ride,” he offered.

then laughed. Except when you do, I thought to

“Thanks,” I said. “I just thought I’d check them out.”

myself, looking at three bikes and only Jay-Z to ride them. “I gotta go. Nice

“Cool. Hope you weren’t thinking of

talking with you.”

stealing one! I build custom bikes. It’s “You, too, man. If you ever need a bike,

what I do.”

look me up!” “Good to know.” As I headed home, I tried not to think “Hey, man,” he said, “I need to get

about the love triangle in the love shack.

something to eat at Martha’s Kitchen. Will

Or the 99 problems Jay-Z had.

you ride one of these bikes over there to help me out?”

“No, I can’t. I’m busy right now.”

For more information on author A H Smith, please

“You sure you can’t help me out? I’m sort of in a jam here.”

CANYONVOICES

visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

SPRING2018

CREATIVE NONFICTION : A H Smith

Walkabout: Second Amendment Edition By A H Smith

I’d been off my morning walk for a few

and a screech, an old woman on a pink

days due to a psoas muscle strain. Psoas

bicycle whipped past me from the rear.

is a good Scrabble word and really tough to heal. It is from the Greek, meaning loin

“Watch out!” she yelled. I never heard her

region and commonly refers to a muscle

approach. She almost hit me. The smell of her street perfume lingered as

band in the groin. Sitting for too long

she peddled north.

makes me crazy so I decided to forgo rehab and walk out the tightness. I hit the canal west yesterday and east this morning. Good, long, cool walk. A large paddling of ducks in the water under the eucalyptus trees at

“Psoas is a good Scrabble word and really tough to heal.”

She slammed on her brakes at the front of the Super Pawn Shop and fishtailed to a stop. As I walked by, she was locking up her bike. Her purple crocs highlighted bright purple socks and

Glendale Avenue. A homeless

rolled-up green camo pants; a

couple having a verbal dust up on the far side of the canal. I stopped for a moment

blue Pokémon backpack was slung over

but no one was hitting anyone so I moved

her shoulder; and a gray camo T-shirt

along.

and black cap completed the look. Her bike had a basket on each side that was overflowing with bulging plastic bags of various sizes and colors.

On my way back when I reached Central Avenue, I headed north. Checked out the new Ladera Restaurant. A worker was stringing razor wire across the top of the

I walked a few more feet and then said to

garden fence at Timo. I stopped at the

myself, I have to see this.

abandoned Bartoli’s Cleaners, despite

I turned around and walked into the pawn

the no trespassing signs, and looked in

shop. As I opened the door, a buzzer

the windows. A huge rat eyed me

went off.

suspiciously from the top of a hanging rack. I jaywalked across Central at Via de

I was greeted by a young portly salesman

los Santos. The smell of roasting chiles filled the air. And then in a burst of wind

with huge fluorescent green gauges in his

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ears.

SPRING2018

CREATIVE NONFICTION : A H Smith

“Well, thank you very much for your kind

“Let me know if you need help,” he said.

assistance,” she said. “Have a good day.” I walked past the televisions and laptops,

She turned and walked out.

and as I perused the used power tools the door buzzed and camo granny came

The salesman looked at me, bewildered.

in.

“That was a new one,” he said.

“What can I help you with today, ma’am?”

I nodded. For me as well, I thought to

greeted the big boy.

myself, and headed out the door.

“You got a crossbow?” she queried.

“Sorry, I don’t,” he said.

For more information on author A H Smith, please

“What about a machete?”

visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

“No. No… sorry.”

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2018

CREATIVE NONFICTION : ALEJANDRO PEREZ

Nochebuena

(Inspired by the song Casas de Cartón by Alí Primera)

By Alejandro Perez

Abuela is in the kitchen, making Ponche. She adds rum, banana and apple slices, a few handfuls of raisins, and some cinnamon and sugar to the XXL pot, the one reserved for special occasions. She stirs it all around with a spatula, and as she stirs she sings her favorite song, the one she used to sing to me when I was just an infant cradled in her arms: How sad are my people living in their cardboard houses. She sings with a smile: resonant, bluesy, guttural noises flow out of her mouth.

Sitting on the floor of the living room, Papá plays his old guitar without a pick and grimaces – hands battered from repeated direct contact with the strings. But he continues to strum, battles through pain, overcomes it, and begins to play with greater gusto. He closes his eyes and gets lost in the sounds of his own music. He improvises. There are no words to accompany his melody, but he whistles. Whistles and occasionally bangs on the guitar as if it were a drum.

My tío catches my father’s rhythm like an experienced surfer catches a wave. Smoothly and with ease, he joins in on the piano.

And my abuela is still in the kitchen, stirring the Ponche, still singing with force, no decline in decibel level: How sad are my people living in their cardboard houses.

For more information on author Alejandro Perez, please visit our Contributors Page at the end of this section.

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SPRING2018

CREATIVE NONFICTION : ALEJANDRO PEREZ

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2018

CREATIVENONFICTIONCONTRIBUTORS Susan Southard Susan Southard holds an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles, and was a nonfiction fellow at the Norman Mailer Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Her first book, Nagasaki: Life After Nuclear War (Viking, 2015) is the recipient of the Dayton Literary Peace Prize and the Lukas Book Prize, sponsored by the Columbia School of Journalism and Harvard University’s Nieman Foundation for Journalism. Nagasaki was also named a best book of the year by The Washington Post, The Economist, the American Library Association, and Kirkus Reviews. Susan’s work has appeared in the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, Politico, Lapham’s Quarterly, and in Civil Society and Disarmament: A Case for a Nuclear Weapons Ban published by the United Nations Office of Disarmament Affairs. In 2016, Southard spoke before the United Nations representing the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons (ICAN), which won the 2017 Nobel Peace Prize.

Aubrey Rychen Aubrey Rychen is an emerging young adult writer born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. She studies Secondary Education (English) and Writing at Arizona State University on the West campus, and works with adolescents and children in both her work and volunteer service. Heavily inspired by the literature she read growing up and her mother’s love of books, she has a passion for telling stories and sharing the universal truths she’s discovered throughout her life. Her goal as a writer is to connect with others and to speak about life in a way that is relatable, poignant, and honest. Her preferred medium of writing is Creative Nonfiction, but she is exploring other genres of writing such as Travel Writing and Fiction. Follow her on Twitter @AubreyLeigh818 and check out her writing portfolio on aubreyrychen.weebly.com.

A H Smith Born in Pittsburgh, Art Smith moved to Arizona in 1961. For the last 30 years he lived in Sunnyslope. Smith spent a career as a high school art teacher at Moon Valley High School. He retired several years ago and through the Arizona Artist Guild taught classes to Veterans, refugees, and young women victims of sexual assault and trafficking. Smith recently moved to Mt. Holly, New Jersey. Living in the east provides him the opportunity to be close to family and to reconnect with his east coast origins. The change in climate and scenery has inspired his painting and art making. He lives with his wife in a turn-of-the-century historic home. Smith continues to write and go on walkabouts.

Alejandro Perez Alejandro Pérez is a Creative Writing major at Emory University in Georgia. His English poems have appeared in Star 82 Review, Right Hand Pointing, Foliate Oak and elsewhere. His Spanish short story “Las cosas se rebalsan” has appeared in Letralia, Tierra de Letras (Venezuela) and Revista Almiar (Spain). Being half American and half Guatemalan, he is caught between two cultures, just as he is caught between his desire to live in the real world and in the world of his imagination. Most of the poems he writes come to him while walking. He aspires to one day write a poem as great as Neruda’s “Walking Around”.

Artistic expression has been part of humanity since the earliest pages of recorded time; and its contributors have long graced its canon with astonishing and extraordinary creations with their hands, their voices, and their minds. This issue of Canyon Voices Literary Magazine seeks to honor and exemplify up-and-coming artists and the development of their individual emerging creativity as they help to evolve the canon of art we know today.

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SPRING2018

CREATIVENONFICTIONCONTRIBUTORS

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SPRING2018

SCRIPTS

Addison Rizer

A Human and a God

Meet on a Bridge

Alex White

A Golden Ticket

Addison Rizer

Did You Know I Grew

Up Bleeding?

Rachael King

The Word and the Fist

Growth by Catherine Craig (See Artwork for full image)

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

A Human and a God Meet on a Bridge By Addison Rizer

Characters: Molly: A young, twenty-something year old woman

Callie: A centuries old God

Bridge: The truth bridge. It is magic. It is honest.

Setting: A bridge on the outskirts of town.

Performance Notes: We are on a rickety bridge, river water high enough to touch the bottom of it. In the distance, on one side of the bridge, there is MOLLY’S town. On the other, a mountain half-hidden by thick clouds.

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SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

AT RISE: Scene opens on a twenty-something woman, MOLLY, sitting on a bridge

with her legs dangling over the edge, river water lapping up at her ankles. She's got her eyes closed, face tilted towards the clouds covering the sky in dark gray. Behind her sits another person, cross legged on the splintering bridge, a wrinkling woman whose face is bent, hands clasped in her lap. Her name is CALLIE. She's silent while Molly begins to speak. MOLLY: Dear Gods, let me just say I believe in you. Still. Always. But, can I ask you for a favor? Could you clear these clouds, just for today? It's been cloudy for the last two months, three almost. We're aren’t flowers, but we whither, all of us. For even just an hour, even just ten minutes.

(Without turning around, CALLIE speaks. MOLLY doesn't move as she does.)

CALLIE: Dear Molly, let me just say I believe in you. Still. Always. You humans always do amaze me. All those winding roads, all those buildings touching the sky. You care, you know? All of you have something to care about. Molly, I can't help you. I doubt anyone who can is even listening.

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SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

MOLLY (with hope): I knew you'd come. CALLIE: I like it here. This bridge in between.

MOLLY: Me too. The water always feels better here. My momma had a story about this bridge. You can't get more than halfway across unless you tell it all your secrets. The water will swell until there’s no way to get across without them. We call it the Truth Bridge. When they were teenagers, my mom and dad came here together, hand in hand. They said they stood in front of where the water swelled and said I do in front of it. Together, they watched the water lower. Every year on their anniversary, they came back here. Every year, the water lowered. My parents love was a lot of things, but mostly it was honest.

CALLIE: Is that why you’re here? To see what’s honest in you?

MOLLY: No. I figured somewhere like this, where truth is the only thing, the Gods might listen. They’d know I wasn’t lying here. About my faith. About how little I want. About how I won’t ask anything else of them.

CALLIE: They aren’t listening.

(MOLLY is silent.) CALLIE CONT’D: I’ve heard my share of secrets sitting here. Everyone tends to pass me by without seeing me. Must be part of the God thing.

MOLLY: That must be nice. Everyone's eyes follow me around. Now, anyway. They didn't used to.

CALLIE: Why’s that?

MOLLY: Don’t you know?

CALLIE: Yes. But, say it anyway. It's a rule here, isn't it? Tell the bridge your secrets, love.

MOLLY: Dear Callie, I want the sun back for my brother. His funeral is today. When we were little, we used to come to this bridge and he'd dive into the river to spend hours floating on his back beneath the sun. I'd sit up here, watching. I used to come home with the back of my neck burnt to a crisp, but the sun never once burnt that boy. The sun loved him, followed him

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SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

everywhere. Once, I swear, the sun came through our window, bounced off two mirrors and my mother's glasses just to reach him reading in the living room. For him, for my brother who the sun loved and who loved the sun back, let us have the sun. Give it back. Just for today.

CALLIE: They can't, you know. The clouds are there for a reason.

MOLLY: Why?

“I want the sun back for my brother. His funeral is today.”

CALLIE: They’re arguing, the Gods. The clouds cover their yelling so you think it’s thunder. You all, always wanting logic where there isn't any. Always wanting something. Always wanting.

MOLLY: Why aren't you up there, then?

CALLIE: I quit.

MOLLY: You quit being a God?

CALLIE: I stopped believing in our power. I watched too many people pray to us and none of them get heard.

MOLLY: You’re listening.

CALLIE: I don't count anymore.

MOLLY: You do count. You're listening. That’s all that counts.

CALLIE: Hate to break it to you, but I'm the only one.

MOLLY: At least there's someone.

CALLIE: I can't help you.

MOLLY: I believe you can.

CALLIE (fiercely): I can’t.

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SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

MOLLY: He killed himself, did you know that? Threw himself into this river after two months of no sunlight. He just wanted the sun. If only for one day. One hour. He would've made it with just one single minute.

CALLIE: I know.

MOLLY: He prayed to you, didn't he? Like I'm doing now? He spent hours asking for the sun back and no one did a thing.

CALLIE: I know. I heard. He came up here, too. Before.

MOLLY: And still, still, I believe in you. In all of you. You who did nothing. You who are letting this town whither for some argument. What's it even about?

CALLIE: Something about losing believers.

MOLLY: Not killing us would be a good start.

CALLIE: They don't see it like that. They don't see you at all.

MOLLY: You do, though.

CALLIE: That’s why I left. Gods can't believe in humans like I do. Just Humans, the whole. Never the singular. It makes the job too hard.

MOLLY: He left me a note, did you know that, too?

CALLIE: You’ve got it in your pocket.

MOLLY: I carry it with me everywhere. Do you know what's on it?

CALLIE: Tell me.

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SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

MOLLY: He left me a list of things to do. Chores. Scrub the floors, sand the deck, throw all the windows open to air out the house. It goes on and on, until the end when he writes, Repeat until your chest feels clean. Repeat, repeat, repeat until the sun comes back. That's where I'll be. My brother knew this would ruin me. It was just the two of us. He knew, so he left me a list of hundreds of things to do for him. For me. Now, there will always be something else to do than grieve.

CALLIE: I’m sorry.

MOLLY: I’m hurting.

CALLIE: I would lose everything if I interfered. Die. Make it worth it.

MOLLY: How?

CALLIE: Tell me about him. But, know this: everything you share becomes mine. You won't remember any of it.

MOLLY: Must you take everything from me? Even my brother, can’t stay mine.

CALLIE (Sharply): What else have you to offer?

MOLLY: Nothing. Nothing. I have no money. I have nothing. I’d give you my grief if I could.

CALLIE: What would a God want with that?

MOLLY: Why my memories?

CALLIE: What have Gods ever wanted but your heart? To have what hurts you, and watch you believe despite it. Because of it. We want you to know we have what’ll destroy you, and we want you to love us for it. At least, I used to. Now, though, I just want to know what it’s like to care. See how you care about him. See if I can care about him too. Die for him who died for us.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

MOLLY: How will I know when it's enough?

CALLIE: I’ll tell you. I won't take more than I need. Just, make me believe in him. Make me love him. Make me care enough to sacrifice something of myself.

MOLLY: You’re halfway to caring, or you wouldn't let me try.

(CALLIE shrugs and falls silent.) MOLLY: Okay. Alright. Before we start, all I ask is for one hour of sun. The funeral will be here, on the river bank, at noon. I believe, and I'll keep believing. But, please, just this once, listen. Listen

CALLIE: I’m listening.

MOLLY: When we were little, he used to sneak into my room during thunderstorms. These clouds remind me of that a little bit. Thing is, he'd come not because he was scared, but because he knew I was. I always was too scared to even move when it got loud. Felt like everything would shatter, you know? So, he'd come. Every time. Without fail.

Once, he was at a basketball tournament in the next town over when a storm came thundering in. He was a senior in high school and far too cool to come running home to his freshman sister in the middle of the night. But, he did. He did. He stayed the whole night with me even though he should’ve been messing around with his teammates at the hotel, or resting before their game the next morning. But, he came. And he stayed.

He would whisper about everything, but mostly how he knew the sun would come back. He always did believe in the sun like that. Like I believe in you guys. It'll be back, he'd say, or the sun doesn't love me and what could be less true than that? And, I knew he was right. I knew. The storm would pass and the sun would come back every single time. As a kid, I believed for a long time the sun came back just for him and him alone. Part of me thinks maybe it won't ever come back now, without him.

(CALLIE moves to sit beside MOLLY.) MOLLY: Once, he took me to a haunted house. One of those silly ones put together by Big Dave down the road. It was cheesy, all dark hallways and reaching hands. But, I was terrified. Absolutely terrified. Couldn't move an inch when a clown chased me down the hallway and into a corner. But, Henry just kept laughing at everything. Pointing out all the little details. How the werewolf's tail was hanging on by a thread. How the curtain hiding the vampire was polka

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SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

dotted and pink. He laughed and laughed until I was laughing too. Henry always could find the funny bits.

I wonder what he'd say about this. A human and a God meet on a bridge. He’d find a joke in there somewhere. I just can't find it now.

(CALLIE reaches out, but lets her hand fall short of MOLLY’S.) MOLLY: He hated toast more than anything. Made that poor college student period really difficult for both of us. We were living together through college, just the two of us. That was after Mom died, Dad too. One after the other. At their funerals, Henry gave the best speeches. Funny, lighthearted, all heart. He made everything more bearable.

I'm supposed to talk today, at his funeral. I haven't a clue what to say.

(CALLIE grabs MOLLY’S hand.) MOLLY: He’s my best friend. He always will be. All those moments when I've laughed so hard my abs ached were with him, because of him. It was the two of us for so long. Now, it is just me. There's no humor in that, is there? Nothing funny about going on alone.

“It was the two of us for so long. Now, it is just me. There is no humor in that, is there? Nothing funny about going on alone.”

CALLIE: No, that doesn't sound so funny.

MOLLY: What else could I possibly say to make you care if you don’t already? He sometimes wore glasses just because he liked how he looked in them. He used to say I was the better of us two, but he'd say it with a glint in his eye so I never knew if he was teasing. I always tried to get him up here and say it so I knew if he was telling the truth. I’m betting the water would fall. I’ll always bet on his honesty.

(MOLLY sighs. She blinks down, eyes filling with tears.) MOLLY CONT’D: His favorite flower changed every season. He loved spring the best because the jacaranda trees bloomed suddenly in the spring, bright purple flowers up and down the street. Every year without fail, he’d send me a picture of the street, purple-covered. We’d go walking that afternoon back and forth, back and forth until I got tired and dragged him home. He didn’t want to leave. God did he love this world. Loved every part of it.

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SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

He always talked about something bigger than this town, going somewhere far away, doing something grand. Talked about going somewhere the sun shone brighter. Where it never stopped. He always was talking, Henry. Never did shut up.

CALLIE: I heard all about that.

MOLLY: I’m sure. He was so quiet towards the end. So sad. He stopped going to the river. I don’t remember what his laugh sounds like, or I’d give that too. You’d love him instantly, if I had that to give. But, it’s been so long since I’ve heard it. Months and months.

CALLIE: I could tell he was different. Stopped sounding so hopeful when he prayed.

MOLLY: The sun was his hope. It was his everything. And it left him to die. You left him to die.

CALLIE: Give me something else. Just one more thing. Break my heart, if I had one.

MOLLY (quiet): I never bought an alarm clock. He’d come in every morning, bursting with something he had to tell me right away. Something about oranges, or sunflowers, or his dreams. Yesterday, I slept until two in the afternoon simply because he didn't come and wake me up. I slept and slept. There wasn't anyone there to wake me up.

CALLIE: That’s enough. That's more than enough.

MOLLY: So, you'll help?

CALLIE: I’ll do what I can.

MOLLY: That’s not a yes.

(CALLIE stays silent.) MOLLY: That’s not a yes. Look at what I gave. Tell me you'll help. Tell me the truth.

(CALLIE stays silent still.) MOLLY: Fine. But remember, I believe. I’ll believe even if you don’t do a thing. I’m not asking for a reason to keep believing, I just need a little bit of help. I can’t make this happen myself or I would. I promise, I would. But, thing is, I have to believe you’ll help me. And I do. I do.

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SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

(MOLLY gets up, brushes her pants off, and starts to walk back towards town.) CALLIE: I’m sure your speech will be great.

(MOLLY freezes, turning around.) MOLLY: What speech?

CALLIE: Oh. Oh.

MOLLY: What?

CALLIE (quietly): You’ve forgotten.

MOLLY: That was the deal, wasn't it? To forget my brother, even now, when I need his memories most. What I've forgotten, I'll never get back. Make it worth it, you said to me. Can’t I ask you to do the same? Please. I believe in you. All of you. I'll never stop believing. But, please, help me.

(MOLLY turns back and walks into town. CALLIE watches her go before standing, too. She looks towards the mountain, the top where it’s hidden by clouds.)

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SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

CALLIE: See what you're doing, you in your argument, you in your greed? Here is a believer, despite everything. Here, you will leave her alone. Of course you will. It's what you've always done.

(CALLIE drops her head into her hands.) CALLIE: If I do this, I lose everything. They'll take away my power. I'll just be human. I’ll just be dead.

(CALLIE sighs, looking towards the town.) CALLIE: I don’t want to do this.

(The water below, CALLIE begins to rise.) BRIDGE: You’re lying.

CALLIE: I can’t do this.

(The water pools around CALLIE’S calves, climbing her body. She begins to panic. She knows this water would kill her, it’s got magic in its heart.) CALLIE: Stop. Stop it. I don’t want to help her.

BRIDGE: You do.

CALLIE: Fine. I do. But I don’t want to die.

BRIDGE: You don’t want to be a God, though.

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SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

CALLIE: No, I don’t.

(The water begins to recede. Down to her ankles. Down to the soles of her bare feet.) BRIDGE: And you want to help her.

CALLIE: I do.

(The water recedes further, below the line of the bridge.) BRIDGE: So, choose.

CALLIE: Will you let me go to the funeral? Be human just for an hour? Let me know how they feel. Know that this was worth it?

BRIDGE: Yes.

CALLIE: I can’t lie anymore. I suppose, all things considered, human isn't such a sad thing to be. Even just for an hour. Just for a minute, I’ll get to feel all the things they talk about. I’ll get to be human. I’ll get to hope.

(CALLIE trails in the direction MOLLY disappeared. Overhead, the clouds part in the slightest opening, to reveal pure sunlight.)

For more information on author Addison Rizer, please visit our Contributors Page.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

A Golden Ticket By Alex White

Characters: Margie Romero: (40’s) Jessica Romero: Margie’s Daughter (20’s)

Mr. Dudley: Store Manager (20’s)

Man: (40’s) unknown

Master: Stage Director for the audience

Toddler Cashier

Setting: Grocery Store Parking lot - Day

Performance Notes:

Fade in EXT. Grocery Store Parking Lot - Cars are scattered about the old, sun-baked concrete. Amidst them, an employee, MARGIE ROMERO, sits in her beat up old car, smoking a cigarette and scratching off lottos. She crumples one and tosses it into the passenger seat. It lands next to another dud laying balled up. She flips over her last one. “Three Cherries = 100,000!" She scratches. MARGIE: Cherry... Cherry!

(She leans forward. Scratching wildly. Her face turns from exhilarated to utter disappointment. She groans, slumping back in her seat. Crumples and tosses it.)

MARGIE: So close...

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SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

(She takes her last drag and sprays on perfume.) EXT. Grocery Store Entrance - Day shoppers going in the entrance and coming out the exit. MARGIE walks up, tying her apron. Breaking all semblance of order, A soccer mom pushes a buggy loaded with groceries out through the entrance. Nearly running MARGIE down. MARGIE: Sorry, ma’am.

(She waits as the soccer mom charges past her without so much as a thought. MARGIE continue on. Her years of working blue-collar show in her monk-level patience.)

INT. Outside of office - We hear water-cooler laughter coming from inside the office. The clockin machine awaits MARGIE. She walks up and punches in her number. The keypad responds with loud beeps. Suddenly, the office door opens. Revealing the big boss, MR. DUDLEY, waiting for her. She tries turning away--

MR. DUDLEY: --Oh, Margie.

She stops in her tracks. MANAGER (O.S.) (cackling): --The look on her face!--

MR. DUDLEY Come in for a second. I got some good news for you.

(MARGIE perks up. The other MANAGER walks out.) MANAGER I’mma go check the tape.

(MARGIE pipes up.) MARGIE So what’s so funny?

MR. DUDLEY: Nothing. Grab me a coffee real quick, would you?

(MARGIE’S eyes glaze over, concealing a bitchface.) INT. Office - Later, from outside the HR mandated open door, we catch a peek of a depressing meeting between MARGIE and MR. DUDLEY. After a long, uncomfortable beat...

MARGIE: ...Thank you.

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SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

MR. DUDLEY (sipping coffee) I know it’s not a whole lot of cheddar.

(She glances at the pathetic tear of legal-pad. A handwritten figure, $8.19. She folds it.) INT. Check-out counter - Later, MARGIE works her till. She’s faster than the other cashiers. Business dies down and she turns off her register light EXT. Grocery store - Dusk, MARGIE smokes a cigarette, staring blankly. The setting sun peeks out from behind tall pine trees. She a flock of blue birds circling about and taking a rest on a power line. A hint of a smile grows on her face. INT. Check-out counter - Later, back at her till, MARGIE hands a customer a receipt. MARGIE: Have a nice day.

(She wipes her counter down as a well dressed MAN walks up and places two items on the conveyor belt. MARGIE: How you doin’?

(The MAN shrugs, looking bummed. His items are carried into view. Hungry Man pre-cooked dinners.) MARGIE: Treating someone to a little dinner, huh?

MAN: Hm? No... it’s all for me.

MARGIE: Oh I’m sorry. I figured a strapping young guy like you had someone to cook him a real homecooked meal if he wanted one.

(She gets a chuckle out of him.) MAN: Nooo. No. --You offering?

MARGIE: Gets crowded at my dinner table, but we can make room for one more.

MAN: I’ll take you up on that sometime, but I think I’m good tonight. Thanks anyway, Margaret.

(Caught off-guard, MARGIE tilts her head. The MAN points at her name tag. She looks, and smiles, realizing the obvious.)

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SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

MARGIE: Oh, right. Your total is $5.47.

MAN Can I get a scratch-off?

MARGIE (pointing): This one?

(He nods. She takes out the Cherry Lotto and scans it.) MAN: How’d you decide on that one?

MARGIE: It’s the one I always get.

MAN: Must be a good one.

MARGIE: I was so close to winning today. I’m almost angry about it. $8.56. (he pays) I always scratch a few before my shift.

MAN: Yeah? What would you do... if you won? Margie hands him the receipt and a pen.

MARGIE: Sign this for me? Well, I wouldn’t clock in, for starters. Maybe take up bird watching.

(The MAN smiles as he writes.)

MAN: I hear Cape May is good for that.

MARGIE: Hmm. Maybe I’ll go there one day.

(Just then, the MANAGER walks past.) MANAGER: Let’s not hold our guests up now.

(She loathsomely watches him before turning back to the MAN.) MARGIE: Have a nice night, sir. He starts to leave, and turns back.

MAN: Whatever they’re paying you, it isn’t enough.

MARGIE (touched): Thank you.

(The MAN leaves. MARGIE dries her eyes and starts wiping down the counter again--but she notices something--the MAN’S scratch-off is still there. She picks it up.) MARGIE: Sir!

(But he’s already out the door. She turns to the line of waiting customers.) MARGIE: Sorry, I’ll be right back.

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SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

(She hurries after the MAN.)

CUSTOMER: Wait, what?

CUSTOMER: Where is she going?

EXT. Grocery store - Night - Continuous: MARGIE rushes out, scans the parking lot, but there’s no sign of him. She lingers there for a moment. MR. DUDLEY comes walking out and finds her. MR. DUDLEY: Margie.

(She turns. He gestures at her to come back to the register. She looks back out to the parking lot and spots the MAN driving past in a car. He waves and continues on.) MARGIE: Mister!

(But he shows no sign of stopping.)

MR. DUDLEY: Margie! Come back to the register.

(She stands there for a moment, before doing what he says.) MR. DUDLEY: What is that?

INT. Grocery store - Continuous. MARGIE: The customer left his scratch-off.

“I never wanted to quit so bad in my whole life.”

MR. DUDLEY: That’s all?! I’ll hold on to it until he comes back for it.

(They get to the register. MARGIE hesitates to hand it over.)

MARGIE: I can do it.

MR. DUDLEY: Give it to me and get back to work.

(She looks the scratch-off over and notices something written on it. “Good luck"... Did he leave it on purpose?!) MR. DUDLEY: Hey. Come on. We give you a raise and what? You start letting it go to your head? Hurry up. Let’s go.

MARGIE --A "raise"-- (takes a deep, deep sigh) Fine.

(MARGIE hands it over.) MR. DUDLEY: It’s in safe hands.

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SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

(She starts ringing up a customer’s groceries. Watching MR. DUDLEY walk into his office with the scratch-off and close the door behind him.) MARGIE (PRELAP): I never wanted to quit so bad in my whole life.

INT. MARGIE’S trailer - Later that night - She walks in the door carrying dinner. TODDLER: GieGie!

(A TODDLER latches onto her leg. Squeezing tight.) MARGIE: Help!

(MARGIE laughs. The TODDLER giggles.)

JESSICA (PRELAP): Why didn’t you just tell them it was for you?

INT. Dining table - Later - MARGIE sits at a small table across from her daughter, JESSICA. Who spoon-feeds the TODDLER applesauce. MARGIE: Oh, he wouldn’t believe me... and I was in enough trouble as it was. Givin’ me guilt for my raise.

JESSICA: What! You got a raise? That’s awesome. How much?

(MARGIE holds up six fingers.) JESSICA: Six? No. Six DOLLARS?

MARGIE (shakes her head) Six cents.

(JESSICA looks at her, suddenly disgusted.) JESSICA: Those chuds! Bet they scratched it themselves.

MARGIE (shrugs): They think the customer’s coming back for it.

JESSICA: Wait, so the scratch-off is just sitting in the office somewhere?

MARGIE: Til they figure out he ain’t.

(JESSICA manages to give the toddler a spoonful of applesauce. Scooping up what didn’t make it in.) TODDLER (mouth full): What’s a scratch off?

MARGIE: Don’t talk with your mouth full, honey bun.

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(JESSICA wipes the TODDLER’S mouth.)

JESSICA: Well... It’s this little magic ticket. You scratch it with a penny and if you do it just right, it’ll change your whole life.

TODDLER: Whoa.

(JESSICA takes advantage of the mouth opened by amazement and sticks another spoonful in.)

INT. Kitchen sink - Later - Dinner’s eaten. The two of them wash dishes by hand at the sink. The TODDLER still sits at the table, coloring outside the lines of a coloring book. JESSICA (To MARGIE) You know what you should do? (beat) Go in there and get it back.

(MARGIE scoffs. The TODDLER’S crayon wanders off the page and leaves a mark on the table cloth. She gasps. MARGIE and JESSICA don’t notice. She pretends it didn’t happen.)

MARGIE: Yeah? And who’s going to pay these bills and put food on the table when I lose my job?

JESSICA: Me, Ma. I can hold the fort.

MARGIE: Ha. You make as little as me.

JESSICA: I get pretty good tips when it’s busy.

MARGIE: Uh huh.

JESSICA (wryly): Look here, old woman, you gotta retire eventually.

MARGIE: I am not that old. And you’re not too old for a whooping.

JESSICA: Still.

(JESSICA walks to the table, grabbing the TODDLER’S juice-cup.) JESSICA: One more sip?

(The TODDLER shakes her head. JESSICA brings it to the sink.) MARGIE: Retirement’s a long ways away. (under her breath) A long, long way...

JESSICA: What if it’s a winner?

(JESSICA finishes cleaning the cup and turns off the faucet. MARGIE takes a seat at the table.) MARGIE: It’s not a winner, dear.

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SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

JESSICA: It could be. You don’t know.

MARGIE: Jessica. Remember when you were little as her? We was living with your granny just like she’s living with hers.

JESSICA: Yeah, I remember. We didn’t move here ’til I was like seven.

MARGIE: That’s right. And at this rate, I ain’t getting you outta my house for years to come, neither.

JESSICA: I’m working on it, ma.

MARGIE: I know, hon, but that’s the way it is. It breaks my heart, but... (eyes water) I wish I could do better for you than my mama did for me...

JESSICA: It’s okay. You’re doing your best. I know that. I just feel like you deserve that win.

(MARGIE wipes her eyes. Gets herself together.) MARGIE: Dreaming is fun, but it got no business ruining your life, you hear me?

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SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

(JESSICA nods.) MARGIE (CONT’D): And really, I’m just touched that a random stranger gave it to me. (beat) I don’t even know his name...

TODDLER: ...Can I have one?

(She gets a laugh out of MARGIE.) EXT. Grocery store parking lot - Next day - MARGIE sits in her car, scratching and crumpling another three dud lottos. Tossing out each coin that bears her a losing ticket. She takes a long look at the entrance--same as ever--and comes to terms with yet another day of labor. INT. Checkout counter - Later - BEEP… MARGIE scans out item after item. BEEP... BEEP... Her mind wanders. She spots the office door is left open. The receipt prints out and MARGIE instinctively tears it off and hands it over. She sighs and, returning to the task at hand, she turns to see who’s up next, but there’s no line. Cut to: She reaches for a pack of bird seeds and scans it out. EXT. GROCERY STORE - DUSK MARGIE is out for yet another smoke break. She spots birds on the power lines again. She takes out her bird seeds and sprinkles some on the ground, and lights her cigarette. Cut to: Her cigarette nearly spent, MARGIE still waits for a bird to come visit. She sprinkles the last of the bird seeds on the ground and crumples up the package. Still no sign of them, she drops the cigarette and puts it out. Deciding to head in… Until finally, a little gray pigeon swoops in and starts nibbling at the ground. Instantly falling in love with it, she tries to get its attention. MARGIE: ...Hey, little guy...

(A loud whistle off stage scares off the pigeon.)

MR. DUDLEY: Margie! Your fifteen are up.

(MARGIE watches it fly out of sight.) INT. Check out counter - Later Back at her till, MARGIE scans out a customer’s groceries. Other cashiers chatter. MARGIE notices MR. DUDLEY walking out of the office with his fanny pack. A sure

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SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

sign he’s leaving for the day. Noticing him, the other Cashiers pipe down and tidy up their tills, but he’s already caught them slacking off. Not MARGIE though. He nears her register.

MR. DUDLEY: Keep it up, Margie. We’ll see if we can get you another bump next year. Margie plasters on a smile until he continues out the door. The smile fades, until she’s just staring, stricken. Gears turning in her head.

INT. Office - Later - MARGIE walks up to the clock-in machine—but she stops and pokes her head in the office. She looks around and walks precariously in... INT. Grocery store - Meanwhile - MR. DUDLEY re-enters the store. He walks, staring at his phone, until he looks up and notices MARGIE’S register is unattended, yet the light is left on. INT. Office - Meanwhile - She looks around, new to snooping. She decides to close the door and get serious. She starts digging through papers and opening drawers... INT. Grocery store - Meanwhile - MR. DUDLEY looks around, moves to flip the light off, then continues walking to the office... INT. Office - Meanwhile - MARGIE rises triumphant from behind the desk with the lotto pulled from a drawer. She wastes no time. She takes out a coin and kisses it for good luck. Immediately starts scratching at it... INT. Outside the Office - Meanwhile - MR. DUDLEY walks up to the door and tries opening it, but it’s locked... He shakes the handle. Yep, definitely locked. He pulls out a ring of keys, selects the one he needs and sticks it in the door handle. INT. Office - Meanwhile - The door swings open. MR. DUDLEY sees MARGIE sitting at his desk, crying. The scratch-off (now crumpled) sits on the desk. MR. DUDLEY: Margie? What the hell is going on? She sniffs.

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SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

MARGIE: I... I...

MR. DUDLEY: You’ve worked here for--what is it--twelve years? Always the model employee and now you’re running out on the clock and breaking in here and God knows what else that I haven’t caught you doing. (then) What do you have to say for yourself?

MARGIE: ...I have nothing to say. (then) I’ll put in my two weeks notice tomorrow.

MR. DUDLEY: No. No... I’m sorry, we can’t have two more weeks of this behavior. Sorry Margie... (beat) I’ve gotta let you go. Margie stands. As a matter of fact, she has a lot she wants to say, but she stops herself.

MARGIE: I understand. She passes him and exits the office. Taking the crumpled scratch-off with her. Covering her face as tears stream down.

INT. Grocery store - Cashiers watch as Margie hurries past. They all see her a wreck. She runs out the store. They turn to the office, where Mr. Dudley stands. MR. DUDLEY: What!

(They all awkwardly avert their gaze and act busy.) FADE OUT:

MASTER: Two days later.

INT. Grocery store - A woman shops, wearing an overcoat and sunglasses, as if not to be noticed. She pushes a buggy jam-packed with groceries. As she gets closer we notice (or maybe we don’t) this woman is JESSICA. She takes an onion off a display and the whole pile comes tumbling down. She panics--starting to pick them up and looking about for anyone that saw and just opts to walk away. Leaving the mess behind. INT. Check-out counter - Later - She’s halfway through check-out. Still trying to be aloof.

CASHIER: You know you look kind of familiar.

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SCRIPTS : ALEX WHITE

JESSICA (looking up) Hm? Do I?

CASHIER: Yeah, are you related to somebody that works here? She pauses. Feeling caught.

JESSICA: Nope.

CASHIER: Huh. So’s that going to be cash or card?

(She digs in her pocket and pulls out a crumpled paper—) JESSICA (un-crumpling it) Actually, I’d like to pay with this.

(The CASHIER leans in.) CASHIER: Whoa.

EXT. Grocery store parking lot - Day - MARGIE plays with the TODDLER in her car until she sees JESSICA pushing the buggy up to the beat up old car. MARGIE gets out to meet her. MARGIE: So?

“Alright Miss Moneybags, the world is your oyster.”

(She looks at JESSICA with anticipation, dying for an answer. JESSICA says nothing, but rather starts jumping excitedly. Screaming in joy. She shoves a paper bag full of money in her mother’s arms. MARGIE takes out a stack of hundreds and squeals. She jumps. They hug and jump around. Spinning. The TODDLER watches giddily from her car seat. She claps. They start packing groceries into the car.) JESSICA: Alright Miss Moneybags, the world is your oyster. What do we do?

(MARGIE catches a glimpse of two birds playing tag just overhead. She gets a big, wide smile.) MARGIE: I hear Cape May is nice.

(They finish packing and jump in the car. They drive off into the sunset.) FADE OUT

THE END

For more information on author Alex White, please visit our Contributors Page.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

Did You Know I Grew Up Bleeding? By Addison Rizer

Characters: Olive Perry: A seventeen-yearold girl in high school.

Mr. Noel: An eleventh grade math teacher.

Brother: Olive’s Brother

Setting: A math classroom in the local high school.

Performance Notes: We are in a high school math classroom. There are posters on the wall, with silly sayings and bright colors. The board is scribbled with cramped writing. The desk is messy, the chairs all in disarray.

ACT 1 (AT RISE: OLIVE stands in the doorway to the math classroom, MR. NOEL stands at the board, eraser in hand. She knocks, he turns.) MR. NOEL: Hey, Olive. Have a question about the homework?

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OLIVE: No, um, STEM club got canceled so I wanted to see if you needed any help cleaning up for the day?

MR. NOEL: No, that’s okay, I’ve got it covered. Feel free to take a seat and hang out, though. You look like you’ve got something heavy on the mind.

(OLIVE sits down at a desk in the front. She plays with the edges of her cast. As she walked by, MR. NOEL noticed bruises on both legs, dotted up and down, dark and deep.)

MR. NOEL (CONT’D): Hey, Olive?

OLIVE: Yeah?

MR. NOEL: What’d you do to that arm of yours?

OLIVE: Oh, uh, just a little fall. You know us Perry’s, always breaking something.

MR. NOEL: That what those bruises are from too?

OLIVE: Bumps here and there. You know how it is.

MR. NOEL (measured): Mhmm. What time’s your ride coming, Olive?

OLIVE: I’m walking home, actually. Just waiting a bit so it’s not so hot out.

MR. NOEL: Oh, I didn’t think it was that hot today.

(MR. NOEL pushes the long sleeves of his sweater up his arms.) OLIVE: Yeah, well, just in case, you know? This cast gets hot pretty fast.

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MR. NOEL: Sure, sure. You said STEM club was canceled? I thought you were playing sports?

OLIVE: I was, but this cast kind of put a stop to that. I figured I’d use my newly freed time to try out some new stuff.

MR. NOEL: What else are you trying out?

OLIVE: Little bit of this, little of that. I’ve been in math club for a while, as you know, and STEM now, and National Honors Society, and tutoring at the elementary school, and… I thought there was something else but that’s all I can think of.

MR. NOEL: You don’t spend much time at home, do you? Getting ready for college applications?

OLIVE: Don’t think I’m going to college, Mr. Noel. I just…don’t want to go home, I guess.

(OLIVE drops her broken arm into her lap, out of view of MR. NOEL.) MR. NOEL (quietly): Why’s that, Olive?

OLIVE: No particular reason.

MR. NOEL (glancing in the direction of OLIVE’S cast): Olive, I say this very carefully, but given the circumstances I’m going to ask that you give me just a little bit more information than that.

OLIVE: You wouldn’t believe me.

MR. NOEL: I bet you I would.

OLIVE: No one ever has before.

MR. NOEL: Come on, Olive. I’m here to help.

OLIVE: It’s not my father. I know that’s what you’re thinking, but it’s not him. His leg’s broken right now, so it’d be pretty tough to do this kind of damage to me while he’s busy figuring out how to slide down the stairs.

MR. NOEL: You can tell me who it is, Olive.

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SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

OLIVE: That’s the thing, Mr. Noel. It isn’t anyone.

MR. NOEL: What do you mean?

OLIVE: It’s our house. Our white-picket, sunflower-yellow house.

MR. NOEL: Your house? I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.

OLIVE: I know. Nobody ever does. This is when they say I’m joking, I’m hiding things, I’m lying. This is when I’ve learned to stop talking.

MR. NOEL: Tell me. I won’t think you’re lying, Olive. Just, tell me so I can help you.

OLIVE: You can’t tell anyone. Not CPS, not the cops. You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.

MR. NOEL: You know I can’t make that promise until I hear what you have to say. Just tell me what happened and we’ll take it from there, yeah?

OLIVE: I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have a bruise on me somewhere. At this point, I’ve broken my arm six times. My older brother’s had too many stitches to count anymore. My mother’s a mess of pins and metal inside.

“It thrives on our pain, our little picture perfect house.”

MR. NOEL: But-

OLIVE: It’s our house that does it, Mr. Noel. I know this sounds impossible, but our house wants us dead.

MR. NOEL: I don’t understand.

OLIVE: We didn’t get it at first either. Just thought we were a clumsy family. We were prone to slipping down the stairs, to forgetting we’d left cabinet doors open and where the sticky spots on the floor were and how quickly the front door swings back shut. But, who falls down the stairs that many times in a year? Who’s door shuts on their hand twice in the same week? Who’s floorboards shoot up from the ground to send them sprawling with dinner in hand? I know it sounds strange, impossible, but I’m telling you, Mr. Noel, our house is out to get us. The stairs move beneath our feet, our cabinets swing open while our backs are turned. It thrives on our pain, our little picture perfect

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house and my parents didn’t find out until after they’d spent all their money buying the place.

MR. NOEL (hesitant): How’d they figure it out?

OLIVE: It was my mother that had the suspicion first. She hadn’t been clumsy before this place, you know? Then, suddenly, it’s two falls down the stairs in one month, and her first broken bone, too. She tried catching it in action, taking pictures, running a camera all day.

MR. NOEL: What happened?

OLIVE: She couldn’t catch it. The house knew, I guess. Didn’t want her to have proof. It wasn’t until my older brother was learning to walk and the floorboard shot up out of nowhere to trip him before they had solid proof. They were recording him, and the house couldn’t resist, I guess. Don’t know, but I’ve seen the video clear as day, those floorboards jump from the ground. My brother got his first set of stitches that day. My mother got her proof.

MR. NOEL: So, what’d they do?

OLIVE: They experimented. They left the house for a few days just to make sure they weren’t accident prone and came out a week later with no bumps or bruises, not a single scrape. Their first day back my mother tripped down the steps to the garden and busted her cheek open.

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(MR. NOEL winces.)

OLIVE (CONT’D): Then they tried leaving someone alone for a little bit. See what that would do. Found out how much worse the damage is when you’re alone to take it all. We’ve had a rule since I was born that no one is to leave the family alone in the house. Either we’re all there, or we’re all gone.

MR. NOEL: All the clubs.

OLIVE (nodding): They get me out of the house until my parents get off work. I think it used to be worse before I was born. Think that’s why I was born, really.

MR. NOEL: Don’t say that.

OLIVE: I’m not saying my parents don’t love me. But, I think it was too hard watching my older brother take such a beating all the time. So, they had me and it got a little easier for everyone. My mom was pregnant after me, too, but the house took care of that. Never could get pregnant again after.

MR. NOEL: I don’t understand, why don’t you guys move out? Stay with your grandparents?

OLIVE: Grandparents are dead. We haven’t got anyone around with enough space for all of us, either.

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SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

MR. NOEL: What about moving?

OLIVE: We tried to. Last year, I quit everything and took up a job down at the pizza place on the corner. My brother got a job, and did some repair work on the side. My parents, too, grabbed as many hours as they could. This was right after I caught my mom trying to appease the house by carving up her thigh. She thought maybe the house would be satisfied for a while, leave the rest of us alone. But, it didn’t do anything. The house just takes and takes. So, we made a pact. We each saved our money separately, hid it in different spots. After a year we’d come back and count it all up to see what we could do. It wouldn’t be much, we knew, but it’d be something.

MR. NOEL: What happened? Hospital bills?

OLIVE: No, we learned pretty quickly how to patch ourselves up so the hospital bills were minimal. It was a quiet stretch in the house, too. No broken bones, nothing major.

MR. NOEL: So, what happened?

OLIVE: The day came, the one we’d picked to count it up and see what we could do. See how much longer we had to work to get somewhere, anywhere other than that house. I ran home that day and found everyone waiting in the living room. We were grinning. I couldn’t remember the last time the air felt like that, so full of excitement. That house always made it feel like the life had been drained from us all. In a way, it sort of was. So, we all split up to our little hiding places. My mother to her jewelry box, my father to the can in the garage, my brother to his bookshelf, and me to underneath my bed. But, it was gone. The plastic bag the money was in was just laying there on the ground, but it was empty inside. See-through. I went out into the hallway to find my brother clutching the tin he kept his in, heard my father throw something against the door in the garage. My mother was calm when she came out of her room a few hours later. There wasn’t anything we could do.

“So what, you just stay there? Keep getting hurt over and over again forever?

MR. NOEL: I don’t understand.

OLIVE: The house won’t let us leave. I don’t know how, but it took that money from us, and would keep taking that money from us. That cruel, cruel house. It waited until our hopes were up. That hurt more than this stupid thing, if I’m honest.

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SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

(OLIVE lifts her casted arm.) MR. NOEL: So what, you just stay there? Keep getting hurt over and over again forever?

OLIVE: Guess so. We haven’t got money for college, and it’d be a selfish thing to leave for anyhow seeing how much worse the damage gets when one of us is gone.

MR. NOEL: And your parents, they’re okay with this?

OLIVE: That’s the thing. It kills my parents to hold us back. So, my brother and I both pretend we don’t want to go to college. Pretend we don’t want to leave this place. If they knew we wanted to go, they’d shove us out the door and lock it behind us while the house tore them apart. How could we do that to them? How could anyone?

(OLIVE starts to cry into her hands.) MR. NOEL: Let me drive you home, Olive. Do you think your parents are back yet?

OLIVE: Maybe.

(MR. NOEL gathers his things, grabs OLIVE’S backpack from the floor and shoulders that too. They walk side by side to his car in the parking lot. In the car, OLIVE is silent, MR. NOEL glancing over, noticing how much tenser she gets the closer they get to her house. He parks in her driveway.) OLIVE: Shit. No one’s home yet.

MR. NOEL: I’ll wait with you.

OLIVE: No, that’s alright. I’ll sit on the steps to wait.

MR. NOEL: Really, Olive, it’s okay. I’ll wait.

(OLIVE gets out of the car, swinging her backpack onto her shoulder. She sits on the steps and fiddles with her cast. MR. NOEL follows, sitting beside her.)

OLIVE: It might be awhile. They’ve been trying to pick up extra shifts, so you never know when they’ll both be home. My brother’s got work for another fifteen minutes.

MR. NOEL: What do you guys do on weekends?

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SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

OLIVE: We wander. Take road trips, go to movies, spend days in the park down the road. Sometimes, we all split up and do our own thing, but mostly we stay together. It’s easier that way. Less questions about the bruises and broken bones when everyone thinks my dad’s doing it and he’s standing right there.

MR. NOEL: I’m sorry. You know we only ask because we care.

OLIVE: I know.

MR. NOEL: Do you know how the house got this way? Why, it does this to you?

(MR. NOEL rubs his hand on the wooden step, OLIVE watches, almost in a flinch.) OLIVE: Not really. We have our ideas. It was built in the last ten years, doesn’t have any blood it’s built on. My father says the year it was built, the construction workers in the area had their wages cut. Thinks they pounded their anger into the house and it has no where else to put it. My mother thinks it just gives back what we give. Thinks if we’d loved this house, like my brother loves it, it would’ve been kind to us. That would have been nice.

MR. NOEL: And you? What do you think?

OLIVE: I think we just stumbled into something the same way you wind up on a bad blind date. Sometimes there isn’t an answer. No ghosts or ghouls or gods. Sometimes we just have to accept that we won’t get an explanation.

(OLIVE waves as her brother comes walking up the street.) OLIVE: Looks like I don’t need a babysitter anymore. You’re free to go, Mr. Noel. Thanks for the ride.

(MR. NOEL stands up to leave.) OLIVE (CONT’D): Mr. Noel?

MR. NOEL: Yeah?

OLIVE: Thanks for caring.

(MR. NOEL nods as he gets into his car. He waits a moment, watching the siblings chat with each other. As he’s watching, the front door swings open and shut again violently.

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SCRIPTS : ADDISON RIZER

OLIVE and her brother don’t even flinch. He pulls his phone from the pocket of his pants and dials a number.) MR. NOEL (peering at OLIVE through the windshield.): I have to do this. I have to. It’s because I care about you. I have to keep you safe.

(A voice answers on the other end.)

MR. NOEL (CONT’D): Yes, I’d like to report a potentially abusive living situation for one of my students. Her name is Olive Perry…

(MR. NOEL continues speaking as he pulls away from the drive. OLIVE and her brother continue to chat, unaware, on the porch steps. A floorboard beneath OLIVE’S good hand jumps up and slams into her fingers, and she cradles it to her chest while she keeps talking to her brother. It happens again, hitting her elbow. Then again against her chin.) BROTHER: What’d you do to piss off the house so badly?

(He tilts OLIVE’S head back, helping her stop the blood sliding down her neck from a gash beneath her chin. OLIVE doesn’t say anything, but stares after the street where MR.NOEL disappeared, wondering what she’d brought onto herself.)

THE END

For more information on author Addison Rizer, please visit our Contributors Page.

CANYONVOICES

SPRING2018

SCRIPTS : RACHAEL KING

The Word and the Fist By Rachael King

Characters: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Malcom X Setting: A clear, black stage. Performance Notes: (Enter MARTIN LUTHER KING JR [MLK] from stage left and MALCOLM X from stage right. Both are dressed in formal suits, as if for a business meeting. MLK is wearing a visible cross around his neck and MALCOLM X wears a visible star and crescent around his. Spotlights follow both men to center stage, where they stand about 10 feet apart. The spotlight on MALCOLM X fades while the light remains on MLK. Both men are facing the audience.) MARTIN LUTHER KING JR (speaks softly, with care, looking out at the audience): Encourage the young women to love their husbands, to love their children, to be sensible, pure workers at home, kind, being subject to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be dishonored. Likewise, urge the young men to be sensible; in all things show yourself to be an example of good deeds, with purity in doctrine, dignified, sound in speech which is beyond reproach, in order that the opponent may be put to shame, having nothing bad to say about us.

(Light fades on MLK and comes up on MALCOLM X.)

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SCRIPTS : RACHAEL KING

MALCOLM X (speaks harshly, looking sternly at the audience with judgement): In their hearts is sickness, and God has increased their sickness. They will have a painful punishment because of their denial. And when it is said to them, “Do not make trouble on earth,” they say, “We are only reformers.” In fact, they are the troublemakers, but they are not aware. And when it is said to them, “Believe as the people have believed,” they say, “Shall we believe as the fools have believed?” In fact, it is they who are the fools, but they do not know.

(Light fades on MALCOLM X, but does not turn completely dark. Light comes up on MLK.)

MARTIN LUTHER KING JR (looking very intentional, staring off into the sky):

There is a dream.

The dream is enormous, encompassing, yet entirely old.

The dream has been carried by the people for years. Hundreds of years. Thousands of years. Yet there are no enemies. Only opponents.

Not the white man. Not the black man. Not the mixed man. Not the man of a race.

The opponent is the one who acknowledges the differences

between the white man, the black man, the mixed man.

There is a dream.

Why should the dream not be heard? Why should the dream mean less? WHY should we silence the dream under the weight and the pressure and the garbage?

The child’s heart is ripped from his body as the dream comes crashing down.

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SCRIPTS : RACHAEL KING

The grandfather’s heirloom is shattered by an earthquake as the dream comes crashing down.

The hope and the pain and the work turns to dust as OUR dream comes crashing down.

There is a dream.

“Climb the Mountain. Go to the valley. Make a difference.”

In a word, freedom.

In an action, peace.

In a society, equality.

(with increasing passion)

Why do they not understand? Why do they not listen? This is the doctrine of our world, and they are ignoring it, and ignoring me, and ignoring the people.

We carry the weight of those who were broken by the beatings and the boxes and the brutality that is the symbol of the generation. A scar that will never heal, a society that will never feel the agony of the ages and the struggle of the sermon, no, of the preacher, with no audience left to hear his plea.

(more calmly)

Let freedom ring.

Climb the mountain. Go to the valley. Cross the river. Make a difference.

Teach nature, and let nature teach you. Learn everything, and let everything learn from you.

You are the one. We are the one. You, we, cannot waste a moment. Tomorrow is not a new day.

Tomorrow is the same torment we have felt our whole lives, and the same plague that sits on us every time someone says the words “you are different.”

How, why, what makes difference? Are we not men? Are we not human? Are we not of the same dirt that creates and destroys us all?

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Let freedom ring.

You have no maker, no master, no manipulator but yourself, and you have worth.

(with increased volume)

You are worth something and everything that no one can see. Hidden in the darkness, lurking in the corner, always waiting and always acting; forever silenced by the gun pointed at your friend, your neighbor, your brother shouting “You are not worth it!”

(PAUSE)

(return to normal volume)

WE are worth it. WE cannot be silenced. WE will not stop until our opponent has our love.

Let freedom ring.

The raven soars when his chains are broken. He roams the skies, independent and safe, never to return to the lies that grounded him and confined him to a thing which was not the whole.

The panther races when his strength returns. His thick thighs go faster and faster and faster until he reaches his friend, matching his pace and position from the ground, feeling his wonderful loneliness. The raven and the panther become one in their freedom.

(with clear intention)

The people flourish as we grow the wings of the raven and receive the speed of the panther. We are as open as the bird and as quick as the cat and as elegant as both. We are equal.

(Light dims over MLK but does not go completely dark. Light comes up on MALCOLM X.)

MALCOLM X (Looking stern, with gaze set directly ahead):

(somewhat harshly)

The white man separates.

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SCRIPTS : RACHAEL KING

The five digits, swinging at your face. The five digits, threatening your family. The five digits, staring at you, watching you, telling you not to succeed, not to be who you are.

(with increasing volume)

Divide and conquer, he says. Divide the world, the continent, the country, the state, the city, the community, the family, THE PERSON.

(return to normal volume)

He rules. He regulates. He reigns.

You are different. You know the way.

The white man separates.

You protest, and he shuts you down. You are empowered, and he breaks you apart. You long to live like the white man, and he spits in your face.

The so-called negro with no power. The socalled negro with no strength. The so-called negro with no will.

You cannot live the life of masters, and you cannot give your life to the community that binds you and tears you apart; the community that makes all one, the community that sets all apart. The community that highlights the so-called negro.

The white man separates.

(with a sense of beat)

The African, the Japanese, the Indian, all alone.

(return to normal speech)

The white man alone.

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SCRIPTS : RACHAEL KING

Can the white man live alone in a world so cold as to give him the power? Can the white man live alone in a galaxy so harsh as to lend him the rod? Can the white man live alone in a universe so chaotic as to tell him “you are the one?”

The white man is alone, with no hope to find another floating disaster to bump, bang, blast into.

You are not alone. You are never alone against the self-created enemy. Not the opponent - the enemy.

You have a nation within you waiting to explode, to encompass, to engage; a nation stronger than the white man.

(more softly)

The nation is strong.

Take your friends. Take your neighbors. Take your families. Take them to the beginning. Take them to the place where everything changes. The beginning, but the end. The end of suffering. The end of pain.

The end of discrimination.

(more harshly) Call out the name. Let it echo from the walls of the great empire that once was. Let it resound in the halls of the castle that has fallen.

“We stay, we go, we live, we die, but we have the power.”

Let it bombard the faces of the people at your feet, the insignificant people who lost to you.

(with clear intention)

This is your time.

You are the power. You are the position. You are the potential.

The nation is strong.

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Political power, political equality - who cares? Who needs the vote? Who needs the stand? Who can overcome the white man with a black voice?

Social power, social equality; these are what matter now. Live for tomorrow and forget today.

Stampeded by the police for sitting in a chair. Terrorized by the KKK for the color of your hair, and all you can say is “political power, political equality.”

The white kid’s retort rings in your ears, the postman’s smirk sticks in your brain. No discrimination by the public person, but the private one has no barricades for you to hide behind.

Get away, before the white man chases you. Disappear, before the white man silences you.

The nation is strong.

Separate, but equal. A court decision. Official government business.

What makes you equal to the white man? What makes you a part of his system, his faith, his lie?

Segregate yourself, and you will be free.

Create your own equality, with no fee.

Develop, discover, DETERMINE.

Take control of your destiny.

Before you is the kingdom, the empire, the nation; the warmth, the acceptance, the strength.

(Light comes up on MLK. The two men turn toward each other, walk until they are about 1 foot apart, grab each others hand, and turn towards the audience.)

Both (trading lines, starting with MLK):

(with great intention)

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The choice is ours. Do we cling to our brothers and sisters, or do we leave them in the fire? Do we connect ourselves to the society, or do we flee it? We decide. We are our own people.

Individualism can never be removed.

(somewhat aggressively)

Hit, harass, spit, smirk, lurk, lie, but we are individuals.

(return to regulated tone)

The spark of creation flows through us all, never to be put out, never to be destroyed.

The power is ours - the power to EMPOWER. We empower ourselves to empower each other. We WILL rise up, flaming with glory, proclaiming the FACT of our power. We stay, we go, we live, we die, but we have the power.

(The two men turn toward each other once more without releasing hands, bow in honor, drop hands, and walk to opposite stage exits with lights fading as they exit.)

For more information on author Rachael King, please visit our Contributors Page.

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SCRIPTSCONTRIBUTORS Addison Rizer Addison Rizer is a junior at Arizona State University pursuing a degree in English and a minor in Education Studies with a certificate in writing and LGBT studies. She was one of six undergraduate writers selected for the Undergraduate Writers Showcase at Piper House in November of 2017. She is an interview editor for ASU's literary magazine Superstition Review where she has spent a year conducting interviews with authors. She has also had work published online for Kingdoms in the Wild, a literary magazine. This summer, she’ll be interning with the FBI Honors Internship. In the future, she plans on editing in the publishing industry.

Alex White Alex White is an atypical outcast born in the Rockies but raised in the Bayou, which produces the unique perspective found in his work. He dreams to one day use that point of view to write for the big screen; but in the meantime he pursues a variety of creative endeavors that include filming events, video editing, storyboarding, photography, and of course screenwriting and writing prose. Though he is primarily self-taught, he rounds his education in these fields by taking the entertainment technology program at Baton Rouge Community College. He can be contacted through his email AlexG.White@yahoo.com.

Rachael King Rachael King is a freshman at ASU West majoring in Environmental Science with a minor in Political Science. Although her major is not related to art, she enjoys photography and writing poetry in her spare time. She is inspired by being outside and by listening to powerful music and speakers. She likes to use photography as a way to communicate the beauty of the environment and its need for protection and to use poetry as a way to represent the interconnectedness of the world. She hopes to work in either water quality policy or plastic pollution issues after completing her undergraduate studies and is thinking of pursuing a Masters. She hopes to never lose her passion for art even as her career takes her in a different direction.

Artistic expression has been part of humanity since the earliest pages of recorded time; and its contributors have long graced its canon with astonishing and extraordinary creations with their hands, their voices, and their minds. This issue of Canyon Voices Literary Magazine seeks to honor and exemplify up-and-coming artists and the development of their individual emerging creativity as they help to evolve the canon of art we know today.

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SCRIPTSCONTRIBUTORS

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ARTWORK

Allen Forrest Gregory Hull Monique Wilkinson Paul Paul Ricardo Castro Catherine Craig Rachael Peretic Ryan Wesson Darlene La Mere Ruth Jolly Yoli Kunst Nicole Marhong Phoebe Preston Alberto Escamilla

My Requiem by Ryan Wesson

(See Artwork for full image)

ARTWORK : ALLEN FORREST

ALLEN FORREST Allen Forrest is a writer and graphic artist for covers and illustrations of literary publications and books. The winner of the 2015 Leslie Jacoby Honor for Art at San Jose State University's Reed Magazine, he lives in Vancouver, BC, Canada. His Bel Red landscape paintings are part of the Bellevue College Foundation's permanent art collection in Bellevue, WA. To find more of his published works, please visit him online at http://artgrafiken.blogspot.ca/2016/04/poetry-and-prose.html to browse his poetry and prose collection; and http://artgrafiken.blogspot.ca/2018/12/graphic-narrative.html to browse his graphic narrative collection.

Ladies on the Bus 2 : Ink

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ARTWORK : ALLEN FORREST Vancouver Transit 22 : Ink Watercolor on Paper

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ARTWORK : ALLEN FORREST

Vancouver Transit 1 : Ink

Vancouver Transit 17 : Ink

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ARTWORK : ALLEN FORREST

Granville Transit Buses : Oil on Panel

Surrey Central Skytrain Station : Oil on Panel

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ARTWORK : ALLEN FORREST

Vancouver Transit 12 : Ink CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : GREGORY HULL

Gregory Hull Nationally renowned, and regarded as a Renaissance man, Mesa, Arizona artist Gregory Hull is among today’s premier contemporary realists, achieving success across multiple genres: portrait, still life, and landscape. Harnessing classical training descended from European academies, Hull mastered each new artistic quest with his own potent and emotive style. While his eclecticism defied definition by art critics, curators, and gallerists—who tend to pigeon-hole artists—it never hindered his success. Sell-out solo shows at America’s most prominent galleries, from New York City to California, as well as prestigious awards and celebrity commissions, furthered his fame. For forty years, Hull has lived by his brush, his skill and courage, aiding his creative potential and authentic self. His journey offers a roadmap for those aiming to follow their heart and lead a fulfilling life. A new book about Hull came out in 2017: Gregory Hull: Journey Home to the Authentic Self by Amy Abrams.

Canyon Serenity : Oil

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ARTWORK : MONIQUE WILKINSON

Monique Wilkinson Monique Wilkinson attends the Academy of Art University while working two jobs in order to pursue her dream of becoming an illustrator. Having already obtained her Associate’s degree, she now seeks an art education as it is her passion. Her goal is to work for a comic company or any animation studio as an illustrator. She has been drawing for as long as she can remember and her passion grows as she attends university. Her work contains mediums such as graphite, charcoal, ink, watercolor and much more; her favorite being graphite. As her journey continues, she only hopes for a better outcome in her field of art.

Charcoal Still Life : Charcoal CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : MONIQUE WILKINSON

Analysis of Fabric : Charcoal CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : PAUL PAUL

Paul Paul Paul Paul was born in South Sudan and grew up in Phoenix, Arizona. He’s a freelance, professional photographer who loves and enjoys capturing the true spirit and personality of the people, places and subjects that he photographs. His goal is to show the awesome beauty, grace and enthusiasm of each moment in life and all the unique gifts, talents and stories along the way. He has learned to accomplish his unique style in creative, fun, engaging and relaxed environments where adventure is just around the corner. His continued growth, ongoing experience and travels have allowed him to passionately create and participate on several different photography and video production projects. Paul specializes in portraits, landscapes, event and business photography.

Grandcanyon : Photography

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ARTWORK : PAUL PAUL

Alyssa : Photography CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : PAUL PAUL

Charles B. Jackson (2) : Photography CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : RICARDO CASTRO

Ricardo Castro Ricardo Castro was born November 2, 1990 in San Juan, Puerto Rico. In middle school—seventh grade—he discovered one of his passions, music. He became a flutist and a clarinetist and decided to study music at the conservatory of music in Puerto Rico. After music, he decided to enter the medicine field and became a pharmacy technician. Eventually, he found his love for photography—primarily nature and street photography. He taught himself just with a computer how to take good pictures and went straight outside to practice his newfound passion. He now tries to reach high in the world with this beautiful art called photography.

The Giant Grasshopper : Photography

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ARTWORK : RICARDO CASTRO Florida Alligator : Photography

Dragonfly Life : Photography

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ARTWORK : CATHERINE CRAIG

Catherine Craig Catherine Craig is a senior attending Arizona State University (ASU) at the West campus as well as ASU’s Barrett, The Honors College. She has enjoyed many forms of art from a very young age, practicing the fine arts through all forms of media. She is a little unconventional for an artist as she is majoring in Biology and plans to move forward in the sciences. But this does not deter her love of drawing and painting. In the past, her oil painting portraiture of Gandalf the Grey from J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings gained acclaim at a California State Fair. The piece went on to win best in show for amateur artists. She hopes to continue her pursuit in art well into the future.

Aftermath : Watercolor CANYONVOICES

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Growth : Watercolor

ARTWORK : CATHERINE CRAIG

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ARTWORK : RACHAEL PERETIC

Rachael Peretic Rachael Peretic is a self-taught artist currently residing in Keene, New Hampshire and has been hand-crafting analog collages for over ten years. Inspiration for her work is drawn particularly from her experiences with landscapes, music, pop culture, politics, architecture, and literature. Over the years she has developed a graphic style and layout design often mistaken for a digital medium. All of her work is hand-cut, assembled, and pasted paper. The first solo exhibit of her artwork will appear at the Sans Moco Gallery in Pennsylvania in March of 2019. For more on the artist and to follow along with her work, find her on Instagram @ rp_collage.

Untitled 2 : Collage

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ARTWORK : RACHAEL PERETIC

Untitled : Collage

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ARTWORK : RACHAEL PERETIC

Super Shooter (5) : Collage CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : RACHAEL PERETIC

Crosshairs (2) : Collage CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : RACHAEL PERETIC

Erasure : Collage CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : RACHAEL PERETIC

Beauty (2) : Collage CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : RYAN WESSON

Ryan Wesson Ryan Wesson, raised in Phoenix’s desert suburbs, developed an interest in photography when he turned twelve. A former D1 athlete both in high school and college, he decided to resign from his Cross Country/ Track campaign after competing collegiately in his freshman year at Northern Arizona University (NAU) to pursue his photographical endeavors. During his time at NAU, he had the opportunity to work with Red Bull in Flagstaff, Arizona while also working for a local newspaper. He has since focused on developing his own artistic style in events, lifestyle, and portraits. You can follow Ryan on Instagram @ryanjwesson or visit his website ryanjwessonphoto.format.com.

But it’s such a thrill to find out… : Photography CANYONVOICES

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My Requiem : Photography

ARTWORK : RYAN WESSON

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ARTWORK : DARLENE LA MERE

Darlene La Mere Her name is Darlene La Mere, born and raised in the proud nation of elephants, cobras, and coup d’états. Growing up in rural northern Thailand is easy. PE has the best view when you’re running a kilometer through the rice fields in the fog, watching the snakes and dogs heated in their daily morning fights, all the while in ragged flip flops sinking into the mud. When she came to Arizona last August at 18, she had no idea the people here would find her living conditions to be “poor.” To her, the time she spent in just boxers and a t-shirt, lying on her best friends’ mountain by the mango trees, eating $2 meals from markets a bicycle ride away was the richest, best, most fulfilling time of her life, fueling all the emotions she’ll ever need to draw everything she’d ever want to draw.

Julio : Sketch

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ARTWORK : DARLENE LA MERE

To Our Dreams, Goodbye : Sketch

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ARTWORK : RUTH JOLLY

Ruth Jolly Ruth Jolly is a current undergrad student at Arizona State University who studies Social Work. Photography is her artistic passion and she has been published in several publications. In 2015, she won the cover shot for Arizona Wildlife Views Colander sponsored by Arizona Game and Fish. She has also been a finalist in Arizona Highways Magazine photo contest. Ruth has a keen understanding that the arts speak a special language to people and are often an integral part of self- expression and healing from traumatic experiences. Ruth has spent most of her life in Arizona and she considers it her home. She is a mother of three children and enjoys spending as much time as she can outdoors photographing nature and enjoying the unique beauty of the Southwest.

Tailed Jay on Red Bloom : Photography CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : RUTH JOLLY

Burrowing Owl in a Tree : Photography

Hummingbird Among the Agave : Photography

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Desert Purple and Gold : Photography

ARTWORK : RUTH JOLLY

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ARTWORK : YOLI KUNST

Yoli Kunst Yoli Kunst is a mixed media artist, instructor and creative inspirer. She creates with many types of media including acrylics, inks, pastel, and charcoal; some pieces are hybrids of traditional and digital media. Her paintings focus on the process of creating, letting her intuition guide her. She believes everyone is a creative being and teaches this intuitive process in her workshops. Yoli has a BFA in painting and has been teaching art to children and adults for 10 years. She resides in Phoenix, Arizona with her husband and 2 boys. Her work and social media accounts can be found at yolikunst.com.

Emerging 4 : Mixed Media

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ARTWORK : YOLI KUNST

Centuries Turn, Grace Remains : Mixed Media & Digital Hybrid CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : YOLI KUNST

Emerging 6 : Mixed Media Emerging 2 : Mixed Media

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Emerging 8 : Mixed Media

ARTWORK : YOLI KUNST

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ARTWORK : YOLI KUNST

Flamenco de Amara : Mixed Media & Digital Hybrid

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ARTWORK : YOLI KUNST

Inviting Autumn : Mixed Media & Digital Hybrid CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : NICOLE MARHONG

Nicole Marhong Artist Nicole Marhong was born in Toronto, Ontario on October 7, 1995. She has been drawing ever since she can remember. Growing up she took art throughout her school career. In her practice she enjoys drawing, painting, and sculpting. The mediums she works with are acrylic, watercolor, and oil paints. Nicole is influenced by nature and enjoys drawing trees, flowers, and most of all she likes to draw and paint mushrooms. Her art has been recognized as whimsical, psychedelic, with a touch of Alice in Wonderland. Nicole also has a passion for music. She sings, plays the guitar and plays the ukulele.

Guitar : Painting

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Catcher of the Past : Drawing

ARTWORK : NICOLE MARHONG

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ARTWORK : NICOLE MARHONG

Space Head : Drawing & Watercolor CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : PHOEBE PRESTON

Phoebe Preston As a new Freshman at Arizona State University’s West campus this year, Phoebe Preston is pursuing a degree in Communication with a Minor in English through the New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences. She is also an Honors Student with the Barrett Honors College at ASU West. Loving art from a young age, Phoebe was introduced to painting and guitar by her parents, growing up in a very artistic family. She started taking photos during her freshman year of high school, learning from her grandfather and taking family trips throughout the Southwest with her camera. Her favorite things to capture are beautiful animals and plants in nature; but no matter where she goes she is always keeping an eye out for a perfect shot.

Montana de Oro : Photography

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ARTWORK : ALBERTO ESCAMILLA

Alberto Escamilla A professional artist since 1978, Alberto Escamilla is one of the leading impressionist painters in the El Paso, Texas border region. Several years into his career, he began an in-depth study of the lives and works of the European Masters, especially those of the French impressionists. Because he felt such a strong connection with the way these artists believed and painted, he focused on mastering their techniques. From this point forward, his work entered a new dimension which gave rise to his own experimentation with color, and, identifying his work as “Escamillaism”. An award-winning artist, his work can be found in numerous collections throughout the United States, Mexico, Europe, Australia, Japan, South Korea and numerous corporations. He was a finalist in the 2009/2010 Texas state artist competition and included in the El Paso Museum of Art’s exhibit “Inquisitive Eyes” El Paso Art 1960-2012. He was inducted into the El Paso Artist Hall of Fame, October 22, 2004. To view more of Alberto Escamilla’s work, please visit online at www.albertoescamilla.com.

Spanish Horse Roundup : Oil

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ARTWORK : ALBERTO ESCAMILLA

Dropped Carnation : Oil CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : ALBERTO ESCAMILLA

Irises in Vase : Oil Irises in Vase : Oil

Ballerina in Yellow : Oil CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : ALBERTO ESCAMILLA

Symphony in White with Mirror : Oil CANYONVOICES

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ARTWORK : ALBERTO ESCAMILLA

Irises in Vase : Oil

Winter Roundup II : Oil CANYONVOICES

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The Immigrants : Oil

ARTWORK : ALBERTO ESCAMILLA

Irises in Vase : Oil

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ARTWORK : ALBERTO ESCAMILLA

Ladies Reading with Umbrellas : Oil

Ruidoso Approaching Storm : Oil

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ARTWORK : ALBERTO ESCAMILLA

Main Street Sunset Heights : Oil

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE

Diana Gabaldon Finding the Heroine By Ilyssa Goldsmith

William Hope Confessions of a Software Automation Specialist By Ashtar Mikhail

Sharon Browning The Poet and the Mountainside: Forty Years in the Making By James Wahlstrom

A H Smith The Art Behind the Walkabout By Kristin L Wesson

Susan Southard Nagasaki and the Future By Amanda Beck

Addison Rizer A Young Voice Bridging the Human Connection By Kayla N Manganelli

Yoli Kunst A Day-Long Obsession with Color By Rachel Passer

Cathy Krznarich Community Spotlight: Thrifty Joe’s Books & Music By Kristin L Wesson Vancouver Transit 17 by Allen Forrest (See Artwork for full image)

AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : DIANA GABALDON

Finding the Heroine An Interview with Diana Gabaldon by Ilyssa Goldsmith In 1988, Diana Gabaldon wrote Outlander with no intention of publishing it. Since then, Outlander has been adapted for television and received critical acclaim.

Diana Gabaldon has been a major inspiration for my thesis on feminine heroines. She is the author of the Outlander series and I was drawn to her complex depictions of heroines, like Claire Beauchamp. As the Senior Fiction Editor, I knew I had to pursue this interview with one of the writers who inspires me. I’d like to thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to share some of your insights, trials and tribulations, and suggestions for those of us who aspire to follow in your footsteps. My first question, of

we’d have sexual tension—that’s conflict, that’s good . . . (All I knew about writing novels at that point was that they should have conflict. That’s still pretty much all I know about it . . . ).

course, is what inspired or was a role model for you in creating your female protagonist Claire Beauchamp? Well . . . nothing. I don’t really “create” people, so much as find them. As for Claire—I began work on the book (I don’t say I “began the book,” because that implies I had some idea where it started and I didn’t) with nothing but a man in a kilt. (The whole story of “where I got the idea for OUTLANDER,” as people so often put it, is findable in a hundred or so places all over the web, but the easiest place to look is under the “FAQ” tab on my website page – DianaGabaldon.com.)

Anyway, my three days of research had given me the Jacobite Rising of the ’45 as an historical setting, and the rough idea that it was a conflict between the Highland Scots and the English (this is a very crude (and inaccurate) simplification, but you gotta start somewhere with historical research— refinement happens with work). “So,” I thought, “If I make this female an Englishwoman, we will have lots of conflict.”

About the third day of writing, I thought that while I needed a number of Scotsmen—because of the kilt factor—it would be good to have a female character to play off these guys; then

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Which, of course, we did. Anyway, knowing nothing about this Englishwoman, I loosed her into a cottage full of Scotsmen to see what

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : DIANA GABALDON

she’d do. She walked in to see a number of kilted men crouched round a hearth, muttering to each other. When she entered, they all turned round and stared at her. Why? I wondered. Does she look

that lets you do that is the right thing for you to do. But I understand (I hope) what you’re asking, so . . .

To start with, let me say that all writers have their own ways of working, and how you work depends on a) how your brain is wired up, b) your personality, and c) your life circumstances.

funny?

One man, clearly the chief, rose slowly, looked her over and said, “My name is Dougal MacKenzie. And who might you be?”

And without my thinking much about it, I typed, “My name’s Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. And who the hell are you?”

“And without thinking much about it, I typed, My name’s Claire Beauchamp and who the hell are

you?”

a lot of writers, in all phases of their careers, and roughly speaking, half of us think and organize our processes in a linear fashion— outlines, wall charts, index cards, begin at the beginning and have some idea where the end is, etc.—and the other half of us don’t.

“Well, you don’t sound at all like an eighteenth-century person,” I said. I struggled with her for several pages, trying to beat her into shape and make her talk like an historical woman—but she wasn’t having any. She just kept making smart-ass modern remarks . . . and she promptly took over the story and started telling it herself.

Now, it seems to be the case that most aspiring writers labor under the

“I’m not going to fight with you all the way through this book,” I said. “Nobody’s ever going to see it; it doesn’t matter what bizarre thing I do. Go ahead and be modern—I’ll figure out how you got there later.”

impression that one can only write a story from beginning to end. (They also often think that they must have the entire story plotted out, make outlines, have index cards, and all the other tiresome paraphernalia laid out by elementary school teachers who taught them that this is the “right” way to write—and they (the writers) evidently never questioned this, which is not very bright of them, but it’s certainly common.)

So it’s all her fault that there’s time-travel in these books.

Thank you. Next, can you describe to me what your writing process entails?

I talk to a lot of writers, and by and large, we fall into two rough groups: those who think linearly, and those who think in what I sometimes call a network fashion.

I’m tempted to say, “Putting words on a screen,” because that’s what it boils down to, and frankly, anything you do

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First off, people’s brains are not all wired the same way. Over the years, I’ve talked to

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Think of Christmas lights. You can have a string of bulbs, which you tack up along your door frame or wind round your tree—or you can have a net of lights, which you throw over your garden wall or over your tree. The string is not better structured than the net, nor does it supply more light. But often—especially in the older ones—if one light burns out, the lights further down the string won’t work (or sometimes the whole string appears dead, even though only one light is out). Lights may burn out here or there in the net, but the remaining lights stay on.

If your brain works in a networked fashion, you see one thing here that you know/understand/feel that you can write about, and perhaps you see another there—and there is no direct connection between these two events/scenes, save that you think they belong in the same book. The fact that there is no evident direct connection doesn’t mean that there is no connection. There is. You just don’t know what it is, yet. So if you don’t know what happens in Chapters Three, Four, or Five, but

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you do know that this particular incident happens somewhere later . . . you go ahead and write that, trusting to your instincts (and the underlying patterns of your story) to reveal the missing pieces to you later.

Really, whether one works linearly or not has to do mostly with the way one’s brain is wired.

That is—as observed above—you can’t leap around to different scenes if you’re writing with a pen (or quill) and paper. Or rather, you can, but it would be a lot more difficult, involving all kinds of physical cutting and pasting and recopying. With a word-processor, it becomes simple to write physically disconnected pieces and put them together in any way you like.

As to the educational expedience: Children were (and probably still are)

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taught to use the logical (if tedious) method of “Choose a topic. Write a topic sentence. Make an outline. Write the topic paragraph. Write a rough draft. Revise the rough draft. Write a final draft. Proofread and make corrections. Make a final clean copy and hand it in”

These “What I Know” pieces tend to be linear, because when in this frame of mind, I’m kind of viewing the story from above, rather than living in it, and so I perceive it more as a reader would.

ANYWAY . . . returning to what you actually asked me… (there’s a reason why I write long books; I like digressions . . . ) . . . I am (as you doubtless have deduced by now) a network thinker. This means that I don’t use an outline, I don’t work in a straight line, I usually have no idea where the end of a book will be, and often don’t know where the beginning is. I work in disconnected chunks, which eventually join up into larger chunks, and in the fullness of time (I’m not fast), I’ll see the internal shape of the book (all my books have a distinct geometrical shape) and at that point, the writing gets faster.

because you can make anyone (including the average eight-year-old) do this and get a coherent piece of writing out of them.

When I give talks at elementary schools, at some point I always ask the teacher to turn his or her back. “OK,” I say to the students. “The teacher can’t see you now. How many of you, when you get an assignment that tells you to make an outline, do a rough draft, do a final draft, etc . . . just write the paper itself, and then fake up the other stuff afterward?” About a third of the students will raise their hands. I always did this in school, myself.

I don’t plan out stories in advance—this would not be fun.

I always write in disconnected pieces to begin with, because there are all sorts of things I don’t know about the book I’m writing, but I do see things here and there. As I go on with it, though, I find out more, I research more, the underlying shapes begin to become apparent to me . . . and as the pieces begin to stick together and form coherent patterns, then I may well write linearly to fill in the gaps. Likewise, I occasionally will step back and write a “What I Know” piece. This is just a stream of consciousness about . . . what I know about the story, or chunk, or whatever, at that point in time. Putting it down will often let my subconscious supply new pieces or missing pieces, without my sitting there thinking, ‘Now what happens next?”

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What I do is to work in scenes, and what I need to begin a scene is what I call a kernel: a vivid image, a line of dialogue, an emotional ambiance . . . anything I can sense concretely enough to describe. I write a sentence or two describing this kernel, and then . . . I sit and stare at it, taking words out, putting them back in, moving clauses around, trying to make that sentence as clear and elegant and accurate as possible. At the same time, the back of my mind is kicking up questions: what time of day it is, how is the light falling, is there someone else in the room? And very slowly, I begin to build on that kernel, going to and fro and to and fro and to and fro . . . the kernel itself may ultimately disappear as the writing

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develops; the kernel isn’t what the scene is “about,” it’s just my way of getting a foothold on the page so I can work.

else’s opinion matter to you when working with a character—whether said character is “strong” (I’m truly going to scream if I hear much more about Strong Women) or weak?

(There’s a very condensed example of this at http://bit.ly/2n6QltS.)

From what I see, “Strong Woman” is just as pernicious a stereotype as the ‘50’s housewife on 50’s TV shows; neither one is real. Women are actually not defined by their gender, unless it’s a matter of reproduction. (Which sometimes it is. Check out medieval nuns and abbesses; these women were scholars and philosophers and artists— some of them quite influential (and occasionally) powerful— because they were celibate and thus not constrained by the necessities of children and family.)

Anyway, I don’t do rough drafts. I work on a scene until I think it’s as good as I can make it. Then I leave it and go look for another kernel somewhere else. Gradually, I get handfuls of disconnected scenes, and (I’m doing the research at the same time as the writing) eventually, these pieces begin to fit themselves together. It’s sort of like playing Tetris in my head, but very slowly.

I notice you write strong feminine heroines despite archaic beliefs and negative stereotypes held towards women who lived during the 18th century.

“For the last thirty years, people have been saying to me, ‘Oh! You write such strong women!’”

For the last thirty years, people have been saying to me, “Oh! You write such strong women!” To which the only sensible answer is the truth: “I don’t like silly, weak ones. Why would I write about them?”

What advice can you share with other women writers who undertake similar projects? Why women writers? Don’t male writers handle female characters in historic circumstances? (I’m sure you don’t mean to suggest that women can only write female characters adequately and male writers can only reasonably depict men. I’m told I do men rather well—by men.)

I mean, it’s the writer’s job to determine who his or her characters are and to get them onto the page. Why would you use material you know to be stereotypical? If you’re writing historical fiction, go and find out what people were actually like; don’t assume that people writing about them in recent times got it right. Look for the primary sources; read people’s letters and journals and books published in the period you’re writing about. See what

Also not sure what the connection (or lack of one) there is between “strong feminine heroines?” (Do we have heroines that aren’t feminine? Just teasing . . . ) and negative stereotypes (held by anyone). Why would anyone

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people said, not what people said about them.

of receipt?), and anything else you want to ask.

What were your favorite and/or most

They should be willing to tell you who their existing clients are, and to provide contact with said clients, so you can ask questions as to how they work and what their clients think of them.

challenging novels to write? My favorite is always the novel I’m writing, because that’s the one where I don’t know everything yet; constant struggle and discovery.

It helps if they represent clients you’ve heard of, but it’s not essential; many very good agents don’t have a long list of Big Names in the early stages of their careers, but may still be excellent agents, and right for you.

A lot of writers inevitably deal with rejection. What advice can you offer them? Keep writing. That’s the only way you’re going to get any better. And it’s also the only alternative to giving up, and giving up is the only sure way to fail. So, you either decide to fail on purpose, or you keep going. That’s it. (This is not to say that you can’t at some point decide that

And they should like your work. The relationship between agent and writer is much like marriage or friendship; mutual respect, admiration, and a congeniality of personality and viewpoint is important.

you really don’t want to write, and turn to some other form of expression/making a living). That’s just a Life Choice, not failure.

In many novels, the male protagonist is usually more dominant than the female protagonist. In Outlander,

If a writer decides to publish traditionally,

Jamie and Claire are a perfect

what qualities in a literary agent are

counterbalance, both in-sync with each other, and this works well. How

important?

did you manage this?

They should be a member of the AAR— that’s the Association of Authors Representatives, and the professional group that first established a canon of ethics for literary agents.

Um . . . I wrote them the way I saw them. There aren’t any rules for establishing gender equity in a story (thank God).

By and large . . . they love and respect each other, and don’t—beyond trivial personal differences, such as everyone has—try to change each other’s attitudes or behavior.

They should be willing to answer any questions you have—regarding their submission and reporting methods (do they normally keep you updated on who they’ve sent your manuscript to and any responses to it, or do they prefer only to tell you when there’s positive news?), payment methods (do they pay on receipt of advances/royalties, or do it monthly or quarterly, regardless of time

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Jamie doesn’t think Claire is morally weak because she didn’t grow up being taught to fight with a sword and is not equipped by temperament or circumstance to intimidate or out-face a

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group of hostile people bent on tar and feathers. Claire doesn’t think Jamie is stupid because he doesn’t know what germs are, or because he can’t deliver a baby or stop someone bleeding to death, or guide other people in treating wounds and illness.

her arm and I realized what she was . . . ).

You’ve grown up with these characters for over twenty years and have often mentioned how you aged alongside the characters you’ve written. If you could choose one of your novels that encompasses where you are presently in your life, which one would it be?

Both of them are intelligent, interesting people—with good senses of humor— and since they do love each other, they appreciate each other’s strengths and capabilities and they desire each other’s welfare and well-being. And both of them proceed on that principle—that they do care about each other’s wellbeing and happiness. I.e., it’s not the sort of petty, silly struggle you see in a lot of modern novels, with each person selfishly intent on what

Well, the one I’m presently writing. You’re working on Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone, the ninth book in

“Geillis wasn’t intended to be a villain; she just turned out that way…”

give our readers any hints as to what they might expect?

Hmm. Well, there’s a lot about the American Revolution (it being 1779/80 and all that, it’s kind of inescapable), and thus, about danger, commitments, loyalties and the kinds of discoveries of character that happen in tense times. Lots about family— what it is, how it happens, what makes or breaks family ties. A certain amount of Interesting Stuff about time travel. Excellent depictions of hair-raising medical procedures. Run-ins with angry raccoons, hungry bears and sinister pigs. Destiny and how it finds people, and what you do with it when it isn’t one you

they want, and feeling indignation at their significant other’s not giving them precedence.

Look, a long-term marriage rests on honesty, communication and commitment. Claire and Jamie are pretty good at all three. (And, for what it’s worth, as a social observation, honesty and communication are the necessary precursors for justice and fairness).

want—and what it may do to you. Sex (noting that in my books, sex scenes are seldom just about sex . . . ) and violence (sometimes it is just about violence, but not always) and . . . well, you know . . . bees.

Geillis is a multi-faceted heroine—a villain you can empathize with. What was the inspiration behind her creation? I needed a source of local information and herbs for Claire. Geillis wasn’t intended to be a villain; she just turned out that way (I was astonished, myself, when Claire saw the vaccination scar on

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the Outlander Series. Can you

Thank you so much for your time, Ms. Gabaldon. I look forward to purchasing the ninth book when it becomes available at my local bookseller and, of course, watching Season Four of Outlander on Starz.

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : WILLIAM HOPE

Confessions of a Software Automation Specialist An Interview with William Hope by Ashtar Mikhail What would you say is your goal as a writer? To write a story that the captures the readers’ imagination such that they feel that they are part of the story.

William Hope’s short stories are featured in the Fiction section.

How would you describe your writing style to someone who’s never read your work? At a general level, descriptive narrative.

What is one widespread piece of writing advice that you think is complete nonsense?

I think writers put a lot of personal experience and observations into their work. I know I do. For “The Kiss”, there was a tall Asian woman who attended some Argentine Tango classes at the studio where I was taking classes. I don’t think I danced with her more than once or twice. She did come to a Milonga (Argentine Tango dance event) wearing a beautiful blue dress. I’m pretty sure she had matching shoes. As for the rest of the story, I was in a particularly intense relationship at the time that deep down I knew wasn’t going to last.

Having gotten little or no advice so far, I really couldn’t say.

The staff here at Canyon Voices especially enjoyed reading “The Kiss” (I’m not afraid to admit that I subsequently cried). What was your inspiration for this piece?

“You’ll never regret the things you do, only the things you don’t do.”

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As a writer, do you find it more difficult to write characters of the opposite gender? Not really. I tend to relate better to women than men. Probably because my father was gone a lot for work, so it was just my mom and my sister around. I’m not saying that I create

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accurate female characters, I’m just not intimidated by them.

Do you find the traditional step-away-fromthe-keyboard-and-put-the-pen-down remedy for writer’s block to be effective? Stepping away from a problem for a little while is generally effective in any endeavor. I use it a lot in my computer programming work. It allows solutions to bubble up.

If you could give your 16-year-old self advice (writing or otherwise) what would it be? You’ll never regret the things you do, only the things you don’t do.

How do you decide upon names for your characters? Hard to say really. David and Dan in “Potbelly Antiques” were prescribed because I wrote it for a directed writing competition. Jezebel, the name of the cat in the story, was the name of my grandma’s Siamese cat. Sometimes it’s an alternate spelling such as Alicia in “The Kiss” was a nod to my tango partner, Alycia. Other times, I try to select unique or unusual names for the important characters. I’ve just started a novel where two of the major characters are named Suzann and Cassandra. I try to avoid names that sound the same or start with the same letter.

What do you think of the quote: “I don’t think all writers are sad…I think it’s the other way around — all sad people write.” - Lang Leav Do you sometimes use writing as an outlet? Definitely. Writing gives one a way to process their feelings and a way to explore the source of those feelings. I used to write a journal during difficult times in my life and then throw them

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away. Now I incorporate those emotions into stories. I don’t think the emotion has to be sad. It does have to be strong. I’ve written stories when I’ve been particularly happy as well.

What is your favorite work of subversive literature? I’m not sure I’ve read any outside of school. The closest thing was probably an issue of 2600 Magazine.

What book have you read that you feel is underrated?

Both “Potbelly Antiques” and “The Kiss” have a certain level of ambiguity to them that complements the story without seeming too vague or obscure. What mood did you want to achieve when you sat down to write these pieces?

I think ratings are very subjective. I can’t think of a particular title. As a genre, I’d say Science Fiction is underrated. There’s a plenty of great stories and ideas about the not so distant future, particularly concerning the issues around Artificial Intelligence. I do believe that if we aren’t careful, mankind will create something that it can no longer control. The book, “Two Faces of Tomorrow”, comes to mind. The movie “Ex Machina” I feel is prophetic. I’ve jotted down a couple story ideas along those lines that might be interesting to explore.

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I like the reader to use their imagination to fill in some of the details with their own experiences and expectations. Especially in a short story where you don’t have the space. When I sit down to write, I don’t know what the mood will be. I have an idea for a character or two and a

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setting. For the most part, I feel that the characters take the lead and take the story where it needs to go. I’m sure my mood has a significant influence over how the story gets there.

Is there anything you would like to add? I should probably confess that I was a Cstudent in English.

published. I had a fantasy piece published by the Loudoun County Library last year as part of their annual short story contest. Perhaps future issues of Canyon Voices?

“I should probably confess that I was a C-student in English.”

Argentine Tango, yes. The other varieties of Tango, not so well. I do go out dancing ballroom and Tango several nights a week. It’s a great social outlet and good exercise.

Thank you to William Hope, a man of many avocations, for giving the Canyon Voices staff and readership a behind-the-scenes glimpse of your writing process and showing us literature from your own perspective.

Where can we find more of your work? Even though I have been writing for 4-5 years, I have only recently pursued getting my stories

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The final burning question: Can you dance Tango?

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : SHARON BROWNING

The Poet and the Mountainside: Forty Years in the Making An Interview with Sharon Browning by James Wahlstrom Once hailing from the fair banks of the Mississippi River, Sharon Browning made her way from St. Louis in 1979 to the endless stretches of sand and saguaro which stand

Sharon Browning’s poem is featured in the Poetry section.

sentry over Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Far from the cerulean calm of the Missouri Port, Sharon and her family found a new home in the desert with which to bring on the dawn of a new decade and set the course for something bright and beautiful. With a towering career in public health, boasting

Words seem to bubble up from what my soul is burdened with: joy, sorrow or something in-between.

more than twenty years of service to her community, Sharon hosts a hidden talent with her words. From the time she was in third grade to even now, Sharon has within her a powerful voice with equally cogent creativity

Tell me a little about where you’re from, your family, and how you came

and artistic talent. That same talent brought

to Arizona?

Sharon to us, and so Canyon Voices copy editor James Wahlstrom took some time to

I was born and raised in St. Louis, Mo. I came to Arizona in 1979 because my mother transferred to Ft. Huachuca, AZ. I am the eldest of four siblings: one younger brother and two younger sisters.

get to know this adroit and fervent poet. Who are you as a poet? I think of myself as a chronicler or storyteller. I tell stories, sometimes using poetry and at other times prose, as the topic or emotion seems to fit, or how best the story might be told or connect to the reader. I believe that my poetry is blessed by God, and He and the universe want my voice to be heard.

Tell me about your background as a writer? Writing begins with reading and I have been a voracious reader since age six. During childhood, my mother provided me with the book series, Best Loved

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Books for Young Readers, and I If poetry means rhyme, then my first exposure to poems were in Dr. Seuss books: Put Me in the Zoo, Hop on Pop, A

graduated to reading her Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.

Fly Went By, and One Fish, Two Fish,

I have no formal writing degrees. I took AP English from freshman to junior years in high school. I was dismissed from the AP program for lack of talent in my senior year. I’ve taken creative writing courses at Pima Community College and I owe their professors a debt of gratitude for their time and encouragement to pursue writing. I’ve attended poetry or prose-focused workshops as finances have permitted.

Red Fish, Blue Fish (These titles are my all-time favorites). From there, it was the stories and poems written in The Sunshine Book published in 1946, which I read during elementary school (and still own).

I don’t remember what prompted me to first write poetry, but I suspect the impetus was a homework assignment in third or fourth grade. I was fortunate to be bussed across town to a white elementary school on St. Louis’ southside that had an enriched

How did you first come upon poetry, and what moved you to try it for yourself?

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curriculum, an in-school library, and participated in the Scholastic Books program.

Observations and What Not.” I continually think of projects. I write every day.

Tell me a little about you: i.e. your upbringing, your educational

Is there a particular style of poetry with which you self-identify? Why?

endeavors, your career, and what you are currently up to in general?

I’m learning about poetic forms and recently was exposed to experimental poetry, which I found fascinating. I am a very creative person and I know my mind works both linearly and nonlinearly, and enjoys the challenge of problem solving and exploring possibilities.

“My poetry is an extension of the belief that self-esteem/self-value is realized in the fact that humanity, this Earth, and the universe required me, therefore, I was birthed.”

I grew up thinking I was part of the middle class, different only by my skin color; however, my family’s income was probably more like workingclass. My grandmother taught me to read. By six, I was reading on my own and ever since, have devoured books and any other written material. In 1991, I earned my Bachelor of Science in biochemistry and have worked for more than 20 years in public health. I have earned more than 200 credits in several majors: Engineering, Business, Computer Science, Art, Hospitality Management, and now, Creative Writing. I love learning and continue to take classes in a variety of areas.

How has poetry affected who you are over time? It has kept me sane, hopeful, allowed me to work through grief, made me laugh, helped me to understand differing perspectives, and learn to appreciate the nuances people have.

Generally, I am squeezing into every 24 hours: writing, a full-time job, sometimes a critique group (I belong to four.), and the elements of a healthy lifestyle: exercise, nutritional-based eating, and six hours of sleep. I am working on completing my debut novel, “Maisy,” and two poetry books entitled, “Zones: Becky, Blood and Boogie” and “Al-Tirah —Fear Not: A Collection of Poems,

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How long have you been writing poetry? I’ve written poetry since third or fourth grade. However, my formal career began in 2015 when I joined a poetry group at the Quincie-Douglas Library (a branch of the Pima County Public Library system).

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nature as the canvas on which humans’ act.

“Becky” is about the peculiarities of friendships between black and white women. “Blood” examines a woman’s relationship with her reproductive system.

“Boogie” is about the mores that we play into, and in turn, play us, in our journey through social situations.

Are there any themes or ideologies which you pursue, or which drive your work? Lately, I’m moved by events in the news and personal essays. I also work from life experiences that intrigue me. I like to observe human behavior and examine our interactions with one another.

Who is your favorite poet or strongest poetic inspiration?

Is there anything about poetry which you dislike?

I credit Still I Rise, by Maya Angelou, in preserving my positive outlook when I my job duties were reallocated in 2011. My poetry is an extension of the belief that self-esteem/self-value is realized in the fact that humanity, this Earth, and the universe required me, therefore, I was birthed. I have purpose, no matter what others think, no matter how others determine my worth. I am the answer to an equation, even if we never discover the formula or understand the theory that brought forth my birth.

In times of stress, I turn to the poetry of black poets, such as Claude McKay, Langston Hughes, Maya Angelo and Nikki Giovanni.

At times, I wonder about the rules that govern “well-written” poetry. Recently, I was encouraged to use words that are more “universal” and not “culturallyspecific.” For example, I have a poem where in one stanza it refers to “Stacy Adam shoes” in one of its lines, which is a brand of elegant footwear marketed to men, and in the 1960’s and 70’s, their ads appeared in Ebony magazine. The noted poet thought using these words detracted from the poem being accessible to the majority of readers.

Does that approach constrain us from acknowledging what is different can yet be esteemed? Should I be responsible for vocabulary not commonly used in your experience? Should all poetry be purposed to seek only universal appeal?

What do you like to write about most? Human behavior and our reactions to others, our environment and within ourselves.

The two poetry books that I’m working on: “Zones: Becky, Blood and Boogie” and “Al-Tirah—Fear Not: A Collection of Poems, Observations and What Not,” are about the human experience and some of the questions I have. I tend to think of

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Can you describe a real-life situation which inspired you to take up poetry or inspired you in other relatable ways? The path to writing has been deferred for most of my life. I’ve known since high school that I was meant to write.

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However, I feared what my family would say and, of course, failure because I had been labeled with insufficient talent to continue in AP English in my senior year of high school.

In the fall of 2014, I discovered Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie. Then I heard her TED Talk, The Danger of a Single Story. In that talk, she speaks about everyone’s story needs to be heard and everyone’s story has value. That view pushed me over the edge into seriously considering writing.

In the spring of 2015, I walked into the Quincie Douglas library (Pima County Public Library) and saw a post for the Poetry Writing club. I felt a stirring in my spirit, and immediately set my “fleece out” like Gideon in the Bible, asking God if I was meant to attend to give me a sign. He answered with “yes.” From attending those meetings, I gained the courage to enroll that fall in a beginning short story writing course at Pima Community College. By the next semester, I enrolled in beginning poetry with Dr. Josie Milliken and attended a poetry workshop facilitated by Aisha Sloan. With their feedback and Elizabeth Rollins’ encouragement (my instructor from the short story course), I began to have confidence that I could produce meaningful work.

What other jobs have you taken other than as a poet? Have they helped to inspire you? I’m grateful that my current job provides the income to pursue writing. In public health, we are concerned about the human condition and health equity.

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Health equity considers factors other than individual behaviors that influence your health, such as education, income, and where you live.

experiment. I desire to become a poet that endures the passage of time and touches people globally.

Professionally, what is your goal for

Have you experienced any memorable

your poetry?

or influential responses to your work? What were they and how did they

I want to win awards for the sake of having more people of color recognized as “legitimate” voices of the English language, pertinent in the academic realm, and more accepted in our society.

Personally, I want to create work that people believe have enhanced their lives.

affect you? My most memorable moment was the day my friend, Diana, told me that she could see me being honored on Black Girls Rock for the body of my literary work. Black Girls Rock is a very prestigious recognition program. To be honored by it, would probably mean that I have been already recognized by many other traditional award programs. Her vote of confidence left me feeling that I had the talent to create a body of work that would endure and remain relevant.

How would you describe your dream poetry-oriented project, job, or assignment? My dream project is to integrate animation into poetry on the electronic book platform. I imagine having words move on the screen coupled with “intandem” visuals that illustrate the poem.

“Above all, trust yourself that you are called to be a poet and the world is pining to hear your voice…”

Smaller acknowledgments continue to fuel my passion. In 2017, I won second place in poetry from the SandScript literary magazine. In 2018, I was invited to attend the poetry section of the Masters Workshop sponsored by the Tucson Festival of Book Literary Awards.

sort of research methods or practicum when you compose a

poem? I consult a book of poetic forms or internet resources if I want to write in a formal form.

Who would you say is your biggest critic?

Is there any poet which you reference

Me. The more I learn about poetry mechanics and forms, the more I want to

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Do you use any

or aspire to be like?

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : SHARON BROWNING

What advice would you give to a I can’t think of just one poet I hope to be like. Instead, my dream is higher. I aspire to become a distinguished member of the exclusive club of poets who are continually cited for innovation or uniqueness or consistent high quality of work. Of course, I’ll take the “bestselling” poet title, too.

potential poet unsure of making the leap forward into poetry? Be strong and very courageous. Let those words out of your soul. Do it, even while fear tries to silence your voice. Your voice must be heard.

Write your poems in a journal or notebook. Read other poets. Check out your library’s writing clubs. They are typically free, and librarians often facilitate the meeting making these groups a “safe” place to explore your writing.

What is the best piece of advice you could give to an up-and-coming or aspiring poet? Above all, trust yourself that you are called to be a poet and the world is pining to hear your voice, so free all those words caged within your soul.

If you’re timid, try joining a group at the library or attend a non-credit workshop offered to the community. As your finances allow, attend poetry workshops, festivals, readings, or take a course at the community college. Connect with other poets through writing groups.

Lastly, take steps to read your poems aloud. Begin by reciting them in private and move on to small groups and then open mic’s. People are kind and they want you to succeed, but put on a thick skin for the occasional critic. Believe this.

The critic may have a valid point, but most of all, he or she may NOT simply be your reader.

Finally, where can others interested in more of your work go to find your canon?

My work is featured in the 2016, 2017, and 2018 SandScript literary magazine published by the Pima Community College. I have been published online at Rigorous Magazine. I am creating a blog spot at www.dblucillelogan.com.

Thank you for sharing with us. It’s been a pleasure getting to know more about you and your journey. We are thrilled to have received your poem for this edition of Canyon Voices, and we are honored to share your creative

Where do you find joy in composing poetry?

work with the rest of the world. We

These days, mostly on sticky notes and scraps of paper during my lunch break.

behalf of the Canyon Voices Staff and

greatly appreciate your allowing us to feature you in our Author’s Alcove. On our readers, we would like to thank you once again for your contribution, and we hope you enjoy the rest of our Spring 2018 Edition.

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : A H SMITH

The Art Behind the Walkabout An Interview with A H Smith by Kristin L Wesson Sunnyslope’s maze of canals, streets, and trails offered nothing short of a menagerie of characters and settings for A H Smith’s

A H Smith’s stories are featured in the Creative Nonfiction section.

recurring Walkabout accounts. More recent adventures find him closer to his family and to his east coast origins in small town Mount Holly, New Jersey. Over 2,000 miles separate Smith in verdant Mount Holly from his stomping ground of 30 years—Sunnyslope— in parched Phoenix, Arizona; yet, the change of scenery has done nothing but energize Smith’s writing. From dusty desert trails to lush, wooded paths, he continues to go out

What was an early experience where you

on his walkabouts in search of inspiration—in

learned that language had power?

search of his next story.

When I read for a class, Jonathan Kozol’s Death at an Early Age, a book about his experiences as a teacher in Boston. It further inspired me to become a classroom teacher.

When reading each of your Walkabouts, I noted the dedication in your writing that brings to life your personal experience in such a way that invites readers to walk along

What is the most difficult part of your artistic process?

with you. Where did your love of storytelling come from?

The most difficult part of the artistic process for me is waiting for inspiration—that spark of an image or insight that ignites a story. Once I have the initial direction, I am off and running.

I think I have always been a storyteller as far back as I can remember. I wrote and I painted and it was through the realization that my paintings were stories that I understood that at heart, I am a storyteller.

Where did you get the inspiration for your mainstay title of Walkabout? How did the

How long have you been writing?

Walkabout come about?

I began writing around 1967-68. I wrote a little in high school but took it seriously in college when a professor commented favorably on my work.

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I had seen a film in the early ‘70s entitled Walkabout, which familiarized me with the term. The formal definition of the term is a short

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period of wandering bush life engaged in by an Australian aborigine as an occasional interruption of regular work; and in Britain a walking tour; especially, in which a well-known person mingles with the public.

coherent and accessible to a reader. I am faithful to the original encounter. I can’t write a walkabout completely out of my head. It has to be based on the initial encounter. There’s the rub. I have to have that initial interaction to continue writing.

After I retired I had ample time to walk the canals in and around Sunnyslope, the eccentric and unique area of north/ central Phoenix. I would have these unusual and strange experiences on my walks. I began to write about them and the title, Walkabout, just seemed to occur and fit.

How do you decide what tone or mood you are going to use with a particular piece? To an extent, the initial contact dictates the tone or mood of the story. Something poignant would move me in a more serious direction. Something funny or crazy would move me in a different direction. I never know when I start out if I get inspired or in what direction that inspiration will take me.

What motivates you to write your Walkabouts? How do you feel about the often personal nature of this genre?

Besides your Walkabouts, what kind of writing do you like the most (e.g.

I seem to have a need to communicate with words. I communicate with artwork, but there is something about writing that seems to be more intimate and personal. I feel like I have to do it. At my age and with my experience, there is nothing too personal to write about. I like that I have created a voice that is my voice. I am not assuming a character. It is basically my responses to what I see and experience.

fiction, creative nonfiction, etc.)? Are there ever specific themes you

“I seem to have a need to communicate with words. I communicate with artwork, but there is something about writing that seems to be more intimate and personal.”

I have read a lot of poetry in my life (Neruda, Richard Hugo). I love short stories (Chandler) and sudden or flash fiction. I think the only themes I pursue are my response to the world as it comes at me and perseverance… one just has to keep moving forward into the unknown and unexpected.

Do you edit out any parts of your Walkabouts? Or do you keep these stories faithful to the encounter?

Does writing energize or exhaust you?

I edit. I actually love editing and working and reworking that initial encounter into a story that is

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pursue with your work?

Writing energizes me.

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Do you ever find yourself writing about a period in your life (e.g. child, teenager, young adult, adult) more than any other? Based on my encounters, I seem to bounce between all periods of my life as the story dictates. I realize that I am drawing from stories written in my head from many different periods of my life.

What do you think most characterizes your writing? I would hope honesty. And a sense of humor and wonder at the world.

How has your writing changed over time? As a young writer, I was more concerned with large statements. Saying something profound. Less so today. I seek to say something honest and accurate.

Have you had any memorable responses to your work that stick out in your mind? If so, what were they? Because I publish my stories on Facebook, people I don’t know respond favorably to them. I have had a person read a story and know which character on the street I was writing about.

Do you believe in writer’s block? I don’t believe in writer’s block.

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Sometimes I have to be patient for inspiration, but I am not blocked when I’m writing.

What is your writing kryptonite? In Phoenix, it was a 117 degree summer day! In New Jersey, icy sidewalks!

What cultural value do you see in writing/ storytelling? I think writing and storytelling connect us, which in the world today is a good thing. Reading about a world I don’t know expands my consciousness.

Who are some of your favorite authors that you feel were influential in your work? My college writing teachers at the University of Arizona… Steven Orlen, William Roecker, Jonathon Anderson. The poet Richard Hugo. The novelist and screenwriter Raymond Chandler. And the mystery writer Robert Crais.

What do you think is the future of reading/ writing? I think the future is endless and exciting.

Thank you again to A H Smith for taking the time with us at Canyon Voices to provide these wonderfully insightful thoughts into his journey and process as a writer!

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : SUSAN SOUTHARD

Nagasaki and the Future of Peace An Interview with Susan Southard by Amanda Beck Susan Southard’s Nagasaki: Life After Nuclear War was first published in 2015. This

An excerpt from Susan Southard’s Nagasaki: Life After Nuclear War is featured in Creative Nonfiction.

February, after insults and threats of nuclear strikes were nonchalantly exchanged between some world leaders, Susan was compelled to speak out and ensure that the stories of five Nagasaki survivors were not forgotten. At Changing Hands Bookstore in Tempe, where I first met Susan, she spoke of the effects the atomic bomb had on Nagasaki and its people that have lasted generations.

After I started working on Nagasaki in 2003, I realized I didn’t have the skills as a writer that I needed to fulfill my vision for the book, so I entered graduate school and received my MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University/Los Angeles in 2006. And it wasn’t until 2015 that I finished the manuscript and the book was, at last, published.

The audience was both captivated and shocked. She brings forth a perspective that we don’t often hear in the United States: being beneath the bomb as it detonated. Hello, Susan! Could you tell us a little bit about yourself and your background? Hi! Thanks so much for the opportunity to talk with you.

When did you first learn about the hibakusha

Growing up, I lived all over the country, finally landing in Washington, D.C., for ten years and then Arizona for 26 years. Now I spend a lot of time in North Carolina to be with my parents, whom I dearly love. I studied classical piano through college, then moved into theatre (mostly acting), then discovered the field of theatre and social change. In 1990, I founded Essential Theatre, a professional company based in Arizona working with marginalized communities across the region…we’re now in our 28th season!

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(atomic bomb-affected people)? What was it that inspired you to write Nagasaki: Life After Nuclear War? The answer to your question comes in two parts. When I was in high school I lived in Japan for a year as an international exchange student, living with a Japanese family and attending a Japanese girls high school in Kamakura, Japan’s ancient capital, south of Tokyo.

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : SUSAN SOUTHARD

During my year there, I accompanied the senior class of my school on their weeklong field trip to Kyushu, Japan’s southernmost main island. One day we went to Nagasaki.

survivors, by then in the later stages of their lives, to look back on their lives that had been split in two by nuclear war?

In the Preface you explained that Nagasaki took twelve years to write. The depth of your research truly speaks for itself, as do the

The atomic bomb museum wasn’t built yet, but one story of the Nagasaki Cultural Hall was dedicated to exhibits about the 1945 bombing. I stood there, hand-in-hand with my friends, staring at horrifying photographs and artifacts of the physical injuries, burns, and radiation-related illnesses and deaths of the people of that city. It was incredibly impactful for me.

stories of the five survivors. How did you come to the decision that your work was finally complete? I’m smiling…It would have been wonderful to be able to make such a clear and independent decision about the manuscript’s completion. The truth is, I was three years past my deadline with Viking and simply had to finish! Those final years, months, and days were long and arduous, but I finally got to a point when no more edits were immediately evident…or allowed! It was an amazing moment…to finally come to the end of 12 years of work.

“It was an amazing moment… to finally come to the end of 12 years of work.”

Years later, in 1986, I was living in Washington, D.C., and went to hear a Nagasaki survivor speak. His name was Taniguchi Sumiteru. He was 16 at the time of the bombing, and his entire back had been burned off. By then, 57 years old, he told his story in a hushed voice. It was riveting. I introduced myself afterwards, and by some unexpected circumstances, I was asked to step in as his interpreter for the final two days of his stay in D.C. The time we spent together—many hours of one-on-one time when I could ask him countless questions about his life – was

You follow five hibakusha who share their incredible stories of survival and how the bomb changed their lives. In the time that you spent interviewing survivors, is there a particular moment or incident that had an impact on you? There are so many that stand out. I remember when I met Dō-oh Mineko. She was 16 at the time of the bombing, 74 years old when I met her. I was sitting at the far end of a long table in a conference room when she entered at the end of the room. Her presence took my breath away; she stood taller, and with more strength and power than any Japanese woman I’d ever met. Her story is remarkable.

the seed, I think, for Nagasaki.

I travelled to Nagasaki the following year to meet Mr. Taniguchi and other survivors. It would be another 16 years, though, before I actually started working on the book. I was propelled by a driving question: What was it like for the

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Susan Southard (left) with researcher Robin LaVoie and Nagasaki survivor Yoshida Katsuji, in Nagasaki, 2010. Another moment I remember was at the beginning of a third or fourth interview with Yoshida Katsuji, who was in his midseventies by then, his face severely disfigured from burns he endured from the overpowering heat of the bomb when he was only 13. Before we started the interview, Mr. Yoshida handed me a small individual lemon cake, wrapped in plastic. “I brought this in case you were hungry,” he said. “In case you didn’t have time for lunch.” He was always looking after me – so kind and charming. He was really funny, too. He loved to make people laugh.

shame over his disfigurement. He had stayed hidden in his house for years. Years later, he had a realization that he could do nothing about how he looked, and he made a conscious decision to be happy. To make such a decision in the face of extreme pain, disfigurement, and traumatic memory is a remarkable example of the possibilities of human strength and courage.

What was one of the most significant challenges you faced while writing Nagasaki, and how did you overcome it?

Mr. Yoshida had experienced unimaginable pain, along with crippling

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : SUSAN SOUTHARD

There were so many challenges, one day to the next—not the least of which was trying to write about nuclear annihilation and terror at a scale that defies imagination. My approach was to stay with the survivors’ individual experiences and perspectives as much as possible to keep the story real and imaginable, while offering context for clarification and understanding of larger social, political, and medical issues.

I wrote Nagasaki without a specific message; rather, I wanted the survivors’ stories, and the realities of the enduring impacts of nuclear war, to speak for themselves.

That said, it’s important to me as a person and a U.S. citizen that I—and my country—look at the impact of our actions on others with more accuracy, care, understanding, and accountability. Our military and political priorities are often determined with limited historical context. It’s my hope that this book offers a major story that’s never been told—and that it has an impact on how we see the present as well as the past.

I’ll give you two more challenges, among many. In any historical account that incorporates personal narrative, there are complications due to the inherent limitations and unreliability of memory, especially traumatic memory. I countered this by cross-checking survivors’ accounts against support documentation to verify or expand on their memories of events, places, and people.

In Nagasaki, you go into detail about the moment the atomic bomb detonated over Nagasaki. Later on, you revealed that nuclear weapons tested only one year later were much

Further, I am an American, of another culture and generation than the subjects of this book, and I wanted to prevent potential manipulation or appropriation of the survivors’ stories, even more so because they were people who, no matter what the rationale, had already been violated by my country. My answer to this challenge was to use the survivors’ own words and images to relay their experiences as accurately as possible, and to draw on the clearest scientific, medical, political, military, and historical analyses I could find to place the survivors’ experiences into the larger framework of the various histories in which they played a part.

more powerful and catastrophic. It can only be assumed that weapons today are far worse. What can we do to prevent something like this from happening again? You’re absolutely right. Nuclear weapons today are exponentially more powerful than those used on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Right now, more than 14,000 nuclear weapons exist throughout the world; most belong to the United States and Russia (the other seven nations with nuclear weapons are Britain, France, China, Pakistan, India, Israel, and North Korea). About 3,000 of these weapons are actively deployed across the globe… waiting and ready for use upon command. Whether by intentional use, human error, technology failure, cyberattack, or another act of terrorism, we are now—for many reasons—at

What is the message that you hope readers will gain from Nagasaki: Life After Nuclear War?

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extremely high risk for far worse humanitarian and environmental nuclear disasters than Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

whole populations in neighboring nations. Radiation-related suffering and death in all affected countries would be both instantaneous and ongoing.

The answer to your question about how to protect ourselves—and our world— from the dangers of nuclear weapons is extremely complex. I’ll address a few considerations I think are important and often overlooked.

Second, I think as individuals and citizens of nations throughout the world, we need to envision a world without nuclear weapons—challenging, I admit, but the vision has to come first. Then, it’s important to strategize. What preparation is required to move forward in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds? Next is action, transforming our vision and strategies into reality, small steps at a time. There are many individuals and organizations doing just that; one, the International Campaign Against Nuclear Weapons (ICAN) just won the Nobel Peace Prize for its decades of work that resulted, last July at the United Nations, in 122 countries standing up to the nuclear-armed nations to establish a comprehensive treaty banning the development, testing, use, or threat to use nuclear weapons.

First, I think it requires a close and deep examination of our ideas about selfprotection, military superiority, and ethics. We live under the illusion that nuclear weapons keep us safe, which allows us to accept nuclear weapons as both rational and indispensable without thinking about what they actually do. You see, for nuclear deterrence to work, each nation must be both committed to and believed by other nations to be committed to, mass murder of civilian populations. Nuclear weapons are indiscriminate, and when they are used, there is no such thing as a “just war.” Their lethal impact can reach not only the civilians in the targeted nation but also

“Nuclear weapons are indiscriminate, and when they are used, there is no such thing as a ‘just

It’s a remarkable feat and a hugely significant achievement since the nuclear age began in 1945. There’s a long way to

war.’” CANYONVOICES

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : SUSAN SOUTHARD

go, but ICAN’s goal is clear—and isn’t it most everyone’s goal?—that Nagasaki remain the last atomic-bombed city in history. We are all citizens of the world, and we all can contribute to this goal, by educating ourselves, examining our beliefs and policies, and taking action— at local, national, and international levels.

all over the world, bringing people together around important stories from their lives. Our company works with marginalized communities across Arizona and the Southwest, including homeless adults and children; incarcerated youth and adults; developmentally-disabled adults; and veterans and their families (to name just a few). Over the past 28 years, we’ve served over 225,000 people. It’s been quite a ride—rich, hard, and incredibly fulfilling.

Aside from writing, you are also the founder of Essential

Do you have another book or other

Theatre. Can you tell us more

projects in the works? Since the publication of Nagasaki, I’ve had the opportunity to write op-eds about some of the pressing contemporary issues around nuclear weapons, and I’ve also been able to speak and do readings across the country, including at the United Nations. It’s nearly three years since the book was published, and I’m finally ready to dive into a new project. I’m exploring a few ideas now. Very exciting!

about Essential Theatre and how it started? For many years I was fortunate to study theatre and social change with Living Stage, one of the premiere and most remarkable companies in the field (no longer in operation). Then in 1990, I moved to Arizona and started Essential Theatre. Our primary art form is called Playback Theatre—an interactive, improvisational performance format in which members of the audience tell stories from their lives and then watch our ensemble of actors and musicians bring the stories to artistic life. It’s a beautiful form of theatre performed CANYONVOICES

One last question: What advice would you give to aspiring writers? Well, one thing I learned from my years of work on Nagasaki that might be helpful to aspiring writers is to be sure to choose a story or topic that nourishes you on many levels. Everyone who does it knows that writing is hard work, and if what you’re writing about really matters to you, you’re not likely to give up!

Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me, Susan!

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : ADDISON RIZER

A Young Voice Bridging the Human Connection An Interview with Addison Rizer by Kayla N Manganelli 
 Addison Rizer is an emerging writer with an incredible sense of human emotion. She strives, in her work, to have character driven stories and has the ability to connect characters, even if they aren’t human themselves. Addison has demonstrated the capability of

Addison Rizer’s scripts are featured in the Scripts section.

an experienced script writer and emits a lightness about her when she talks about her work. With two of her pieces being highlighted in just this one section, she explores topics far beyond what we have

to think carries over to a reader. I hope so anyway!

seen before in this emerging generation of script writers and hopefully her trend will carry on for years to come.

How long have you been writing in the script format?

When reading both of your scripts, I noticed the dedication you have in your writing that

These are actually my first two scripts I’ve ever written! I took a scriptwriting course last semester to explore dialogue more, and really just for fun, and found myself really loving it.

brings to life your ability to be an effective storyteller and an evoker of deep emotions. What is your process when writing such vivid scenes is there something specific that you channel when writing your scripts?

What inspired you to choose the script format for these stories and for any stories you may also be writing in this format?

First, let me just say thank you so much for these questions! I can’t say that I have any specific way I write scenes going into them. I do like to make sure I understand what each character wants, and why they can’t have it yet before I begin writing. From there, I just focus on putting the most heart into my characters as possible and see where it goes. I don’t always know the ending of a scene, so often for me it’s an act of joyful discovery as I write, which I like

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I think, when you want the story to be about people more than their situation, scripts are a fantastic way to explore that because you’re restricted to just their voice. Just their words. Everything the reader gets, is through the mouths of the characters. For these two stories specifically, I wanted to see how these characters would tell the audience their story,

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : ADDISON RIZER

and I really liked how they came out. The spotlight is on them, and I really like that aspect of scripts.

I just recently got into horror films, a genre I avoided growing up because I thought they’d be boring. But, last summer I started watching the classic horror films I’d missed, and was really shocked at how much horror films are about

What is the most difficult aspect of your script writing process?

people. People, to me, are the most interesting part of our world. So, I really wanted to explore a I think this plays off of the last question, horror-style of script but with new but measuring how much dialogue aspects. I wanted to see how is appropriate at once, how class affects how people each character will speak, might stay in a bad “I think, when you want really keeping the dialogue situation, how age plays the story to be about moving quickly is the into whether or not the most difficult part for people more than their character is believed, me. I like to have situation, scripts are a how gender might play characters speak for a into that. I read a fantastic way to explore long time when they tell folktale in a class that because you’re their story, but that can around the same time restricted to just their get boring after a while this idea was bouncing voice. Just their words.” for readers of the story. So, around my head, and in it, breaking up the dialogue, the children are the ones who making sure the other know the monster is there, but characters with them interject in nobody believes them until it’s too late. ways a real conversation would come across They say it’s just the kids making things up. So, is something I have to go back after writing to long answer made short, it was a lot of things.

edit for.

How do you decide what tone or mood you

Where did you get the inspiration for A

are going to use with a particular piece?

Human and A God Meet on a Bridge?

I think it depends a lot on the character I’m writing, and the situation. Sometimes it takes me a few rewrites to pinpoint exactly what tone is appropriate for both of those things. Eventually, I’ll find a mood that just feels right, that evokes the emotions I want to evoke, and I run with that.

Oh, I love this question! It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how it all came together, but I know I got the idea of gods fighting on the top of a mountain and a town covered in clouds when I was on a road trip to California last year. I remember glancing out the window and seeing clouds just blanketing a little area in the distance and it got me wondering what would happen if the clouds just…never left. The rest just kind of built around that thought.

Besides your script writing, are there any other genres that you like to pursue? Are there ever specific themes you tend to use in your work?

What about Did You Know I Grew Up Bleeding?

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I write short stories more often than scripts, though I don’t write a lot. In my work, I do like to

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : ADDISON RIZER

explore dissatisfaction, isolation, really things that seem really specific to the individual but that are universal feelings. Really, I just like to explore what makes people, people.

Does writing take up a lot of your time, or is it something you like to do casually? I think about writing much more than I actually write. It’s definitely something I do in my free time, though I always seem to be itching to write something when I’m busy too. It’s just about setting aside time to make it happen.

What do you think most characterizes your writing? Oh, hard question since I’m stuck on the authors side of the page. But, I think my favorite part of my writing is the intersection between magic and reality that I like to incorporate into many of my stories. I love that folktale style, and really try to make my stories feel reminiscent of that.

How has your writing changed over time? I started writing in high school when I took a creative writing class as more of a throwaway easy A course than something I wanted to pursue. I came into writing blind, really. So, my early stories didn’t necessarily have the tools my writing now have. Things like having a grasp on dialogue in the way people don’t always say what they mean, or maybe not ending it in a neat and tidy way. But, even in my first short story, I had that magical realism I like so much, I had two really human characters, and I had something I wanted to say with them.

Do you believe in writer’s block?

I think sometimes I can be hard to bring

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : ADDISON RIZER

myself to dig into the emotions or themes I want to explore in a piece. So, sort of? I also do think, for me, some stories need time to develop in my head before I have enough to write about.

If so, how do you combat it? If I really want to write something, I’ll just jot down everything I’m thinking of writing about. Whether that’s a theme, a phrase, an image. Sometimes just putting the pen to paper that way can get me thinking of where I want to go with those things.

What are your writing pet peeves? I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about what my pet peeves are in writing. I think what really draws me to some-one’s writing, and also turns me off of someone’s writing, is how their characters feel. If they feel like they were developed well, if they feel human somehow. That’s what really makes my favorite stories my favorite.

What value do you see in writing and/or storytelling? I think with reading and writing, there’s an opportunity to connect. An author I once interviewed, Nicole Sealey, said she sees writing as a conversation between her and the reader. Interestingly, she defines it in a way that readers can talk back somehow. I think I agree, though, that writing and reading are a connection point for people who might never have connected otherwise.

Who are some of your favorite authors that you feel were influential in your work? What impact have they had on your writing? There are so many, but a few that have really

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captivated me are: Neil Gaiman, Shirley Jackson, Carmen Maria Machado, and Madeline Miller. They all have such a grasp on characters and how to make you love them even if they’re not good people.

What do you think is the future of reading/ writing? Oh, interesting! I can’t speak to where our technology that enables story telling will go, but I think it’s always going to be there. There isn’t a world I can imagine where reading and writing isn’t there.

Any plans to pursue writing in the future? If not, what are your plans? I plan on being on the other end of the story as an editor in the future. My dream job would be editing for children’s literature, since I think it has such a capacity to change people forever. Children’s literature has some of the most interesting, complex, and important stories coming out today. I’d love to be a part of that!

Is there anything else you would like to add? No, I don’t think so!

Is there somewhere that people can find you if they are hungry for more of your work? Unfortunately, since I do my writing mostly for fun, I don’t have a whole lot of it floating out there. I do have a short story on an online magazine called Kingdoms in the Wild, the story called When Saturn Drowns. Later this year, a podcast called Fingers on the Button will be coming out, and I wrote an episode for that. Keep an eye out if you’re interested!

Thank you to Addison Rizer for taking the time out of her busy schedule to answer these questions.

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : YOLI KUNST

A Day-Long Obsession with Color An Interview with Yoli Kunst by Rachel Passer Yoli Kunst, born in Santa Clara, California, now calls Phoenix, Arizona her home. She is married to a man she refers to as Mr. Adventure and is mother to two wonderful boys and a princess of a dog named Luna. The sunny climates she has always known

Yoli Kunst’s paintings are featured in the Artwork section.

and the vibrant adventures she shares with her husband and family reflect in her works which are full of passion and always showcase her great love for color. Having been curious to know more about the

I just dive right in! I am a huge fan of letting my intuition take the way. Painting is very meditative for me; it is more important for me to be part of the process of creating than having a finished product. I teach this process in my workshops.

artist behind these colorful and emotional pieces, I formulated some questions to ask Yoli Kunst, and the answers she shared with us are almost as colorful as her pieces themselves!

It is harder than you think to just listen to yourself.

What tools and mediums do you use?

Do you base your palette and/or pose for the As a mixed media artist, it is hard to narrow down sometimes, but currently I am playing with acrylics, India ink, alcohol inks, and pastels. As for tools, I mainly use paintbrushes, but I also have fun with old gift or credit cards, sponges, and of course, my fingers.

figure for each piece off of your mood? For my abstracts, I pick the palette first, laying out an assortment of media in those colors. Then I grab what my mind tells me to work with: a little ink, a smudge of paint, etc. For my figures, I usually plan the palette around her. What is she doing, what position is she in, what colors does she feel like? I guess you could say she tells me her story.

For your works that don’t include a female figure, especially, do you have a vision in your head of what you want your pieces to look like before you get started, or do you just

Do any of your paintings hold a deeper

dive right in and see where the colors take

meaning or represent a personal story?

you?

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : YOLI KUNST

Flamenco de Amara by Yoli Kunst See the Artwork section for full image

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : YOLI KUNST

Yes, absolutely. My family and I love to travel and many of my pieces may be reminiscent of a trip we took. For example, our trip to Spain definitely had an impact on my piece “Flamenco de Amara.” And I have an abstract called “Lake Lines” and those colors were the palette of the lake and sky from the airplane viewpoint. What are your other hobbies and interests? I love photography. When I am traveling or hiking, I shoot with my Canon Dslr and when I don’t have that, I use my cellphone. I am constantly taking pictures as stock for my artwork, website, or social media posts. You can find some of my photography on my “About” page on my website. As for my other interests, it is whatever my kids are into. My number one job is being a mom, so that means I am currently into jazz, sports, airplanes, and Rubik’s Cubes.

What is your personal favorite color and/or color scheme? I am addicted to anything teal and grey. I really try not to use them too much in my work, but you can see when the teal wins that battle.

Who are some of your favorite artists? I really love the expressionist painters. I enjoy their use of color and mark making. My favorites of the time would have to be Helen Frankenthaler and Lee Krasner.

Do you listen to any particular music while you paint? Music is such a big part of my painting

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : YOLI KUNST

process. My playlist includes an assortment of Brazilian jazz to modern rock. The playlist is on Spotify and can be found at http://bit.ly/MusictoPaintto - I am always adding to it.

Where would, to you, be the highest honor to have your art featured? Well, truthfully, anytime my art is featured, whether at a coffee shop, gallery, or in a magazine such as this one, it is truly such an honor. But, I would love to be involved as an artist with the galleries on Roosevelt Row in the future. Do you have an Instagram account? Also, what is the official website for your art? Yes, of course - I am slightly addicted to Instagram. I just love the visual platform and I have somewhere to put all those pictures I take. My username is @yolikunst and my website is www.yolikunst.com.

Do you have a favorite quote and/or life motto? My favorite quote is by Claude Monet: “Color is my day-long obsession, joy, and torment.”

My favorite life motto is from Epicurean philosophy: “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” Thank you again to Yoli Kunst for sharing so much about her process and life with us. If you like her artwork, I would recommend visiting her website and following her on Emerging 4 by Yoli Kunst See the Artwork section for full image

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Instagram!

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : CATHY KRZNARICH

Community Spotlight: Thrifty Joe’s Books & Music An Interview with Cathy Krznarich by Kristin L Wesson When you walk into Thrifty Joe’s Books & Music, there is a good chance you will meet Arizona State University alumna and local bookstore owner Cathy Krznarich. Her

Thrifty Joe’s Books & Music can be found on Bell Road and 59th Avenue.

passion and enthusiasm for her business emanates straight through the shop’s four walls, providing customers a comprehensive shopping experience not found in other bookstores. From books, to records, Thrifty Joe’s has a little something for everyone; and it all began in a Glendale shopping plaza back in 1993.

school English teacher for over 30 years—so it was a natural fit for us. Plus, we have lived in the community for over 20 years so when we say “locally owned and operated” we really mean it! Ironically, our now-grown kids used to shop here when they were living in the area.

So, what is Thrifty Joe’s story? Thrifty Joe’s Books & Music has been part of the Glendale community for 25 years. Combined, our team has over 80 years experience in business, books, movies and records! Each team member brings a different area of expertise to the store. We are all laser-focused on taking good care of our customers and providing an enjoyable and unique bookstore experience.

What are the biggest frustrations of owning/ managing your own bookstore? It doesn’t happen often, but my biggest frustration is when someone asks for a specific book and we don’t have it in stock. We love to please our customers, so it is just as disappointing to us as it is to them if we are out of stock on a particular book, record or movie. There are millions of books and records—so of course we can’t stock everything all the time. Of course, we are happy to order it—but it is more fulfilling to be able to place it in their hands right away!

How/ why did you become interested in owning your own bookstore? I worked in corporate marketing for over 20 years. I have always dreamed of owning my own business. When I was ready to take that step, the original owner was retiring and so the timing was right for both of us. I enjoy books, music and business—and my husband was a high

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : CATHY KRZNARICH

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : CATHY KRZNARICH

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : CATHY KRZNARICH

What are the biggest rewards? The biggest reward comes in seeing the joy on a customer’s face when they find a treasure—a unique book, movie, record, CD, or gift—either something they have been looking for or something they didn’t know they wanted! Also, we love sharing stories with our customers and connecting with the community.

What does a typical day look like for you? No day is the same, which is part of the fun. Of course, we love busy days with lots of customer interaction and activity. Behind the scenes, though, a lot of work goes into creating the relaxed vibe of our store. Every day we are cleaning, pricing, inventorying, organizing and shelving books, records, CDs, movies, updating displays, and more.

What kinds of problems do you deal with? The typical challenges any small business encounters—plumbing, security, cost control, not enough hours in the day! (smile)

What kinds of decisions do you make? As a small, family-run book and record store we have to decide what titles to carry from the millions of book titles and music that are out there—anticipating what our customers will want. Wish we could carry everything! We carry many of the bestsellers, but what makes our store unique is the unusual items you don’t find in every store. Our inventory is constantly changing.

What is the biggest misconception people hold when it comes to running a bookstore or small business in general? As an independent bookstore we have a relaxed, casual and comfortable vibe. Many

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : CATHY KRZNARICH

Independent bookstores provide a unique sense of place for a community. I want people to enjoy coming here, and that is what drives me.

In addition to our friendly and helpful customer service, we offer the true bookstore experience. Our booksellers and music experts can offer recommendations if you’re not sure what you want. We have a little something for everyone, but we are especially proud of our literature, Kids Zone, and the quality of our records, as well as a selection of gifts from local artisans. It’s the eclectic product offering and unique experience that differentiates us from online shopping or chain bookstores.

How long has Thrifty Joe’s been here in the

What would you say Thrifty Joe’s is known

times people think it must be relaxing to work here. We have fun, but our team works really hard behind the scenes to create that vibe for our customers!

What drives you as a small business owner here in the valley?

valley?

for?

Thrifty Joe’s has been part of the Glendale community for 25 years!

Thrifty Joe’s is known for friendly, attentive customer service and for providing good quality books and music at fair prices. We’re an independent, local, family-run bookstore and the people of the community seem to like that.

How does Thrifty Joe’s differ from other bookseller’s local and chain? What, in your words, does a brick-and-mortar, locallyowned bookstore like Thrifty Joe’s have that

What’s the most interesting thing about

a big box outfit or online experience simply

Thrifty Joe’s that we wouldn’t necessarily

would not?

learn after one visit?

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AUTHOR’S ALCOVE : CATHY KRZNARICH

If you just stop in and browse (and we invite you to do so!) without making a purchase, you might not find out about our great rewards program. It’s easy and unobtrusive, and a great value. Ask about it on your next visit in!

Do you have any words of encouragement or warning for anyone who may be interested in running their own bookstore or small business someday? As I mentioned previously, I always wanted to own my own business and am so glad I took that step. It was scary, and it’s hard work seven days a week, but I’m glad I did it. It’s very fulfilling. I would encourage anyone who wants to go into small business to do thorough research and due diligence before entering into any agreements. Make sure you have enough capital to help you through the first two years. Remember it might be your passion, but it is also a business. I think it’s also true for small business owners in general that there are never enough hours in the day, so you have to manage your time effectively. A good resource for new business owners is the greater Phoenix chapter of SCORE—you can receive one-on-one mentoring, get access to free workshops and more. See greaterphoenix.score.org. What else would you like to tell us? Be sure to visit us on Saturday, April 28 for Independent Bookstore Day! This is a national event celebrating independent bookstores all over the country. It will be a big party!

Where can we learn more about Thrifty Joe’s? Check out our website at thrifty-joes.com, and follow us on Facebook at facebook.com/ thriftyjoesbooksandmusic. Better yet, come by and meet us!

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ABOUT US CANYON VOICES LITERARY MAGAZINE is dedicated to shedding light on the works of emerging and established writers and artists. Founded in the spring of 2010 at Arizona State University’s West campus by one professor, Julie Amparano Garcia, and six students, this journal strives to bring the creativity of writers and artists to light within the community and beyond. Supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, CANYON VOICES accepts writing and artwork from writers and artists from all corners of our planet and from all walks of life. 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. Students build a full literary journal each semester, heading every aspect of production, including soliciting submissions, editing, marketing, design and layout, and publication. We strive to bring you an eclectic range of voices each semester.

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. By publishing works that engender thought, Canyon Voices seeks to enrich the scope of language, style, culture, and gender. CANYONVOICES

Contact us via email at: CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com. You can also visit us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/asucanyonvoices. SPRING2018

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. 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 Up to four stories per issue. Two pieces may be 20 pages.

SCRIPTS

ARTWORK

Up to two scripts may be submitted per issue. Script maximum 15 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 through October 15th for the fall issue. The reading period re-opens in January, February, and through March 15th for the spring.

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CANYONVOICES STAFF Julie Amparano Garcia is the founder, publisher, and advisor of the CANYON VOICES literary team. Serving in the ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, Amparano oversees the school's Writing Certificate and teaches writing courses that include scriptwriting, cross-cultural writing, fiction, reflective writing, and others. Whether the writing is published, staged or read, she pushes students to use their writing to engage and interact with the community. Her current project is called Lost Boys Found. She is recording the oral histories of the Lost Boys of Sudan and creating a play from their stories. Her play, "A Mother's Will", was nominated for an ariZoni for best original script and overall production. She received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Antioch University in Los Angeles.

Julie Amparano Garcia

Publisher

Kayla Manganelli is a graduating Senior at Arizona State University. She is a transfer student from Glendale Community College and graduated in 2015 with her Associates degree in English. Trying her hand at publishing and editing, she joined the CANYON VOICES staff for the first time in 2016 and found her passion. Kayla has always been a book lover and currently strives to work for a publishing company so that she may be surrounded by one of her great loves: literature. Kayla now serves as CANYON VOICES Spring 2018 Editor-in-Chief, Senior Editor of the Scripts department, Copy Editor Chief and author of the Scripts department’s author alcove. She is so thankful to have been able to work with such a talented team for this Spring issue.

Kayla N Manganelli

Editor-In-Chief, Copy Editor Chief & Senior Scripts Editor

Kristin L Wesson is a transfer student from Glendale Community College, studying English at Arizona State University’s West campus. Graduating from GCC in 2015, she holds two Associate degrees in both Arts and Business summa cum laude. Remaining after graduation, she led the Fall 2016 chapter of GCC’s Literature Club as President. Kristin continues to lead at ASU as CANYON VOICES Spring 2018 Editor-inChief, Copy Editor Chief, and Senior Poetry, Art and Author’s Alcove Editor. Collaborating with the many talented contributors and editors has been the highlight of her time with the magazine. Kristin expects to graduate in the spring of 2019 with her Bachelor’s in English, her teaching certificate and her writing certificate.

Kristin L Wesson

Editor-In-Chief, Copy Editor Chief, Senior Editor for Poetry, Art & Alcove

James Wahlstrom is a transfer-senior from Northern Arizona University. With an emphasis in Poetics and Shakespearian literature, he has spent the last five years cultivating a complex interdisciplinary foundation, serving as the precipice for his Inter-disciplinary Master’s program. In completing his Bachelor's in Post-Secondary English, James remained at Arizona State University to take up further privatized instruction. Adding versatility and artistic insight to what has become a highly diverse and talented team of editors, the CANYON VOICES Magazine Staff has become a foundational transition point for James. He graduates in May with honors and inclusive job prospects outside of post-secondary education, and delving into the world of poetry and other literary magazines.

James Wahlstrom CANYONVOICES

Copy Editor, Poetry Editor & Scripts Editor SPRING2018

CANYONVOICES STAFF Ilyssa Goldsmith’s work has appeared in Canyon Voices, Claudius Speaks, Normal Noise, The Hungry Chimera and elsewhere. She is a senior pursuing a bachelor’s in communication at Arizona State University. She will graduate this May. This semester, Ilyssa Goldsmith has taken on the role of Senior Fiction Editor and has loved leading a team of thoughtful, diverse readers. In her free time, Ilyssa has also been developing her thesis around analyzing the depiction of strong female characters within young adult literature. She strives to write stories about empowered girls and women — the type of characters women haven’t seen nearly enough on the page — flawed, strong, stubborn, and bold. In a word, female-strong.

Senior Fiction Editor & Art Editor

Ilyssa Goldsmith

Mandy Hall is an undergraduate student working towards two Bachelor’s degrees, English and History, at Arizona State University (ASU). Prior to transferring to ASU, she earned her Associates Degree in Arts at Rio Salado Community College. During her tenure there, she was initiated into the Phi Theta Kappa National Honor Society. After her first semester at ASU, she made the Dean’s List. When she is not attending ASU, she is a full time Technical Writer with a company in the Solar Industry. She is a single mom and resides in Laveen, Arizona with her two fur babies Remy and Bailey — The York’s.

Fiction Editor & Creative Nonfiction Editor

Mandy Hall

Morgan Hoper graduated from South Mountain Community College as a valedictorian candidate and with highest distinction. While a student at SMCC she was published in The South Mountain Review: A Journal of Student Work, she starred in a student directed play, and she was a member of multiple clubs: Community choir, Black Student Union, and Phi Theta Kappa Honor Society. Currently a junior at Arizona State University, Morgan is pursuing an English major and Communication minor. Her interests now lie primarily in reading and writing fiction. Thanks to her position as an editor for Canyon Voices, and her work with the City of Phoenix Libraries, she has the pleasure of constantly being surrounded by good stories.

Fiction Editor & Art Editor

Morgan Hoper

Ashtar Mikhail is a junior at Arizona State University, who transferred from Glendale Community College upon receipt of her Associate of Arts and Associate of Science degrees. She is studying English and pursuing a minor in philosophy and hopes to attend law school upon graduating in 2019. When she's not attempting to explicate a literary text, or trying to understand the moral reasoning behind movie characters' actions, she likes listening to rap music and spending time with family. A first-time editor at Canyon Voices, Ashtar has discovered a knack for copy editing and critiquing writing pieces, as well as a newfound interest in design composition and layout.

Fiction Editor, Art Editor & Design Editor

Ashtar Mikhail

Ethan Thomas Miller is a junior at the Herberger Young Scholars Academy who is pursuing an AICE diploma. He will graduate from the academy in 2019. He enjoys most types of creative writing both in reading and in writing. This is his first semester working with Canyon Voices. He enjoys role-playing games, reading, and writing. Whenever he's not finding something new to read or in classes, he is typically browsing through the news. He hopes to continue working with CANYON VOICES and would like to thank Professor Amparano Garcia and the CANYON VOICES staff for giving him this opportunity to work with the magazine and to learn how to effectively review and edit a piece.

Fiction Editor & Scripts Editor CANYONVOICES

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CANYONVOICES STAFF As a senior at Arizona State University, this has been Amanda’s second semester working with CANYON VOICES and she has enjoyed the opportunity to further explore her passions in both publishing and literature. Aside from her role as the Senior Creative Non-Fiction Editor this semester, Amanda has also completed a marketing internship with ASU’s New College and is currently working on a writing certificate with a focus in publishing and editing. Come December, she will finish her BA in English and would love to work in publishing and continue to share amazing stories with the world. Outside of school, Amanda is an active member in Toastmasters International.

Amanda Beck

Senior Creative Nonfiction Editor & Poetry Editor Angelita Cobbs is pursuing a degree in Sports Management and Interdisciplinary Arts and Science at Arizona State University. This marks her first semester with CANYON VOICES as an art and poetry editor. She enjoys art and poetry because of its more deep rhythmic, spiritual experience; she believes that they are derived from deep down in the soul, allowing her to flow freely without being fictitious, creating anything she perceives. She loves to articulate her frame of mind with a mysterious, mystical and beautiful approach by embracing language, art, and music. This was a phenomenal learning experience for her, and she really enjoyed working with such a stimulating, extraordinary, creative, and accomplished group of people.

Angelita Cobbs

Poetry Editor & Art Editor

Jiapei Li is a Chinese transfer student who studies at Arizona State University. He likes running around the path that surrounds ASU’s West campus--a total of five kilometers. Yes, he is able to do that. Although Jiapei comes from China, he likes evaluating English poems and literature. He changed his major in 2017. His original major was Applied Math. Why did he change his major? After he came to the United States, he found the biggest problem facing him was that he needs to learn a second language well; so, he changed his major to English. Of course, you do not need to use calculus to buy items in supermarkets. Right?

Jiapei Li

Poetry Editor & Creative Nonfiction Editor Rachel is an English major. More importantly, she is almost done writing her medieval gothic-fantasy novel that she has greatly enjoyed working hard on for three to four years. She hopes to either be a New York Time’s best-selling author, or to spontaneously move to Italy one day. She might only be an editor who just so happens to have a novel published, which only her friends, a few family members, and a handful of complete strangers have read. But she has faith and confidence in her book and hopes it will catch. She also paints non-objective abstract expressionist pieces that she sometimes sells (upon occasional commission), but she mostly just gifts them to her grandma. She would like a wine cellar and a pizzeria in her house.

Rachel Passer

Poetry Editor & Art Editor

Joseph Wilson is a senior majoring in English at Arizona State University and is part of this year’s graduating class of 2018. Before attending ASU, he studied at Glendale Community College where he got his Associates Degree in English in 2016. His plan on what to do with an English degree is to become a technical writer, likely in the technological or medical fields. Joseph is also a creative writer; he specializes in poetry and short stories. He created his own web page called Joeys scribbles where he posts his poetry and short stories. He is a first-time editor for CANYON VOICES.

Joseph Wilson CANYONVOICES

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Dragonfly Life by Ricardo Castro (See Artwork for full image)

Emerging 8 by Yoli Kunst (See Artwork for full image)

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