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2010 cca literary magazine surface


what the feeling what the wha what the what the frame what the wha what the fiction

so wtf? what is the feeling? what is the frame? what is the fiction?

danica hoeprich britney schroeder chris cubbison made this.




WHAT THE FUNK by Hannah Coleman

Hello, Reader. My full name is Constantine Muy Guapo, and I am a piñata. Before I begin my story that I am about to tell, I feel that I must address the misconceptions about piñatas, mostly regarding the idea that we are created to be destroyed. We, like the rest of you in the Milky Way, live within a hierarchal society. Not all of us are ponies constructed out of feathered paper and attacked by semi-sadistic children until candy explodes from our cardboard bodies. In fact, natural selection proved that piñatas can no longer be just one-trick-ponies. Our suppliers had to bring in some bigger names every once in a while, like famous cartoon characters, or any other creature that has their own T.V. show but probably shouldn’t. Anyways, my name is Constantine and I am a decorative piñata. I was purchased at a swap meet in Santa Fe by a woman who strangely resembled Elton John. She brought me to my current home, where I live in an unjustifiably awful room decorated entirely in Ronald Reagan paraphernalia. I must admit my resentment to the day I was purchased. But life never really handed me any lemons so the lemonade I drank was mostly made out of complaints. Anyways, my name is Constantine and I am a special piñata and not just by my own standards. I can not talk or anything, but I do have a mustache… A mustache that I am very proud of. And it is because of my mustache that my name is Constantine Muy Guapo. My mustache is very impressive and I would like to tell you about it. It is the color of a grand piano that glistens under a single halogen light, and, it is long. But not too long, long enough that it curves upward to accentuate my cheekbones. I took exceptional care of my mustache by taking advantage of the bristles of the Reagan figurine toothbrush on my leftward side. It provided a perfect texture to keep my mustache silky and smooth. I grew it naturally from synthetic hair and glued it to my upper lip. I groomed and took care of my mustache without any outside financial or emotional support. I am very proud of myself for this because it can get very difficult at times being the sole provider of such a delicate responsibility. One morning while I was pretending to wake up, I heard a murmur. It was soft. Like the fur of a baby kitten but in the format of a soundwave. It was nice. I continued to listen to the fluffy newborn murmur. After eight days and eight nights of the developing Murmur, my mustache began to tingle. The Tingle seemed to grow for another eight days and eight nights, until both Tingle and Murmur suddenly ceased to exist. Which was why the next day I was quite startled when something new surfaced …The Voice. The Voice introduced itself: “Hello.” “Voice! Oh, how I’ve missed you!” “We’ve never met actually.” “Oh dear Voice, where do you hail from?” “I’m from right above.” “From above?! Dear Voice, please explain! I am not yet savvy in the interpretations of such mystery.”

“I am your mustache, Constantine. I am Muy Guapo.” “OH WHAT THE FUNK?” “Yes, Constantine. I know this is shocking to you, you have been very good to me. But I am now reaching the length in my life where I can no longer just be your 30 degree piece of synthetic hair-flair. I have hopes, aspirations. I want a career.” “Muy Gaupo,! NOoOo! How long have you felt this way for? Let us not move too quickly here. I will consider compromising with a trial separation. But nothing more. I have done so much for you.” “I know Constantine, I know. Really, it’s not you, it is me.” “Muy Guapo, don’t do this to me! My cheekbones will be like empty sacs of flour without you. You are the husk to my corn. The pending to my patent!” “Constantine, please. Don’t make a scene. My non-existent things are packed. I am sorry for the loss, but it’s really for my best.” Using a bird-like technique Muy Guapo used his hairs to flutter off our shelf and out of the room. I was pierced by the air under my nostril marking his painful absence. After taking some time to mourn my loss, I alas gained the courage to embrace my empty upper lip. My days have remained pretty much unchanged since. But I now have considerably less things to spend my days thinking about being that I don’t have a mustache to care for. Yet, I have found solace in my remaining good looks. I now spend much of my time gathering various materials that I use to construct very wearable yet also affordable miniature hats. I alternate wearing the different ones throughout the week. The rest of the room seems to be jealous of them. My hope is that one day I will catch the attention of an appreciating passer-by and I can begin my much deserved celebrity lifestyle. THE END




by Maurice Bumbu And when you feel like running – Remember life’s a stroll, with an Answer hidden somewhere Behind the grassy knoll, Past the long and winding road that Sits and surveys with some Beautiful childhood understanding, That uneasy shelter of knowing There is no Boogieman under the bed And checking anyways, only to find the Stone Dropped his pen, but soft – Like a gentle ridicule from a snake Rattleskin. Is it all just a Box? It is just like the rocks That stop. And wait! For the second quarter From a blind desert corridor. There’s more. I have seen you through, too – Shut down and sit quiet, and rest And watch the shadows that play Within a play, Just! Do not break the box That times the Tic Tocs and Built the big blocks of the Stone Dropped his Pencil, Pencil, Pencil! Pen – And forgot.



Do I scare you? Do I remind you of your inlaws? Because those people are the worst. So let’s have another laugh at them, if we may. Is it the asymmetrical look or the mismatching socks? The way I nodded at a time when I should not have been or laughed awkwardly? Ha ha ha ha ha ha. That one time when I made a joke with a reference you didn’t understand? Yea, that was pretty cumbersome. Or that my lawn and garage door window panes aren’t identical to yours? I can see how that would intimidate you. Don’t even mention the rapid and unusual movement of my hands. Or the fact that I ride a motorcycle…I must be a stupid delinquent, right? My motives beguile you, they don’t seem very logical. Why own a record player in the 21st century? Maybe because I like the sound. Your inability to predict my quagmire should certainly make you shiver. But why the long face? And by the way, I wasn’t looking for your advice; I thought you were a doctor.


by Spencer Stein



by Kelsey Rhodes Terrace becomes less of a Tea Party As porcelain cups tip, shatter. Swimming in the boiling backwash of English Breakfast and Earl Grey, I await for the quake to commence and Am un-phased as my Mother’s favourite china sets Are suddenly delicate fragmented shards. Women in petticoats and dainty dresses Place their manicured hands chest high As if they must declare their femininity and Meekness even in this time of earthly war. The quiet strings of violin continue An appropriate soundtrack to the stillness Which eventually rolls over. A teapot, still held, Turquoise Ancient Turquoise remains in my right hand The teapot my grandmother gave me. Untouched and whole against the Broken bits of its children, the cups and saucers Which are now embedded into the pads Of small muddy feet. My small muddy feet. Soon, warm scarlet runs into a small circle about me Runs quietly into the clear Sepia Liquid that once Was their elixir of superficial conversation and monotonous laughter. I tugged at the hem of my mother’s dress only To inform her of what I had originally jumped the Fence to say. She slowly allowed her head to fall in The direction of my tousled braids and overalls. Pain seared through her eyes and face crinkles Show her failure of what could have been the Perfect event which the ladies spoke of for months. “Here Mother. Nana’s teapot. I thought it would be Nice to share.” …………. I allowed her small release of facial tension to Serve as an appropriate reply as I slowly turned To face the aristocratic women who I know Only speak of me in ridicule, and smiled. My bloody footprints followed me as I climbed Back over the fence to my oak. Wrung by wrung, I stepped slowly up the ladder To my tree house and observed the messy Horror from a better view.


by Sander Dufour 11

by Chris Cubbison



“Time flies when you never know the date.”

Why do I grip my claws when one offends? Or draw swords instead of sew words to patch amends?

A time-warped eye looks through sullen glass as I try to cry, but can’t. My iris is too dry to fake an emotion that is void of devotion. I throw my hand through mirrored frames and watch it raisen. With each shell, my fingers graze through grains of sun-stained capsules of memories. By the time I get through one window, I forget the previous. Each moment I experience feels ambiguous. These, glimpses are subconsciously aging my mind. If only I could speed this process, kill some time. Maybe skip some, lines. And then I realize, “Time slows when you have no escape.”

My scalp sports a chestnut color, yet sweats a gray mane. As if a willow’s rings multiply even in the absence of rain. This, condition is impressed into my eyes. I’d almost prefer to laugh at the lonely, than to hear regret echo throughout my mind. But alas, both occur.

ABSENT MINDED by Danica Hoeprich


CONFLICTION by Robert Glaser

I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him. This is the final straw. He’s helped me through some tough times, but enough it enough. Do you know what he did today? Today, as we were having lunch, Samantha Fenley came over and said hi. And do you know what he said to her? We’re busy. WE’RE BUSY?!? YOU DO NOT SAY WE’RE BUSY TO SAMANTHA FENLEY. And what did I do? I just sat there, immobilized by the idea that Samantha Fenley knows I exist outside of a hello how are you good you how was the test fine you I dunno the essay was hard yeah well see ya later okay bye. And he said we’re busy. TO SAMANTHA FENLEY. Sure without him I never would’ve passed Chemistry. Or Psychology for that matter. But this is it. I finally had the chance to prove to Samantha Fenley that I’m a normal chill guy, and he drove her away. Like he does everyone else who offers a hello. Every group project: he’s with me. Every time I’m invited somewhere: we’re busy that night. I’m done with him controlling my life. This has gone on way too long. His reign of terror ends now. I should’ve gotten rid of him long ago – namely all of those times when I fall asleep in my bed or on the couch and wake up to find he placed me in an awkward position. Like with my arm in the refrigerator. Or surrounded by the smell of toast that had been in the toaster for six minutes. I got rid of him once. I can do it again. The trick is making it permanent. When I got rid of him three years ago things were good for a while. No. They were great. But soon he returned. First he was silent, just making sure I was aware of his presence. Then he started inserting words into my sentences. Then he made amendments to my statements. And now he controls all of my conversation. If I get rid of him, I have to make it permanent. I have to be strong. Do it for Samantha Fenley. Three years ago he put up quite a fight. But I concentrated really hard and then he was gone. Now I just have to concentrate harder. Then I will be free of him forever. He will finally be out of my head. Out of my mind. Out of my voice. This won’t work. Yes it will. No it won’t. Get out of my head. Make me. You ruined my life ruined it ruined it shredded it. You ruined your own life I fixed it. Samantha Fenley Samantha Fenley talked to me. No she talked to me. Go away. No. Go away. No. GO AWAY. Without me you are nothing. Without you I am free.

Then you have to think on you own. You don’t have me. I don’t want you. YES. YOU. DO. NO. I. DON’T. You can’t win. Go away. Make me.


by Andy Ribner


IMAGINATION by Juhi Israni


by Lainey Kral 17


by Spencer Stein


by Crystal Long Resistance doesn’t come so easy With an apple in your hand I thought I really made it clear I thought you’d understand I just can’t grasp that you’re that selfish I know you’re not to blame But when you can’t abide by my measures I return as quickly as became I’ve never took you off the shelf You never set me free I never thought to free myself When your form was all I’d see And I’m seeing it more again these days And your eyes, I see those too In the garish light that leads to May And the time my help is due But with darted glance and half-scared crease I enclosed you in my hands And I put past rue and constant due When you tried your looks so meek And then it dawned on you what we would do And you pleaded sorry again But when you plead, I just don’t need Another stab at defense But what could I say? What could I do? What do I do for you? So I bent my ears the other way And said goodbye this final day Masking my hurt, I pad to the skirt Of my rich blue cloud of sleep And left you in the dark beneath the bed So you can one day find a brand new friend



The Lit Mag for Canyon Crest Academy, 2009-2010.

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