Mesa Visions Spring 2020

San Diego Mesa College

Mesa2020 Visions

San Diego Mesa College

Mesa Visions 2020

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LETTER from the EDITORS Dear Mesa Visions Readers, If one thing is for certain, now more than ever, change is inevitable. Our lives are measured not only in the passing of time but in the transitional phases that challenge who we are- however many there may be. Perspectives shift and we grow. But it’s through those very perspectives that we see the value of the world and understand the way we hope to one day see it. Here, in this magazine, we saw your vision of the world through your eyes. We listened to your voices and shared your stories portrayed on the canvases of your lives.

Although the narrative of the world reads distorted and isolated in this time of pandemic, reaching out- whether that be in a poem, email or in a glitchy facetime conversation- has and still is a priority. And in honor of you all who work so we can more easily connect to one another, to those that have shared their sense of vision and strength in a blinding and fearful moment in history, we thank you. It was the goal of this magazine to remind the world- or at the very least our own little community- that the things that separate us never really do. And that the obstacles that prevent us from being as close as the pages in this magazine will not keep us apart forever.

Your editors,

Rebecca Larcomb & Briana Parker Rebecca Larcomb & Briana Parker 2

Acknowledgements The Honors English 249 class of 2020 would like to thank the following individuals and organizations for their support in producing the Spring 2020 edition of the Mesa Visions art and literary agazine: Dr. Pamela T. Luster, President, San Diego Mesa College Dr. Isabel O’Connor, Vice President of Instruction San Diego Mesa College Foundation Mesa College Humanities Institute Mesa College Honors Program Alessandra Moctezuma, Gallery Director Jennifer Armer, Museum Studies Co-Editors In Chief:

Rebecca Larcomb, Briana Parker

Mesa Visions 2020 Staff:

Sandra Baza, Emiliya Gritsay, Donye Green, Rebecca Larcomb, Andrea Maldonado Rodriguez, Kevin Maranon, Kaila Millard, Ronnlee Morris, Briana Parker, Emily Purtell, Matthew Remington, Catrina Vo, Catherine Wynn

Faculty Advisors:

Jennifer Derilo, Jill Moreno Ikari

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2D Geometric Waves, Divya Sharma black marker and pointed pen, 14” x 17”

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Contents CREATIVE NONFICTION FIRST PLACE CREATIVE NONFICTION Inescapable Colors, A Narrative // LUCIE GONZALEZ // 12

SECOND PLACE CREATIVE NONFICTION Addicted to Mugshots // TROY BERNARDO // 17

THIRD PLACE CREATIVE NONFICTION In Spite of It All // JOANNA CLARK // 23

HONOR STUDENT SUBMISSIONS IN CREATIVE NONFICTION Love Never Gives Up // EMILIYA GRITSAY // 25 Brown and Plastic Bags // CATHERINE WYNN // 29 Foam Master // REBECCA LARCOMB // 31

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POETRY FIRST PLACE POETRY I Wanna Write // MEL DEORSOLA // 35

SECOND PLACE POETRY Ode to Suburbia // MEL DEORSOLA // 37

THIRD PLACE POETRY Personality Goggles // HATTIE CONNELL // 38

HONOR STUDENT SUBMISSIONS IN POETRY Wishes // KEVIN MARANON // 40 Unworthy/Worthy // CATRINA VO // 41 Beetle Bug // MATHEW REMINGTON // 43 dragon’s breath // DONYE GREEN // 45 It’s Violet // EMILY PURTELL // 46 El Amor de Una Madre // SANDRA BAZA // 48 Patience // BRIANA PARKER // 50

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FICTION FIRST PLACE FICTION Dugout // TROY BERNARDO // 53

SECOND PLACE FICTION Alien-nation // LOUISE GARRETT // 61

THIRD PLACE FICTION Forks // MARY VIK // 63

HONOR STUDENT SUBMISSIONS IN FICTION Spiraling // ANDREA MALDONADO // 64 Neighborhoods // KAILA MILLARD // 65 Bots For The Bots // RONNLEE MORRIS // 69

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CLIMATE REALITY ART & DESIGN FIRST PLACE LITERATURE/CREATIVE NONFICTION The Earth Won’t Care // TROY BERNARDO // 75

SECOND PLACE LITERATURE/CREATIVE NONFICTION My daughter’s ashen garden // HENRY FARMER // 77

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Mesa Art Gallery Selections Space Dog, pastel & colored pencils on paper, 11” x 14” ROTEM ORIEL // Front Cover 2D Geometric Waves, black marker and pointed pen, 14” x 17” DIVYA SHARMA // 4 Lilith’s Gift, ceramic, gold leaf, holy water, 16” x 11” x 8” SAMANTHA LEON // 10 Moonlight, oil on canvas, 2’ x 3’ JULIETTE MATUS // 33 The Fly, chalk pastel on paper, 40” x 32” KATHERINE ZIMMERMAN // 51 Interconnected, acrylic on bristol paper, 24” x 34”LINDSAY MICKELSON // 78 Past, Present, Future, acrylic on Bristol paper, 24” x 34” TUCKER BEACHEM // Back Cover

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Lilith’s Gift, Samantha Leon ceramic, gold leaf, holy water 16” x 11” x 8”

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Creative Nonfiction

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FIRST PLACE CREATIVE NONFICTION

Inescapable Colors, A Narrative Lucie Gonzalez Tortillas As a child I was always fascinated by the way my abuelo would sit at the dinner table each Wednesday. He always had his flannel sleeves rolled up and his brown skin showing. His hands were weathered and aged by time and hard labor, sun spots from yard-work and scars from his perrico Chuy’s talons littered every inch of his skin. My eyes never left the comal as his hands would flip the tortillas, his one task for the preparation of dinner. It always seemed so dangerous to me, the burning heat, the gasses trying to escape the dough, his hand touching the scorching hot tortilla and flipping it to reveal the golden brown underside. He never let the gas stay trapped inside the tortilla, his large calloused fingers would always slam each air-bubble in one swift movement as he managed to escape a burn from the steam being released. At the time I was still young and naive, unaware that I too would be just like those air bubbles in a browning tortilla, waiting, hoping, praying for a way to come out.

--Silence It was the summer of eighth grade and I was the biggest liar there was. This was when the depression had kicked in. An overwhelming sadness washed over me and I felt as if there were demons sitting on my chest vowing to never let me breathe again. I was denying my culture and its bright dancing colors as I wore my sadness in dark baggy clothes. My mother was yelling at me, her eyes growing watery from rage. I remained silent as she continued to shout in Spanglish. As usual my mind was elsewhere. She kept going on and on about random things having to do with how she was going to raise me from now on. In the moment it all meant nothing to me, but then she brought up the subject I dreaded the most, 12

“I need to talk to you about boys and about was proper with them and what isn’t!” she shouted as I grew anxious, “Mom” tears beginning to form, “¡Qué!” she grew impatient as my silence replaced the moment of courage I had, “I -” I didn’t know what would come out of my mouth next, “Goddamnit Lucie what is it!” her eyes now fixated on my watery ones, “I think I like girls as much as I like boys” the words escaped before I could put them back in, just like the air leaving a tortilla, but this was short lived.

My mother grew silent, I knew nothing good would come out of this.

--Colores The next evening when my father came home from work my parents sat me down to talk. My head was spinning and the earth beneath my feet quacked with anticipation. I stared at the patterns on the rug as the geometric shapes began to blur into a mess of colors.

“You’re confused that’s all.” my father said. My eyes met my mothers pleading with her to take my side, to be my voice, to help my truth be known and not debated.

“Your father is right. I mean, what makes you think you like girls anyways?” her eyes left mine. I wish she could understand that not only boys caught my eye. I thought of telling her that sometimes I could imagine myself older and happy, getting married to a beautiful girl who knew how to love me in more ways than just friendship. My father's gaze burned holes into my skull, his presence made me feel small and insignificant.

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He had a deep booming voice that made me want to cover my ears and escape the shame it made me feel.

“Do you still like boys?” my father questioned, his deep voice echoing in my ears. I was trapped once again, I was just air waiting to escape the tortilla.

“Yes” I mumbled annoyed that he didn’t understand that I didn’t choose to love both men and women.

I wanted to tell them that this part of me was nothing terrible and that instead, it made me just as vibrant as all the different colored fruits in my abuelos garden that everyone in the family took pride in. I wish they could see that I am a unique array of sweet bright yellow limas, the juiciest naranjas in existence, deep pink tunas on a dark green nopal, the deep purple of a passion fruit rich in flavor, as earthy in flavor as the pink guayabas falling in dozens, as bold in flavor as the loquats and as filling as the sweet soft pink inside of higo. I was glowing. Every color imaginable was seeping from the cracks in my skin, and yet, they refused to see it.

Instead I sat in silence and let the darkness take over me.

--My Tía, the Slayer of Demons It was a hot night in September and my aunt clung onto me as we bid our goodbyes. She wouldn’t let go of me she began to talk into my ear, the alcohol escaping her lips, most of what she said was influenced by it. Most of my family turned into sad angry drunks, consumed by demons latching onto their scars like parasites. My tía was different, as the demons came crowding to her scars all the magic within her was summoned to fight them and as she did this she would tell us all she learned from her battles with the parasitic creatures.

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“Lucie, I know you already know this but, I love you,” she slurred into my ear as she pointed her finger to my heart, “not only that though, I know you” Shivers traveled down my spine. I knew that in that exact moment she could see right through me, through the lies and walls built to keep all the colors and magic from escaping. Anyone would’ve just thought she was another drunk person uttering meaningless words they would regret upon sobering up, but I knew this was different. I knew she could see the array of vibrant colors swirling within me, asking her to help them escape.

“Whatever you do Lucie or whatever may happen just know this; There is always going to be good and there will always be bad, what truly matters is what YOU make of it” she said this as her hand tightened its grip on the small of my back. I wanted to tell her everything, I wanted to tell her that I dreamt of men and women, that I was trapped under a blanket of darkness, that even with every breath I was still suffocating. I wanted for her to take my hand and guide me, to lead me in transforming the bad into something good.

“I love you too tía.” I said as I nodded my head in agreeance.

I finally finished all my goodbyes to the drunken familia González. On my way out the door I paused looking back, knowing that by morning she would forget the sight of my true form. As I walked away I was once again trapped air and the night full of my tía fighting her demons was now becoming a blur of meaningless memories.

I vowed to one day uncover the colors that were yearning to break free.

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Creaciones de Dios It was one of the hottest days of August and yet, the breeze never seemed to leave my grandparents’ house alone. Maybe they prayed so much that God decided to blow past their house everyday. As I sat outside, my grandparents talked about all the plants and fruits that grew in their backyard. Everyday after the 3 o’clock rosary my abuelo would sit outside in the shade as birds built their nests, lizards ran past him in a hurry, and as butterflies floated away delicately on the gusts of wind. I would join him and he would tell me the habits of each animal he had been watching for days, his face lighting up with happiness. We both sat in agreement that there was nothing better than hearing the birds gossip and seeing the lizards do their pushups as God’s wind blew past us.

This particular day the focus was a baby lizard that had climbed onto the shovel laying in the grass. My grandpa stood up and slowly approached the shovel, my grandma and I sat there in awe of how even the tiniest of animals trusted his calm aura. The baby didn’t move an inch as my abuelo held the shovel in the air and moved it towards me. I swooped up the tiny animal in one swift movement. I held the creature on my palm as I stared at the details of each tiny scale on its body. I showed it to my grandma and she too fell in love with the beauty of the small creature.

“Mira que hermosa esta criatura es. Todo lo que dios trae a este mundo es perfecto.” she said in spanish as she turned to look at the glowing green of the trees as the sun hit them perfectly. She was right. As I stared at the tiny creature for a while longer I noticed that every living thing is created in such a delicate but powerful manner, every creation unique.

To this day I still don’t know which God I believe in. I think perhaps it’s the one my grandmother worships, even though I may not praise God the same way.

I do know, however, that every creation of God is a work of art. I hope one day I’ll be as free as the air being released from a tortilla, or as the butterflies floating lazily or maybe even as free as the wind itself. Maybe one day my parents too, will see me, the me that has magic coursing through my veins and colors inside me that swirl in a violent and passionate manor. Maybe then they won’t fear me and instead see the living work of art that God created.

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SECOND PLACE CREATIVE NONFICTION

Addicted to Mugshots Troy Bernardo “Yo, what’s up, man?” Dylan faked like he was happy to hear from me.

“What’s up?”

“Chase got locked up,” he said, the words spilling out of his mouth.

“Huh?” “Chase is in jail, man.”

An awkward silence hung on the line for a minute. Chase isn’t the smartest guy in the world. Maybe he’s a little bit of a pothead, but him in jail?

“For what?”

“Apparently cops came up to his door and they were being nice, so Chase let them in.”

“Did they have a warrant?” I asked.

“Nah.” “Goddamn it, Chase.”

We both laughed, uncomfortably, easing some of the tension.

“Well, he let the cops in, and he was growing weed.”

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“Really?”

“Nothing huge. He had a small grow operation in a corner room.”

“And he let them see it?”

“Yeah, of course he did. He’s Chase.”

I could feel my heart booming in my chest, and my face becoming a deep, hot red because Chase was being so stupid. People in our small, Florida town see marijuana as “dope” and throw in with meth, heroin, and bath salts.

“What are the official charges?” I asked.

“Possession over twenty grams is on there as well as paraphernalia. Then there’s a ‘manufacturing’ charge.”

“Could he do jail time for this?”

“Yeah, dude. These are felonies.”

The reality set in that Chase might not be around that Christmas when I went home to visit family, and he’d be in jail for who knows how much longer after that. A jury of his peers in a suburb of Daytona Beach would not be the most liberal and understanding bunch. Picture a small beach town, but with more rednecks and swamp people mixed with a very conservative, very elderly population. That’s what our hometown of Port Orange is like.

“How do you know this, Dylan?”

“Florida has loose laws on mugshots and police records. I’ll send you a link, you can read the arrest record for yourself.”

“What?”

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“Yeah, why do you think there are so many crazy Florida stories? You can just read police records.”

“Are you serious?”

“You’ve been to a gun show in Florida. You know we’re not the most progressive place in the world.”

That night, Dylan sent me a link to Chase’s police file, and he was right.

There was Chase’s mugshot and the police records even came in a downloadable PDF so I could read what happened that day. I was genuinely surprised at how accessible all the information on a pending conviction was to find. I read it over, shocked at the details and information they allowed the public to access. A bigger man would have been finished with the Volusia County’s Court records right then. Afterall, it was good to know that I could look up any person and see what their criminal history was; but now that it served its purpose, I should be able to move on like a responsible, thoughtful citizen.

The idea started out as a seed, bedded deep in the back of my mind. It was an idea that I didn’t want to acknowledge. But after a few too many Jonnie Walker Blacks one night, I felt that curious itch resurface that I had tried to suppress for weeks. All I needed to look up an arrest record was a name. Any name from anyone in my past. That girl from high school who was condescending, and acted all high and mighty? Now I could knock her down a few pegs and see how her life had really played out. The one guy who always made class unbearable and disrupted everything?

I’d see him on the worst day of his life. An ex-girlfriend who cheated on me? Maybe I dodged a bullet. Conversely, how much could this website even offer me? Port Orange isn’t a hotbed of corruption and crime.

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What would I even find? Regardless of the end result it was all there and too unnecessarily accessible. If I was going to do this, I needed a target.

Someone who I was sure had tangled with the law, and I landed on someone almost too quickly.

I grew up with Scott. He was a good looking, skateboarder who always seemed to be the center of attention wherever he was. He was from my middle and high school years and was always starting fights and picking on other kids.

Unsurprisingly, he had a son right after we graduated and just never left the city we grew up in. But after that, he faded into obscurity, never updating any social media or telling anyone where he was. I tentatively typed in his name in the Volusia County Clerk’s website, knowing I was crossing a line, but too curious to stop myself.

“I’ll just do this once,” I remember saying out loud. “I really want to know if this even works.” It was all an attempt at justification. A legal but questionable decision that was too enticing to turn down. Once I hit ENTER, I saw a sleau of arrests. His mugshot slowly morphed into a less and less recognizable person, his face becoming pock marred and scarred. It started off as simple marijuana arrests to petty theft, burglary, driving with a suspended license, and then crescendoing with meth and heroin. I read what his sentences were and how they had evolved and become more lengthy over time. When I searched his home address, I realized he had listed a church as his permanent residence; which meant he was homeless.

I could see the intimate details of how his life had spiraled out of control, and it felt immoral to stoop so low just to settle a score with Scott that he didn’t even know about. In the end what did he do? Annoy me a few times? Be too loud during lunch? Attract too many girls?

Maybe I was just jealous and this was a way of making sense of a high school rivalry that was just going too far. I searched him on Facebook and saw some friend had posted that he stole a kid’s bike and pawned it for drug money. A guilt crept into my stomach and grew roots as I closed the computer and sat alone in the darkness for a few minutes.

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I finished my drink and poured one more before ambling off to bed, disappointed in myself.

I wish I could say that I never looked at that website again. That Scott was enough of an invasion of privacy to warrant me allowing people to live their lives without digging into their pasts. Unfortunately, I was hooked. From that first search I knew I had found a significantly sadder and more real version of social media. Everyone’s Instagram posts were always polished and filtered with cute hashtags in dreamy, once in a lifetime locations. It was fake. This though, felt so real. The harsh fluorescent lighting of the jail and the sobering realization that their lives were going to change forever were a stark contrast to the profile pictures everyone spends so much time selecting. Most importantly, it made me feel good. Good about myself for staying out of trouble, avoiding DUIs, and not doing serious drugs. It made me feel like I was on the right path.

I spent weeks looking into bullies, burnouts, and people who peaked in high school. As I become more acquainted with the database, I soon realized it wasn’t just arrests that were catalogued. I had access to traffic infractions, citations, and even divorce records. I read about some of my peers fleeing from the police, meth cooking operations, Xanax in Advil bottles, credit card fraud, drunken fistfights outside of local bars, and still after all that the only thing that really shocked me were the number of domestic violence reports. I’ll spare the details here, but a confrontational acquaintance in high school punched his girlfriend in the face when she tried to stop him from getting his second DUI. I never liked that guy, and this was enough proof to say I was right about him.

The more I looked, the more difficult it became to find people to read up on. I looked into cousins, goody-two-shoes kids, even parents, everyone I could think of, and while it was less fruitful, I was still finding cases. A majority of the people were more successful than me, yet they still made significant, irreversible, embarrassing mistakes that would be on the internet forever.

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One day, when I was reaching the end of my memory for people I grew up with, I looked up a close friend of mine, Travis. He had no legal issues which didn’t surprise me because I figured I would have heard something from him or my friends. I was going to give up for the day, but on a whim I put his dad’s name in, Guy. There were at least ten legal incidents reported on the website, the most serious being that he was guilty of lewd and lascivious conduct with a minor on multiple occasions. He was also a Special Education teacher, which made the offense particularly terrible since the accusations had come directly from his students.

The city I grew up in lost its innocence. The quiet town of Port Orange, and the way I remembered is now rotten and spoiled with severe and inescapable, unavoidable issues. I don’t go on the Volusia County’s Clerk’s website anymore, and I don’t look up people’s names. I wish I could say it’s because I am such a big person, but truthfully, I just don’t have anyone else to look up anymore. Sometimes, I wonder if it was better for me to shatter that innocence and see my hometown for what it truly is, or, if I should have ignored the temptation in the first place.

Chase wound up getting his charges dropped. Apparently it was a combination of bad police work and good lawyers. That doesn’t matter though, because you can still find all of Chase’s arrest records, his mugshot, and his court documents on the internet. You’ll be able to do that forever.

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THIRD PLACE CREATIVE NONFICTION

In Spite of it All Joanna Clark Spite. That’s a pretty good motivator, don’t you think?

I was looking for a new challenge in my life. With both my daughters in college and my beloved dog no longer waiting for me to get home for our nightly walks, my time was free to do whatever I want. Problem was I had no idea what I wanted to do. 10 years ago, I started doing annual Quest for Fires. There was an awful movie in the 80’s with the actress daughter of Tommy Chong from Cheech and Chong fame. The movie was about a caveman’s discover of fire and evolution of mankind. I think it was just to watch Rae Dawn Chong run around in loin cloth for 2 hours. But as a result, I have my own Quest for Fire, a seemingly insurmountable accomplishment that I complete by sheer determination. My first was running a marathon. A full 26.2-mile marathon, not 13.1. What’s the point of only running half the race? So, in baby blue velour pants, tennis shoes I bought in high school (I was 38), and a trucker hat that barely covered my entire head, not to mention my afro, I ran a full marathon.

Well RAN is an interesting word choice. I prefer to say I completed a marathon since I did cross the finish line and receive a photo and a medal. But my feet were barely shuffling 7 ½ hours later, so I try not to use the word ran. It was the first quest in a 5-year adventure which included a century ride, double half marathon in the same day, a super sprint triathlon and a regatta. But then something happened. I stopped the quests and slowly began to physically fade away.

It was time. I had too much of it. I went from cheer mom to see you on vacation mom. Dog owner to cat owner. Active to lethargic. My reasons for being no longer needed me as they did, and I didn’t know who I was without them. I threw myself back into work, after finally achieving a healthy work life balance. The nights were just too quiet. I stopped being exciting. I stopped being fun. And my body showed that.

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I’m 30 lbs. heavier, a card carrying diabetic, bad knees and get winded walking up the stairs inside my townhouse. But I want to be that person again. That person who had really bad ideas and went with them anyway. That person that did a triathlon without knowing how to swim or a 100-mile bike ride without owning a bike. And the double half marathon in a day, the first one on roller skates, but that’s a story for another day. In the here and now, I’m running marathon again, 10 years after I did it last one. Really a different me.

Facebook. The bane of many people’s existence, the loser of elections and starter of wars. The San Diego Track Club Marathon Training Program started in January. And every few days the post would reappear on my feed, reminding me of what I once was. I started to think about. Think about who I could be again.

This would make me athletic. Although if we are being honest, I didn’t actually obtain that runner’s physique I was hoping for the last time. But with training and better diet and months to succeed, fail and succeed again, it might work. So, in the middle of the night, 2:30 a.m. to be exact, I was looking once again at the post. I had clicked interested a few days prior and day one of training was in the morning proper. And then I noticed a hater from my past had commented on my interest. She clicked the laughing emoji, basically LOL. LOL? What’s so damn funny? That I could run a marathon? I have completed 2 of them already. Funny that I would try again? Why can’t I! So many assumptions and jumping to conclusions were happening. Granted 2 a.m. is not the best time to be making major life decisions. I was on the fence before, but after seeing (in my mind) her pointing and laughing at me like the menstruation scene in the movie “Carrie”, I erratically decided to do it. I jumped out of bed and stumbled down the stairs to my laptop and made the purchase before rational thought and common sense flooded my mind. Now 5 daily runs and 4 weeks later, and the night before a 10k run, I wonder why am I doing this again?!? Oh yeah…. spite. And potentially good health and vitality. But mainly spite.

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Love Never Gives up Emiliya Gritsay Monday evening... cold spring air was coming down on the earth.

People are going home from their work, and not everyone is planning to come to the park. Me too, I wasn’t planning to come to this park by myself, that’s why I convinced my brothers to come with me. We were going to meet my friend and some other people to play soccer for the first time. Far away I saw my friend also coming with some guy. I hugged my friend and she introduced me to her stranger.

‘This is my brother, Alexis’, ‘ Hi...’ - My thoughts messed up... and then I said, ‘Oh, my cat was called Alexis too, he was very energetic, wild and beautiful. Nice to meet you’. That’s all I could say. How stupid it is to compare this handsome stranger to a cat. Well, Alexis’ sparkling eyes, his white, kind smile, and his tanned skin color took me far away from reality. He looked muscular and strong. My heart was beating like crazy. I knew I can’t fall in love with someone who can’t speak the same language as I do. I can’t fall in love with someone who is not the same color as I am. I can’t love someone who is not from my community.

“No Emilia, you can’t, stop it”. But my heart did not listen to me. I tried to block my heart and listen to my mind. But I just knew that he is more than just a guy. My heart was screaming, “it’s him! It’s Him”, yet, I decided not to listen to my inner feelings because I was not allowed to.

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After meeting Alexis, I could not stop thinking about him. His sister would always talk about him and say good things about her brother and her family. She would tell me that her brother had sacrificed himself by getting two jobs and letting her attend school full time to get her degree. He also started to text me and he was trying to get to know me more. Alexis even found out that I was walking home late after work because at that time I had no car, so he told me that he wanted to walk me home to make sure that I was safe. No one ever did that to me. He was kind, caring, and gentle with me. He would make me feel beautiful and worthy. Everytime he would talk or compliment me, I would blush... And blush so hard, as if I would get the last stage of sunburn or like a fresh, ripe and juicy red tomato. It was fun for people to see that reaction of mine and my brothers were making fun of me because of my tomato face. And later on Alexis would always call me “ My red tomato”.

Unfortunately, not everything was perfect. Couple months later my mom found out that I was talking to Alexis, she was so disappointed. She said that I can’t fall in love with someone outside of my community. My mom and my sister told everyone around my community about me and my love. People around me were judging me, him and my decision. After a couple days of crying and begging my mom to see good things in Alexis and understand me, I found myself in a big dilemma. I needed to choose between my family and Alexis. My family is my family. So many people are choosing family before their own heart. And I loved my family. Whole my life I would see my mom as a big hero in my life. She would try to take care of me and tried to give me the right direction in my life. I appreciated it. I knew that my mom loves me. But also I knew that Alexis is special. I just knew it. I could not shut my heart down because I knew that he is the one, he is my true love. I knew that I was not allowed to open my heart to this man, but I did it. Yes, I did. Even though my family was against it and they would always tell me that he is not for me. I still decided to fight for Alexis.

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Couple weeks later, while my mom was in my home country, she called me and told me that she is buying a ticket for me to Russia and I have to leave the United States in one or two weeks. I could not hold my tears. I could not believe that my own family would tell me to give up not only on my true love, but also on my future. I felt betrayed... I begged my mom to let me stay and love Alexis, to let me stay and finish my college, to stay here and be happy, but she said no. Sometimes I would feel that my mom would look at me as if I was a stranger in her daughter’s body because I was going against her morral and her plans for my life. Because I was acting differently than before. I was going against my community and my family. Maybe buying a ticket to Russia and bringing me home, she thought she would take that stranger from her daughter’s soul.

I could not stop crying because I knew that my mom was wrong. She can see only herself and community, but not my heart and good people. When Alexis got to know my mom’s plans, he got upset and sad. He knew that I am not a citizen of the US and if I am abroad, I can stay there only for a few months otherwise I would not be allowed to come back even with my green card. Alexis knew that my future is in the US, my home is the United States. And when I was crying so hard sitting in the car, Alexis hugged me, kissed my cheek and told me that if they would keep me in my home country, if my green card expired, and I wouldn’t be able to come back, he would bring me back as his fiancé. He would do everything to find me and be with me forever. He said that he loves me and will go after me no matter where I am.

In a week my ticket was in my hand and I was driving to LA airport. I did not want it. I did not want to go to Russia. I did not want to leave my future. I did not want to leave my Alexis. I did not want it. All I could do while I was driving to LA, is to pray. I prayed to God and asked for help. Asked Him to show my mom that she is wrong. I could not hold back my tears, but I knew that even if I will not stay in the US, Alexis will bring me back. Also, I believed that everything is under God’s power.

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When I arrived at the airport, and when I went to print my ticket, everything just changed. Workers told me that I need a visa to go to Russia, but it is wrong, I am a citizen of Russia, I don’t need a visa. I tried to find ways to fix it, but they would not let me print my ticket. I would ask for other options for me to fly to my home country, but they said it is impossible and they cannot help me. So, I called my mom and told her that I can’t print my ticket and I can’t do anything about it. The good thing is that my brother was with me, or otherwise my mom would not believe me. Well, after talking to some people about my visa to my home country, after shaking and crying so hard because everything was so confusing. And finally after losing so much money, I went back home. And when I was driving back home, I was talking to my mom, and I was crying telling her that I do not understand what is going on in my life. After hearing me out, my mom told me that this was a sign from God. She said that when she will come back to the United States, she will talk to me and set everything right and fair. My mom wasn't mad at me anymore and she tried to understand my point. Alexis was really happy that I did not go. Yes, I stayed in the United States because I did not have a visa to Russia, even though I am a citizen of that country. That was a miracle from God that let me stay with someone who is destined to be my true love - Alexis.

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Brown and Plastic Bags Catherine Wynn It is satisfying to feel the weight of the lock swing open as I turn the key of the wobbly glass doors. The windows are littered with homemade car ads and babysitting proposals, hippy art sales and second grade musicals. The only light keeping me from tripping over the mountain of broken hangers is coming from the 8 o’clock sun. It bolts past the leaning rack of rugs and bounces off the back wall covered in years old christmas cards held hostage by customer cries over missing dog pictures and family portraits. Every Saturday morning I duck my head under clothing racks and swivel around yellow plastic bins of clothes so I can tip toe past scattered tools, and megivered machines to reach the circuit breaker and click on the lights of the Mission Hills Dry Cleaner. Next to each switch is a red embossed label that warns power to broken sewing machines and bathroom outlets. If I keep the lights off for another minute maybe I can hide long enough to clear the mess of clothes on the counter and set down my coffee, but the lights are up and I officially open the community gossip shop.

I get tangled up in a sagas full of mustard stains and torn button holes that end in shirt suicide jokes and loose track of my pen who’se ink is half crusted dry. I turn in circles and finally find the most useful instrument in the place to hand write receipts for skirts and suits which doesn’t feel different from taking sandwich orders on brown flour bags.

My childhood was my mom opening a black screen door that clamored shut behind her as she walked past chips, pickle buckets and 50 pound flour bags. The clock behind the counter supported a figurine of St. Francis and the Virgin Mary. Above the register a clay clown attempted to deter theft, but it’s maniacal looks only scared children. Every morning she clicked

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the switches of the circuit breaker labeled with handwritten notes for the mixer and refrigerators to light up The Brown Bag Deli.

Her small business was dough crusted under my nails, but I traded that for carbon fingerprints numbered by articles of clothing. My mom’s dad, my Avo, bought that corner sandwich shop nestled into the armpit of Rosecrans St. and built a business that would mold our entire family, a business that would give every cousin their first job, a business who’s parking lot would serve as a driving school with a broken street sign to prove it legit. Avo became the sandwich nazi who made the best pink bread while my mother’s first job turned into a career that made her Point Loma famous. People recognized her in super markets charging me to hide behind grocery carts to make my embarrassment invisible. They were the people who witnessed my upbringing.

They were the people who knew me “Before your head could reach the counter!”

My thumb and forefinger had traded ruff brown paper bags for slick clear plastic garment covers a little over a year ago. Instead of silicone keys protecting the smudged sharpie labels I now punch hard plastic numbers into a black cassio register and vacuum plastic garment tags off a dust blanketed carpet rather than sweeping wet lettuce strands off brown checkered linoleum.

My mom doesn’t open that noisy black door anymore. The sandwich submarine we painted on the window my summer of fourth grade no longer lets light get a sneak peak of the bread recipe. I now open two new glass doors, with finecky latches, on Saturday mornings.

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Foam Master Rebecca Larcomb It was four o’clock in the afternoon, a couple hours or so into my shift at Tarbucks. I was new; I was fresh; I had only been working there for one month, two weeks, and seventeen hours.

My most recent endeavor had been the steep trade of latte art. As fancy as that sounds, I was no better than a child attempting to imitate Van Gogh with finger paints. Despite the difficulty, I was at my peak with a 3% success rate. Still, I liked to joke around and call myself the Foam Master.

The store was slow and I only had one latte in my cue of drinks.

“Gather round!” I shouted to my disinterested coworkers. “Behold! A rare sight!

Feast your eyes on the work of the Great Foam Master!” Like cats, over their owner’s bullshit, they begrudgingly mozed around me.

The foam was perfect.

Micro-bubbles formed a layer at the top of the pitcher: velvety, smooth, soft and immaculate; the exact texture needed to make the shitty squiggles I was notorious for. With a flick of my wrist, the milk began to stream out of the pitcher, mixing into the burnt, garbage espresso only Starbucks can make. When there was ½ inch of room remaining in the cup, I tilted the pitcher just so and laid that gorgeous foam on thicc.

My coworkers saw it before I did; laughter erupted, snot flew.

I was confused, only for a moment. Looking down, down into the latte I just poured, I saw it.

There, in all it’s phallic glory, was a dick. The balls were there, split oh-so perfectly into the top of a heart. The rest was as you’d imagine in a Middle School drawing done by the annoying Chad in 7th grade pre-algebra. It was meaty, it was-

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“Cock foam!”

“Dick Latte!”

My coworkers whisper-yelled.

I didn’t think twice about it. I slapped a lid on that baby and served that precious, beautiful cock foam right out to Dolores, our 70 year old regular.

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Moonlight, Juliette Matus oil on canvas, 2’ x 3’

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Poetry

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FIRST PLACE POETRY

I Wanna Write Mel Deorsola I wanna write I wanna write stories and fables and fan fiction And love poems, lost love poems When-I-lost-my-dog poems, dancing in the quad poems I wanna write I wanna write a thousand words to describe one minute And one word to describe a year, I’d probably use ‘chaos’ I wanna write an ode to Cotijas and a sonnet to the donut shop I wanna write to a colorblind person about how it feels when the sky changes colors Getting drunk on sunsets and syllables I wanna write I wanna write about being too nervous to order a pizza over the phone But having the courage to be your emotional, poetic stripper Baring my soul and hoping you know the fear in my voice I wanna write bad pickup lines that get the worst possible reaction I wanna write a joke and not laugh before I get to the punchline I wanna write I wanna write about every country I’ve ever been to And every country I have yet to go to I wanna write about the cyclical currents and soaked sands of the seas I wanna write alliterations, allusions, anaphoras, anecdotes, and apostrophes I wanna write with conjunctions ‘cause there’s some things I gotta say so I’m gonna say it quickly I wanna write a strongly worded letter to the president And to my former high school administration for rejecting gay yearbook quotes Signed, your Not-So-Friendly Neighborhood Homo 35

I wanna write About every horrible act I’ve committed Now, I don’t go to church But the paper is my confessional Words, the simplest form of salvation and god damn if that isn’t the best therapy I wanna write like words are my plaything and I’m too selfish to share I wanna write like I wear rose-tinted glasses Like I’m sculpting marble into flower petals Shaping dust into stars, belting Ziggy Stardust I wanna write about beautiful things And that includes you For you, I’ll pour out every meaning in all my words Deconstruct the connotations of our connection For you, I’ll keep writing till my heart stops bleeding words onto the page I wanna write And rewrite and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite Cause as Stephen King puts it “To write is human” but “to edit is divine” So I’m gonna write like the world is imploding Like I’m exploding at the fingertips to write just one more line Leave my mark and fill the white space between words and divinity I wanna write

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SECOND PLACE POETRY

Ode to Suburbia Mel Deorsola Houses lined like a flower bed labyrinth, Birds sat on a power line like the break, And pause of an invisible sentence, Singing lullabies to loved ones to wake.

Carefully planted greens of different breeds Make a canopy for joggers in heat, And old women chirping ‘good morning’ To small children as they walk down the street.

Paint bucket pink washed o’er every house; At dawn, orange-purple fruits hanging low, Waiting to be plucked and melt in your mouth; At golden hour, the skin of all glows.

Found easy comfort in normality, And calm in suburban fragility.

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THIRD PLACE POETRY

Personality Goggles Hattie Connell Having sex with him Is like translating from Cantonese to Finnish Having sex with him Is like knocking on the front door of an empty house Having sex with him Is like losing ten pounds and wearing jeans that used to be too tight Having sex with him Is like putting my foot in my mouth Having sex with him Is like hearing a substitute teacher butcher your name Having sex with him Is like missing a step in a flight of stairs But there’s something about him That keeps me coming back

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Talking with him Is like breathing after a sprint Talking with him Is like learning to ride a bike with no training wheels Talking with him Is like guessing the answer right in class Talking with him Is like stepping on stones in a stream to keep dry Talking with him Is like walking through a haunted house Talking with him Is like getting lost coming home

There is something about him That keeps me coming back

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Wishes Kevin Maranon Abandoned wandering through a valley of yellows a thousand lost dandelions dance waiting weightless and sincere for the honesty that once whispered them free

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Unworthy/ Worthy Catrina Vo I am worthless I refuse to believe it when others say My life has meaning I will remember when that little voice reminds me That I don’t have the ability to be more than a nothing I choose to ignore them when I am told That I am more than an insignificant speck of dust As the day goes by, I will remember I don’t have any value or purpose I know people are lying when they say I will be someone special I know the truth is I won’t amount to much I will ignore those who tell me that I have the potential to achieve something great I know that’s a lie When people gave me hate I know I deserved it You can’t change my mind

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There is no hope for my life It is deceitful for people around me to say I just have to persevere through the trials and tribulations I am inadequate and weak I will reject the outrageous idea that I am capable of fulfilling my dreams The voices in my head tell me that I am nothing No longer will I believe that I am worthy (read it backwards)

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Beetle Bug Matthew Remington i woke up this morning hoping i’d see you.

The sun crept above the horizon, kissing my skin as if it were you greeting me i shuffle to the kitchen and reach for your mug softly Because now you're in my morning coffee Hazelnut cream collides with colombian dark roast Like the mornings i’d wake you, with my hands running through your hair Like the liquids—intertwined and inseparable slowly transcending from dark to light You urge me through the motions with every sip Your smile hangs helplessly on the brim in the form of a drip i ponder the thought of what would happen if i let the mug slip from my grip Would your memory fade and cease to exist? i grip it tighter and hold it close to my chest The steam rises, i close my eyes and can still feel the warmth of your breath

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These inescapable dire desires come crashing like avalanches and raging wildland fires I plead for an emotional ceasefire You and Death conspire Leaving Grief at my door, Serving as God’s greatest Liar. m.e.r.

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dragon’s breath Donye Green I command this indignation with a voice of power. time unravels, unto flowers and We enter a world anew.

New to me.

New to you.

Solid cruelties turn into fluid poetry as freedom rains, We scream into an abyss.

Our words blaze the worlds.

Embers then take their claim of the soil As ocean water begins to boil In vanquish of the residing mortal coil We took flight and founded Our own nation in the sky.

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It’s Violet Emily Purtell Violet is the color of a heart deeply betrayed.

Though there are arguments to be made for red, or gray, or black, The way I see it is this.

Violet is the color of mystery, The tone of a sun setting, The hue of unsettling thoughts that creep in, even when your brain is barricaded, Uncertainty.

The throb of a pulse that quickens when that fear gets through, It’s violet.

The transition from friend to stranger Which might be worse than a newfound enemy.

The bruises left from tripping over lies, And falling over so many times.

I’ve lost count of precisely how many, But the marks they leave are deep, Standing out like a flag of betrayal emblazoned on my skin.

It’s violet.

The inverse of the warm, yellow sunshine Where we all feel the least bit alive and safe, It’s human nature.

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But like a queen leaving for her kingdom, The sun will fade, and all I’m left with is, The flowers that even her kindly light wouldn’t grace.

And I’ll seek for the glow of something else.

The glint of temptation, from gems buried deeply, It’s violet.

So beautiful, so alluring, that by the time I reach for them, I haven’t noticed, I’ve stepped off the edge and I’m falling to the bottom all because I trusted in violet.

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El Amor de Una Madre Sandra Baza

I hate her for belittling my achievements, A C being nothing to be proud of after you’ve recovered from a depressive episode.

I hate her for always comparing me, My sister becoming my worst enemy at age 6.

I hate her for laughing when I would share my hopes and dreams, My ambition slowly fading.

I hate her for faking her acceptance, Her face twisting at the sight of a same-sex couple.

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I hate her for picking at my insecurities, Belly fat and wide nose the only things she sees when she looks at me.

I hate her for making me feel cared for, Cinnamon tea and Advil beside me at the slightest sniffle.

I hate her for reminding me she loves me, The words lingering in the air.

I hate her for not letting me speak these words, Te amo, mamรก.

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Patience Briana Parker Patience is lighting yourself on fire and burning slow, Crawling in wise embers that blacken bone; The ashes will scatter but where will they go?

A match and a neon courage are all you need to defeat your foe, Whether he is a stranger or a reflection well known.

Patience is lighting yourself on fire and burning slow.

Smoke rises above the knowledge you love so And carries away the bitter air that made you stone, The ashes will scatter but where will they go?

With a spark and a breath, you leave the land of woe; Submit to the crimson flame and stand alone.

Patience is lighting yourself on fire and burning slow.

Lifting into the sky, your gold glitters and is aglow, Whispering a final prayer to God hoping he accepts you atone, The ashes will scatter but where will they go?

Reborn again, yet did you really grow?

When the smoke is cleared, you must reap what you’ve sown.

Patience is lighting yourself on fire and burning slow.

The ashes will scatter but where will they go?

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The Fly, Katherine Zimmerman chalk pastel on paper, 40� x 32�

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Fiction

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FIRST PLACE FICTION

Dugout Troy Bernardo The field lights were still burning hot white, but the dust had settled in the stadium’s parking lot as Jim sat in the dugout with his elbow in a cooler of icy water. Even as the swarms of mosquitoes and gnats buzzed around his ears he sat unmoving, and focused on the crickets chirping as he looked out over the well-lit field. He glanced over at the scoreboard and laughed at the team’s mascot, a Firefrog, that was painted an electronic red on the otherwise black background.

“Pops,” he heard someone shout from home plate. He turned to see Julio standing there, smiling, with a six-pack missing two beers and the empty plastic rings looped around his fingers. As he made his way into the dugout, he took one of the beers off, tossing it at him at him.

“Thanks, kid,” Jim said as he caught the beer, one handed.

“Good game tonight, huh Pops?”

“We lost, Julio,” Jim said flatly, as he positioned the beer in his lap, cracking it open with one hand.

“Sure we lost. But, I had a home run. That’ll look real good for my reel.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Julio spit the sweet tobacco juice that had been pooling in his mouth and opened his beer, sipping into the side of his mouth to avoid swallowing the shredded Skoal.

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“You pitched good tonight too,” Julio said.

“Not good enough.”

“Nah, that ain’t on you, Pops. Anderson dug us in a deep hole early.”

“I suppose.”

“Cheer up old man!” Julio said lightly, slapping him on the back. “You got some good tape. Braves might even call you up to Single-A if you keep pitchin’ like that.”

Jim frowned as Julio kept his hand lightly on his shoulder blade and moved it to his biceps, he squeezed Jim’s arm gently and affectionately. It was with a tenderness and warmth Jim hadn’t felt since he had been a young man and it made him smile. The two men realized where they were and Julio jerked his hand away.

“How long you been doin’ this, Julio?” Jim asked suddenly.

“Playin’ ball?”

“No. Playin’ in the minors.”

Julio spat on the ground again and looked up at the night sky. He could see countless insects shooting around, illuminated only by the field lights.

“Three years? Give or take?”

“I’ve been at this for thirteen, kid.”

“You’re thirty-one?”

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“I came out of college, not high school. I’m thirty-six.”

Julio’s head jolted back in surprise. The other guys always teased Jim. They assumed he was older because of the crow’s feet creeping up the side of his eyes and the bald spot he desperately tried to hide under his cap. But thirty-five? That seemed impossibly old.

“Well Pops, you still got it.”

“Nah.” Jim looked over at his arm and sucked his teeth. “Can you pull my smokes out of my pocket?”

“You smoke, Pops?”

“Just on special occasions.”

“Coach’ll be pissed if he sees you smokin’ in the dugout.”

“I don’t care,” Jim said as he shifted toward the cooler so Julio could fish out his pack. Julio reached into his pocket and found the menthol Pall Malls. He took one out and delicately put it in Jim’s mouth, and he lit it using the small, red lighter deep in the half empty pack. Julio was drawn to Jim’s green eyes that lit up in the dancing flame, but he hid that feeling away.

“It was a good run, Julio.” Jim finally said, taking a drag, and putting his head on the concrete behind him.

“Don’t be so doom and gloom, Pops. You could get called up again.”

“I only got called up to the majors for a few innings. They were all some late-season games. Teams that didn’t want to waste their starters’ arms. It was always a losing record, and always when the season was lost anyhow.”

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“Maybe. But who cares?”

“Because Julio, I’ve given my life to baseball and I don’t have nothin’ to show for it.”

“Sure you do.”

Jim shook his head, and he looked down at his cleats. The sole was holding on just barely because of a fresh roll of white electrical tape. His eyes welled up with tears, and they started to fall onto his grey, pinstriped pants, splattering in clustered dots in his lap. Jim sniffled but Julio pretended not to hear him and looked away to drink more of his beer.

“They’re never calling me back up, kid. It’s over.”

“What’s over?”

“It snapped tonight,” Jim said nonchalantly.

“What did you snap?” Julio asked voice full of concern, but he already knew.

“It was the last pitch,” Jim started to lift his arm out of the cooler so he could show Julio, but winced and grunted. He put it back in, gingerly. “Right when I let go of the ball, I felt it. It hurt, but I’ve done it all now, kid. Labral and rotator cuff tears, tenidis, dislocated fingers, broken feet and ankles. But this one was different. I felt the ligament give out. I heard it too. Just a gentle pop, like a few rubber bands snapping, but that was all it took.”

“UCL?” Julio asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” Jim said slowly, “I’m never pitching again. Even if I get the surgery, after 56

the rehab and strength training, I’d be thirty-seven at best before I step back out on the mound. If I’m lucky, they’ll stick me in this minor league bullshit just to see if I still got it. They’d want to see a lot of it too. I wouldn’t be called up until I’m thirty-eight. That’s best case, Julio. I’m done.”

The two sat there for a few minutes, neither sure what to say.

“What was your last pitch?” Julio asked.

“It was a curveball.”

“Was it any good?”

“Hell no. I was way out of the box. But he swung anyways.”

“Well then, it was good enough.”

Jim looked back at his arm. Even with his black long sleeve down to his wrist, and through the ice water he had been soaking it in, he could see his elbow was swollen to the size of an orange.

“When the guy swung, and the game was over, I stood out there for a while. I watched the dozen or so fans leave, most of them were so drunk they didn’t even realize it was the bottom of the ninth. I stayed on the mound, thinking about the game.”

“Yeah, Pops. I’d be thinking about a lot too if I tore my UCL.” “Yeah? What would you think about?”

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“If I knew my career was over? I’d probably think about all the good times playing ball.” Julio looked out on the green field and breathed deep through his nose. He caught some of Jim’s cigarette smoke, and it mixed with the sweat and the fresh cut grass as he smiled. “I’d remember back to my junior year when we beat Seabreeze High.”

“What happened?”

“Bases weren’t loaded, but they had a runner on second and third. They were only down by one when their designated hitter came up. The game was in their stadium, but there was a thick quiet. Kenny, our pitcher, usually did well when it was tense. He threw a fastball, right in the bottom corner of the box, and this kid made contact. I heard that bat ping and I saw the ball like it was moving in slow motion way, way up; past the lights’ glow and into the dark sky.

“The crowd went crazy, but I didn’t look away. I kept looking for the ball, my eyes scanning the sky, only seeing faint stars. It felt like the night had swallowed it up. Like it would never come down.”

Julio laughed to himself and looked up, like he was searching for that lost ball somewhere in the stars that were blotted out through the lights that lined the field.

“I couldn’t hear the crowd anymore, and I wasn’t looking at my teammates. I was lost, frantically searching, feeling like I knew where it was but not seeing anything. Then, it was just there. Like God dropped it right on top of me. I didn’t even need to move; I just kept my eyes on it. I opened up my glove in time, and it popped right in. Everyone was stunned because nobody had even seen where it went. I yelled at third base and threw the ball, and then he kicked it to second. Triple play. After that I was the star of the team.”

“Were you any good before?”

“Not really,” Julio said shaking his head. “I mean, after that it was just 58

who I was. I was Julio, the baseball player. I got invited to parties, teachers let me pass classes. Shit, my Dad even woke up early to run drills with me. I guess I just became someone else. In a weird way, I was forced into it.”

Julio shook his head, like he was waking up from a deep dream and laughed at himself, embarrassed about how lost he was in the memory. “Sorry, Pops. What were you thinking about on the mound?”

“I was thinking about my Dad. After games we’d always pile in the family’s station wagon. I’d sit behind him and he’d just yell and rant the whole way home. I stopped crying after the hundredth time, and I stopped listening after the thousandth, but he would always scream until his spit was splattered all over the windshield and my mom would beg him to stop.”

“What would he yell about?”

“He would always yell about how I needed to give more, and how if I could use my arm for school tomorrow I hadn’t thrown hard enough. That if I wanted to make it in the majors, I’d have to try harder than everyone else just for a chance to be someone.”

Julio didn’t say anything, but he started to remember his dad yelling too.

About how he needed to provide for his family, and how his brothers and sisters were counting on him. How it was all on his shoulders because he was the one touched by God. He’d warn him about gold diggers taking the money he was going to make, but secretly, Julio knew he would never need to worry about a woman in his life.

“Well, one night Dad realized I wasn’t listening. He must have asked me something, but I had blotted him out at that point. He pulled the car over and told me to get out.”

“Then what?”

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“He told me to run. So, I ran in front of the car, and he was driving just behind me with his hazards on. Even through the closed windows I could hear the muffled cursing from Dad and the dull thuds of him slapping the steering wheel. He just yelled at nothin’; straight into the night. He made me run the eight miles home at thirteen.”

“Jesus.”

“I cried, and I puked, and I begged for him to let me back into the car. He would just scream about never giving up, and how winners have to want it.”

Jim stopped for a second, and looked back at the Firefrog painted on the scoreboard. “This tear is the best thing that could have happened to me, Julio. I haven’t stopped running since that night. Now, I don’t have to run anymore.”

“I’d be scared if I was you.”

“I am scared. But now I know I gave it my all.”

Jim’s big, brown eyes met with Julio’s, and he cautiously put his hand on Julio’s knee. They looked at each other, hypnotized for a moment. Julio looked down and smiled.

“Sometimes,” Jim said, “when people yell at you enough, you start to forget who you are.” He squeezed Julio’s knee gently, moving it to the inside of his thigh. “I don’t want to forget again.”

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SECOND PLACE FICTION

Alien-nation Louise Garrett The conflict between the green aliens and the orange aliens had been going on for decades. So long that no one on either side could even remember why it started. It was surprising, really, that the green aliens had even lasted this long. The orange aliens were big, mean, and strong, the green aliens were small and scared, but slippery. The orange fought with displays of solid brute force, the green with sneak attacks and sabotage. They fought over control of their shared dominion, a floating frozen island that had never seen the sun.

Currently, the green soldiers were regrouping in their snowy mountain base. They drank white wine and listened to sad blues music on a dusty old record player. The intricate cave systems that they had dug out over the years provided some shelter from the growing conflict, but this relief was only temporary. The orange never left them alone for very long. The next morning, the green aliens would have to wake, vulnerable and aching. They would dry their tears on their favorite red silk scarf and put on their camouflage. Soon, they would have to go on the offensive. After their last battle, the green aliens had incurred heavy losses and moral was low. If they didn’t make a stand soon, it would be too late.

Sarah had watched it all unfold from the control room in her pretty pink spaceship. She had tried to abandon the cursed planet years ago, but it was no use. She was bound to it, her spaceship forever doomed to orbit around the chaos. And the slaughter was starting to become unbearable to watch.

An earthquake inter“Sarah, stop playing with your food!” Her father exclaimed. “Eat your vegetables!”

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Her father slammed his other fist on the table. His eyes seemed to gleam when she flinched, the silverware softly rattling in time with the music from the record player in the background. Her mother looked tired, aged sitting next to him as she silently sipped her wine. It was clear that he took pleasure in his power as he stared Sarah down from across the dining room table. Under this watchful gaze, Sarah picked up her fork. Her mother tensed, clutching her wine glass close to her chest, as he turned his attention back to her. The orange aliens were primed and eager for a fight.

CRASH! It was silent for a moment as they all looked down at the growing mess on the ground. Broken bits of glass were littered across the white tile floor like landmines. Peas and carrots were scattered, intermingled across a gravy soaked crime scene. Within seconds, her mother had already grabbed a broom and begun to clean up the mess. Something reached toward Sarah out of the corner of her eye. She braced herself a second before her father’s fat hand clamped down on her upper arm. As he roughly dragged her out of her chair and towards her room, Sarah looked back at her mother and prayed that the green aliens would survive.

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THIRD PLACE FICTION

Forks Mary Vik Mrs. Marple keeps all her forks separated. She lifts each one—still warm and steamy from the dishwasher— dries them and places them in their fork sized bin before shutting them in lonely darkness. Little Tommy, Mrs. Marple’s nephew, is not so precise. He picks them up while they are still hot and wet and tosses them haphazardly into their drawer. Two forks land in the same bin and in the darkness the forks mingle together, grind together, slot their tines into each other until it seems like two forks are simply one. In this darkness, they vibrate with intimate joy. But Little Tommy rarely unloads the dishwasher, and after tasting companionship the dark loneliness imposed on them by Mrs. Marple is unbearable. So, the forks press themselves against the unbending plastic of their prison trading sweet nothings back and forth.

“Oh beautiful, the shine of your silver is brighter than any ceiling light”, whispers one.

“Your curved tines are divine”, replies the other.

And for a while this is enough to beat back the darkness, but every washing cycle they become more and more desperate for another chance to touch, to embrace. Oh, if only Mrs. Marple would slip up! But she never does.

Each fork weeps desperately, begging for even just the shortest moment together. The darkness of the drawer thickens and chokes covering the forks like tar.

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Spiraling Andrea Maldonado I woke up today in a small wood-framed bed, on top of scratchy linen sheets. Sitting up on the lumpy bed, I saw that I wore an old white gown that stopped above my knees. I looked around a white room and saw no one and nothing. My warm feet hit the icy cold tile floor as I felt a fearful force push me out the door. With every step, the old white gown grew longer and longer, until it reached my fragile feet, which rubbed against rough cement as I made my way through a narrow doorway.

In this room, I saw a boxed television which secreted staticky screeching through its small screen. I took a step forward and fumbled on the old flowing fabric that had gathered at my feet. Confused, I looked back to the staticy screen. The static spiraled out of the screen and surrounded my shrinking body. The staticky spirals sent stinging shocks up my legs while pulling the worn fabric from the freezing floor. The growing gown mummified my frightened figure while the static engulfed me and everything around me, and once again, I saw no one and nothing.

Darkness had overcome me and my surroundings. The old white gown had been scorched and stretched by the static. The fabric had become so long, it was the only thing around me. I pleaded for someone to come help me escape this emptiness. I forced bloody shrieks to leave my mouth, but they came out as nothing, and that’s why no one came. The spirling static came back once more and made its way into my tired gaping mouth and down my raw throat, it filled me up with nothingness and made me no one.

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Neighborhoods Kaila Millard Day 1 It’s our first day in quarantine, we have yet to hear of any cases in our area.

Nobody feels that this mystery plague is going to become anything serious, my neighbors think that it’s just a hoax by the government. Something meant to control us, but they also believe that the fluoride in our water turns the frogs gay, so they lack any kind of credibility.

Day 2 There’s still no new cases in our area, I saw most of my neighbors out and about, walking dogs, taking their kids to the park. They all agree that this should blow over in a week or two, no biggie. Just a mini home vacation. Tony across the street was loading up his big ass truck: canned food, water, toilet paper. He says he’s “bugging out”, whatever the hell that means, he said he’s got some bunker in the desert, I think he’s crazy.

Day 3 The memes about the quarantine are hilarious. I’ve sent like fifty of them to my friends. There were less people out today, but I think it’s because it’s cold out, the old guy from down the street was trying to pass out bibles to everyone, I think he thinks this is like the armageddon that’s always spelled out in the church services. He used to be a chaplain I think.

Day 4 I started watching Disney movies to pass the time, so far I’ve seen the three original princess movies and the older ones. They help distract me.

Day 5 The family next door hasn’t been outside, but I see their son drawing on the walls, he must be really bored.

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Day 7 The president had a press conference today, we’re now under martial law. I guess we’re all housebound for however long this lasts. Oh there was one case in the area, the person was taken to the hospital, that’s all we know.

Day 12 It’s so empty outside, we don’t know what’s going on. The cases jumped to 80. No deaths.

Day 13 I saw something outside last night, it was dark, and all I saw was the thing moving through the neighborhood, I don’t know where it went but… according to the facebook group the old man’s door was broken off its hinges, I also found out his name it’s Paul Simmons. Nobody wants to go over to check on him, they don’t want to leave their houses.

Day 15 They found Mr. Simmons, nobody knows any details other than the fact that he was bloody as hell and rushed to the hospital. They didn’t find his cat.

Day 16 There were more of those things last night, at least four of them. They were quiet still but I heard heavy breathing from one of them. Nobody knows what they are, but we did get some better sight of them from one of the neighbors video doorbells.

Day 18 One of them was at my window last night, its eyes were bulging out its skull, the thing had patches of skin falling off its face! I’m thinking of getting plywood to cover up my windows. I don’t want to end up like Mr. Simmons.

Day 20 I can hear them outside, there’s no way I can count how many are out there. I can hear screaming down the street.

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Day 22 The sound is even louder now, I can’t block it out with anything. It’s so damn loud. I’m upstairs now, those things are swarming through the street like ants over a corpse. They’re so loud.

Day 25 There’s more screaming now, the lady across the street ran outside swinging a golf club, the things swarmed her. They were quiet after that.

Day 26 I almost ran out of food today, I ran across the street and managed to take some food that the lady hadn’t eaten before she was… one of those things tried to grab me, its nails scratched the hell out of me.

Day 27 I’m starting to feel a little sick, a little warm, the things outside are getting louder again. It sounds like they’re getting closer to my house.

Day 28 I’ve started having chills, my joints are achy, I’m sweaty. I’m growing tired of watching netflix all day.

Day 29 I can only walk if I drag my legs. It’s too damn hot, there’s no more food.

Day 30 I can’t get out of bed, it hurts too much, I can hear a banging downstairs, I think they’re trying to get in. it’s getting louder.

I woke up in the middle of the night, I can hear my front door fall to the ground.

They made it inside the house.

Day 31 I can’t get out of bed, it hurts too much. I can hear those things downstairs moving through my house. I wish I could fight them. I wish I could protect my house. I wish I could67

It’s at this point where the journal ends, found laying open and face down on the carpeted floor of the empty bedroom. There were dark rust colored stains on the floor. We found three of those… things in the downstairs of the house. The whole neighborhood was infected, how it got this bad we don’t know. There’s protocol for these things, they’re supposed to call when something like this happens. When their first case happens they’re supposed to call the units. We had our numbers everywhere, on the news, on their social media feeds, at the goddamned hospitals. I fear this can’t be contained any longer.

Those things will do nothing but eat and destroy and attack anything that moves, we know that the virus is transmitted through bites, scratches and exchanging of bodily fluids. It is not airborne at the moment nor is it zoological. We can only hope that it doesn’t become a pandemic. We can only hope.

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Bots for the Bots Ronlee Morris Mel Jones and her husband Charlie were treating their daughter Coraline at a comic book store in Ashland,Oregon after she aced her precalculus test in school. There were just so many books to choose from.

Coraline simply gazed around until she found the new issue of her favorite superhero just like mine: Captain America. “Hey you found your favorite hero!” Coraline’s dad cheered. “I know. I can’t believe it’s the new issue,” said Coraline. “Hey since you were an angel today, you deserve to get one more comic book,” Mel mentioned. Coraline gazed around the store again until she found one book on a human robot dressed in blue. “Hmm…Megaman? That looks like an interesting character,” Coraline thought softly out loud. “What else did you find?” Charlie wondered. “Well I found this to seem newly attractive but I don’t know him very well though,” Coraline answered. “Mom and I do,” Charlie asserted. “How so?” Coraline asked. “Mom and I used to always play him in Marvel vs. Capcom,” said Charlie.

The parents and their daughter stood in line at the cash register. When it was their turn to pay, the cashier just happened to recognize Coraline. “Hey you must be that girl who always walks around town on weekends and after school,” he brought up. “I actually am. How can you tell?” Coraline replied.

“Well I once saw you drawing in your sketchbook at Starbucks last Saturday.

Why were you there by the way?” The cashier questioned. “My parents were just working extra shifts that day so I couldn’t be home alone,” Coraline confirmed. “What were you doing there?” Mel added. “I was just ordering myself a cup of hot chocolate with whip cream during my break. Anyhow, would you like a bag?” The cashier murmured. “No thanks. It’s only two products anyway,” Coraline agreed. As she and her parents left the store, they were feeling hungry by the time they entered their car and drove off. “Hey. There’s this new restaurant I found on Yelp. It says it serves really good burritos with super tender meat and the crunchiest fries,” said Mel sitting in the front passenger seat while holding her phone.

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She then set her phone on GPS mode and mounted it on the dash. Mel had to somehow repeat the verbal directions to Charlie even after Siri’s voice since Charlie drives kind of weird. In just minutes, they finally arrived at the restaurant. Surprisingly, the waiting line wasn’t really long at all. The reserver gave out a great heart-warming welcome as soon as Coraline and her parents entered through the door right after the customers before them already took their table. The server wrote down the Jones’s family name on the guest list and escorted them to a table next to one for a married couple without kids. The Jones began reading the menus after ordering drinks consisting of pink lemonade for Coraline and two coffees for her parents. As the waitress came, the Jones were already ready. Coraline ordered a salmon burrito with seasoned fries on the side. Mel ordered a beef burrito with curly fries and Charlie ordered a pork burrito with regular fries. The waitress simply took the menus after writing down their orders and headed off to the kitchen. While waiting, the Jones decided to talk about Coraline’s favorite superhero.

Meanwhile, the married couple next to them overheard their conversation and decided to kindly jump in. They were notably talking about his superpowers in Marvel vs. Capcom and the fact that he could use them in various movies and TV shows. Several minutes later, the food finally arrived.

The scent was immediately captivating. Seconds later, the married couple next to the Jones had their own food served on their table. The food was so good, they managed to finish them quickly without asking for take-out boxes except for some of their fries. The waitress then gave the Jones a very special reciept with a scan mark. Mel was the one who decided to pay so she scanned the reciept with her phone and the payment was successfully validated. The married couple that sat next to the Jones said goodbye to them as the Jones left their own table. Coraline said goodbye to the reserver in russian thanks to her neighbor Mr. Bobinsky. “Well that was delicious,” Coraline complimented as she and her parents were already driving off home to the Pink Palace.

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“You are so right, my twitchy witchy girl,” Charlie agreed. As they reached the driveway, April Spink’s daughter Laura and Miriam Forcible’s daughter Clementina were happily waiting for the Jones to step out of their car.

The two daughters moved in the Pink Palace from San Diego after their moms passed away. The two daughters do american stageplays as well as crooner concerts. “Hey you guys!” Laura greeted. “Hi,” Mel greeted back. “Hey, you girls look wonderful!” Charlie added. “Hey, you bet!” Laura reacted. “How was your precalculus test, Coraline?” Clementina commented. “It was so awesome, I actually happened to ace it,” Coraline replied. At that point, she gave Laura afistbump and Clementina a high-five. “What you got there?” Laura wondered.

“These are my rewards. They’re comic books,” Coraline mentioned. “Can we see them?” Clementina requested. “Sure,” Coraline agreed as she handed them the books. “Oh hey, you found the new issue on your favorite superhero!”

Laura cheered. “Captain America is so great!” Clementina muttered. “Who’s this one though?”

Laura wondered looking at the second comic book. “Yeah. We never heard of Megaman before,” Clementina added. “My parents said that he’s just a human robot built in Robotropolis, Japan to defeat evil robots by a scientist named Dr.Wily,” Coraline explained. “Well have fun reading!” Laura cheered after she and Clementina gave Coraline back her comic books as Coraline headed inside the apartment. She went straight to her bedroom after putting her leftover fries in the fridge. Coraline then tossed her yellow raincoat and satchel on her bed and opened up her comic books from the transparent cover sleeves. After putting her phone on her nightstand, she began reading Captain America first. Her mom Mel came just to check up on her. “How are you doing?” Mel asked kindly. “I just started reading,” Coraline replied. “Nice,” Mel added as she began to leave back to the kitchen where she continued scrolling carefully through her Linked-In account on her laptop in order to find other writers just like her and her husband.

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For the first time in forever, Charlie finally has his own laptop. He was using it right next to Mel. In the meantime, Coraline was still reading her Captain America comic book. The story turned out to be very interesting. Her favorite part was when he did his so-called Final Justice fighting combo on a mass shooter after he blocked the bullets with his shield. The story ended when Captain America physically forced the mass shooter to apologize to the public for his wrongdoings just before execution. The time was getting late so Coraline placed her Captain America comic book on her nightstand and ran carefully downstairs to eat dinner. She and her parents had rice and shredded corn beef with their leftover fries so that they won’t spoil in the fridge. “How was your Captain America comic book?” Charlie peeped. “It was so awesome!”

Coraline shouted enthusiastically. “What was it about?” Mel added. “It was about Captain America defeating a mass shooter,” said Coraline. After dinner, she decided to go to bed early so that she can read her Megaman comic book as a bedtime story.

Once she jumped into her pajamas, Coraline picked up the book and opened it by the time she hopped onto her bed. She finished reading about two hours later and drifted to sleep. Meanwhile in the so-called Other World, the Beldam was sewing buttons on a doll when Dr.Wily came at her door. “Hi there.

How can I help you?” The Beldam greeted. “Hi. I’m Dr.Wily and I just came here to inform you that I have created six robot masters to improve the power of your world,” Dr.Wily greeted back. “Well that’s wonderful,” the Beldam commented. “I would like you to join forces with me so we can conquer Megaman, Protoman, and Bass,” Dr.Wily added. “Who are those three?” The Beldam asked. “Those are my enemies,” Dr.Wily replied. The Beldam later placed the key magically next to Coraline’s bed. “Ugh! She’s at it again,” said Coraline. She changed her clothes and unlocked the little door in the den. As soon as she reached the den in the other world, the Beldam quickly grabbed her and strapped her on a chair. Meanwhile in Robotropolis, Dr.Light informed Megaman, Protoman, and Bass about Dr.Wily’s evil scheme in the other world.

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“In order to get to the other world, you have to go to the Pink Palace apartment in Ashland,Oregon. You must then go through a little door in the den and that’s the portal to the other world,” Dr. Light explained.

Subsequently, Megaman, Protoman, and Bass flew high in the sky until they landed in Ashland,Oregon. The three robots wandered around with their mega busters ready in case a minor enemy appeared until they eventually found the Pink Palace apartment. Megaman rang the doorbell. The door opened revealing Coraline’s mom Mel. “Hi, I’m Megaman and these are my brothers Protoman and Bass. We just need access to the little door in the den,” Megaman greeted in his iconic high-pitched voice. “Why?” Mel wondered. “Our enemy doctor is in the other world,” said Protoman. “We need to defeat him before people here in the real world will get victimized,” said Bass. “Right this way,” Mel replied feeling still a bit curious and somewhat confused. When she and the three robots entered the den, she was surprised to see the little door wide open.

Megaman, Protoman, and Bass crawled in without any more words spoken.

By the time they reached the den in the other world, they saw Coraline strapped onto the chair. “Don’t worry. We’ll help you as soon as we can,” Protoman stated. The first robot master was Needleman. The second one was Threadman. The third was Buttonman. The fourth was Dollman. The fifth was Eyeman and the last one was Insectman. After defeating Dr.Wily, it was time to defeat the Beldam which was really easy for Megaman, Protoman, and Bass.

They then saved Coraline. “Wow! Thanks for saving me!” Coraline cheered gleefully. “You’re very welcome!” Megaman cheered back. “I can’t believe it’s really you in person!” Coraline added. “It is us,” said Bass. “How can you tell?”

Protoman questioned. “I was just reading a comic book on you guys tonight right before I went to sleep,” Coraline responded. “Yeah, our story seems pretty much the same,” said Bass. “It’s still a good thing for people like you though,” said Megaman.

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Climate Art and Reality Design Winners

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FIRST PLACE LIT & CREATIVE NONFICTION

The Earth Won’t Care Troy Bernardo I always hear the same apathy.

Who will pay for it?

How do you know?

We stopped using straws.

Solar panels look ugly.

China is doing more damage than we are.

Couldn’t this be a natural cycle?

Still, we know that when we’ve grinded up the last rhino tusk as an aphrodisiac that we know doesn’t work.

When we’ve sold our land for oil pipelines built by the lowest bidder and it inevitably spills into our water.

When we’ve hacked off the fin of the last black tipped shark and unceremoniously thrown him back to die slowly at the ocean floor.

When the Great Pacific Garbage Patch isn’t a patch anymore, but a bridge from California to Japan of Mcdonald’s cups and candy wrappers.

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When the earth cooks us, when smog chokes us, when soil is dust, when reefs are bleached to the bone, when we’ve deforested every tree, when it’s all paved and plastic, when you can’t buy canned air, when we’re extinct The Earth won’t care about us, just like we didn’t care about it.

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SECOND PLACE LIT & CREATIVE NONFICTION

My daughter’s ashen garden Henry Farmer

I plant these seeds in ash for you, So you can have a place to rest.

It’s the least that I could do.

If only so you knew That we tried our very best, I plant these seeds in ash for you.

You deserve this verdant view.

As you had not transgressed.

It’s the least that I could do.

I’ll collect the morning dew, guard their leaves from any pest.

I plant these seeds in ash for you.

Our worlds become askew, Undeservedly your test.

It’s the least that I could do.

Though it tears my heart in two, It will be my only quest.

I plant these seeds in ash for you It’s the least that I could do.

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Interconnected, Lindsay Mickelson acrylic on bristol paper, 24� x 34�

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Meet the Authors

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“El Amor de Una Madre” - Sandra Baza Sandra Baza is a self-proclaimed writer who started her career at John Adams Elementary at 9 years old. After struggling to find her voice and getting lost within herself, Sandra, now 19, has come back to talk about her complicated relationship with her mother in a poem titled “El Amor de Una Madre”.

“Addicted to Mugshots,” “Dugout,” & “The Earth Won’t Care” - Troy Bernardo Troy Bernardo’s time in Alaska was where he learned to love reading and writing. Living in a tent and doing volunteer work gave him the opportunity to pick up a new hobby. This infuriated his Mom who couldn’t get him to open a book or write more than the bare minimum word count throughout his time in school. Troy now teaches English at an alternative high school and relates to the students who struggle with and dislike reading and writing.

“In Spite of it All” - Joanna Clark Joanna Clark has several unwritten novels ready to emerge from her mind to paper. She is a San Diego native with 2 daughters both in college. She is currently the Chief Operations Officer a High Tech High, a progressive charter school with 16 locations throughout SD County.

She attends Mesa College due to her desire for lifelong learning and her passion for creative writing.

“Personality Goggles” - Hattie Connell Hattie Connell has emphatically loved writing since she could hold a pencil in her hand.

What started as a solo form of survival, has bloomed into Connell’s passion for expressing and connecting with others through written word. Connell would like to thank all those in her life who have listened when she spoke, read when she wrote, and believed mountains out of her molehills.

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“I Wanna Write” & “Ode to Suburbia” - Mel Deorsola Mel Deorsola is a student at Mesa College studying English and Film. She has a passion for writing and storytelling in a variety of mediums. She is a slam poet, a short filmmaker, and a self-published author on Amazon. One day she hopes to become a successful screenplay writer and film director.

“My daughter’s ashen garden” - Henry Farmer Henry Farmer is a student at San Diego City College, he plans to transfer to SDSU to pursue a career as an English Teacher. He hopes to inspire students to express themselves through writing. He enjoys all forms of art, especially music and literature and is a proud father of a rambunctious little girl.

“Alien-nation” - Louise Garrett Legend has it Louise Garrett was born with a pen in one hand and a notepad in the other.

Born and raised in San Diego, she recently earned her Associate's Degree in History from San Diego Mesa College and is working on transferring for her Bachelor's. She enjoys writing short stories and poetry, but her biggest writing goal is to one day finish and publish the novel she's been developing for the last few years.

“Inescapable Colors, A Narrative” - Lucie Gonzalez Lucie Gonzalez is currently a student at Mesa College and hoping to transfer to UCSD and Major in Marine Biology. Her writing has strong ties to her culture and upbringing as a second generation Mexican girl growing up in the USA. She loves getting lost in the magic of a good piece of literature and she hopes her works can do the same for other readers.

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“dragon’s breath” - Donye Green Donye Gree is a Film Studies major completing his final semester at Mesa College.

He will be transferring to CSU Long Beach in the fall to study film and television writing.

Inspirations for his pieces often come from movies or shows he watches, his most private emotions, or random thoughts. Donye’s muse for this work, “dragon’s breath”, came from being in the music studio and experiencing the art of music production.

“Love Never Gives Up” - Emiliya Gritsay Emiliya Gritsay grew up in Russia and moved as a teenager to the United States.

She did not speak English when she came to the US. Her family is more conservative and follows many traditions than the usual American or Russian family. When she met her fiancé, and because he is Hispanic and didn’t know their traditions, it was a difficult time for him and Emiliya because her family is close minded.

“Foam Master” - Rebecca Larcomb Rebecca is an English Literature major in her second semester at Mesa College.

Her goal is to write and incorporate comedy into the darkest parts of humanity.

Inspiration for her pieces include long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and avoiding politics with her family.

“Spiraling” - Andrea Maldonado Rodriguez Andrea Maldonado Rodriguez, born in Guanajuato, Mexico, is a flourishing writer who focuses on dark and morbid themes. She often gains inspiration for her writing by dissecting her recurring childhood nightmares. Her last name “Maldonado” translates to “bad luck”, which she thinks is ironic considering she believes herself to be a very blessed individual.

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“Wishes” - Kevin Maranon A Southeast San Diegan, first-generation American citizen, Kevin is an Aquarius with brown eyes and a black-haired individual who enjoys black tea while listening to Ski Mask on Tuesday afternoons. An economics undergrad, Kevin is now pursuing a second BA in political science. Your friendly timid extrovert learns to find comfort within his voice: “Hi, my name is Kevin.” =)

“Bots for the Bots” - Ronnlee Morris Ronnlee Morris has always enjoyed writing fan fiction since 2013. He started out doing crossovers of Coraline and Paranorman. He enjoys writing fan fiction because since childhood, he always come up with scenarios in his head after watching a good movie or TV show. For this story, he decided to write a crossover of Coraline and Megaman to convince the audience an example of what you should do whenever you feel scared. Writing crossovers is Ronnlee’s main forte of writing fan fiction because whenever he comes up with scenarios in his head, he always thinks about another franchise just to make it seem mostly funny.

“Patience” - Briana Parker Briana Parker is an English literature student with too many books and not enough storage space. Her ambition to fill her life and shelf with knowledge is inspired by the wisdom and support of her brilliant teachers both on page and in class. Their shades of life have patterned the tapestry of her educational journey and have led her to pursue an Associate of Arts Degree in English and Certificate of Achievement in Creative Writing.

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“Beetle Bug” - Matthew Remington Matthew Remington is an inspiring writer driven by passion, pursuing a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. His goals are still to be determined, but he’s enjoying every step of the journey. Writing allows him freedom to express and the ability to interpret mundane everyday experiences and articulate them into the extraordinary.

“Forks” - Mary Vik Mary Vik is a student at San Diego Mesa College studying electrical engineering.

She loves spending her free time reading and cuddling with her cats. She also enjoys exploring emotion through her writing. In the future ,she hopes to inspire other writers and help bridge the gap between liberal arts and STEM majors.

“Unworthy/ Worthy” - Catrina Vo Catrina Vo is a student at Mesa, soon transferring to UCSD majoring in Sociology with a Concentration in Social Inequality. In addition to her studies, she enjoys writing, songwriting, playing her five instruments, and dance. She has been through an ordeal of challenges throughout her life, and, she likes to write it all out. Catrina aims to share her story to be able to help others one day to unapologetically be their true authentic self.

“Brown and Plastic Bags” - Catherine Wynn Cathy Wynn is a native San Diegan who uses writing as a form of escape and expression. Some of her favorite topics include creative nonfiction and magical realism.

When she is not working or in class you can find her at the beach with her dog Milly.

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Past, Present, Future, Tucker Beachem acrylic on bristol paper, 24� x 34