Olivetree Review: Issue 38

The Olivetree Review Myth Special Edition

Hunter College's Literary & Arts Journal Since 1983

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AC CKN NOWLEDGEMEN NTS

The entire management staff and panel of editors of The Olivetree Review wishes to express our deepest appreciation to our mentor and advisor Prof. David Winn for his continuing commitment and support during the Fall 2004/Spring 2005 Special Edition.

We are also grateful to Dean Escott for his support. We sincerely appreciate his interest and attendance at our Myth Celebrations event and his thoughtful and encouraging words.

Thanks goes out to the staff members of the Central Reservations, Media Board, College Association, Hunter United and the Student Resource Center for their time, resources, and kindness, all of which have been essential to the function and establishment of this publication and our events.

We are also very thankful to the Hunter Chapter of Golden Key International Honour Society for co-sponsoring our Myth Celebrations event, and for helping us set up, serve refreshments and clean up.

Special thanks to Prof. Sylvia Tomasch, Chairperson of the English Department for her sympathetic ear, time and generosity in helping us plan our Women in Literature event.

We're also grateful for the computer Prof. Tomasch donated and to the ICIT Department for supplying the necessary peripherals.

We are also indebted to Thom Taylor of the English Department for his assistance in promoting our events and call for entries.

Thank you Prof. Tamara Green, Chairperson of the Classics Department, for your beautiful opening speech at our Myth Celebrations event.

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Thanks to Prof. Joyce Toney, Chairperson of the Women's Studies Department for her time and her valuable suggestions in planning our Women in Literature event.

We're also grateful for the continued support and guidance from Jeremy Herman, affectionately known as the old sage of the OTR. Merci beaucoup to Remy Amerique for their generous donation of fine red and white wines for our Women in Literature and Myth Celebrations event! Special thanks to Avinash and Andrea Premlall for serving these succulent wines.

A very gracious thank you goes out to the talented musicians Theo Eastwind and Shaker Leg, Bryce Hackford and Claudette Visco for performing at our events.

Thanks also go out to J. Michael Banks of Stone Image Graphics for his creative input, artistic skills, guidance, and supply donations.

Thanks to Bertha Arenas and her family; both her parents of L.D. Home Remodeling and her aunt of A Taste of Lima made generous donations of the tasty Peruvian food and a heavenly cake for our Myth Celebrations event.

Special thanks are also extended to Lalita Chandrapal and Rocky Premlall for their generous donation of food and office supplies.

A gracious thank you goes out to all of our readers for making our events so very special.

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THE OLIIVETREE REVIIEW MYTH SPEC CIAL EDIITIION N STAFF MANAGEMENT Professor David Winn Faculty Advisor Managing Editors

Nena Bing Lam & Anandi A. Premlall

Production Manager

Jennifer Jaiswal

Production Assistants

Alex Clermont & Sherry Wasserman

Finance Managers

Nena Bing Lam & Anandi A. Premlall

Promotions Manager

Bertha Arenas

Event Coordinator

Anandi A. Premlall

Senior Poetry/Prose Editor

Bryce Hackford

Senior Fiction/Non-F Fiction Editor

Christian M. Ghigliotty

Senior Art Editor

Ava Mahieu

FALL 2004

SPRING 2005

Poetry/Prose Editors Kari Chrichlow Leornardo Amiri Gabrielle Pati Kari Chrichlow Zoe Macintosh Gabrielle Pati Shirly Ulfan Claudette Visco -4-

Fiction/Non-F Fiction Editors Kari Chrichlow Bertha Arenas Shana Cooper Kari Chrichlow Tania Dudina Shana Cooper Nathan Harwitz Tamara Spiegel Tamara Spiegel Nairobi Walker Nairobi Walker Art Editors Leonardo Amiri Dana McCaw Mylene Merced Gillian Permuy Vic Timofeev

Leonardo Amiri Dana McCaw Mylene Merced Gillian Permuy Vic Timofeev

Copy Editors Shana Cooper Ava Mahieu Yazmin Pena Sherry Wasserman Contributing Editors Ka Chan Jennifer P. Sheela Subramanian Lincy Thomas

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LIITERATURE

Theban King Joseph Copeli

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Talking Birds Nina Drooker

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Dionysus' Crooning Itamar Kestenbaum

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Hades Scapegoat Peter Lisi

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Sirens Bonny Scheltema

26

Once Upon a Time Flordelisa Mota

28

The Watery One Jessie McGee

32

Gelilah Karyos Ossé

35

The Look of Lust Anandi A. Premlall (www.aapremlall.com)

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Faith's Nurtured Soul Peter Lisi

48

Nemesia, in rebel bloom Karyos Ossé

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The Dream Marilyn Krever

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A Bug's Life Richard Bertin

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Do You Believe in Angels?

Ignas Bautrenas

64

Family Underworld Michael Tyrell

66

The Porcelain Doll Lisa Tagliaferri

74

Untitled Afsheen Leonardo Amiri

81

The Box Ellen Sibowitz

83

Parable of the little runner Morgan M.X. Schulz

87

Nan Gabrielle Pati

88

Little Lita's Jar Melanie Dulfo

90

The Urban Legend Halfway House Michael Tyrell

96

Reality of Asterisks Zoe McIntosh

99

Rusty's Ride Morgan M.X. Schulz

103

The Scientist Experiences Zoe McIntosh

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Charlie's Song Annick de Bellefeuille

118

Attempts at Remembering Those Sundays Kate Aspell

121

Earl Shakler: A Summer Day Violetta Ekpe

124

777 Brian Marggraff

129

To Build in Concave Claudette Visco

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The Same Oak Claudette Visco

132

Autumn Harvest Brian Maggraff

134

Coping With Autism: A Mother's Story Marisol Otero-M Morales

143

Face Circus Shana Cooper

154

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ART

My Soul is Crying Tatyana Paryshkura

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Blessings Ava Mahieu

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Tereus & Philomena Pixie Alexander

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Diptychsaur I Alejandra Villasmil

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Birth of Venus Anandi A. Premlall

25

Door of Death Ava Mahieu

27

Metamorphosis Anandi A. Premlall

31

Rebirth of Venus Tatyana Paryshkura

34

Krishna & Radha Ann McManus

37

Ancients Sing Ava Mahieu

47

Life Myth I Anandi A. Premlall

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Perfect Body Gillian Permuy (www.gillanpermuy.com) -9-

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Sudden Sense of Liberty Victor Timofeev (www.victortimofeev.com)

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Death Angel Deborah Samuelson-R Rodriguez

63

Art Goddess Ann McManus

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Il Sogno Lisa Tagliaferri

73

Stepping into the Light Maria Hanrahan

80

Earth Goddess Ava Mahieu

82

Laughing Buddha Leola Bermanzohn

86

Venus Bathing Anandi A. Premlall

89

Sister Outsider Leola Bermanzohn

95

Dragon Marilyn Krever

98

Red Road Pixie Alexander

102

Diptychsaur II Alejandra Villasmil

114

Underground World Alejandra Villasimil

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Evolution Tamara Spiegel

120

Flatiron Victor Timofeev

128

Mark & the Angel Pixie Alexander

130

Heart Victor Timofeev

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THE OLIIVETREE REVIIEW HUN NTER COLLEGE’S LIITERARY & ARTS JOURN NAL

History When Professor Winn began teaching at Hunter College in 1980, there were several competitions and prizes for creative writers. There was already a long tradition of this sort existing at Hunter at this time. Pam Barbell, Vincent Sanchez and Adam Vinueza came to speak with Professor Winn about publishing all the winning entries that had been compiled from the competitions that semester. These three students got together with Audrey Raden, Patrick Martin and Amudha Arjendran to start their own magazine. They asked Professor Winn to serve as their faculty advisor and he accepted the position.

The students wrote up a constitution and began to talk to other students about getting involved with the publication. By Fall 1981, the students had an office, a budget and were ready to begin. The students looked at several different publications, such as the Partisan Review and the Kenyan Review for inspiration. Professor Winn noted that an important factor for him as a faculty advisor was that the students had no political ideology in mind. They also had no preconceived notions as to what style or subject of work they would publish.

Behind the Name There are two stories that Professor Winn will tell you about how The Olivetree Review became the name of the magazine. The first story revolves around a time when these students were out in the Village one night and happened to be drinking at the Olive Tree CafĂŠ. The name seemed right and they decided to use it for the journal. The second story about the origins of the name came from Adam Vinueza, one of the founders.

He was aware of the fact that the olive tree is the symbol for the Greek Goddess Athena who represents wisdom and creativity.

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AB BOUT THE ART

It's always been important to me to spend time with art that explores and celebrates a sense of the sacred, of mystery and of knowledge beyond words. Art has been for millennia a plastic embodiment and documentation of the evolution of cultural and personal beliefs and values. In spite of the increasingly decontextualized experiences of our artificial and technological lifestyle, artists and all people, indeed, still feel a deep call to create with their hands, to experience beauty, to satisfy the needs of the spirit, to search for meaning in their traditional cultural backgrounds and integrate and synthesize what pearls of wisdom they may find therein to the increasingly global consciousness. Increasingly, the separate disciples are discovering how they are merely facets of one wholistic world view. The dominance of the let brain is being seen for what it is: a dangerous imbalance that threatens our very survival on the planet. The Myth Special Edition of The Olivetree Review gives the Hunter and outside community and opportunity to explore and rejoice in the diversity of contemporary artists who have contributions to make to the most exciting artistic journey of all-the inner journey, or as Joseph Campbell would put it, the "Hero's Journey" which remains as timeless and necessary as ever. Š

Ava Mahieeu Seenio or Art Edito or

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EDIITOR’S NOTE

We are all influenced by myth. In our daily interactions with others throughout this culturally diverse city and especially on a campus like Hunter, where more than 140 different nationalities and 100 languages are represented, the power of these ancient stories still encourages many of us to continue "dreaming the myth onward" as Carl Jung advised.

In fact, Hunter's logo is a representation of Athena-goddess of wisdom, war, the arts, industry, justice and skill-with the inscription Mihi cura futuri (Mine is the care of the future). Athena is also known to have planted the first olive tree; a symbol of peace, progress and power. All things considered, Athena is a fitting symbol of Hunter College: an educational institution where The Olivetree Review has forged a symbiotic relationship between students and the arts.

Twice each year for the last 22 years The Olivetree Review has requested and published the writings and art works of the Hunter College community. This year something fresh and exciting was brought forth into being. Inspired by Parabola, fine art, classical mythology and our own spirituality, Senior Art Editor Ava Mahieu and I developed the idea of crafting an entire issue devoted exclusively to myth. We wanted our colleagues to think about what myth means to them and how they could represent it through art and literature.

The Olivetree Review also succeeded in expanding readership and building relationships with more students, professors, faculty and staff. The writers and artists featured in this Myth Special Edition reflect the best and most diverse works related to our theme, from creation myths and folklore to urban legends and common misconceptions.

Thread by thread, our vision has become a beautiful tapestry woven over the course of many sleepless nights of hair-pulling, -14-

tears and what can only be described as divine intervention.

This year The Olivetree Review has presented to you an Open Mic Reading Night featuring poets and musicians, a Women in Literature Reading Night featuring Hunter Professors and staff, and our grand finale of the spring: a multi-media Myth Celebration featuring street musicians, talented Hunter artists, musicians and writers and a spread of delicious ethnic foods.

If the olive tree is indeed "the tree that feeds the children" as Sophocles declared, let our Myth Special Edition of The Olivetree Review serve as a fountain of inspiration to nourish your minds and spirits.

Anandi A. Preemllalll

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Myth Special Edition

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Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail.

Theodore Dreiser

My Soul is Crying Tatyana Paryshkura -17-

Theban King Joseph Copeli I meet the three roads again In darkness, the golden blood screams For nought The Furies lose their purpose When man casts a net for himself The Fates, those immortal three, Spin webs to catch the choicest game Blind men We throw ourselves to ruin Swallowed in our own pride and sin Oh to have that sphinx again That molests and offers riddles Or death To ease abomination Rake my cursed name from this land Can there be respite now?

Not for sons that kill seed-givers Or plow The loins from whence life began Murderer and father-brother Darkness in dead dress needles Eases not the double blight on me No eyes Yet my soul cries to depart Hades, rip me from mortal toil

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We grow like flowers, and bear desire, the odor of the human flowers.

Richard Henry Stoddard

Ava Mahieu Blessings -19-

Talking Birds Nina Drooker Birds were our intimates in the old days – confiding secrets, offering warning and direction.

Birds had human faces.

They poked their heads out of the leaves of the waq-waq tree and engaged in colloquies with Alexander the Great; bird-women with swelling breasts sang their siren song to Ulysses.

Leather-skinned travelers told tales of the Eastern Isles – Sweet spices, clambering monkeys and talking birds – we see then, brightly colored, their tails like fountains, painted, in miniature, on ancient manuscripts.

Now on our flagstone patio, birds talk only among themselves.

What has changed?

What broke our communion with these feathered creatures?

Black, heavy-shouldered crows caw to each other from distant trees, they call out messages – hey hey – something important – but not for us.

Riding steel birds, we now share their sky But no longer share the words.

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Let the credulous and the vulgar continue to believe that all mental woes can be cured by a daily application of old Greek myths to their private parts.

Vladimir Nabokov

Tereus & Philomena Pixie Alexander -21-

Dionysus’ Crooning Itamar Kestenbaum Here comes Dionysus with chariots of gold And women of every ethnicity, A white cloak ‘round his shoulders, An olive halo adorns his curly hair Tales of recent wars and battles of old, Romantic publicity Where rocks become boulders, To seize attention, to acquire care Trails of decent men whose blood turned cold, Frozen at puberty Where the young grow older, And warm smiles become sullen stares The wine barrels are growing mold, Green grotesquery Let’s break the wooden mold, Let us drink and grow our hair Dionysus sweeps behind these people Crooning … “Come back, children You are all diamonds in the rough!

Roll in the dust, not in the ashes, Drink the wine, not the blood of masses.”

If you chase the clouds, Gravity will get the best of you.

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What if all the myths were true...

Liu Kang

Diptychsaur I Alejandra Villasmil -23-

Hades Scapegoat Peter Lisi Whispers of life cry in the fold Future of days crumbles in dragon’s fiery wrath Fires suppress the core of the willows breast A mother’s milk curdles in strides of vintage merlot Darkness falls on an immature sight Tears fall high on crocodile skin Serenity stolen by the goblins in the fields Darkness swallows time as my casket sets in deep.

A hand of the damned comforts my embrace The battle for my force personifies my torment With eyes shunned in fear and my hope still at large The fallen one’s grin rapes my soulless heart Sculpted in love to be chiseled in hate My flesh is burnt with the scent of redemption This darkness has a comfort, whitewashed in the doom For a scapegoat cannot speak the language it never knows.

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We’re the bridge across forever, arching above the sea, adventuring for our pleasure, living mysteries for the fun of it, choosing disasters triumphs challenges impossible odds, testing ourselves over and again, learning love and love and LOVE! Richard Bach

Birth of Venus Anandi A. Premlall www.aapremlall.com -25-

Sirens Bonny Scheltema Pursuing safe harbor, you navigated the sanguine isle, testing waters – luxurious azure – when choppy grey waves threatened your course.

Whispered warnings from my own dry lips – Your paradise is not here – draw you, aching, and closer to the rocks of despair.

You curse my honesty like a hungry man too long at sea; demanding safe mooring, you defy my vital words.

Your paradise is not here.

Your paradise is not here… and still you come.

All hands on deck as you race in, for love, you think, in spite of all the stormy truth that says go back, go back.

The wailing cry you hear is not a song of Solomon… and still you come.

I am your mermaid now.

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Without an understanding of myth or religion, without an understanding of the relationship between destruction and creation, death and rebirth, the individual suffers the mysteries of life as meaningless mayhem alone.

Marion Woodman

Door of Death Ava Mahieu -27-

Once Upon a Time Flordelisa Mota Denmark, a land of enchantments, in the sixth century of Christian time the people’s imagination created tales.

Satyrs, monsters, fauns, and dragons with sulfur breath inspired writers to create myth.

Many succeeded, but in the beauty of poetry, An anonymous author created the epic poems of Beowulf Vivid with wonder, rapture of the mind when reality gasped for breath in one of the most enchanting yarn.

The Middle Ages, a period of oral tradition in literature and belief.

It was the time of magic spells, witches, monsters, and princesses held captive on the pinnacle of legendary castles.

The mystery, the fairy–tale, reality, superstition, paganism and Christianity all danced under the chanting of mythology’s spell.

The unreal was believed as truth; the unknown revealed in the beautiful magic of poetry high expression of emotions, higher level of consciousness Beowulf: metaphoric song of triumph, in English first epic who proclaimed by royal trumpet and melancholic harps mourning over a wake.

Beowulf’s author is unknown, his figure and name vanished in Denmark’s eternal fog of the past.

Linguistic Mercia’s dialect was the one who knew his face.

The poem is an open window for humanity to look at the different passages of life that last a short time, which is the poems’ lament.

The Geats, with their pagan rituals, are rapture with sorrow.

The characters do not age history constantly repeats them: -28-

Beowulf, King Hrothgar, and demonic Grendel.

The constant battle between infinity and mortality; courage and allegories are the emblems of this tale.

Danish King Hrothgar succumbed under the tragedy unable to protect his kingdom, seeing his best men killed.

He constantly mourned.

Because a monster emerged from the muddy lake Grendel’s mother nursed him with grievances; they lived in the deepest of darkness, a desolated swamp.

The gates of hell were opened and Grendel materialized.

The horror of his appearance made the warriors collapse under the malignance of his deadly breath.

The poet’s harp that praised life, now was used for grief.

The Creator dressed the world with beauty; human beings were given splendor.

The sun and moon dressed the earth with light; disturbances interrupted this harmony.

Grendel copied Medusa’s gorgon dress, darkening King Hrothgar’s kingdom.

The night was Grendel’s accomplice.

For twelve long years it covered the monster like a thick veil to disguise his destruction.

He marched to the palace and devoured the best of King Hrothgar’s court warrior men.

Grendel, the traitor, mercifess in annihilation.

Grendel and his mother’s terror reign would fall.

Beowulf was chosen by faith to break the magic inside the mother and son .

He has an armor of virtue: his strength.

He is similar to Apollo, Greek mythology’s god of prophecy.

Beowulf, with his almighty, strength all in one man separated Grendel’s right arm was from his body, as a storm separated an oak tree from the earth.

He ran to his mother’s bosom and inside the lake, monster and human -29-

in deadly duel, removed the coral of the reef.

An ancient sword, transparent, ethereal, weapon of truth, silenced the mother and the monster and the lake and Danish people had peace.

Our hero is dressed with longevity and grace, but many winters ahead, a dragon is awakened and ambition confronts goodness and they live unhappily ever after.

That is our own fairy tale.

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We can keep from a child all knowledge of earlier myths, but we cannot take from him the need for mythology.

Carl Gustav Jung

Metamorphosis Anandi A. Premlall www.aapremlall.com -31-

The Watery One Jessie McGee Whelmed, I kick around the notion of breathing, taking the amniotic aspect into my hollow lungs; bobbing, I slip beneath the surface, tucked into liquid sheets, suspended, the weight of my body rests on translucent pillars of salt.

Transformed, I am the Watery One— essence united with fluid earth, this must be from where these limbs have crawled, this bosom, this gut, heart and head evolved, this must be where I belong. Under, the silk of my hair dances round my nape, beneath my chin, sliding over my shoulders like skinny eels born of my scalp. My chest burns with want of expanse; involuntarily I absorb my mortality: I am but one fleeting crest atop the infinite blue depth. Stirred, I swim, my arches skim the bumpy bottom, I push up, -32-

pump my feet, part and scoop the sea with cupped palms, my nostrils rise to the surface like a dolphin’s spiracle, suck in the oxygen, and I descend again swiftly, hands and arms lunging down, I grasp the smooth rippled sand and release handfuls steadily between my fingers, gliding weightless through aqueous minerals, imbibed and purified, soft powder spirals caress the length of my body, dissolving schedules crystallized on muscles, finally cleared.

Easily, I rotate toward the constant sun, emerge warmed and glistening— a ready vessel.

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I therefore claim to show, not how men think in myths, but how myths operate in men’s minds without their being aware of the fact.

Claude Levi-Strauss

Rebirth of Venus Tatyana Paryshkura -34-

Gelilah Karyos Ossé Sudden and weary, as though having just footed the breadth between Sheba and Brooklyn, she was an amazon volupting; head-covered, an image of a true daughter of a golden land, a stolen land, come to scale my sun temple, study its inner miracles. claiming direct lineage to Anansi, she began her carnal corruption with long legs – dancing against an obelisk, belly rolling, hips wiggling to my rastaman chant like a hypnotist’s pocket watch undulating on its chain. movement stopped when she beckoned and caressed my wild, shaggy face till baby glabrous; it shined black in her mirror, an abnormal spartan warrior. her tongue lived away from its native cave and, with its lather, cast vivid scenes for my eyesight to follow; they missed the white spot on her flat widow’s tail, blinded by her spun nubian mirage.

But she was hollow, cylindrical; her skin a coal-plated armor simulating softness and history. and from her rapture spilled forth a phalanx of western pantheons, who promptly burned large portions of my skin. gripped on either side by ares and tyr – her pillars of war – she cursed me with lips that had only ever purred murmured eternal love. sated with their volleys, the gods retired to their construct, skied in mob formation down her steep slopes of thighs to battle stations lying just beyond a hell mouth left abandoned by its cerebus. their philistine concubine then scuttled off without -35-

a backward glance and left me peddling pieces of my scorched weakened self to a wildly grinning hades, whose skin had long desiccated – the hazards of office, his love for kore.

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It is amazing that our souls—our eternal essences, with all their hopes and dreams and visions of an eternal world—are contained within these temporal bodies. No wonder suffering is part of the human condition.

Marion Woodman

Krishna & Radha Ann McManus -37-

The Look of Lust Anandi A. Premlall Many years ago on the beautiful Greek island of Límnos, there lived a young maiden named Dianthe. She was born soon after the goat herder, Alcander and his lovely bride Erianthe, shared their vows in a small church in Thera, overlooking the lava island of Nea Kameni. Alcander had singlehandedly built a modest home for his new family, while Erianthe cultivated a variety of crops in the rich volcanic soil.

Their goats grew fat over the years with the well-tended produce and grains, as Erianthe bulged each spring with a new babe.

Unfortunately some of their children did not live for more than a few months. Each time a child perished, Alcander and Erianthe made offerings to the gods and begged for a healthy son. Despite the relentless pleas of her parents, the family was blessed instead with five more daughters: Maeve, Iona, Calantha, Elodie, and Tansy. *

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At twelve years of age Dianthe was a homely girl with short brown braids, a round belly dangling over long skinny legs and a broad mouth that revealed slightly crooked teeth. When she was a child, the villagers often mistook her for a boy so she ended up playing with their sons on the beaches and mountains of Límnos. Dianthe often returned home caked in clay with bees buzzing away at her soft flesh. Every time Erianthe set eyes upon the monstrous condition of her eldest child, she would grab her seasoned switch and whip Dianthe until her arm dropped from exhaustion. Her sisters bawled with each blow, clutching their mother’s skirts in protest, until she pointed the switch at them. Dianthe refused to shed a tear throughout the ordeal and afterward ran off to wash the blood, bees and dried earth from her skin at a nearby hot spring. Alcander found her weary body near the grape vines, carried her home and tucked her in bed as Erianthe scowled at him.

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Since her mother was intent on bearing a son, she was often swollen with child and expected Dianthe to take care of the gardening, cooking and cleaning. Her days of frolicking with the village boys were over while her schooling in household affairs and wifely duties had just begun. She delegated some of these chores to her idle sisters Maeve, Iona, Calantha, Elodie, and even little Tansy. While she longed for her carefree childhood days, Dianthe knew that it was no longer respectable for her to be in the company of young men. Erianthe had poisoned her daughters’ minds with horror stories of what would happen to maidens who dared to walk alone, disobey their parents or husbands, and refuse to honor the gods and goddesses. *

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Only hours after giving birth to her seventh daughter Melanctha, Erianthe died of severe hemorrhaging. Alcander was distraught at the death of his beloved wife and grew angry with the gods for taking Erianthe away and not even granting him a son in exchange. Looking at his daughters only caused him further pain, for they reminded him that he would never have an heir and his family name would come to an end with his own death. Alcander spent most of his days on the farm tending to the goats and crops while at night he was drunk with wine. Dianthe was left to care for her siblings at the tender age of fourteen. Iona, Calantha and Elodie were responsible for cleaning and washing, while Maeve cared for baby Melanctha.

Dianthe was left with very little time to herself between the gardening and cooking, but her father’s absence and sisters’ help did allow her some limited freedom.

Dianthe sat at her window and sighed heavily as she watched young couples run off together, hugging and kissing under the olive trees. She soon came to the realization that her chances of marrying a decent man were very poor. For one thing, she was hardly what one would consider beautiful.

Secondly, and most importantly, her father had very little money to even raise seven girls, much less the extra finances necessary for proper dowries. There and then Dianthe decided to take a -39-

vow of celibacy and make offerings to Artemis, the virgin goddess of the hunt. With no chance for a husband in her future, celibacy made perfect sense. She visited the temple of Artemis on a daily basis, but wished that she could run off into the woods and live with the nymphs instead of being in the house all day with no choice but to be surrogate mother to her siblings. *

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Over the years Artemis kept an eye on Dianthe and was more than willing to reward her for such sincere devotion and chastity. But, alas, the virgin huntress could not have the girl abandon a family that needed her so desperately, even though Earth-loving Dianthe would make a fine addition to her band of merry maidens and no doubt become a prime devotee.

While an attack on Dianthe’s sisters would be an effective way to resolve this predicament, there was nothing to justify such a drastic move that was akin to what had happened to the children of Niobe, Queen of Thebes. Dianthe must be freed but there had to be a less bloody means of doing so. Artemis scowled as she fingered her arrows and slipped them back into her leather quiver.

Artemis was also drawn to help Dianthe because of her own connection with the island of Límnos. It was where her nymphs rescued Hephaestus from Hera’s deadly rage. Hera, Queen of the Olympians and wife of Zeus, was furious that she gave birth to such an ugly child and threw Hephaestus off Mount Olympus and into the sea. Hephaestus’s parthogenic birth pleased Artemis; for once, her adulterous father Zeus had had no input in the creation of a child. Mount Moschylus, on the fiery island of Límnos, was sacred to Hephaestus for it is where he forged his intricately beautiful crafts such as Artemis’s bows and arrows. Artemis was in debt to Hephaestus for his handiwork even though she found his wife and her bountiful charms to be quite unbearable. And thus the virgin huntress was secretly pleased that Dianthe worshipped her instead of Aphrodite.

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A few years later Dianthe bumped into Dross of Laos, a handsome foreigner, on her way to Artemis’s temple. He strode elegantly across the path as if his feet were adorned with the winged sandals of Hermes. The beauty of his hazel eyes framed with long lashes, his full lips and strong arms immediately captured Dianthe. The music of spheres filled the air anytime Dross was near. Despite her pledge to Artemis to have no romantic ties with men, Dianthe could not control the turmoil between her thighs. She hoped to bump into Dross on the way to the temple.

She waited for him to exit Artemis’ shrine and smiled at him but he only winced at her. Still, Dianthe was hopelessly infatuated with this handsome stranger but had neither the courage nor confidence to approach him. If he said no, she would surely die of longing and rejection. *

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Dianthe looked at her reflection in the lake as she scrubbed and washed her family’s clothes. Her stringy unkempt mane and worn tunic waved back at her. Even Dianthe winced when she tried to smile at her watery likeness. It was more of a grimace that greeted her in return. Dianthe sighed heavily and tried to avoid her reflection as she finished the wash. She resigned herself to the fact that a man like Dross of Laos would never take interest in her. She tried to fight the urges bestowed through Cupids’ cursed arrow by praying reverently and making oblations to Artemis.

No matter how much she told herself it was wrong to touch herself, she couldn’t stop her incessant desire for this man.

Dianthe grew tired of secretly lusting after Dross of Laos, as it only made her lust after him more. She tore away from Artemis’s temple in shame, cast her vow of celibacy to the netherworld, and began to make oblations to Aphrodite.

Dianthe knew that the goddess of love was the only one who would sympathize with her plight and the only one who could -41-

help her with matters of the heart and passion. She knelt and cried on the feet of the marble statue, begging for the aid of the goddess of love. Dianthe thought that if only she was beautiful, Dross of Laos would look upon her countenance just once without scorn and maybe even love her. *

*

*

From her elaborately fashioned looking glass in her gilded chamber, Aphrodite observed the homely girl and decided that she must do something to aid Dianthe. After all, Aphrodite was quite the expert in love and lust. It would be dreadful if she did not intercede. Aphrodite took pity on Dianthe for never having known what it was like to be adored or loved by another.

From a jewel encrusted box Aphrodite removed a glass bottle, dipped two arrow tips inside and called upon her and Ares’ son. Upon hearing the melodic voice of his mother, Cupid pulled himself away from Psyche’s arms to collect the lusttipped arrows and lodge them into the heart of yet another unsuspecting mortal man. *

*

*

Dianthe raised her head and gasped as the marble turned to flesh before her eyes. Within moments Aphrodite appeared in the temple, taking the form of her life-size statue. Dianthe wiped her tears and stared in awe as the goddess of love, glistening with fragrant oils, smiled upon her. Dianthe rubbed her eyes in disbelief and touched Aphrodite’s feet to make sure she was not hallucinating. She felt the silky skin beneath her calloused hands and burst into tears.

“All your desires will be realized soon enough, dearest Dianthe,” Aphrodite said as she waved her luminous hand over the girl. Dianthe was dumbfounded as she felt her bony figure swell voluptuously, thick shiny hair cascade down her back and her rounded belly shrink and became taut. The goddess of love dipped her fingers into a jar of ambrosia and anointed the budding maiden with the beauty enhancing salve. As Aphrodite -42-

winked, swirls of hand-spun silk wrapped around the girl’s curves. Dianthe ran her hands over the rosy fabric, touching her newfound breasts and hips in utter amazement. Aphrodite smiled at her handiwork and handed Dianthe a mirror from the folds of her diaphanous gown. The previously plain girl nearly fainted with delight as she gazed her new reflection.

Dianthe thanked Aphrodite profusely and headed to the temple of Artemis to find the object of her affection. And there he was kneeling before the statue of the goddess with a crown of flowers picked from a virgin meadow, nourished by pure waters. Dianthe kneeled beside Dross of Laos and touched his hand. He raised his head to meet the face that belonged to the delicate hand as his throbbing member swelled with anticipation. Upon seeing the magnificent beauty before him, Dross of Laos could not control his desire, took Dianthe into his strong arms and kissed her. He laid her on the altar and hummed sweet words into her ear as he poured his love into her. After several bouts around the temple, Dross collapsed and fell into a deep slumber.

On her way home from the temple, Dianthe caught the eyes of many men. They called her the earthly Aphrodite.

Glistening one. Beautiful. Some whistled approvingly at her.

Others winked suggestively. A few even fell at her feet and begged for a taste. And Dianthe could not resist. Nor did she want to. Never did she think anyone would have referred to her with such honeyed words. And never in her life had she ever felt so desired. Their attentions overwhelmed her. And she couldn’t get enough of the adoration. Dianthe was unable to overcome the effects of this remarkable alteration. She couldn’t fathom the benefits beauty brought upon her. It all seemed surreal and Dianthe feared it would all disappear come morning. And so she lay upon the dewy grass and against the twisted knots of olive trees with several men before the rosy fingers of dawn greeted her. *

* -43-

*

Artemis was furious to have lost not only one, but two pious virgins to the madness of Aphrodite. She was even more enraged since Dianthe and Dross of Laos had violated every inch of her sacred temple with their unbridled lust. Artemis shrieked and threw large vases against the columns. The scab Aphrodite had created from the needless chaos leading to the death of Artemis’s beloved devotee, Hippolytus was still raw. It itched beyond control and Artemis was more than ready to tear it off. *

*

*

With the sun still shining bright, beautiful Dianthe ventured off to Aphrodite’s temple with a basket of offerings after she had her fill of afternoon dalliances. Artemis followed close behind and waited to make her move. When Dianthe finally emerged from the temple of Aphrodite, she made her way to Artemis’s temple to make an offering. Artemis was surprised and mildly pleased, yet still offended by Dianthe’s presence her temple. Meanwhile, Dross of Laos has his eye on Dianthe as well and waited anxiously for his lover behind a column. As Dianthe bent to make her offerings, Dross of Laos took the invitation to enter her from behind and she welcomed his manhood with a delightful squeal.

Artemis could not believe her eyes as they defiled her temple once again. She let out an ear-splitting shriek that startled the lovers and hurled them outside.

“This is all your doing Goddess of Filth! Look what horrors have transpired within my holy temple!” The eternally exquisite Aphrodite materialized before Artemis in a cloud of bubbles.

“Let them be, you wretched old maid!”

“Let them be?! Are you mad? Have you not seen what your meddling has done?”

“They’re just doing what comes natural. What’s so wrong with a little love? Not that you’d know anything about passion, my frigid-lipped fiend! All you care for are your filthy beasts.” Artemis glared at Aphrodite with arrows in her eyes as -44-

she chanted:

“O Goddess of Love If you dare call yourself so Bringer of the inevitable ache Of lust festered loins, And wickedness galore!

To Hades with depravity!

Forever will Dione muscipula Portray your nature of deceit!

Gripping lips of death Tainted with sweet nectar, O Woe is the victim Of your curse!”

With that, Dianthe’s façade crumbled. Dross of Laos grew limp and drew back in disgust as her homely face, protruding belly and scrawny body were revealed. Artemis threw her head back and let out an evil cackle. The virgin goddess had much more in store for this ill-fated pair.

“Have you not seen what a proud wench your little puppet has become, spreading her legs all over the island?” Artemis smirked at Aphrodite.

Dianthe shook her head and whimpered. She tore at Aphrodite in desperation. Aphrodite peered at what was left of the girl, but there was nothing she was willing to do to assist her now. Although she once felt sympathy for the girl, she could not stand the fact that Dianthe was too proud and abused her precious gifts. Even though Aphrodite was infuriated, she refused to let Artemis provoke her, especially since her powers were no use on the virgin goddess. Artemis managed to keep her distance from Aphrodite’s love spells with her vow of eternal virginity.

Within moments, Dianthe’s head turned into a gaping green mouth of triangular teeth, her arms into wiry extensions, while her feet split into roots and her legs drilled into the ground. Each of her fingers grew into another gaping mouth.

Upon each mouth were three dark hairs. Dross of Laos was transfixed with terror, but had no control of his limbs. Each of Dianthe’s orifices was filled with irresistibly delicious nectar -45-

while she lay wide open. Her lover succumbed to the licentious display and suckled upon her mellifluous juices. Once her hairs were stimulated a few times, an electrical impulse passed through Dianthe’s body and her mouth closed, her teeth interlocked and formed a cage around Dross of Laos. A large victim such as he was preferred, as he supplied more energy than his smaller counterparts. As he struggled to get out of her jaws he was drowned by an influx of fluid. Her once sweet juices soon turned poisonous and dissolved his soft flesh. When Dianthe’s mouth reopened, all that remained of her lover was his bones. *

*

*

And so the Dione muscipula (commonly known as the Venus Fly Trap) came to be. This tale serves as a reminder of what happens to those who reject true inner beauty and focus solely on the physical. The strange blood-craving plant, Dione muscipula, reveals that things are not always what they seem to be. Looks may be, and in certain instances are, deceiving.

And most importantly of all, do not betray or come between the gods and goddesses, especially Artemis and Aphrodite, or be prepared to suffer dearly at their hands.

-46-

Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.

Stella Adler

Ancients Sing Ava Mahieu -47-

Faith’s Nurtured Soul Peter Lisi Dormant like the cold breeze that rapes the trees of solace Denial packed in sheets of wasted time City of brew entices power in the sun nearly set Freedom remembered in chambers of intoxicated madness Hollow wishes to be free, chase the nomad’s collar Isolation provokes insane callings of improbable fancy Forced faith swallowed in golden chaos Destiny swims in damnations tormented reflection Characters act. Nature entranced in denials quick Lost emotion caressed in unanswered rhyme The pull of the tide shadows the wane Purity banished in fallen dialogue I search in catacombs encircled in due Tragedy knocks as confidence kneels I wait for truth, caressed in love’s innocence My wits come to an end in dumfounded loss Recycle inner faith with hope For in the mold, quality blooms as fortune Perceives a nurtured soul.

-48-

The flower is the poetry of reproduction. It is an example of the eternal seductiveness of life.

Jean Giraudoux

Life Myth I Anandi A. Premlall www.aapremlall.com -49-

Nemesia, in rebel bloom Karyos OssĂŠ an ear to full-lipped petals an urgent message,

a shank for charon added with rumor; mythologists have consigned our afterlife tilling of elysian fields, the monotony of maintaining their idyllic eternity broken by our sprinkling of tears and perspiration on tartarean soil

boots with sharp cleats to boom like reveille’s bugle blast for breathing ears through nemesia flowers, as blue and legion as its intended audience, whose muscles constrict, skin purple and swarth awaiting passage. short-lived, the stromosa returns to sender and brace for arrivals.

-50-

Hold fast to dreams for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.

Langston Hughes

Perfect Body Gillian Permuy www.gillanpermuy.com -51-

The Dream Marilyn Krever

I reach around your solid girth To feel for your wings Either you never had them or They were torn off and Your back healed smooth

-52-

Myth is an attempt to narrate a whole human experience, of which the purpose is too deep, going too deep in the blood and soul, for mental explanation or description.

D.H. Lawrence

Sudden Sense of Liberty Victor Timofeev www.victortimofeev.com -53-

The Bug’s Eye View Richard Bertin (*Editors note: While this work is original, it derives from an ancient Persian legend. This is merely my own creative interpretation of it) A very long time ago, in the sacred land of Tehran, there once was a bug that lived in a rug. Now while he never realized it, he happened to live in a very special rug. It was an enormous carpet that graced the halls of the Sultan’s palace.

Originally a gift given to the Sultan from a sympathetic Kingdom, it was said to have been the most magnificent palace rug ever constructed. However, in the bug’s own world, that meant nothing at all.

The bug’s name was Ahziez. Ahziez first encountered the rug when he was just a child. Its towering high piles and brilliant colors immediately enchanted his eyes. Each time he crawled near it, though, his brothers would drag him back to safety.

“Ahziez! What are you doing?” they would yell.

“What? Leave me be!” Ahziez would fire back.

After a few minutes of arguing, Ahziez would always give in to his older brothers and return back home to the small crack in the wall that was his family’s dwelling. Much to his dismay, his brothers would always get there first to report his antics to their mother.

“Mother, Ahziez did it again! He almost went inside the forbidden forest” they would carp.

“Ahziez! How many times do we have to go through this, you are not to go near that forsaken place” cried his mother.

“But mother, Shaheed and Tariehq have told me many stories of their adventures in the forest. Ever since they grew their wings…”

“Ahziez, silence! Your friends are of no concern to us, my son. Blessed be to Allah nothing has happened to them,” his father would lament.

-54-

Ahziez would bow his head and concede with his father since he knew it would be disrespectful to continue his case.

“And another thing, there will be no more of this mingling with winged-ones. They steal our food when they can easily get their own from some place else. If it was not for those with wings, we would live better” his father continued.

“Yes father, I understand. I just can’t wait to grow my own wings.”

“Ahziez, my son, one day you will learn that not everyone is the same. This talk of wings must cease, for we are different, and thanks be to Allah for that. Now eat your food that I have salvaged from the giant-ones.”

Ahziez was perplexed by his father’s words, but he still listened since he held anything out of his father’s mouth in such high regard. *

*

*

As the weeks past, Ahziez noticed his father bearing less food on his returns home. His family was patient with their father, but his failures were becoming unbearable.

Soon his brothers would have to join in on the hunts. Ahziez wanted to contribute, but his father forbade it. Ahziez might have been young, but he fancied himself more of an adult then he actually was.

“If only I had my wings, I could fly to the quarters of the giant-ones and make my father proud and finally show off my brothers” Ahziez thought to himself. After a while, Ahziez became completely consumed with desires to help his family.

However, as a small young bug, there was not much else he can do but scrounge around the open floor in hopes of coming across some scraps left over from the giants.

One day, Ahziez’s life would change forever. While rummaging around for rations, he encountered one of the giants. His family did not speak much of the giant-ones, but he knew to stay away from them. As he pondered what to do, a massive hand came crashing through the air. Quickly he leaped to the side to avoid being crushed. The hand nearly -55-

squashed him! At that point Ahziez did not think at all, rather his eight tiny legs trotted away, almost on their own. Ahziez made it across the hallway and near the large carpet his mother warned him of. As he stalled, he noticed a mammoth shadow soaring above his head. Instinctively, Ahziez scurried away and darted into the thick woven fabric of the rug to loose his pursuer.

Into the carpet Ahziez went. He did not seem to care that he had no idea where he was going, or the fact that it was the farthest he ever had been from his home in the palace wall.

Ahziez’s little legs carried him deep into the forbidden forest.

After awhile, Ahziez stopped in his tracts to catch his breath and collect his thoughts. He had no idea where he was, or how he would return home to his family. “Where am I,” he thought to himself. The myriad of long thick strands of wool that towered over his head made it difficult for him to gauge how far he was from the rug’s borders. To add further dismay to his situation, it was beginning to get dark. Not before long, Ahziez spent his first night away from his family.

The following day Ahziez waded through the rug in an attempt to get accustomed to his new surroundings. Unlike the vast open floors he was used to strolling across, the rug was flooded with a plethora of food crumbs. If only his family could be there, he thought. Ahziez’s father raised him to uphold many values, valor trumpeting them all. It was with those values, which Ahziez drew strength from. Without them he would have been frightened and not able to persevere. “I can get through this,” he said to himself.

Over the next few days Ahziez spent most his time gathering scraps of food. On his daily trips he managed to pave a few trails and get familiar with his surroundings. He never wandered off to far from his trails, though. The carpet, in many ways, was a living labyrinth to the little bug, especially one as minuscule as Ahziez. The thought of striding off from his paths terrified him. He had no desire to even think about what kind of mysteries may reside past his area of the rug. Soon his days would begin to grow into weeks, and weeks would manifest into months, still Ahziez’s habitual rituals -56-

were carried out unchanged. *

*

*

Ahziez was not a child anymore. He was still in the confines of the rug, and perhaps, still trapped in a child-like mind state. “Oh, when will I ever get my wings?” he moaned to himself periodically. It has been years since he first stumbled into the carpet, and he still was holding on to his childhood dreams. However, he did not care about returning home as much as he once did. As he got older he came to the realization that the rug was his home now. He was content with that concept. Food was readily available, and he even took solace with his solitude. While he was not exactly happy, he certainly was not as troubled about his situation than he when he was a child.

Life in the carpet was taxing at first, but Ahziez optimistically learned to adjust. The most troubling aspect for him was getting around. Over the years he memorized a few trails to help him wheel past the bulky strands of fabric. It took a long time but eventually he became conscious of the fact that he was essentially moving in various circles and not really going anywhere. Everywhere he went, ominous green piles loomed overhead almost in defiance. They were not the typical columns of wool that Ahziez staggered through. He did not know what they were or why they had such distinct color, but he did realize that they were his biggest problem.

For a little bug, a Persian rug can be just as dense and murky as a jungle is to humans. Ahziez’s tiny legs grew extraordinarily fatigued over time. His daily tips around the trails he constructed were reduced to weekly occurrences.

Within time, Ahziez lost desire to move from his position. His trips were done only out of habit, as if to fulfill a mandated quota. He was no longer the curious and ambitious little creature his family would remember him as. “What’s the point of moving”, he thought, “As long as those green towers stand, I will forever be confined to just one or two trails.”

Ahziez soon found himself stagnant, and hardly mobile -57-

at all. He spent his days sleeping, only waking to eat and gawk up at his barriers. He couldn’t see past the thick strands of wool, so he could only imagine what lay past the fabric. Every now and then a piercing hum would startle him from his sleep.

Since he was not able to see where the noise was coming from, he became anxious when trying to guess what it was. “It must be the winged-ones,” he mused, “There must be enough scraps in this place to feed off an entire fleet.” Despite the commotion, Ahziez quickly lost interest and carried himself back to sleep. *

*

*

One day Ahziez noticed that there was no longer the surplus of scraps that there was before. “O Allah, Why have you stricken me with such misfortune!” he cried. He was terribly upset over the scarce supply of food, but more so of the fact that he would have to get re-acquainted with his old legs. He didn’t notice, but it had been a while since he last used them. The green towers not only sealed of his hopes, but also his access to any other trails, so he had no choice but to trek along the same trail he had paved for himself many years before.

As Ahziez fought with himself to muster up enough strength to lift his eight legs and guide them through the wool, he realized that a humming noise was blaring close by.

Suddenly, a beetle whizzed past his antenna. Ahziez halted from progressing any further after the encounter. The envy that burned through his little soul was too great for him to ignore and continue on. Shortly after, a few other beetles glided past.

At that point, Ahziez’s envy manifested into a stark rage. “I can’t bear it no longer”, he cried.

Ahziez made himself a niche in the deep trenches of the rug and collected his thoughts. A stream of thoughts flooded his small head. “What’s the point? Why should I even go on? Where are my wings?” he pondered to himself. In compliance with his fate, the bug then crawled into a ditch and laid on his back. He closed his eyes and eased himself into sleep.

-58-

Sleep was all he knew, and all that was left. Ahziez lost his desire to move any further, even if it meant to seek out snippets of food. In his mind, his life had left him weeks ago.

Ahziez slept for the next few days. He didn’t care to eat, even though his hunger was overbearing. He knew eating would only prolong his bleak existence. However, one day an unexpected occurrence would give him a shimmer of hope. As the bug laid asleep in tall shreds of fabric, a wandering scarab came across his niche. The scarab looked at Ahziez with utter bewilderment. After peeking at him through the stifling threads of fabric, he decided to carefully inch his way closer, making sure not to startle the bug from his slumber.

The scarab wheeled his way through the fabric and closed in on Ahziez. The rumbling of threads was more than enough noise to wake the bug. When Ahziez opened his eyes, he was greeted by a large figure twice his size.

“Greetings friend, my sincerest of apologies if I have awakened you from your slumber” said the scarab, “My name is Alahhadi.”

Ahziez was puzzled by Alahhadi’s appearance. It was a long time since he had last talked with another being. Quickly, Ahziez mustered some sort of response before his aloofness would shun the visitor.

“Wh…wha… what are you doing here?”

“My friend, I have traveled for many days on a journey to reach the other end of this earth, hopefully finding food along the way. Much to my dismay, the floods have left this place a vast wasteland,” said Alahhadi.

“Floods?”

“Yes, I am sure you have taken notice to the scant supply of food amongst the land. Please forgive my intrusion, but do you have a name my napping friend?” asked Alahhadi.

“My name?” Ahziez sat back down and vigorously thought to himself. “It has been so long, I can not remember.”

“Names are of little importance, my friend. It is what an insect does in its lifetime that is truly important”, said the wise scarab.

“You are a wise one I see, but what is these floods that -59-

you speak of ?” asked Ahziez.

“Nobody really knows, but on my journey I have heard many stories. They say the giant-ones have imposed the misfortune on our land. Talk of whole oceans dousing our kingdom and washing away our villages, runs rampant through these parts.”

“Villages? Alahhadi, how far has your voyage taken you? I ask because I have spent most of my life on this land, and never coming across a soul,” said a confused Ahziez.

“Have you no idea how immense this land is, little one? Just over those green towers lies a vast metropolis, or at least it used to be. Famine and fear of another fierce storm have caused many to flee this land.”

“I was never aware of how vibrant this land actually is.

You see, I have no wings and am not able to escape the confines of the towers,” quickly responded Ahziez in an ambitious fashion.

“Wings?”

The scarab released a raucous laugh upon hearing the bug’s plight.

“Who needs wings, my friend? I have trimmed my own wings many years ago in order to live the righteous life. I could still fly if I wanted, but my journey would not be as meaningful if were to simply soar past this great land and miss my chance to meet so many friends.”

Ahziez was enlightened by the scarab’s words, but fought with himself in trying to embrace them.

“You say you have trimmed your wings? If that is so, then how will you flee this terrain?” asked a baffled Ahziez.

The scarab shot back, “I have no will to leave this land until my journey is complete. However, it is quite simple to escape. Over those green towers and past the tall field of yellow strands, after, the border to the outside stands near.”

“But Alahhadi, I have no wings! How would a lowly little insect like myself get past?”

“My friend, I can see from here that you have eight legs. With that many legs, you can climb over those towers in no time. It surly isn’t as hasty as flying past, but nonetheless, -60-

you can make it across. I have seen creatures with half the legs you have, and still conquer towers twice the size of those green ones.”

Ahziez didn’t know how to respond to such an answer.

The scarab continued to befriend him, but as darkness fell, Alahhadi continued on with his voyage. Ahziez went to sleep that night with a new sense of urgency to his desolate life. He wasn’t too sure about this idea of climbing over the towers.

“Rubbish” he thought. However, with the threat of another flood looming, his options were limited. “Climb across, or get washed away”, he contemplated to himself. Then there was his familiar mantra of waiting for his wings. Years later, he still did not accept the thought of wings never growing from his backside. The scarab’s visit enlightened the little bug, but ultimately left him as perplexed as ever. He needed to make a decision soon; there was no telling when the next flood would occur. He figured that since his side of the carpet had not been hit, it was due. Ahziez would go to sleep one last night before making any drastic decisions. *

*

*

It was in the early morning hours where Ahziez’s life would come to an end. As he slept, calamity struck his side of the rug. Gallons upon gallons of water were dispensed on the carpet surface. Shortly after, much of the water seeped into the fabric and soaked away anything it came across. The little bug awakened to notice his body flowing across a river. The vigor of the river was too powerful for Ahziez to handle. It was then that he realized that for the first time in years he truly had no control over his destiny. He had no choice but to acquiesce to the destination of the violent current. After a wild ride on the rapids of the rug, he finally managed to veer off to a dry spot.However, his troubles were not over.

Ahziez picked up his head and surveyed the area. He saw seas of water sweep over the horizon. Floating along a nearby stream was the carcasses of creatures he never seen until that very moment. As he gawked over the chaos that con-61-

tinued to ensue, a colossal apparatus griped by a giant human hand crashed into the bug’s world. The massive device plowed through the fabric and grinded deep into the very foundation of the carpet. In the teeth of the device, the crushed remains of many creatures were seen, some still alive and struggling to break free. The little bug, Ahziez, did not make it past that day.

The sorrow of the story is not so much the bug’s demise. The real tragedy is that the little bug lived and died in the most beautiful rug ever constructed. The things he called his “problems”, the towers, were simply part of the rug’s pattern. He lived in something of so much beauty, and not once did he ever realize it. *Author’s note: It is little Ahziez, where the phrase “looking life from a bug’s eye view”, stems from. No matter how upset you ever get, always remember not to be like the little bug. Life is always beautiful when you look at it from a “God’s eye view.”

-62-

We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is awaiting us.... The old skin has to be shed before the new one is to come.

Joseph Campbell

Death Angel Deborah Samuelson-R Rodriguez -63-

Do You Believe in Angels?

Ignas Bautrenas Do you believe in angels?

Have you ever seen them With their wings ripped off and glued back on?

Have you ever seen them dressed in black With their eyes closed and hearts stopped?

Falling‌ And if you will ever see that, Will you believe in them then?

-64-

The role of the artist I now understood as that of revealing through the world-surfaces the implicit forms of the soul, and the great agent to assist the artist was the myth.

Joseph Campbell

Art Goddess Ann McManus -65-

Family Underworld Michael Tyrell 1. Indian Summer She postpones the return trip, detained by her mother’s abundance, her insistence: keep the trees one color.

Afterimage, some nights she is visible to him emerging from incorruptible stone.

That he has a kingdom to play with means little to him.

He sees obedient captives, vessels waiting to be poured and tossed.

Every once in a while he thinks he’ll deny one— go back where you came from.

But he likes the way they surround him like reeds, almost identical in their formations.

In winter my mother turns my photo to face the wall.

She told him this, knowing he had no images, no phone in hell.

The dead are mirrors: offer them anything, they give it back.

2. Noon -66-

No shadow then no trapdoor of shut eyelid no falling dream no naked dream no friends at the field’s border they are screaming warnings no mother alarmist on the porch no rush no hum whisper hiss just some music she’s never heard dark she has no proof she knows it exists there all along in petals in pruned leaves in the gardening books I see me I see me not daylit moon starved for purpose all for the taking You Can Ruin It If You Want no shadow then only speared grass that leaves a little singe when she steps off earth she has to admit the idea appeals to her there will be touch-me-nots now there will be touch-me-nots 3. Border For years she walks a particular road— the stop sign with no one to warn, the black blaze of macadam, sunflowers innumerable, where houses once stood, sunflowers growing from the windshields -67-

of junkyard cars, struck animals.

Blooms so intensely gold a child ignited them with a crayon— the road a needle in all that gold.

She keeps pace.

Hands in pockets disclose no trembling, but she’s not frightened, she sees sunflowers are breakable spines, some lean forward like sunstroke victims, others lie shattered, somewhere they have to end, maybe just up ahead, where the sun nosedives and mausoleums outline a town.

4. Venus A bottle, dropped from a great height, detonates at our feet. We practice agreements: never speak again, never apologize.

We wind up in my room, where nothing is mine.

I change houses overnight, at the expense of living things. Even the flytrap, dwarfed carnivore, closes hungry. Maximal water, filtered light, the old falsehoods fall short.

Capped tendrils, open exits, from them I sliver pears to make lures.

-68-

Seduction’s an adaptation, nothing less.

You don’t flinch at explosions, only the drone of my apology can draw you in.

I’ve changed my locks and we still wind up within.

The night passes and you are not devoured.

5. Labor Day, Circa 1980 To define worse, city widows brag about their brood. In their automatic lens, it’s the black sheep I most resemble.

Elder Brother lowering a Limbo baton slams it down to keep the weakest out. Who fails to shift, twist form to slip past. Left-back Cousin (no hands, no hands) carries a rock for keepsake, chases us through the afternoon’s kerosene, later sits sucking a bone left on the grill. Sunburned Mother hisses, we must watch for killer bees—not native, on the horizon.

How quickly we learn to say the prettiest names for fear— Childproof, Radioactive, City Widow.

To define emergency: a kid’s body plugged with stings.

Not one circle, not one, can outlast a line. No hands.

6. Persephone’s Child Student of the wordless, how soon you learn not to flinch.

Shades don’t remember harm.

The million hands murmur over you, -69-

each touch an inquiry: Are you alive Morning brings mouths lipsticked with recall, a river where nothing of their lives seeps into you when you drink from that bilge.

You are the inheritor of infinite coins tossed from the pockets of the ferryman.

You leash the three-headed dog and take a walk with your mother.

She tells stories of another world, all glittering termination, all hypothesis— trees coming into being all at once, some never to open again.

And you consider her following byways forbidden to others until hands press into your shoulders like stones.

Boredom.

A synonym for father.

Are you alive Next year, next year.

Earthly souvenirs she’ll bring, lurid blooms and fruit that never hold out past the crossing.

7. Thaw The snowless season’s ending.

The yard’s splintered into a puzzle of black trees, each black tree with its code of years.

To read them you have to -70-

kill the trees. So the eye divides, the heart turns invisible, indivisible, not one patch of garden can be seen, rain-torn branches nearly covering the yard.

They cover the dead birds my mother grieves for, hurrying to give names like cages, while, in one gesture, the god of spring pickpockets all.

On his way out, he drops the crocus, purple coin the marl quickly discloses.

Not an invite, this flirtation, crocus bruising under mud, under felled and fractured wood— she must lift each broken limb to touch one blooming mouth.

8. Rites of False Spring How often now you call me home before my time, mornings waking to an alien room, musk of earth, faint sun on the depleted fields—ineffectual, like light through a microwave door.

Across from the window you stagily set the table and chair, the jar of unremarkable blooms.

Shall I watch for blackbirds?

That’s the game we used to play.

-71-

They would be starving for plunder where the stalks froze and refused any additional incarnations.

The old joke: it was a dead scene, they lived on death, everything was already taken.

I’d have to help them. I’d have to get moving.

These flowers are microphones— they expect only sound, not meaning, and now I feel obligated to think of something to say.

This view is blank as a blindfold and already you’re prying open your hatches in the banks of snow— I can’t believe I’ll have to fit there.

-72-

Dreams do come true, if we only wish hard enough, you can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it.

Sir James M. Barrie

Il Sogno Lisa Tagliaferri -73-

The Porcelain Doll Lisa Tagliaferri Once upon a time, on the other side of a storefront window there was the most beautiful porcelain doll in all the world.

She sat upon a velvet chair, wearing a lush Victorian dress; while atop her head she wore a fancy hat adorned with a feather. Her name, Lucianna, stood for everything she possessed – beauty and grace. There were other dolls in the window, too. They kept clear of Lucianna, and held festivities only amongst themselves. Perhaps they were jealous, perhaps they just thought she was too different to get along with them, Lucianna didn’t know.

She was left to sit on her velvet chair in her Victorian dress to stare out the window forever.

Lucianna always wondered about the outside world, the world not protected by glass. She wondered how she, a doll of glass, would fare out there, away from the safety that the storefront window provided her. While she was for sale, she was mostly just for show, and her price tag, even she knew, was too high to hope for a purchase. The other dolls were not quite so expensive, and mostly came and went. All except the curlyhaired Esmeralda, whose price rivaled even Lucianna’s.

Esmeralda was unique in that she was sold to the store by a person; she had been outside, whereas all the other dolls had not.

Although Lucianna was always left out, she was able to listen to the stories Esmeralda told, they were wonderful and frightful all at once, and Lucianna wished to be out of her window for only one night, to get a taste of that other life just once.

It so happened, that one day Esmeralda came to Lucianna, and began some friendly chattering. No one had ever reached out to Lucianna before, and for once she was all smiles.

“I see you sitting here alone,” Esmeralda began, “and I know how more than anything you want to get out of your glass prison.” Lucianna explained that she was both enchanted and afraid, and Esmeralda said that was to be expected. “I think I know a way we can get you out of here, when the old shopkeeper is out for the night. We will have to work quickly to get together a plan.” Lucianna listened as Esmeralda devised an -74-

escape for Lucianna. Esmeralda had not thought of a way to get Lucianna back into the shop, and this is what concerned Lucianna the most. Whenever she began to ask, Esmeralda outlined the plan in more detail, and Lucianna worried a little, but her happiness in finding a friend, and the excitement of getting a taste of the outside world more than outweighed her reservations.

The plan had been devised, and the following night, when the old shopkeeper went home for the night, Esmeralda gave word that now was the time for Lucianna to make her escape. Fearful though she was, Lucianna was eager to see a world without a glass safety net, and without too much reservation she let Esmeralda lower her from her shelf in the window.

She noticed how full of dust she was from all of her sitting, and she brushed it off her dress, her hair, her hat, and Esmeralda helped. “There now, what a beauty,” Esmeralda said, removing one last speck of dust. “Let us get you out that open window in the office.”

Very quietly, the two porcelain dolls made their way to the office in which the old shopkeeper took care of finances and figures. Aroused with curiosity, the other dolls in the window turned to watch, but they dared not to climb off their shelf.

Lucianna noticed that she had never explored the shop before, and she found many exciting things in that one little space alone. “Come now,” said Esmeralda, “don’t dwaddle.” They reached the office, and Lucianna gazed at the high-up window.

She stepped back, afraid of scaling to that height, afraid of falling and shattering. “Come now,” repeated Esmeralda, giving Lucianna a bit of a push. Taking a deep breath, Lucianna lifted herself up the chair, and Esmeralda followed. Stretching herself out, she grabbed and reached the desk, and Esmeralda gave her a sound heave. From the desk, she held tight onto the curtain, and climbed it until she reached the window that was open a crack. She stood on the sill, gasping with anxiety and exertion. “Go on,” said Esmeralda, “I cannot follow anymore.”

Lucianna peered down to a hedge that she must fall into. She knew she would, at the very least, get scratched-up, but she feared worse – her skin being such a delicate porcelain. “Go -75-

on!” demanded Esmeralda. Lucianna glanced back, and with a deep breath, she let herself fall into the shrub beneath the window.

The fall was several times her height, but she had survived it. She rested atop the hedge, looking up at the window, only to see it slam closed. Strange, perhaps, but Lucianna didn’t give it much thought, musing that it was merely the wind.

Picking herself up, she plucked pine-leaves off her dress and out of her hair, and she slid down the slide of the shrub and into a lush plot of grass.

Such wonderful sounds she heard – the wind rustling in springtime leaves, some people walking about on the cobblestone streets, crickets chirping high lullabies. She wasn’t quite sure where to go, but she let her enchantment guide her. In the grass, she saw the closed and sleeping petals of dandelions, and up above she saw the waning crescent moon, and a sky littered with stars. In the trees she saw glowing eyes, not sure to whom they belonged to, but now she wasn’t frightened, for now she was on the other side of the glass and independent.

Unafraid, she walked along the cobblestone. She knew that people wouldn’t notice, as she was wrapped in darkness’s cloak. She relished in the sound her dainty porcelain feet made with every step upon the stone. Wary of the cracks and bumps, she made her way around the corner, and could see in plain sight the front of the store. More than anything, when she was within the window, she wondered what the people outside saw, so Lucianna walked right up to the front of the window, stood on her tiptoes, and peered in.

On the other side were the porcelain dolls, just like they always were, but they were laughing. They were laughing wicked laughter, and Esmeralda was laughing the loudest. With furrowed eyebrows and widened eyes, Lucianna wondered what this was all about, but when Esmeralda leered at her, she knew that in no easy way was she to get back in that shop. Knowing full well that the back window had been shut, at Esmeralda’s hand no doubt, and that the door was stubbornly locked, Lucianna knew not what to do besides to sit on the stoop and wait till morning for the shopkeeper to take her back inside. The -76-

next day would not be easy, with all the taunting and jeering from the other dolls, but she knew this was the safest route, and scolded herself for ever letting Esmeralda talk her into such foolishness.

Before long, Lucianna heard a forceful barking from down the street. She knew not what it belonged to, and thus she only stared in the direction that the sound was coming from.

But suddenly, quick upon her, came a great large dog, and he chased her, and she ran. No longer did her toes make a satisfying sound against the pavement, now they chattered, and she could feel them wear away. The clicks of the dog’s nails pounded faster behind her, and she could feel his breath above her head. Having caught sight of his teeth, she realized she could be torn apart at any moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she found a low tree, and she clamored under hurriedly. The dog could not reach her, only sniffed, and then slowly trotted away.

Glancing out, she knew not where she was, for the chase was so frenzied. Lucianna came out entirely from the low tree, and she sat in the grass, looked to her left and to her right, hopelessly lost.

From the thick night sky emerged a dark crow. Lucianna heard its caw, and she looked up, only to find it upon her. It reached out at her with its beak, and pulled at her hair and dress.

Rather than running, she tried to fight it off with flailing arms, but he pecked and struck at her. The crow seemed to keep pulling at her hat, which she held down violently with her arms.

The bird, however, was not giving up, and Lucianna was afraid that its beak would break through her fine glass, and she suddenly flung her hat off her head, and ran in the opposite direction.

The crow seemed satisfied, and lifted the hat up in its beak and flew away.

The sun was beginning to rise, but it didn’t bring with it any hope for Lucianna, who was now wandering aimlessly, not knowing where she was or how to get back to the shop.

Children were emerging from their houses to go to school, and she realized that she no longer had darkness to conceal her small glass figure. It was not long before a young boy marveled at the sight of a walking doll, so she immediately froze and fell -77-

lifelessly upon the cobblestones of the street. The boy, though, knew what he had seen, and lifted her up, and shook her about.

Lucianna didn’t move, and the boy was soon called away by his mother. He dropped the doll, and ran away, leaving Lucianna with her left arm cleanly broken off from her body. She gave up.

There was nothing else that she could possibly do to better her situation, and who ever heard of a walking porcelain doll? She laid on the street where she was dropped, and allowed mud from passing-by carts to splash on her face and beautiful Victorian dress.

As morning progressed, she noticed that the old shopkeeper was walking in her direction. Plainly knowing that she could not shout up to him, she lay there, trying to look obvious.

The old shopkeeper passed right by, so she discreetly got up, and made it a point to brush against his legs, before falling lifelessly down again. This time, the old shopkeeper noticed the muddy, broken porcelain doll on the ground. He recognized her immediately; she had been his prized possession. Gently, he reached down for her, and picked her up. He wiped the mud off her face, gazing intently into her eyes. “How could this have happened?” he wondered aloud, feeling the break in her body where her arm used to be. The old shopkeeper lowered himself to search on the ground for the missing piece. Looking backward, he saw the limb, retrieved it, and brought the arm and Lucianna back to his shop.

Joyous, Lucianna huddled close to the old shopkeeper, repenting for ever having left him and the security of his shop window. But soon all the ridicule of yesterday washed over her, and she knew she would soon have to deal with all of the other dolls in the window, especially Esmeralda.

When the reached the shop, however, the old shopkeeper stopped suddenly. Something had happened, and the glass window that had held Lucianna so securely in place was broken in a million irreparable fragments. Lucianna herself couldn’t help but gasp, but the old shopkeeper was so distraught that he hadn’t noticed. The dolls, it seemed, were all missing, as were some other expensive pieces in the store. Regaining himself, the old shopkeeper opened his door and places Lucianna down on -78-

a table, while he went out to inspect the damage. When he came back in, he brought with him a shattered Esmeralda, her face divided in two separate pieces. He placed her on the table next to Lucianna, shaking his head in distress. The old shopkeeper sat at the table, and went to work repairing Lucianna’s severed arm. He also took a feathered hat off of a teddy bear to place it on her head, and he washed as best he could the dirt and scuff marks that had tainted Lucianna’s porcelain ivory skin.

Esmeralda, however, could not be repaired, though the old shopkeeper labored. And, giving up, he threw her in the wastebasket.

In a few days time, a new window was put in, and Lucianna had expected to return to her usual place. She was surprised to find the old shopkeeper put in a collection of toy airplanes and model trains instead. At the end of the day, the old shopkeeper brought Lucianna out with him, and he walked home with her tucked in his arms. In his house, Lucianna smelled the most wonderful smells of cooking food, and she saw beautiful decorations and children playing. The old shopkeeper presented her to a young girl, who was absolutely enchanted by the beautiful Lucianna. The girl handled the doll with the utmost care, and she placed Lucianna upon a shelf, not in a window, but in the center of the house, for all the family to appreciate.

-79-

Myths and creeds are heroic struggles to comprehend the truth in the world.

Ansel Adams

Stepping into the Light Maria Hanrahan -80-

Untitled Afsheen Leonardo Amiri I fear to stray from the paved road The grassy hill is so appealing I see the others walk on it Like they belong to the soil I know this twisting road It leads somewhere safe That hill is not so secure Its beauty so clear Where it leads So obscure

-81-

I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.

Frank Lloyd Wright

Earth Goddess Ava Mahieu -82-

The Box Ellen Silbowitz Once upon a time there was a young man who met a beautiful woman. She was tall, strong and shapely, with magnificent blue eyes as deep as the night, and shinny silver hair.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and her voice was soft as a melody.

He immediately fell in love with her. And she fell in love with him, too.

He asked her to marry him, and she said, “There is something about me that I must tell you first.” And she told him she was from another planet.

“Oh that’s all right,” the young man said. “We love each other, and that is all that’s important.”

“Very well,” she said. “I will marry you; but before I do, I must return to my planet for one last visit.”

“Fine,” he said. “How long will you be gone?”

“A few weeks,” she said. It was agreed, and she left.

When she returned, she brought back a beautiful box.

“Before I marry you, she said, “I must ask you one thing—that you do not ever open this box, or our marriage will end immediately.”

The young man promised, and they were married.

Meanwhile, she put the box on top of her bureau where she could look at it frequently.

They had a very happy marriage, but after five years, the man grew very curious about the box, which she looked at every day.

-83-

And one day, while she was away, he said to himself, “I have to know what’s in that box! I will just take a peek, and she will never know I looked inside.”

So he opened the box, and he saw—there was nothing in the box!

He immediately shut the box, but in his anger, knocked it slightly out of its place.

Meanwhile, he could hardly retain his anger. Why had she tricked him into believing that there was something very precious to her in that box?!

He said nothing to her, but when she glanced at her bureau, she was that her box had been moved. “You looked in my box!,” she exclaimed. “which you promised not to do!”

“Yes, I did,” he admitted. “But there is nothing in that box!”

“Nothing!?,” she said. “In that box was the precious air of my planet, and you have let it out! I told you if you ever looked in that box, it would be the end of our marriage, for I will never be able to trust you again with things that are most important to me.”

And with that, she took her box and went back to her planet. *

*

*

Before she left, her husband pleaded with her to stay, saying that he was very sorry, but after five years he had become overwhelmed with curiosity. He told her he still loved her more then ever, and he begged her to forgive him. He promised her anything she wanted if she would stay.

-84-

Finally, she put his apology and his love and his promises in the box and took it back with her to her planet, where she would think about what he had said.

She placed the box where she would not move it, but looked at it every day. At the end of five years, she opened the box and examined her husband’s love, his apology and his promise to do anything she asked. She saw how much he loved her, and she decided to forgive him and return to him. And her returned to earth taking the box with her. *

*

*

When she returned to earth, she found he was with another. “How could you do this?,” she asked, “when you said you loved me, begged for my forgiveness and promised me everything if I would be with you?”

“But it is five years later,” he said, “and I did not know if you would return or not, and I could not stay wondering foreer.”

So she left the empty box in which had been his love and his empty promises, and returned to her planet without the box.

-85-

Culture is the widening of the mind and of the spirit.

Jawaharlal Nehru

Laughing Buddha Leola Bermanzohn -86-

Parable of the little runner Morgan M.X. Schulz And the little runner spaketh a parable unto them, A boy ran with his father every day and one day, tiring of running the same way day after day, he asked his father if they could run a different way.

And his father said, Yes, Son, we may.

And so, the next day, they ran the same way in the exact same direction as before, and, after a while the boy realized they indeed ran the same way as with any day.

Father, the boy said, why do we run the same way like every day? I thought we would run a new way today, didn’t you say.

The Father said, Son, this is a new way for a new day. Look closely. The ground does not stay. It is not as before.

The boy looked down and saw the same exact ground.

But Father, the boy said, I know this ground. This is the way we run every day, I have to say.

No, Son, the Father said. Look closely at that rock there, and that dip here. Over there, right here, beside and between, this is quite clearly not the same way as yesterday.

The boy studied the ground rolling beneath his feet and came to understand.

Yes, Father, I see, for I have never seen that rock. I have never seen that break. I have never seen that weed. I have never looked under that tree. What a surprise it is to me to finally see.

Then enjoy this new way, the Father said, for this is indeed a new day in every way.

-87-

Nan Gabriella Pati On a grey, rainy day I helped a woman Carry her daughter Down black subway stairs.

The stroller shook But we made it, and She took me home To her family and fed me.

I understood their language Only through laughter And cries for meat, rice And bread, but to them I was not a stranger, But one of Krishna’s kin.

-88-

A life in harmony with nature, the love of truth and virtue, will purge the eyes to understanding her text.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Venus Bathing Anandi A. Premlall -89-

Little Lita’s Jar Melanie Dulfo Trouble began to brew. And it was exactly that: a brew.

Little Lita had not thought that the jar with the dark, bubbling liquid that had been sealed twice (once with electric tape, twice with incantations), locked away in a heavy, wooden box and buried underneath a tree where there lived a fearsome giant of a spirit, coal-black and teeth stained with endless cigar-smoking, was anything safe. It was precisely why it was forbidden. Because it wasn’t safe.

Human nature, though, worked in a manner that such prohibitive measures only tempted some people to bribe the kapre, the giant spirit who smoked, with Lolo Paning’s finest Cuban cigar (a gift from the mayor, no less), dig up the box, open it up with a key which used to hide in Lolo Paning’s shoe, and tear off the incantations and the electric tape.

It can be safely said that Little Lita was one of these people.

It wasn’t that she was a bad person. She was just…curious. Certainly, the house she grew up in, and the old man she grew up with (for Lolo Paning always said that Little Lita had raised him), could have only fostered such curiosity. While on the world outside, teachers told little children that rain came from bodies of water, sufficiently heated by the sun to change its state from liquid to vapor and rise to the atmosphere, become ionized to form clouds, and once weighted enough, would fall down as precipitation; inside the house, Litte Lita was taught that rain could be had by the dancing of the enkantos, fey spirits who did not like to be seen, but made their presence known in other ways.

They moved things in the house sometimes, making the pots and pans rattle, or spoons and forks spin. They could be seen as dancing shadows on the wall, and sometimes, in the mirror, behind the person looking. Even though however many times Little Lita looked over her shoulder, she never saw anything. And trust that, if any enkanto ever perceived offense, -90-

they would not hesitate to make you sick, give you boils, or worse, come into your dreams and possess your body. In such cases, when people started convulsing and falling to the floor, speaking in strange voices, Lolo Paning would be called for.

He would come with his big rosary, as long as Little Lita was tall, and talk to the spirit, striking the neck of the affected person while it was held down by five men (it took that many to hold a possessed person down even if it might be only a little girl). If the person was sick, or had boils, Lolo Paning would come with one of his numerous dirty jars and feel around the person’s stomach, sink his hand, drawing blood (the patient never felt anything), and come out with these bloody lumps that he immediately dropped into the jar. All these jars he kept and lined them up along the walls of the hut.

Now, if such a grandfather and such a house did not foster curiosity, nothing else in this world could have ever done so. The unfortunate thing was, as many jars as there was for Little Lita to be curious about, she went unerringly for the one that could bring the end of the world. *

*

*

Rain began to pour.

As Little Lita huddled beneath the house (the little hut was raised on stilts) along with the squealing pig and the squawking chickens, the rain came down heavy, almost like a curtain, shimmering and gleaming. She popped off the lid, the noise lost in the insistent drumming of the rain, in the whispering music of it as it came down.

The bubbling of the liquid ceased.

For a moment, Little Lita felt her heart stop along with it. Then, she exhaled, and her heart started up again.

She held up the jar with the now-still liquid and found, to her dismay, that she had risked her grandfather’s wrath for nothing more than dirty petroleum oil.

She threw it away angrily and as the jar smashed, something else happened: the rain began falling up.

Little Lita froze as she watched the droplets of water -91-

going back to the sky, the dark liquid, beginning to rise up from the ground, as well.

At that moment, a woman giving birth in the next village shrieked in surprise as her baby started talking to her in English with a precise, British accent. Church walls around the country crumbled to dust completely, killing thousands who were attending mass at the time. Rivers and streams began to flow upward.

Little Lita, never seeing any of this, knew anyway that the world was about to end. The old kapre who lived in the tree at the back of their house had stepped down from his branch.

Little Lita scrambled out from under the house, soaked thoroughly by water swirling upward. She watched in horror as the kapre began walking away.

“No!” she screamed. “Where are you going?”

The Cuban fell out of the kapre’s grasp, fell half-finished, sodden and sad.

“Where are you going?” screamed Little Lita after him.

The kapre kept walking on. Little Lita, gripped by a strange fear, began running after him. Through the dense foliage of the jungle with the light becoming the pale, watery kind on a grey day, as if the sun had disappeared, Little Lita followed the kapre.

Soon, Little Lita slowed down to a walk, for no matter how hard she ran, she could not seem to catch up with the kapre. She walked. And walked. And walked. The kapre’s back filled her vision and became her world, the scrapes of the thorns of the vines ignored, the little stones digging into her soles forgotten.

“You cannot come beyond this place, Little Lita.”

Little Lita jumped in fright. She looked around and saw that the kapre had disappeared. She whirled, looking for the voice.

An ancient-looking man, no more than three feet high, sat on a mound with his legs crossed and tucked underneath his haunches.

“Nuno sa punso.”

-92-

“Indeed,” the ancient nodded, pleased that he had been recognized.

“What has happened?” Little Lita demanded.

“Why, you brought about the end of the world.”

At his words, Little Lita burst into tears. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything bad. I just wanted to see. Now, everyone will die because of me. Lolo will die because of me. It’s all my fault—“ “Be quiet!” The nuno slapped his thighs, irritated. “No humans are to die.”

Little Lita took her hands away from her face. “What?”

A smile was breaking over her face.

“No, you are safe. You and your lolo.” The nuno flicked at his pants, meditative. Something about his manner made Little Lita uneasy again.

“What have I really done?” she whispered.

The nuno looked up, and smiled. “You let loose the Unbelieving, Little Lita.”

“The Unbelieving?”

“Aye. Once we were spread all over the world. But change came, and one by one, we have started to fade away.

This land was our last home. Stories told of us, stories of old, stories newly-weaved, kept us alive, even in this age of machines. But now, the Unbelieving has started, and the world as you know it, Little Lita, is done.”

“No. No. I’ll take it back, please.”

“Oh, my love,” the nuno shook his head regretfully, “one cannot take back the past. One can only learn from it.”

And the nuno’s feet started to become translucent, disappearing.

“Wait, no…please.”

“Little Lita, the world will still be here tomorrow,” his legs were following his feet, disappearing, “the world will move on.” It was his body now. “Cars will still run through the highways, airplanes will still move across the skies.” His arms. His hands. “And teachers will still teach that rain comes from clouds weighted by vapor, leached by the sun from the seas and rivers,” said a voice, fading softly ‘till it became only -93-

the echo of the wind. “But rain comes from your dancing.� Little Lita said softly. She turned around and started to walk back home.

-94-

If you dream the proper dreams, and share the myths with people, they will want to grow up to be like you.

Ray Bradbury

Sister Outsider Leola Bermanzohn -95-

The Urban Legend Halfway House Michael Tyrell I’m not making this one up, it’s for real though you’re hearing it from the removed cousin who once filled up candy machines for the man in traction who had that tonnage tipped on him.

The girl wheeling him can’t tell him about the blade in the apple she ate at the bobbing contest.

She still dresses up for Halloween.

She debates answering the letter from the first lady of Nigeria.

A fortune to the trusted rescuer of the tied-up presidential millions.

Who will drive her to the bank?

Thumbs down from the lucky hitchhikers.

Though some of us would like to get out more, the cars here have no backseats.

We have to make out in imitation crop circles.

(Belief is part of our treatment.)

Remember: headlights initiate the newest gang members.

Caskets come with bells in case one of us wakes up.

Pigeons explode when I give them seltzer.

Did you know that White Castle won’t deliver to the White House?

I’m sure I’m here, I swear, penniless from the payments I’m still remitting on the one-million-dollar cake recipe, you should visit, call the number for the good time, get engaged to the stranger who gives you the box before the flight, not a gold band but welcome to the world of plague inside.

Trace this bottled message and all you’ll come up with is a desert where an ocean evaporated to make way for the future city, -96-

and I’ve heard wires, wires running under it already, Here’s looking at you from the abducted, a circuit you won’t believe until you’re completing it.

-97-

Mythology: the body of a primitive people’s beliefs, concerning its origin, early history, heroes, deities and so forth, as distinguished from the true accounts which it invents later.

Ambrose Bierce

Dragon Marilyn Krever -98-

The Reality of Asterisks Zoë Macintosh i.

When he woke up he thought, oh is it the same day, so, this total blackness is the same dark room.

But the darkness was comfortable, plush darkness, velvet, it fit his face, his face could have been anything.

The lady of darkness’ eyes were moist and he stared at her quietly.

So close, close your eyes.

Cool blue, A cool blue film coming through the window blinds.

He wanted to go to sleep, but the room was so close. ii. loose, choose pick, prick. tiny islet –the tiny “else” tiny kiss the iceberg tip – what roils dark and moist underneath, like the bough of a rainforest -99-

A woman dreams she is in a museum and bending down to fix her shoe. The shine on her white pump is so distinct. She notices the white gleam on the pump, under the fluorescent lights. Her surprise is an asterisk, solitary in a speech bubble.

And the boy was weary, copying notes from the board.

And five times nine is a faulty design.

The rows of desks perpetuating themselves into the future. But Looming, the part of him that isn’t tired – Our dream world stays intact. prick pick I will discuss the jungle cat. iii.

Some leaves are long and thin.

They curve a private moon above the din.

Small animals shriek in the dark green lush; Hush.

One black fluid shape slopes through the brush.

And how, in our dreams, everything is important When you laugh, little asterisks in the corners of your eyes. The linking factor in passion and analysis: these very visible asterisks, dribbling out of the corners of your eyes.

-100-

They signify – minutes winks – another section to be looked at.

A flash of light on the intricate ceiling – Below, she stuffs a camera into her bag. iv.

When I woke up I though, oh it is the same day, it will be the same room I wanted to go to sleep.

But the room was so close.

Two heads recede a hidden radio, cut to the Brazilian rain forest at night. a murmured request and she looked at me.

If I remembered my dream – No, here is the But the room was so close. a black shape moves against another black shape (the fluid movement of black on black) something falls, something remote arched – some gleaming coat.

-101-

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

William Shakespeare

Red Road Pixie Alexander -102-

Rusty’s Ride Morgan M.X. Schulz Hand on the screen door handle, Rusty listened to the rats scratching behind the walls, in the ceiling and at the door like plates breaking, Daddy yelling, Momma pleading…

Beating his chest, Rusty belted out, “Time to go, boy.”

He gathered himself up, listening to the words echoing, “Time to go, boy . . . time to go . . .” His voice hung in the air, harsh and brittle, joining the scratching, growing louder like hard slaps, Momma’s crying, Daddy’s fists pounding, doors breaking. Rusty slammed open the screen door, walked down the gravel path, kicking up dust in his wake. Daddy’s Eldorado waited.

Rusty ran his hand across the Eldorado’s hood, wiping away rust and dirt and paint alike. He rubbed his hands on his blue jeans. In the front seat was Daddy’s gas can, its color, even the writing on its side, faded and worn. Rusty grabbed it by the metal handle on top and shook the contents. Almost full, he thought, remembering that this was Daddy’s super mix, the mix that would burn for miles and miles. The smell of it filled his nostrils like it did that day Daddy took him to the side and said, “Boy, let’s go for a ride, before your Momma gets back. You’re old enough now. It’s time.”

Then the Eldorado shone gold, not a chip in its paint, not a cough lodged in the back of its engine’s rumbling throat.

Rusty climbed in the passenger seat and rolled down his window. The window came down as silently as a knife pulled beneath the water. Daddy cradled the driving wheel, rubbing his hands over and between the grooves. He smelled like oil and gasoline. Rusty took a deep breath pf Daddy’s smell mixed in with the smell of the Eldorado’s shiny, brand new leather. Daddy put his arm across the back of the seat. Rusty looked over at Daddy, but Daddy’s eyes fixed out the windshield, far in the distance.

“Boy,” he said, “I’m gonna teach you about fuel. About Super Octane, boy. It’ll run as long as you need before it runs -103-

dry.” Daddy licked his lips and didn’t say anything for a while. Rusty folded his hands in his lap, not daring to speak.

Daddy wasn’t finished talking.

Daddy pointed out the windshield. “Boy,” he said, “see that line out there, where the road and sky meet?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Rusty said.

“Now, boy, see that light out there just above that line?”

Daddy said.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“You know what, boy, you ain’t never gonna reach it.

You ain’t never gonna, but, just the same, you gotta keep drivin’ after it.”

“But—” “No buts, boy,” Daddy said, slapping Rusty’s head sharply. Tears sprang up in Rusty’s eyes, but he held them back.

“Listen to what I’m tellin’ you, boy, ‘cause I know,” Daddy said. “Gotta keep drivin’ ‘cause that’s the road and that’s the limit and you ain’t gonna be no man til you try. Now promise, boy, when it comes time, you’ll hit the road and keep on runnin’ til the fuel runs dry. Promise me, boy.”

“I promise, Daddy,” Rusty said, “promise.”

“Good. Good, Rusty,” Daddy said, his voice trailing off as his eyes stared empty at the odometer. He lit a cigarette.

“I’m done, boy, all run out,” Daddy muttered, cigarette dangling, “but not you, boy, not you. Take my Eldorado, fill it with fuel, and ride outta here like the hounds of hell’s right on your tail. Nothing that’ll have happened will matter but you and the road. You’ll feel it, boy, wait and see.”

Shaking his head, Rusty struggled with the window crank, until it wound down in little bursts, creaking. Air breezed through the open windows, swirling ash from the ashtray filled with Daddy’s cigarette butts, swirling ash out into the air and taking with it the smell of menthol and sour sweat.

Rusty breathed in open air and dusty road. Time to roll, he thought.

Gas can in hand, Rusty walked around to the -104-

Eldorado’s tank and filled it until it spilled over. He found an old, oil-stained rag on the ground and tore two strips. He stuffed a strip into the mouth of the gas tank. Pouring some gas on the other strip, Rusty scrubbed the rust off the Eldorado’s nameplate. He added some spit. The nameplate shone. The rag fell to the ground.

Rusty put the gas can in the back seat. Untucking his tshirt, he climbed in the driver’s seat. He ran his hands back and forth on his jeans. Slapping his legs hard with his hands.

Rusty gripped the steering wheel. The key glinted dimly in the ignition. Pumping the gas, he cranked the Eldorado. The engine shook, dryheaving as it turned over, its throat rough and hoarse, dry from the dust and the years. Daddy’s fuel made its way through the carburetor, filling cylinders that fired in a loud Vrrrmm . . . Vrrrmm . . .

Rusty peeled off towards the road. The Eldorado kicked up gravel, leaving a dust cloud in its wake. Morning sunlight flooded in through the windshield, bouncing off the bubbled and chipped gold paint on the Eldorado’s hood. The light glared through the windshield, but Rusty didn’t squint.

Tires hitting asphalt, the wail of rubber on tar drew him onward, further down the road shimmering with heat. Rusty stuck his arm out the window, pushing his hand against the force of the wind. “Outta here,” he said fiercely, pushing his hand as far into the wind as he could. He pointed to the light that was above where the road and sky meet and whispered, “Out there.” As if sensing Rusty’s purpose, the Eldorado shot forward like a bullet.

The gas gauge needle wavered just above an eighth of a tank. Rusty eased his foot off the gas pedal, letting the car slow nice and gradual. He pulled over on the shoulder of the road, hopped out with the gas can. He pulled the rag from the tank, filling the tank until gas spilled out. Rusty stuffed the rag back in place and shook the gas can. Half left, he thought.

Setting down the can, Rusty walked out into the middle of the road and straddled the broken yellow line. The midday sun beat down on him as he raised his hands to shade his eyes.

-105-

His destination was in the same place—he’d gotten no closer.

In the distance, between the lines of heat, a black dot moved.

Rusty couldn’t tell if the dot was going away from him or towards him, but he’d find out. He put the gas can in back, jumped in the car and drove.

As the nose of the Eldorado bore into glimmering asphalt, the sun played tricks on Rusty’s eyes, making the dot fade in and out. He pressed the accelerator for more gas. The black dot lengthened into a black line, shrinking then growing, shorter then taller. Rusty drove in the middle of the road, right on top of the broken yellow line that was almost solid from speed. The nose of the Eldorado cut through the asphalt like a tar sea. He pulled up on the steering wheel, his nose pressing towards the windshield. The black line broke into several lines, moving together like arms and legs, and the arms and legs were moving away from him. Whoever it is, Rusty thought, will sure need a ride.

He pulled up behind a tall man leaning into the road as if he were walking up a hill. The man’s clothes were a faded blue. He paid no attention to the Eldorado. Didn’t seem to notice. Kept on walking. Rusty pulled up beside the man and called out, “Hey, buddy, you need a ride?” Rusty stopped the car. Silent, the man nodded his head and climbed in the passenger side. Rusty gunned it, leaving burnt rubber in his rearview mirror.

Time passed. The road droned on. The old man made no sound. Rusty took a long, good look at his passenger. The man’s face was black with sun or dirt or age or maybe all three.

He wore a long-billed blue cap that sat forward on the man’s head as if ready to fall off. A gold watchband stretched around the hat, holding it to the man’s head. With watery eyes, the man slowly returned Rusty’s stare. Mounted in the center of the man’s hat was a large watch, the second hand ticking. No numbers, Rusty noticed. Only hash marks, each the same length. Two gold plates framed the timepiece like the front eaves of a house.

“What’s your name?” Rusty asked.

-106-

“Cutter,” the man said.

“Hot one today,” Rusty said.

“I don’t reckon. Where you headed, boy?” Cutter bobbed his head up and down lightly as if he already knew the answer.

“Goin’ as far on the road as I can,” Rusty said. “That can sitting in the back. . . that’s my Daddy’s gas can and my Daddy’s fuel. Goin’ as far as Daddy’s fuel takes me.”

“Your Daddy’s fuel?” Cutter said. “Makes no sense, boy. Ain’t got enough fuel on your own?”

“Daddy said,” Rusty replied. “Daddy told me one day I’d use his fuel and ride as long as it’ll run. And that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna drive to that place above where the sky and road meet.”

“Didn’t your Daddy tell you, boy, ain’t no such thing as that place. A trick your eyes play on you. A trick to make you think that place out there is real.”

“Yessir, he did, but he said I had to try just the same.”

Rusty patted the steering wheel confidently. “Besides, this Eldorado can run. I caught up with you, didn’t I?” he said.

Cutter bobbed his head up and down, up and down.

“Boy,” he said, “you didn’t catch nuthin’ but time, and now that you’ve caught it, it’s gone.”

Rusty said, a sly grin on his face. “Some kind of weight you carrying up there, huh, Cutter?”

Cutter grabbed Rusty hard by the shoulder, jerking Rusty’s hands from the wheel. Rusty stomped down hard on the brakes. The smell of seared rubber filled the car as the Eldorado screeched to a halt in the middle of the road. Cutter held fast to Rusty’s shoulder. “You got a name, boy?”

“Yessir,” Rusty said, voice shaking.

“I ain’t askin’ for my health, boy,” Cutter said to Rusty frozen in his seat. A look of pity mixed with futility crossed Cutter’s face as he let go of Rusty’s arm. “For chrissake, boy, I ain’t gonna hurt you. You just got my goat. Sit back and let go of the wheel for a second and tell me your name.”

“It’s... it’s Rusty.”

“Rusty, huh, like this here heap your drivin’,” Cutter -107-

said with a snort. “You want some advice, there, Rusty. I ain’t your daddy, but don’t sound like your daddy told you the one thing you need to know before enterin’ this here world.”

“What’s that Cutter?” Rusty’s voice was solemn, his mouth serious. He folded his hands on his lap and looked into Cutter’s unflinching eye.

Cutter’s face softened, the cracks and crags lining it melting away and his eyes shone crystal clear gray. “Rusty— ain’t on this road runnin’s time, it’s time that’s done left you on the road behind. Now, if what you got in mind is to do time, then there ain’t no point in keeping up with it. Let it fall to the sides of you like the country does as you drive on down the road.”

“I don’t understand,” Rusty said.

“I know, boy, I know,” Cutter said, giving Rusty’s shoulder a fatherly pat. Cutter’s face was brittle and worn again, his eyes watery. “No one ever does til they do.”

Rusty waited for Cutter to say more but he didn’t.

“How about you, Cutter? Wherever your headed, I’ll take you as far as I can,” Rusty said. “You’ll sure get a lot closer than walking.”

“No, no, boy,” Cutter said, “should’ve known better than to take a ride. Ain’t nobody for this road but me.” As he climbed out of the car, Cutter muttered to himself, “fix the gear, fix the gears. The next place maybe… I’ll find that goddamn bearing once and for all.”

In the rearview mirror, Rusty watched Cutter cross the road and walk back the way they’d come. Outside the windshield, the end of the road beckoned. He pealed off, tires squealing, after it, Cutter all but forgotten.

The gas gauge needle floated just below an eighth of a tank. Rusty guided the car over to the side of the road. He turned off the engine. Gas can in hand, Rusty got out of the car, and walked around to the tank. Rusty poured until the can was empty. He hit the can’s bottom to get every last drop of fuel. While he shook the can, Rusty pressed his ear up against it, hoping, somehow, that he’d hear more fuel sloshing around, -108-

that the can would magically fill again. The can was dry. Rusty shook his head, smiling sadly.

“Daddy, your Super Octane burned too fast,” Rusty murmured. “Now I see how the world done you in like it did.”

Bringing his arm way back, spinning, Rusty slung the gas can as hard as he could. The can sailed into the dry brush a good distance from the road. Ahead, on the horizon, the light began to fail as it turned to the dusky orange of sunset.

This is it, he thought, running his fingers across the Eldorado’s nameplate on the trunk. This is the last leg. Either we burn out or we reach the end.

Rusty climbed in the car and started the Eldorado. The car sputtered like it didn’t want to turn-over, then fired up in a rumbling Vrrrmm . . . Vrrrmm . . . He touched the gas lightly and slowly pulled back out onto the road, making up his mind that on this last stretch he’d take his time. He’d let the miles run out as long as they could. Fast or slow, didn’t seem to matter to the line out there in the distance. Maybe, slow, he’d creep up on the horizon before it had time to retreat.

Rusty drove past a green road sign to the right that read “WINSLOW—55”. Maybe that’s the end of the line, Rusty thought. Winslow. He steered the Eldorado to the middle of the road, straddling the yellow lines that crept along under the car, one at a time. The road felt like it cut into him instead of him the road. And the light was about as close as it had been when he was going fast. Going slow was too much road, almost painfully so.

On the road ahead, counting the number of yellow lines, one after the other, he could feel the asphalt dragging the nose of the Eldorado under and him down with it. Why didn’t Daddy tell me, Rusty thought. Why didn’t Daddy tell me I’d go no farther than him? I’ll be as left behind as he was. I feel the lines, the road creeping up on me slowly but surely. All the road left behind’s more road ahead. Rusty stared emptily at the odometer at the miles that wouldn’t stop turning.

As Rusty drove on, the purple of night crept over the sky, slowly swallowing what remained of the light. He drove as long as he could but finally had no choice but to turn on the -109-

headlights.

Pitch dark, Rusty passed the Winslow town limit. The highway turned into Main Street. No streetlights, but his headlights lit up house-fronts with large porches and swings and storefronts that glinted as if freshly painted. He looked at his gas gauge. A little less than half a tank. Enough to press the pedal to metal and get as far as he could away from here.

Never know what lies ahead, Rusty thought. Might be another gas can up there, somewhere, brimming full with Super Octane…

Up ahead, Main Street turned back into the blackness of the highway, swallowing up the beams of his headlights.

Rusty’s foot lifted from the pedal, barely pressing the gas. The Eldorado inched along. As the nose of the Eldorado passed the last house in Winslow, dark thickness enveloped Rusty. His heart began to pound. He would have lost the road but for the reflection of the yellow lane markers that began to curve as Rusty rounded a long bend. Right at that moment, when he thought that the road would never straighten, a big, lit-up station appeared directly up ahead.

Rusty pulled up to “Earl’s Gas Station—Full Service,” parking the Eldorado by a bunch of old, beat-up cars. Leaving the key in the ignition, he walked towards a red neon sign that read “Office.” Rusty understood. This was his last chance before the road took him and beat him down once and for all.

Like his Daddy. Like old Cutter. Rusty opened the screen door.

Inside, a greasy, tired-looking man that reminded him a little of his Daddy, only nicer, cleaned his oil-stained hands.

“Are you Earl?” Rusty asked.

“Yeah, I’m Earl,” the man said warmly, leaning back in his faded black swivel chair. He smiled large, his teeth brown.

“What can I do you for, son?”

“I’m looking to sell my Daddy’s car,” Rusty said.

“What’s the make and year?” Earl replied.

“I don’t know the year, but it’s an Eldorado and it runs fine.”

“Well, I’ll tell you now, we’ve already got a lot of old -110-

cars for sale here,” Earl said, looking out the window to the parking lot. “I’d like to help you, but . . .”

Rusty’s face fell. He stood there not knowing what to do. Earl picked at the grease on his nails, bringing them close to his face to inspect how much grease was left. Rusty put his hands in his pockets, feeling lint with his fingertips, rocking side to side.

Earl leaned forward in his chair and wiped his hands on an oily rag. He got up from his seat and clapped Rusty on the shoulder. “Look here,” he said, “I need someone to help me out, pump gas, check oil, do odd jobs, you know. You look capable, like you learn quick. What do you say?”

“I need a place to hold up,” Rusty replied.

“I got a spare room out back,” Earl said. “I’ll let you use it. You’d be doing me a favor really. Nobody’ll break into the station, not without you hearin’ it. So, how about it… stay on for a while.”

“All right,” Rusty said, shrugging. “I’d like to start right away, if that’s okay by you.”

“Well hell, good enough for me. I need someone to mind the pumps. Haven’t really been ‘Full Service’ for a while, if you know what I mean. Let me get you a uniform.” Earl walked into a room in back of the office. He returned with a blue-gray shirt and navy blue pants, handing them to Rusty.

The clothes were stained with oil and grease but smelled clean.

Rusty took off his shoes and put on the pants. They fit nicely over his jeans. He put the shirt on over his t-shirt, buttoning it up and then tucking it in his pants. His shirt had a nametag sewn on it. “Newman,” Rusty read aloud.

“Yeah, Newman used to work here, but he left,” Earl said, “said he had something to take care of. Never came back.

A shame really ‘cause he was a damned fine worker, damned fine.” Earl rubbed at the grease on his palms with his rag.

“Newman . . .” Rusty said, “that’ll be just fine.”

The next morning, Rusty stood at the pumps, waiting for a customer. The sun climbed as did the heat. After a while, a car pulled up that looked fancy and new. “This full service, -111-

right?” the driver asked. The man looked at himself in his rearview mirror, rubbing his hands through his curly hair.

“Yeah, sure, full service,” Rusty said. “What’ll it be?”

“Fill her up, Newman,” the driver said, pushing up in his seat, “with some of that Super Octane. This baby only runs on the best fuel.” Smiling as if congratulating himself, the driver popped the gas tank cover open. He handed Rusty money, then sat lightly tapping his steering wheel, humming a song on the radio. Rusty didn’t recognize the song, but it sounded raggedy, not really happy and sort of sad.

Rusty unscrewed the gas cap and stuck in the nozzle.

He punched the ‘93’ octane on the gas pump, squeezed the pump trigger and locked it in place. He went around the front of the car. “Pop the hood,” he said to the driver, who pressed a button, releasing the hood with a click. Rusty opened the hood, checking the fluids. A fine engine, clean on the outside.

Fluids full and clean on the inside. Rusty slammed the hood shut and walked back to the nozzle still pumping.

He cradled the nozzle’s handle and stared out at the road. A car passed then gone with no more cars in sight, ahead or behind. Rusty felt the gas flowing, vibrating through the hose and against his hand, smelled the gas fumes that rose in curved lines from the tank. Looking down the road, he stopped short. A faint, black line moved between the lines of heat, growing larger, breaking into lines that were arms and legs. Rusty wondered if Cutter had turned and finally come to town. The gas chugged through the hose and nozzle and into the gas tank. Rusty knew he’d find out soon enough.

A boy walked up, carrying a bright red can in his left hand, his shoulder dipped with the weight as he used his knee to push the can along. The boy stopped on the road right in front of where Rusty stood pumping. The words “GAS CAN” were freshly painted in bright gold on the can’t side of the can.

Rusty met the boy’s eyes. The boy’s eyes asked him the question, the question Rusty knew all to well. The question that drove him to Winslow.

“Boy, you may it not know it now,” Rusty called out, “but you got a full load of fuel in there, more weight than -112-

you’ll ever know.” Rusty shook his head, wondering how now he knew the answer. Feels right, though, thought Rusty, like it’s what I’m supposed to say.

The boy hesitated, as if he wanted to ask Rusty something more. Rusty shook his head. He knew what the boy would say. Rusty had nothing more to add. Shrugging, the boy walked on, limping with his gas can at his side, walking farther and farther, until his body was a dot lost among the lines of heat.

“See now, Daddy,” Rusty said, “Got a lot farther than you ever did.” The gas lever clicked. Rusty tapped the nozzle.

He tightened the gas cap, giving it an extra hard twist.

Tapping the car lightly, Rusty said, “All filled up.”

“Keep the change,” the driver said, starting his car. The car pulled away fast and soon faded in the distance.

-113-

The sun, the moon and the stars would have disappeared long ago, had they happened to be within reach of predatory human hands.

Havelock Ellis

Diptychsaur II Alejandra Villasmil -114-

The Scientist Experiences Zoë Macintosh The scientist experiences (a terrible little click.)

A lull in conversation becomes an insidious example of what he is pursuing The scientist holds his chin, smiling at something. He had just finished excitedly explaining something.

His companion: “Well are you going to figure it out? You don’t have much Time. You’re going to die.”

(They had just been talking about Time. They see it, and now they are in it.)

And it’s like, oh my god! Quick. Quick.

Continue. The sunlight. The shadows. The birds are still chirping.

The scientist’s eyes: “I’ve gotta do it.”

And they keep on scribbling on something and their pencil is made to look so stupid. The camera angle, I don’t know, or maybe the type of pencil.

Later, at home, a mass of papers and notes covered the coffee table. The scientist sat hunched over it with his friends, and they scribbled furious diagrams of the universe expanding.

“But what is the shaded region?” The coffee mugs tilted and they thought deeply -115-

“Or, just nothing,” one half-joked.

The door was open. and in the other room a figure unsuspected stood in the shadows, in a manner dejected his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, which was a boring color. His sour expression went undetected.

“Why do you care?” He said, and turned from the yellow tableau to glare at the dark window, which reflected the scene.

They continued, imagining spaces that are so big they cannot be traversed in a year, much less in a moment. How cold and lonely is something like that, that cannot even be touched by thought. The polar bolt— but that is still there, yawning, and always in front of you, in fact so large that it most definitely is in front of you, at all times, a lock of hair in front of your face.

It’s so large. It’s always right in front of your face.

Even when you are hugging your knees on your bedroom floor.

Because your face, and even the round earth, are so very small.

-116-

Out with stereotypes, feminism proclaims. But stereotypes are the west’s stunning sexual personae, the vehicles of art’s assault against nature. The moment there is imagination, there is myth.

Camille Paglia

Underground World Alejandra Villasimil -117-

Charlie’s Song A Satire Annick de Bellefeuille

There once was a girl named Charlie Who called herself a fitness junky.

She taught pilates and yoga in the morning And cycled and jogged every evening.

Her face and her body looked divine, So that all who beheld her pined And admired the goddess they espied.

Yet Charlie herself was dissatisfied.

She liked her butt so hard and round But her hatred for her pussy was profound.

Her pubes she waxed and shaped and trimmed But still too fat her pupek looked.

“It’s like Yuck!” She said to Dr.Santini “My labia are too big for a bikini.”

“Poor genital self-image,” said the shrink.

And poor Charlie didn’t know what to think.

A perfect twat she sought, And found it could be bought, But eight thousand dollars she had not.

In despair she turned to T.V. To Extreme Makeover she sent her plea.

Extreme was her pleasure when they said “Yes!” And called it Vaginal Rejuvenation no less.

Off to L.A. and Dr. Stern she sped.

“Now women see porn,” the good doctor said, “And don’t like what they look like down there.”

A big penis is good, but how do we compare One woman’s labia to another When there is no real measure?

Even in porn all pussies are equal And not one better than its rival.

-118-

But Charlie was thrilled with her result, A nice flat twat the doctor did sculp; Her big new smile he threw in for free And puffed up her lips like Angelina Jolie.

-119-

Nature uses human imagination to lift her work of creation to even higher levels.

Luigi Pirandello

Evolution Tamara Spiegel -120-

Attempts at Remembering Those Sundays Kate Aspell

The idea of love Is more interesting Than love itself Why do I write So much about nature So much about my father There is so much violence Confusion and violence Observations Memories These earth colors My morning bed-creased skin I watch moths Dancing in the fake moonlight Perched on post and rail I see fields Scattered with Kathy’s ashes Her heart stopped When she lost her horses Windchime and Jesse— They each lay dead on Calm spring mornings My nine-year-old tears And her sobs rolled across Fields of winter wheat They scattered her across my field She floated in the wind for a while Then settled in dandelions and clover -121-

The landscape encloses me and my willing suspension Of disbelief I read other poets Concentration lost in imagination Repetition and “I am’s” I am lost between the lush and the harsh I live between grounds Where I can be enclosed The landscape of my page— It dances Winter wheat—dandelions—clover I spill my eyes on the page Covered now—in gray—my letters black I shiver—I don’t belong here I start living on impulse It only brings me more bad luck I know the names of all the birds And the flowers— I know their stories And I hate fish—

So what creature should I love?

My connection to nature killed my heart And I know one who will hate this poem Wander his eyes and stop paying attention

Beauty in disconnection I will sit in the park and watch my bare ankles turn skyblue Today is Easter Sunday and I seek Baptism I need a captain Someone to guide my ship -122-

Bradford pear— My likeness, My window friend I am falling for you I love the smell of burning And my eyes water at the smell Of church incense A computer fixes all the words I can not spell All the commas I forget I should write on typewriter Force myself to learn Easter afternoon Peanutbutterandjelly No eggs No mom No dad My basket this year A cold—mug—coffee My horse died one Easter drive through My mom had to see him go I fell into a boy’s arms Cried the saddest tears Would not look to my fields They were resting place For words and ashes— It was there—my loves ended Wellington-footed I should be having a walk Counting daffodils Washing with raindrops Weaving between evergreens avoiding prayer

-123-

Earl Shakler: A Summer Day Violetta Ekpe It was finally summer. After all those months of gray clouds and moody atmospheres, l could once again enjoy the abundant energy of the sun. I opened the window and looked out. I stood still for several minutes engaging in unspecified thoughts. Dad saw me gazing out the window and beeped the horn. My thoughts were brutally disconnected.

I took my luggage and ran out of the house. Dad was very cheerful that morning. I was excited too. We were to be spending the summer in grandma’s birthplace. Dad had taken the responsibility of fixing grandma’s house for grandma and grandpa. They were tired of the city, and wanted a peaceful place to live now that they were both retired.

We had already been in the car for two hours, and were seeing nothing else but endless fields of grass and farmers working the plantations.

“This must be a very boring job.” I thought out loud.

Dad looked at me and smiled.

“I think you will find Earl Shackler very interesting, Dad said, giving the impression that he wanted to continue with his conversation. I could sense that Dad was in the mood for storytelling, but I was too tired to listen. I scrolled my seat back and closed my eyes.

I had just awakened when we arrived.

“Good timing,” Dad said. I came out of the car and helped him with the luggage. The house seemed unprepared for visitors. It was rusty and dirty. The furniture was covered with white sheets that had turned gray. I glanced around the house.

Small but cozy. Maybe it’s not so bad, I thought. I unpacked and helped Dad clean. By 9.00pm, I was asleep.

I woke up uneasy the next morning. The sun was hitting my face through the window. My face was sweating and my pillow was wet. I walked to Dad’s room. He was already gone.

I found a message saying that he would be back for lunch. I got dressed and stepped out of the house.

Earl Shackler seemed very different from yesterday. People -124-

were plentiful. The houses were small and wooden with flat roofs. Two-storey buildings were nowhere to be found. The sky was clear and I could pleasurably inhale the unpolluted air.

The smell of the dust was only apparent when a brief wind would cross my way. Children were playing in the streets.

Occasionally, a car would pass by and beep the horn for the children to clear out the road. I continued walking, trying to explore this mysterious little town.

I had already lost track of time when I found myself in front of a little cottage. It was covered with flowers. I could barely see the front door. There were lilies in the small garden in front of the house, and small pots of pink roses on the stairs and windows of the house. Dazzled by the view, I reached out my hand to pick a flower.

“Stay away from my flowers, leave my flowers alone!” I heard a woman screaming as she rushed out of the house. She was very elderly, seemingly a century old, too old to still be alive.

“What do you want with my flowers? Who are you?” she demanded.

“I’m Delilah,” I said, “I’m just visiting. My grandma used to live here, a long time ago. Her name was Josephina.”

Her face softened as she heard my grandmother’s name.

She smiled and asked me about my grandma. She invited me in for something to drink. I accepted the invitation. The house was neat and covered with lilies and white tulips. She asked me to follow her to the kitchen, where I stood and watched while she made me a glass of fresh lemonade, by squeezing lemons with a fork.

She suggested we go outside because it was too hot inside.

We took two wooden chairs and placed them on the sidewalk beside the house. We sat down and talked. She asked me about my family and the reason I was visiting. I asked her about the town and its history. I was curious to know because grandma never really talked about it much. Although she seemed unprepared for my questions, she didn’t hesitate to answer them.

She told me that the town was named after a prominent French photographer named Earl Shackler. He arrived in the -125-

early nineteenth century in order to photographer the lives of emancipated slaves. His previous projects included exhibitions of the savage conditions in various orphanages in France, fierce inmates awaiting execution, and institutions in Russia with patients suffering from rare forms of schizophrenia.

I sipped my lemonade and listened carefully as she continued. “Before Earl Shackler there wasn’t much of anything, but we were happy. I was tired of saying ‘yes ma’am’ and lowering my head to kids young enough to be my children. I was tired of being tired. We were all tired. We just wanted to rest and go along our way until the Lord called us home. I was happy to be away from them white folks. That is why I was angry when Earl Shackler came along with his fancy clothes telling us how to live our lives. Just another white man trying to tell us black folks what to do, I thought. I didn’t know him. He seemed white to me, and white on a black man’s land only meant blood those days. But Earl Shackler was different. He made us understand that we had to fight the system. Learn how to read and write. Organize. So we don’t need the white folks. Good people come in all colors.”

“Thomas first made the effort, God rest his soul. He was saving up for some good eight years for that bakery. Worked day and night to put food into his children’s mouths. Now his son goes bossing people around, forgetting he once didn’t have shoes to wear. He used to come to me when his feet were bleeding from cuts. Now he doesn’t even stop to say hello.”

“I passed by the bakery one day to buy bread. I ran short on money that week so I told the boy in the front to write me down the way old Tom used to do.” “‘I’m sorry, we don’t give credit to anyone anymore,’ he said.” “‘Nonsense’, I said, ‘tell Tom’s boy Ma Yukon is here. He knows I’m good for it,’ I said. I had seen Tom’s boy hiding in the back and so I said it out loud so he could hear me.” “‘Nathan isn’t here,’” the boy said.

“I waited a few seconds thinking that Tom’s boy would come out as soon as he knew it was me. But he didn’t. I was very hurt. I cared for that boy. I washed his feet with my hands -126-

and gave him cookies when he came over. I didn’t have much, but I gave. People grow greedy and ungrateful,” she said, releasing a deep sigh. “I’ve seen too many things. I’ve outlived all my friends. My body only knows the pain. I don’t know what God’s plan is for me, but I believe,” she said.

“Praise the Lord,” she shouted in a startling voice that shook my body apart. I never anticipated such a fragile body to assume so much vocal strength. Two old women that happened to be passing by responded with a suited “Amen”.

“The Lord is good,” she said.

After that, she stopped talking to me and gazed out into the sky.

“Tell me more of your story,” I said.

“It’s not a story,” she said angrily. “It’s not a fairy tale.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it that way.” She didn’t answer. I sat by her side for a few minutes. I apologized again for upsetting her and assured her that I didn’t mean to insult her. My efforts were unsuccessful. She sat in her chair rigidly and made no sign of accepting my apology. I decided to leave.

“Thank you for your time and for the lemonade,” I said while standing up to leave. “It was delicious.”

She raised her head and looked at me. She stared at me foe several seconds and although she was looking at me, I felt that she was looking at once right through me and beyond me. No sound came from her lips. I awkwardly greeted her “goodbye”.

I had taken several steps when I heard a voice shout: “Come back and visit again!”

“I will!” I shouted back. I was relieved, and only hoped, that she would still be alive when I returned.

-127-

You must always know the past, for there is no real Was, there is only Is. William Faulkner

Flatiron Victor Timofeev -128-

777 Brian Marggraf In the void between Los Angeles and Vegas, the connected stars outline cherries and lemons and form a produce stand in the night sky.

The highway speeds by —- asphalt conveyor belt rushing the vehicle towards valet adoption, Park her in a good spot.

The ticket stub rips, heading for two different destinations one to the casino, riding in a hungry wallet the other to Lot C, hiding in the shadows of burning lamp watch towers.

Women congregate outside, waiting for their husbands as they attempt to marry into money, You may now kiss the slot machine… hoping to catch the nickel bouquet.

From the struggle they sweat in neon and fall to the pavement, Broken —- like a slot machine that has been paying out all night long

-129-

A myth is a religion in which no one any longer believes.

James Feibleman

Mark & the Angel Pixie Alexander -130-

To Build in Concave Claudette Visco

A little broken myrtle that spilt at your door, and filled your halls and rooms with customs that appealed to your scent

A plateau of divine and devout who bent at your heels, and convinced their provider of light that they were here to serve

A custom that keeled at riches and peeled its way off the plaster you worked to supply

A kinder remark for the twigs you gathered to be built.

We see that it may pucker up.

So we build it in concave and hope this will clasp the fall.

-131-

The Same Oak Claudette Visco The charter bell is steady and sound for you.

Though when you merely sit and count its drops that leave you dry, the Countess loses interest in her duty and treads her hand up the doldrums to silence its tune

A trying game to quantify the clocks you wheeled.

So you spin their hands in the opposite direction that the Planner of Seconds spent his lifetime mastering

You’ll send your son to your mother’s yard, where idling moments once felt safe and sinking in her soil seemed to help you grow.

The same can hold true for the boy who you weaned from the same sunken gum and cradled in the same sanded oak that had cusped your plush and wild head.

-132-

Culture of the mind must be subservient to the heart.

Mahatma Gandhi

Heart Victor Timofeev -133-

Autumn Harvest Brian Marggraf Tom sat on his third-hand sofa, wearing a blue haze cast by the television set. He reached for his generic cigarettes and lit one. The television was at low volume, the way Tom liked it when he read the mail. He always watched the Weather Channel, these days it was to take his mind off the bill collectors. A few years back it was research, a business necessity. The remote was buried beneath a layer of torn envelopes and account statements. He grabbed it and muted the volume.

Tom listened to determine if Kathleen was still in the shower. “Kat, I’m going to leave in a minute.” His voice was sluggish and heavy, uttering his first words of the day. The water stopped running, the remnants spilled down the drain.

Kathleen pulled open the shower curtain; the silver rings scraped along the bar.

“What time did you say your first appointment was?”

Kathleen asked as she came out of the bathroom, her robe open loosely, showing a little patch of pale skin, right around the navel.

“Noon, but I have to stop by the office first.”

“My mom wants to have dinner with us tonight. You’ll be home right?”

Dinner with his mother-in-law meant extra helpings of guilt and self-pity for Tom, followed by emotional indigestion.

He wanted to tell her, “Stay out of our lives!” and “No, we don’t need any help. Put your fucking checkbook away!” These words ignited in his belly, they burned his throat, and never quite made it out.

Tom thought of one occasion where his mother-in-law publicly embarrassed him at a family barbeque. It was August, the shining jewel of the calendar, the only really nice month.

This was back when they were both working, this was right before Tom’s business went under. Kathleen had said something to her mother, and her mother waited until the right -134-

moment to weaponize this information. As the families, both his and hers, sat down to eat their slightly charred burgers, Kathleen’s mother broke the hungry silence with, “Tom, I know a good bankruptcy lawyer.”

Tom used to own and operate the biggest landscaping business in Oregon. He dominated the markets in Salem, Eugene, Portland, and was even starting to expand into Southern Washington. When the economy began to downward spiral, luxuries were usually the first to go. Wives were looking for ways to cut corners, urging their husbands to mow the lawn before or after Sunday football, their choice. Sleepyeyed sons raked leaves on Saturday mornings. The business dried up and money has been tight ever since.

“Tell her not to bring her checkbook this time. I don’t like handouts.” He brushed cigarette ash off his collar. The rain tapped like knives on the windowpane.

“She’s just trying to help. She said she wants to make sure we’re alright, financially, until you get a little more settled in your job. The bills are piling up. Do you know how close we are to losing the house?” Kathleen raised her right hand, eyelevel, and held her thumb and index finger about an inch apart, “This close.”

He bit his thumbnail, “I’m going to stay late at the office tonight, so I can’t make it to dinner. Tell her that I’m sorry I can’t make it.”

Tom quickly got up from the sofa and moved towards the front door, scooping up his keys from the coffee table. He placed his hands around Kathleen’s waist and leaned in for a placating kiss. Then he walked out. A cold wall of wind entered as he left. Kathleen watched the curtains rise and fall like waves and heard an old Ford cough in the driveway.

In Portland, months expire and holidays pass, wallpapered by endless shades of gray. Good work is hard to find, so Tom took what he could get, even if it meant coercing people into selling one of their kidneys.

Tom made a blurry right turn onto the Burnside Bridge, crossed the river, and moved like a trapped bubble of air along -135-

the oily asphalt veins, towards the comatose heart of the city.

Left on Broadway, five blocks to the office. The garage door opened like a yawn. He pulled in and parked in a handicapped spot, close to the elevator. Three floors and a half a hallway later, the office door read “ORION MEDICAL SERVICES”.

He stepped into the lobby, passing the hunched over secretary, looking for his boss, Dave Karlick, Vice President of Sales.

“Tom, we’ve been waiting for you,” Dave said. “I need to talk to you about this month’s quota. Let’s go to my office.

It’s a little more quiet in there.”

“Sure.” Tom said.

Dave entered the back office, hooked around his desk and offered Tom a seat in an undersized chair.

“Last month was good, for you and us as well, but this month we’re going to raise the bar a little, okay —- I want to see five sales in your column on the board come the 31st —what do you say, can you commit to that?”

Tom remembered having sessions like this with his marketing team; he pushed his staff in dictator fashion. Now, he cowered to the same pressure that he used to exert.

“Dave, this is only my second month —- some of the other guys have five, and they’ve been here for much longer than I have.”

“The other partners thought a challenge might be good for you. Being new at this and all. I agreed.”

“Well, I don’t know, I —-“ “You know the protocols. We think you could be a real asset to our operation here, and we’d like to keep you on board…”

Dave pushed a manila folder across his freshly polished desk, it slid under Tom’s palm, “Ms. Hutchinson is your noon, you better get going, it’s raining cats and dogs out there. Give me a call if you have any questions, or if she has any questions you can’t field.”

Tom fabricated a smile as he picked up the folder and left.

Traffic was accumulating at the mouth of the bridge, -136-

and the river swelled as a cargo ship passed. Tom massaged his beard, he noticed the smell of Lemon Pledge on his fingers.

He thought of Dave’s ‘cats and dogs’ comment.

Tom’s life in Portland was like a never-ending dog’s dream, black and white images, feet kicking uncontrollably, his own feet skipped between the clutch and the brake. His mother-in-law held the leash. Kathleen, sweetheart, that husband of yours is a deadbeat. How much do you need this time? Tom loosened his tie a little, he took a few deep breaths. The bridge fell and the cars began to move.

As he headed towards Northeast Portland, Mt. Hood centered itself with the highway, adorned by a crown of heavy storm clouds, looming like a displeased parent. At the 82nd Street off-ramp, Tom exited the highway and checked his watch, wiping away the semi-dried raindrops.

As he walked down the sidewalk, Tom studied the trees that lined the street, and the descent of their brown leaves as they fell upon the pavement. He checked the numbers as he passed each house. He found 514 and went up the stairs, knocked twice and waited.

“Ms. Hutchinson, I’m Thomas Lomax —- we spoke earlier, I’m from Orion Medical Services.”

“I just called your office. I think I want to postpone my appointment,” she said as she stood by the door, still holding the doorknob. “I need to think about it a little more.” Ms. Hutchinson wore a long, wrinkled dress and she spoke with her head down, her gray hair draped down, outlining the wrinkled borders of her face.

“Well, if you don’t mind,” Tom walked inside, “I’d like to put some of your doubts to rest.”

Tom showed himself to the sofa, and she took a seat in her recliner. Tom shuffled through the papers in his briefcase.

“What are some of your concerns?”

“First, I want to know how safe it is, I mean, do you think it’s dangerous for a woman my age?”

“Ms. Hutchinson, if it wasn’t safe, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing my job. We have doctors who have been doing this for a long time. In fact, we had a client a few years back -137-

that was ten years older than you are. And today, she is just fine, and financially secure. She sends our office a fruit-basket every year. I can show you her file if you like.” This was straight from the training manual. When age becomes a concern, use a fictional client, add ten years, and relay the success story. Any potential client over fifty was usually off limits, but during slow months this condition was waived.

Ms. Hutchinson leaned forward, “Will it be painful —the procedure?”

“Oh no, no —- you won’t feel a thing —- it’s a simple operation and requires a few days in our clinic for recovery.”

Tom said as his eyes skipped around the living room like a stone on a lake.

Tom’s eyes landed on a cluster of photographs, framed and absent of dust. An evolution of children, young with chaotic wild hair placed next to crisp and sculpted photos of self-conscious adolescence. Her husband was present in the older, cloudy ones, missing from the bright Kodak colors of more recent ones.

“Time is of the essence, Ms. Hutchinson. I’m afraid if you were to cancel your appointment, we might not be able to reschedule for a while. Those bill collectors won’t go away on their own, trust me I know,” He looked at her hand, she still wore her wedding band. “Your husband would have wanted you to be financially stable and secure. Let me tell you, this will be the best decision you ever made.”

Tom pulled her file out of his briefcase and placed the documents on the coffee table. She slowly picked them up, “Do you have a pen Thomas?” she said.

He pulled a silver pen out of his shirt pocket. “Just sign on all the x’s you see there.”

Ms. Hutchinson adjusted her eyeglasses. He watched her briefly, then his eyes returned to the living room. In the corner, he saw a dining table collecting many torn envelopes, the bills from various utilities removed. He quietly got up and moved towards the table. Three of the four chairs were neatly placed flush against the table, the fourth was slightly distant, perpendicular. In the space reserved for silverware, on a folded -138-

napkin, was a calculator with faded digits. He had seen this before, the slaving over bank balances and the repetitive phrases, ‘amount due’ and ‘your account is seriously delinquent’.

Kathleen always searched for new methods of addition, the old ones never seemed to produce the numbers she desired.

“Alright, I think I’m done —- Thomas…”

Tom abruptly turned to her, remembering where he was. “Yes, yes.” He said as he moved towards her to collect the documents. “I guess were all finished here. Be sure to call twenty-four hours in advance to confirm your appointment.”

“Let me show you to the door.” she said.

As the door closed behind him he thought of Kathleen, and he thought that if he lost the house, he would definitely lose her next. He briskly took the steps and headed for his truck.

Driving back downtown, Tom spotted a payphone and pulled over. He fumbled for coins in his pocket, lifted the receiver, put a quarter in the slot, chased it down with a dime.

“Dave Karlick, please.”

Cars trudged behind him as he waited on hold.

“This is David Karlick, how can I help you?”

“Dave, Tom here, just wrapped up at Ms. Hutchinson’s house —- what’s the word on my three o’clock?”

“The word is cancelled —- backed out last minute —why don’t you come into the office and we’ll make some cold calls.”

“Sounds good, Dave.” he said. Tom lit a cigarette and entered his vehicle, throwing the pack on the passenger seat.

He put the truck in gear, ashed out the window and pulled into the right lane, the wheels slightly slipped on the slick pavement. * * * * Tom sat on the steps of the back porch, reading The Oregonian, using the sports page and the classifieds as a cushion. The sun had risen somewhere in the sky, but its exact location was difficult to discern. He thumbed through the -139-

soggy headlines.

Behind him, Kathleen stood, robe tied tightly, watching him through the glass. A teapot began to howl in the background. She scurried to the kitchen.

He opened the front page and began to fold it into smaller and smaller sections, to get a better handle on the newspaper.

Kathleen opened the sliding glass door, and took a seat next to him on the top step, balancing herself and a full cup of tea. She clamped her index finger and thumb on the paper tab and began to pull the string like a puppeteer.

“Tom —- how’s work?” she said, looking at him imploringly.

He watched several leaves fall in the backyard. He turned to her.

“I know we need the money but —- I think I am going to quit.”

He watched the muscles in Kathleen’s face fall into a frown.

An echo of the expression she wore when Tom told her his business was on its deathbed.

“That bad huh?”

“I thought I could handle it. It seemed like a quick way to make some money. After that last meeting, something happened. Do you remember what I told you about Ms. Hutchinson?”

“Yeah, the elderly woman over on 82nd street.”

“That’s the one. After I met with her, driving back to the office, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. That’s when it hit me —- these people are not clients carrying commodities in their abdomens —- they are people.”

“Well then, it’s settled —- I’ll go call my mother and ask her for a little help, just enough to last until you get a new job.”

“I’m sorry, Kat.” he said.

“It’s okay. This isn’t the first time we’ve had problems with money. I’m just scared about losing the house.”

Kathleen got up and walked inside. Tom took a deep, -140-

extended breath. He leaned down a little, his hands cupped his forehead, attempting to contain his pulsing thoughts.

How much dear, how much? Kathleen’s mother’s words resonated in his mind.

He opened the paper and immediately focused his eyes on a medium-sized ad in the lower right-hand corner. He read the first few lines: NEED CASH? WONDER WHY GOD GAVE YOU AN EXTRA KIDNEY? CALL ORION MEDICAL SERVICES. WE CAN HELP… Tom got up and tossed the paper in a shallow puddle. It sponged up the remaining water. The kidney ad began to fade; the neatly arranged type blurred into illegible stains. He firmly shut the door behind him as he went back inside. He flipped the lock and disappeared behind the swaying curtains.

In the bedroom, Tom sat on the foot of the bed, surrounded by papers and sales brochures. The telephone on the nightstand began to ring. He turned and stared at it as it rang once, twice, three times and he pounced on it on the fourth.

“Hello.” Tom said.

“Hello, Tom, this is Dave —- I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”

“Well, looks like you caught me.”

“I have some leads I want you to follow up on.”

The phone clicked, call waiting.

“Can you hold on Dave?”

“Sure.”

Tom clicked over. “Hello.”

“Hello, this is Stan —- from Multnomah Bank —- I’ve been trying to get a hold of you regarding your mortgage, I’m afraid —-“ Tom hung up on him and clicked back over.

“Dave, we need to talk. I’ll come down to the office —it’s better if we talk about it there.”

“Is everything alright Tom?” “Everything is fine —- there is some business I want to discuss, though.”

-141-

*

*

*

Looking out the window from one of the rooms of the clinic, Tom realized the sun was setting somewhere in the gray southern skies, he searched for its exact location. His eyes tailed the passing clouds for a while, then fell to the pavement.

Leaves had piled up around the entrance of the building, intact brown leaves sitting atop layers and layers of decaying fragments. The piles were bordered by a thick outline of black residue, shadows of what the leaves once were. He opened the window, a swift gust blew past his body. The wind traveled towards the small table beside the bed; the check, his receipt and the release forms took flight and swirled around the room.

Tom moved slowly, cautiously as he tried to catch the falling documents. The wind died suddenly and he bent down, holding his side, to pick them up off the cold linoleum floor.

He collapsed and rolled onto his back, his hands opened towards the ceiling. His fingers trembled.

He thought of old Ms. Hutchinson, and the husband who was absent from all those photographs.

He thought of Kathleen, and tried to imagine the look on her face, when she heard what he had done and that he was gone.

A withered leaf sailed into the room and landed in his palm. The leaf crumbled into small pieces as he made a fist around it.

He thought of Kathleen.

-142-

Coping With Autism: A Mother’s Story Marisol Otero-M Morales “Your son is autistic.” On August 26, 2003 my son Gabriel, age 3.7, was diagnosed with this severe pervasive development disorder. Dr. Gupta, a Developmental Pediatrician at Metropolitan Hospital in New York City, asked me after throwing the bomb on my lap, “Do you have any questions?” None. I had no questions. The shock was all consuming. My mind went blank. Dr. Gupta’s lips kept moving—but I couldn’t hear him. I kept hearing the echo of his words in the distance as the tightness in my chest made every passing second harder for me to breathe. I wanted to grab Gabriel and run out of this crazy doctor’s office but two social workers entered the room and stopped me. I slumped in a chair unable to move. The doctor kept explaining his diagnosis, I tried so hard to focus but I could only hear fragments of his sentences: “limited eye contact…indifferent to others … speech delay…no sign of emotion...” I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying—everything was happening so fast.

The next thing I remember is telling this quack I wanted a second opinion. I was so angered by his misdiagnosis and negligence to cause me so much pain unnecessarily! Impossible! My son couldn’t have autism. What the hell was autism anyway? I’d never heard of the term. Oh wait a minute! Yes, I had heard about autism in that movie “Rain Man” with Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise. I couldn’t remember anything about the movie’s plot but did remember the weird character Dustin Hoffman played. Why was I comparing a weirdo to my beautiful perfect son? I couldn’t take it anymore—I was literally suffocating—I had to get out of the office. I finally grabbed Gabriel and escaped, only to face my in-laws outside in the waiting room. In the same flat tone Dr. Gupta had used to give me the news, I told my son’s grandparents, “Gabriel is autistic, we have to go.”

I dreaded having to call my husband and crush his spirit as Dr. Gupta had just crushed mine. The image I had of Gabriel -143-

and the aspirations I had for him were erased—they literally died on this day. Later on I would realize that I had to find a way to develop a new image of my son and learn to set new goals for him based on his abilities and not on my expectations.

I have to say this has been the hardest part to deal with because as a parent I instinctively want my child to experience life to the fullest. When your child is autistic his future is a big question mark and all you can do is hope with all your might that the treatments will bring your child back to you.

I was choking in my own tears and could not hear my inlaws’ words of comfort. They had accompanied me that day because my husband Charlie had just started a new job and couldn’t take the day off. I just kept walking faster and faster away from that dreaded hospital while Gabriel tried to keep up with my pace. I remember thinking that my husband Charlie was the one person who could possibly understand what I was feeling because of our connection to Gabriel but that is not how it turned out. “Charlie the doctor said Gabriel is autistic. What are we going to do?” There was nothing but quiet at the other end of the phone for what seemed like an eternity, “Charlie did you hear me?” “I’ll leave work right now”, is all Charlie said.

When he got home I knew he had been crying because his face was red and puffy. He just kept assuring me that everything was going to be okay but wouldn’t share his thoughts on the matter with me. Whenever I cried Charlie comforted me but he never talked to me about how he was feeling. He kept his feelings bottled up inside and focused more on comforting me.

“Everything’s going to be okay” “We can’t give up hope.” “We have to believe a cure will be found”. Regrettably his attempts at comforting me only drew me farther away from him because what I needed desperately was to talk about the situation no matter how painful it was. I didn’t want Charlie to stand next to me with a bandage every time I bled—I wanted him to open up and rant and rave and scream and kick alongside me. Trying to get Charlie to open up was too emotionally draining for me especially during this time. After a while I’d deal with my bouts of depression privately. I began to pray all the time and write in my journal. My mom was an immense source of support. I -144-

could never have made it through this without her. She looked up information for me, listened to me, prayed with me and cried with me, which is what I needed emotionally.

While Charlie suffered in silence I suffered panic attacks on my way to work. “My son is autistic” kept echoing in my head until I had difficulty breathing and would have to get off the bus and walk the rest of the way to work. I remember sitting at my desk like a robot completing all the tasks of the day with a smile on my face and a gaping hole in my heart. When I arrived home in the evenings I’d tend to Gabriel and cry myself to sleep and wake up crying. I stopped calling friends and family members because I just didn’t have the desire to do anything but crawl under a rock. I needed to blame somebody for Gabriel’s autism. Somebody caused this. I lashed out at his pediatrician for not detecting the problem sooner. I blamed myself for not realizing something was wrong. I was his mother; how could I not realize something was wrong? Was I being punished? This was my only child why was this happening? I struggled with my own feelings of anger, guilt, sadness and insecurity about Gabriel’s future. Had it not been for my job I don’t think I would have my sanity today—as insane as this may sound. When I was at work I had to force myself to focus on something other than Gabriel. In time, I would get used to shutting down my emotions from 9AM-5PM. Immediately after the diagnosis, I contacted my local school district and began the process of scheduling an intensive educational evaluation. The evaluation included examinations by a psychologist, speech therapist, occupational therapist, Special Ed teacher and social worker. The evaluation took so much out of us we were emotionally exhausted when it was over. At the conclusion of the evaluation it was unanimously agreed that Gabriel exhibited classical symptoms of autism; limited eye contact, speech delays, limited or no social relatedness, temper tantrums, ritualistic behavior, no affectionate behavior, hand flapping, twitching, and poor eating habits, to name only a few. He was found to be moderately to severely autistic. Another crushing blow because Dr. Gupta’s original diagnosis had put Gabriel on the mild side of the autistic spec-145-

trum. Many times during the evaluations Charlie and I came head to head on exactly what behaviors our son exhibited should be considered normal or abnormal. For example, if Gabriel would say something to us we had to determine if he was repeating words he’d memorized or was he just repeating something he heard (echolalia).

I became obsessed with finding out information on autism and spent a small fortune on books. My husband didn’t want to talk about our situation as much as I did and often told me I was obsessed. “What else am I to be but obsessed? Our son has a severe disability and you want me to sit here and let a bulldozer roll over me without trying to move away from it?” He’d tell me I was driving myself crazy and I knew to some degree he was right. But I had to continue looking for information no matter how much it depressed me or else I wouldn’t be able to help Gabriel. Our once happy union began having serious communication problems and we started arguing frequently. I had to obsess or else I would not be able to cope. The obsession served two purposes: Help Gabriel and keep me occupied so that I wouldn’t go crazy. I was angry with Charlie because I wanted him to search for information as desperately as I was and criticized him for not doing so. “I need you to stand beside me not at the other end of the room! There’s so much information we need to get and I can’t do it alone. Do something other than sit there moping all day with the remote in your hand!” His response was to simply glare at me and walk out the house. Over and over again the wall kept coming up between us and leaving me emotionally drained. I needed him to be as obsessed as I was. I was outraged at him for shutting down and not sharing his feelings with me. As time went by I realized I was wrong to expect Charlie to deal with the situation the same way I was dealing with it. People cope with grief in their own way and on their own time. I eventually gave up trying to get through to Charlie and channeled all of my energy on Gabriel. I put my feelings on a back burner and concentrated on getting him the help he so urgently needed. This was the only way I knew how to cope with the situation at the time and it is the only way I know how to keep my head above the water today.

-146-

Over a year has passed since my son was diagnosed and I’m still clueless about many things. There is so much to learn that I don’t think my obsession will ever end. As time goes by it gets easier but the hurt is always there and flares up ever so often. The other day I attended a conference at Gabriel’s school and as I sat there listening to other parents the reality of his condition slapped me in the face. I was depressed for two days. Had I not obsessed about Gabriel I would have never found out about the Pre-K ABA (Applied Behavioral Analysis) program that Gabriel now attends every day nor would I have found out about a parent income waiver Medicaid program which has opened the doors to many medical programs Gabriel would otherwise not have been eligible to receive; I would have never known about putting Gabriel on a gluten free/casein free diet that has dramatically decreased his hyperactivity; or about holding him when he is having a severe tantrum and waiting for it to subside instead of getting frustrated and angry.

My mom gave me a piece of advice I’ll never forget. One day I went over to her house for a visit and broke down in tears.

She said, “ You better gather as much strength as possible because you’re going to need it to help Gabriel. That is your responsibility as a mother. If you crumble your son is going to crumble with you. Wipe your tears and walk with God to get Gabriel to where you need to get him and don’t look back.” My mom is a survivor who has overcome many hardships in her life.

Her words on this day were an immense source of comfort and support. I have a very strong faith in God and must say that if it not for Him—and my mom— I don’t know if I would be able to deal with my son’s condition.

The one thing I need to learn no book or website can teach me—I have to learn to live one day at a time and refrain from thinking about the future and what may or may not happen to my son. Many times I have to stop myself from thinking the worst. Who will take care of Gabriel when my husband and I are no longer here? I imagine him being taken advantage of by others? It deeply saddens me to think that my son may never be able to develop the social skills he needs to make friends, date, work, and that I may never have grandchildren.

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Explaining Gabriel’s autism to friends and family members was at times extremely frustrating and stressful. Some of my family members were in a state of denial refusing to accept the diagnosis or simply did not understand it. I didn’t have the energy to explain it to them. Others would try to convince me that Gabriel would grow out of his autism or that nothing was wrong with him. “All kids go through these phases, especially boys”. “Your cousin had a speech problem when he was a kid and look at him now—we can’t shut him up.” “Don’t worry nothing’s wrong with Gabriel”. “Give him some Gingko Biloba and Vitamin E tabs. That’ll do the trick” My mother in law would call me in the middle of the day with the news that all was well because Gabriel asked her, clear as a bell, “Hey! What you doing?” not realizing it was a line he’d memorized from one of the many videos he watched over and over again. These wellintended comments were very difficult to deal with because I just didn’t have the energy to make them understand.

People need to know the child who is acting erratically on the bus isn’t spoiled rotten by his parents or the child who is having a severe tantrum in the middle of the street isn’t a “problem child”. I can’t say how many times I’ve had people on the bus stare at me like I have failed as a parent. Years ago when autism was a rare disorder, parents were blamed and scorned for having such uncontrollable children. These poor mothers were told they didn’t show their children enough affection or love.

They were called refrigerator mothers. I can’t begin to imagine the pain they must have endured without any support to help them deal with such a devastating blow. Even today when there is more knowledge and awareness on autism, I’ve had to create a thick skin to deal with the ignorant.

My son was born on February 29, 2000. What a lucky birthday! There must be nothing but luck in store for this little one’s life is what I thought on that day. I decided to name him Gabriel, after God’s favorite angel because his birth was a gift so grand I could only see him as an angel—a gift from God. Gabriel was developing normally until the age of two when I began noticing a stunt in his development. In other words, after the age of two his development did not continue it just sort of -148-

stopped. However, the changes were so subtle I couldn’t tell something was seriously wrong until it became obvious. In my case it was even harder to realize there was a problem because Gabriel is an only child and I had no other children to compare his development to. It was at the birthday party of a two year old that I realized something was terribly wrong with my son. I sat down to talk to this little girl and she shocked me because she was so articulate and so alert. She even asked me why Gabriel was running around so “funny”. One parent of an autistic child compared autism to someone sneaking into your child’s room in the middle of the night and stealing a part of his/her brain and walking away. I remember having the urge to open up Gabriel’s head and try to fix his brain as I always fix what’s broken at home.

My son is such an inspiration to me. In the 18 months he has been in school he has learned to talk directly to me, maintaining eye contact for about 30 seconds while talking in sentences of three or more words, he is more affectionate and loves riding on the school bus. I’ve taught Gabriel how to prepare pancakes, French toast and oatmeal. In the morning, he loves to gather all the ingredients for his breakfast and even helps me with pouring and stirring. We are still working with him on behavior management, toilet training, improving his eating habits, and keeping him from engaging in ritualistic behavior.

He can watch the same video over and over again or watch or play with a toy truck on the floor for a long period of time just watching the wheels go back and forth. Gabriel has a difficult time interacting with other children because he doesn’t know how to play with them or communicate with them.

Gabriel attends a special education kindergarten class at P.S. 226 on West 12th Street in Manhattan. He is actually in school getting intensive therapy through play. His day consists of several sessions of occupational, speech, and Applied Behavior Analysis therapy for over 6 hours from Monday to Friday. If this sounds like too many hours of therapy it actually isn’t. It is recommended that children get at least 40 hours a week of ABA therapy. At present I’m looking for an after school program which can offer an additional 10 hours per week but -149-

services are very hard to find. There are too few programs and those that do exist are too expensive. The sooner a child begins therapy the better his chances for improvement. Unfortunately, there are still too many pediatricians who are not trained to detect the signs of autism before the age of three. Early detection is crucial in the treatment of autism. Gabriel was almost four years old when we learned he was autistic. Had he been two years old his chances of improvement would be twice as high as they are today.

Gabriel has an amazing memory and has often shocked me with his ability to remember even the smallest of details.

One day I rode the train with him and he was fascinated. I was glad he enjoyed the ride and even happier he was too preoccupied to tantrum. About two days after our ride on the train I heard him talking in his room. He kept saying, “the next stop is 77th Street, please watch the closing doors…. the next stop is 68th Street, Hunter College, please watch the closing doors…”

Now, every time, we walk by a train station I have to literally drag him away in a fit of rage because he wants to ride the train.

I’ve learned to walk on avenues without train stations to avoid the confrontation. He has also memorized all the cable channels, “TNT, HBO Family Zone, Encore, ESPN, MSG” he identifies each by recognizing the logos on the lower left hand corner of the television screen. What is mystifying to me is that he can’t read so I can’t figure how he learned to identify the channels by name?

My son is a special boy. Yes he is quirky and not much of a social bug but there is a uniqueness about him that illuminates a room when he walks in. I can walk into a clinic with him and he’ll begin to imitate Ben Stiller’s dance in the movie “Along Came Polly”. Without even attempting to do so, he can put a smile on anyone’s face. He will walk up to a stranger and say, “Hey! You crazy? You wrecked the car man!!” a phrase he memorized from a Nintendo racing game. Gabriel can put a smile on my face even on the worst of days.

Sometimes Gabriel will do things that will cause my face to turn beet red. On a beautiful summer day I was walking down the street with Gabriel and I guess he got an urge to urinate. In -150-

a split second he dropped his pants in the middle of the street and began peeing unawares of others who were caught in his stream of urine. I thanked the Lord a thousand times he hadn’t yet reached puberty!! The glares I got from people that day burned right through my skin. Often times Gabriel will be walking with me in the best mood and something will trigger a tantrum. When this happens I have no choice but to pick him up and walk all the way home with him kicking and screaming. I never know what my walk home with Gabriel will be like. There are days when I’ve felt so exhausted I literally feel my body is going to crash but then as I am tucking him in for the night he’ll stare at me for a few fleeting seconds and say, “hug mommy” and everything in my world feels right.

My deepest hope is that there will someday be a cure for autism. I pray for this everyday. Something is hurting my child and his future—our future. And we need answers.

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The Face Circus Shana Cooper So many faces, so little time. Faces that sing with no brace on reality. Faces pulled back with permanent smiles of the rich. Faces from evil's womb, with no consideration for mankind. Faces accusing faces. Faces that tell you to stay away.

Faces that make you kill. Faces that make you laugh and cry at the same time. Faces that die in the light of the morning, and come alive in the dark of the night. Too many, too little time.

Whispers floated in my dreams. In my four hours of slumber, these words came in rectangles, starbursts, and swirls of rainbow. I tried to catch them, but they faded as the morning sun dawned through my window. I dragged myself out of bed, tripping on the boxers that were strewn about on the floor.

That was the same morning I lost my mind.

I routinely rode the F line to class. It was always filled, like so many other subway lines, with people who seemed unsatisfied with their lives. Each car was drowned with the faces of today's angst and tomorrow's dictators. Pangs of insecurity came from every angle; someone's eyes were always watching you or waiting to be watched, afraid that you may be one step ahead of them. Nonetheless, I had fun watching all of them.

My fingers were shaking with anxiety. I needed a cigarette. My mouth twisted and turned at the anticipation of the smoke between my lips. Then I realized I left the pack under the red boxers. How did I forget? If I hadn't, maybe I wouldn't have paid attention to the woman sitting across from me. I wouldn't have stared at her bulging eyes, targeting my space, and my impatient hands. Her expression was like stone; cold to touch and hard to break through. When she realized I was staring back, she blinked very quickly and was still able to retain the same blank expression.

She turned her gaze to another subject for her boredom with life: The Pair of Eyes. The lady's new target was a girl who happened to be in the class I was rushing off to that morning.

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She had been writing in her notebook and somehow took notice of the silent exchange between me and Stone Face (yeah, I named her). A pack of Newports fell from the girl's backpack and the moment ended.

A pang of excitement came over me. I wasn't sure if it was the sight of the cigarette or the curve in her exposed shoulder. I made an attempt to say hello, and possibly bum a smoke, but she made a point to ignore me. She had never before let her eyes stray from me. In class, she was always that tingle in the back of my neck, or the Pair of Eyes I always noticed in the hallways watching my footsteps. Her indifference sent my senses awry. My eyes narrowed in frustration, the taste of my gum went stale, I could no longer hear the heavy breathing of the homeless man next to me, I could no longer smell him, and the cold of the pole against my face became unbearable.

"LAST STOP." The subway announcement ended my excursion and I followed the Pair of Eyes to class.

My mind wandered in Professor Powell's lecture. I closed my eyes. I could not bear to look at the scowl on his face when he would realize that I was not giving him my full attention. His words were a blur of whispers under my roaring subconscious.

I was caught in a daydream, haunted by my inner thoughts: These faces‌I wish I could cut them off and show their true form: faceless beings with no notion of what it means to be alive. If I could just feel each one, maybe I could understand each sorrow, each joyless moment, and every pulsation of their seemingly meaningless existence. . . If I could have her, I could see everything with her mystic eyes.

I sat at the desk with my face in my hands. The rattle of notebooks and book bags were sounding in my ears. I've been in this place too long, I thought. Never should I suffer these faces pulling me to their attention. I choose who I will.

Mr. Powell laid his hands on my shoulder.

"Class is over, Mr. Lesser," He was smiling like a plastic Ken doll, "You can sleep in your next class now."

My eyes shot up at his blank stare. He shrank away from me and walked out of the classroom. I did not get up until he -153-

moved out of my sight. Replacing his movement was a figure I was disturbed and excited to see: the Pair of Eyes. Was she waiting for me? I had no time to wonder. I needed to know her name. I got up from my chair and we stared at each other until I stood in front of her. Then, and only then, did she turn away from me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Why do you want to know?" she answered, inquisitively.

"The same reason you watch me everyday."

"I don't watch you. I watch your eyes." She looked up at me. A small smile formed from my lips.

"What's so great about my eyes?"

She didn't answer immediately. Her body tensed up and she folded her arms to hide her obvious anxiety. Her eyes began to water and she whispered, looking past me: "My name is Mi." She proceeded to run down the hallway, when I caught her arm.

"Please let me go," She pleaded.

I let her go, for now.

I thought about what she said on my way to the next class. Was it so inconceivable? I always watched people's faces for pleasure- even hers. Was it so odd that she had a thing for my eyes? Her awkwardness made me angry and her sudden absence from class and the subway began to take its toll on my sanity.

Since that day, I took a notebook with me and wrote the whispers in my dreams that replayed in my thoughts daily: Faces frozen with years of concrete bubbles of ignorance, staring at foreign faces with utter fear, confusion, damnation, bewilderment; a spectacle for all of its type. These faces deserved to be in my grasp.

Every morning I looked for the Stone Face woman, hoping to find Mi somewhere near. But she did not appear. I didn't see Mi for two weeks. By that time, I had become infatuated with faces, trying to find some remnant of her in them. I was glad when the faces looked back at me, afraid when they turned away. I felt that all hope was escaping me, that I would never dis-154-

cover why she couldn't look into my eyes up close and why she couldn't stop from a distance.

Professor Powell made no mention of her absence. I was sure she'd failed at that point.

It had been three weeks.

After that third week, I also stopped showing up. I had three notebooks at that point, all revolving around the anonymous faces I became obsessed with. I must have seen Stone Face twice during that time. Her rigid features became more lucid.

She had short curly brown hair with specs of autumn in it. She was small and skinny‌like Mi. One night, I was fortunate enough to catch sight of this woman and followed her from the train. She lived three blocks from me, near the East River. She seemed to have lived in the Riverside buildings, but she walked near the piers that night. I watched her from the bushes, filled with a pint of whiskey as I was. A boat was passing. Its bells were gonging in my brain but my whispers overthrew its power. And then everything went blank. * * * "Hey, watch it, clown!"

I was walking down the crowded streets of Times Square. I had no idea how I got there but I knew I was covered in what appeared to be clown makeup, from the passersby's reaction. I walked over to Bryant Park on West 42nd street and sat on its benches. My head was spinning with the pain and confusion of an obvious hangover. I watched the clouds to separate myself from the world beneath them.

I felt a hot breath on my ear.

"I see the quilt in your eyes; the circus of faces you love so dear," it said.

I turned to catch the source and it was gone. The birds above left their trees and I had a feeling that it was Mi who spoke to me. I spun around in circles that day, searching for her.

If only I knew her last name. Maybe she will come back to me.

I walked back to Times Square, hoping by chance she wandered there. I looked up at the signs around me. The square -155-

was still bright in the morning, but it was different. The headlines were all the same: BODY FOUND LAST NIGHT IN EAST RIVER. FEMALE, MID 20'S, BROWN HAIR, 5 FEET 4 INCHES TALL. FACE HAS BEEN REMOVED AND HAS YET TO BE LOCATED. I stared at the headlines for hours before I walked home.

It was 11 p.m. Mi was by my house that night, crying. She kept asking me why, and I did not know what she was talking about.

Then I remembered: the headline, the booze, and the red lipstick that tasted like blood. I said nothing. I stared at her in excitement of the vision bestowed upon me. She told me she had been in my house and found my notebooks. She also found the first piece of my quilt.

Sometimes great work can be done intoxicated. But seeing Mi was under no influence but my own. I cupped her face in my hands and softly rubbed her lips with my thumb. I kissed her face. I loved her face. Her eyes bulged as my grip grew tighter.

Before she could scream, she had no face to filter it through. I had finally realized my passion.

Before me stands a masterpiece beyond my years; faces I've been collecting for five years. Now that I reminisce of my first works of art, I appreciate how special Mi was. She knew all that would happen before I could put the puzzle together and pull it apart again. She will always be my favorite. How I loved her eyes. They are the jewels of my work.

I cry at the piece before me and I am without words.

So many faces.

I was wrong.

I have so much time…so much time… … and I still haven't smoked a cigarette.

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THE OLIVETREE REVIEW 2004 - 2005 STAFF BIOS Afsheen Leonardo Amiri is a Media Studies and Art History major. He is an aspiring writer for the arts and hopes to one day start his own publication. Leonardo also loves Lisa.

Bertha Elizabeth Arenas was born in Lima, Peru. This Hunter College senior is glad to be graduating and starting a new chapter in her life. Bertha is majoring in English with a minor in Economics.

Kari Chirlow is a 21 year old senior at Hunter. She majors in Political Science and minor in both Music and Philosophy. She has a variety of interest that everyone else likes as well.

A favorite myth of Kari's: All clichés come from the inability to say anything that people haven't heard before.

Alex Clermont is a junior at Hunter, majoring in English as creative writing. His passions include writing and design. He also enjoys, reading, thinking, sleeping and dry wit. Alex plans to parle his work at OTR, Hunter College’s The Shield, and his numourous interships into a full time career in the publishing industry... To sum it up, he is a coooooool, smooth talking revolutionary who needs work. Alex’s website is at: www.geocities.com/ guards_men because he can’t afford a dot com.

Shana Cooper has a double major in Creative Writing and Music. Her diverse imagination hopes to be heard through her musical compositions and her writing. She has always been in love with mythology in addition to her established love for science fiction and fantasy. Her favorite myth changes from time to time, but right now it's a battle between the story of Oedipus the -157-

King and Odysseus.

Christian Ghigliotty is a senior at Hunter College, slated to graduate June 2005 with a BA in Creative Writing. When he's not plotting world domination, he spends his time writing reviews for the TheCinema Source.com and focusing on his own creative masterpieces.

Bryce Hackford is currently working on a Creative Writing degree from Hunter College.

Beyond his position at the OTR, Bryce performs with a group called Beardlift, and they are planning a tour for the end of summer '05.

Jennifer Jaiswal, is 21 year old junior, majoring in Media Studies and English. Mythology and reading as well as writing are passions of hers. She enjoys working on production. Her favorite myth is the Ramayana.

Nena Bing Lam, Co-Managing Editor, is known as "a total sweetheart, who will have your back no matter what, she's gotten me totally hooked on tofu, and one heluva' pool player. She has dark thoughts floating around in her head. I think she's thinking and observing while some of the rest of us are busy absorbing ourselves. But don't be misled by her softspoken nature-Ms. Bing is one tough cookie! (Not unlike Penelope with her covert powers.) ...that impish look in her eyes and that evil grin of hers-that promises mischievous fun-that irresistible Dionysian charm? She's a promising writer and will publish all of our books in her very own press one day." Her favorite tale is the one about the pandas and how they came to present the black layers on their fur.

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Ava Mahieu, or Ava December as she is sometimes called, grew up on folktales, legends and myths. At the ripe old age of five she began illustrating her favorite stories and films and designing sets and costumes at home out of household items, to the great consternation of her parents.

Since then, Ava has followed her artistic bliss by painting, printmaking, and writing about the mysteries of the human condition.

Gabrielle Pati is an English major at Hunter.

Some day she would like to be a teacher. The joys of her life are old books, spicy Indian food, anything yellow or green that comes from the earth, the Talking Heads, and limes. Some poets Gabby enjoys reading are T.S. Eliot, Arthur Rimbaud and Geoffrey Chaucer. Her secret dream is to be a bird, preferably a red and green cardinal.

Anandi A. Premlall has been immersed in art, reading and writing for many moons, hence her pursuit of BA's with concentrations in English and Studio Art. Her love of fairytales and classical mythology grew out of her mom's nightly bedtime stories, continued to thrive from her dad's endless bookshelves, and blossomed with the priceless gift of a Queens Borough public library card. Working at Coliseum Bookstore only fuels her hunger. Anandi is also Education Service Director of the Hunter College Chapter of Golden Key International Honour Society, where she is actively involved in education-based community service project. Anandi can be found devouring chocolates amongst magical creatures while hiding behind books and frantically scribbling in journals. Her artwork can be found at www.aapremlall.com.

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Claudette Visco is a junior at Hunter with a concentration in American Literature. She thinks guitars and pianos are really lovely things-when combined with a nice choice of words, they're sometimes even better. Claudette's number one epiphany for the year: Cats and Chamomile go with everything.

Nairobi Walker is a graduating senior with a major in English and a minor in Political Science.

She loves the nineteenth century literature of both England and America. She also enjoys reading twentieth century and contemporary Multicultural Literature. After Nairobi graduates, she will apply to several graduate schools so she can teach college level English courses.

In her spare time, she enjoys writing poetry, listening to mostly classical and jazz music, and traveling.

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