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Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Table of Contents Who We Are ...... 4 Our Staff ...... 5 Contributor Bios ...... 6 Letter from the Editor ...... 7 Stories/Poems Heartfire ...... 8 Spirited ...... 13 Burrowed and Used ...... 14 Chilling Hallways ...... 19 After Hours ...... 20 Goldfish Maintenance P.S.A. ...... 23 The Big Toad ...... 26 In Between Time ...... 32 The Theater Coalition ...... 34 Recipes Grand-Aunt Dorothy's Batzels in the Belfry ...... 37 Teriyaki Tuna ...... 38 Dante's Inferno ...... 39 Pumpkin Sourdough Bread Bowl with Puebloan Chili ...... 40 Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Who We Are The Poets and Writers Coalition is an organization created to support the artistic community at San Jose State and the outlying Bay Area public. We strive to support any artistic avenues as a community of writers from all backgrounds who come together and write! We welcome all majors and levels of experience. We do casual group prompts, larger events such as Murder Mystery Night, and the Legacy of Poetry festival.

"Cottagecore Cryptids!"

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Our Staff Regent Editor: Ryan Wada Layout Designer & Editor in Chief: Rebecca Lee Art Director: Kelsey Ward

Contributors:

Bianca Rader* Ryan Wada+* Rebecca Lee+* Katharine Taddei* Kelsey Ward+* Yeebing Tse+* Ryan Steel+ Ken Wada+* Cynthia Lee* Elaina Davey+ Jiwoo Kim* Candice Phelan+ John Paul Amaral+*

Models:

Marshmallow the Cat

Special Thanks to:

Professor Alan Soldofsky, PWC Advisor Dr. Noelle Brada-Williams, SJSU English Department Chair *Artist +Writer

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Contributor Bios Kelsey Ward is an Animation Visual Development student. She is very interesting. You are just going to have to trust her on that. She refuses to elaborate.

Ryan Wada is Editor Regent for The Queen Editor. He is also a man.

Ryan Steel is a first year graduate student in the MFA in Creative Writing program at SJSU and has recently picked up playing Badminton.

John Paul Amaral is a History and Native American Studies student who brings out voices of the past through traditional and contemporary storytelling.

Candice Phelan is a writer based in San Jose, California. She is working on a Creative Writing degree and numerous hobbies.

Bianca Rader is a second-year animation student who enjoys creative writing, doodling, and listening to musicals.

Ken Wada was raised on a farm in Central California. He is now a high-tech dude in Silicon Valley. Ken likes to cook yummy stuff and play D&D on his off time.

Yeebing Tse is a first-year advertising major with a passion for creative writing. In her free time, she likes watching anime.

Elaina Davey is a sophomore English major to the surprise of absolutely no one, and stalks birds with free time.

Cynthia Lee is an artist who enjoys exploring different creative art mediums. She teaches creative arts to Katharine children and adults Taddei is a fourthand loves walking year Animation/Illusher dogs. tration major. She enjoys drawing, crocheting, and cuddling cats.

Jiwoo Kim is a fourth year Animation/Illustration major who likes history, horror, and translating.

Rebecca Lee is the President of the Poets and Writers Coalition and loves to write creatively and collect stickers.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Letter from the Editor Readers, be welcome! Quills in Quarantine! Fun, Sun, and EVIL! And now, Cottage Core Cryptids! Our Magazine, booklet, novella, has been a passion project of all the Poets and Writers Coalition members. We started this Zine in the midst of the worst Pandemic in a Century, and we’re going to continue this Zine well into whatever other tragedy, or time of peace, may befall our University. This is my first time taking the reigns of this Zine’s organization since our previous Editor decided to take some much needed R&R, and as such I’ve donned the title of “Regent Editor,” much like the leaders of the past, I am only leading and working Zine statecraft until the true Lord Protector returns to her seat at the head of the PWC. I hope that this new leadership is one that has brought you some interesting, perhaps strange, story-telling in our endeavors throughout the tumultuous 20s and 21s of the 21st Century. It is my wish that any, hopefully far in the future PWC members, can look back at this Zine and see a snapshot of our time at the University, share in our joys and our stress, and know that some roles never change (student, teacher, human). From my seat with a loving cat in arm, enjoy this human experience as much as I’ve had in organizing and collecting these amazing, and a little strange, stories! Ryan Wada

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Heartfire

Written by Ryan Wada Illustrated by Kelsey Ward

Always the crunching of the leaves. Honestly, that’s what stuck in Will’s mind the most, his boots crunching on leaves. Part of the reason he got his red leather boots, the crunch they’d make in the leaves. Great evergreens towered upwards. Every inhale felt like the great outdoors, but then again, wasn’t it? Will almost missed the trail, and even when he tromped on it, his puffy black jacket snagging on redberry bushes , he almost veered off the cliff to his right. He didn’t quite remember putting everything on in the morning, but he looked just like he did some 12 years ago, almost the spitting image. Eyes were a bit more tired, nothing new for Will, his knees ached, but they did way back when he reached the apparently old age of 19. Still, the leaves always told him, this is the woodlands, this is sanctuary, some people thought dew, some the branches or the critters that darted across the boughs, just leaves for Will. Had to be the right amount of dried and crackly too, that soft shit that sponged at his step, not the same at all.

paused, slung his waterbottle from his side and drained a portion of water. The crisp water revived him, and looking over his metal bottle he spied a strange deer. Albino, but the antlers…the antlers would have aged, Will never grew up in an outdoorsy family, still he cocked his head, antlers like that meant the oldest deer he’d ever seen.

His breaths became a few huffs after a small bustle of steps, “should be ‘bout there…” Will said to the branches waving at him. Something caught his gaze, a firefly, but this far south west? Will glanced at his watch, “huh, 3:30, guess,” Will caught his breath, “guess if there would be fireflies…” Will scratched his head. Every so often the image of a strange rabbit would hop out from behind a small copse of alders in this mountainous land, the flora didn’t fit, but still he knew the path he walked. Will

A friendly face greeted Will, an old friend stood and held out his arm towards Will. Will took his forearm in his and they held each other.

Another ten minutes and finally he reached his destination. A great vaulted lodge with small windows sat in the middle of a tiny clearing. Some ancient trees withered around the house, some sprang up and grew almost with the structure. A thin wisp of smoke crawled out of the chimney, the chimney sagged to the side, the shingles of the house had moss and wildflowers littering its fringes. Something out of the looking glass, Will could only smirk and shake his head, it had to be like this. After his pause Will kicked off from his spot and clomped up the cobblestone path to the entrance. As he approached the large oak door creaked open.

“Fucking hell, how long has it been!?” Will laughed through misty eyes. “Little over five years now!” The man nodded as they stood back and gazed at each other. Will clenched his hand, that grasp, that embrace, felt a little weak, but then Will expected that. Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

“Good god, you look good Al, fresh air is doing wonders for you.” Will nodded at Allen’s thin but spritely physique. The door creaked shut behind Al but Will caught the image of something golden, and an assortment of curious artifacts, Allen motioned towards a nearby metal table. “So, Will, how’s everyone?” “Oh, the same really. That’s the thing about my life, it’s really not that interesting.” “Well my internet is spotty here Will, but I know there’s more than ‘just the same.’” Allen snapped his fingers and holding up a finger ran into his lodge and returned five minutes later with coffee and chocolate muffins. The fresh aroma of sweet chocolate wafted under Wills nose, they chuckled and dug into the traditional friend snacks. “Ok, so things are,” Will sipped some coffee to get the muffin down, “Ah! Things are a bit changed, I guess. Chris is back in town.” “Really? Damn, don’t know if I should be happy or fuckin’ concerned…” “Well Desi isn’t with him anymore, obviously, but then again maybe severing all ties from that life got him…on the wagon.” “Maybe.” Allen slurped the hot coffee. Will held the fresh mug to his nose, this batch smelled like middle school for some reason. Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

“Yeah, I don’t know about Morry, I think he’s long gone from everything.” “Makes sense although I did swear I’d patch you two up someday.” Al pointed his small fork at Will. “I don’t know Al.” “I know. One day, until then though,” Al held his mug and the friends clinked their drinks. Will took in the scenery, the porcelain table they sat in front of, the cabin built into the very forest of the woodlands. The sparse amount of windows of the cabin were caked in dust, webs, and a soft glow of candlelight flickered behind. “Al, this is a beautiful home you have here. Where did you find it again?” “Well, the woods just told me, this is a spot that will keep you safe until you’re ready to move on, so I forgot who brokered the deal but well, I have a house!” Allen shrugged and sipped his drink. Will smiled and looked around at the walls of trees, this place felt peaceful. But just beyond the edge of the forest wall, a coldness almost reached out and gripped Will. “Hey,” Al reached over and grabbed Will’s shoulder, “all good?” “Yeah…just, weird feelings sometimes. Can we go inside at all?” “Oh, not yet, don’t worry there’s still some light man, you’re ok. Trust me.” Al withdrew a short stem pipe, tamped in

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fresh tobacco and struck a match. Will felt a pang of reminder as he also dug through his front storage pockets and did the same with his own small curved pipe. Both men sat and puffed and laughed while recounting earlier years.

creature. A regular around my heartfire, but not part of it…really…” Al said, rubbing the back of his head and smiling all the while.

“Stephanie, man she was a genius!” Will said.

“Oh, right this place does have a name after all. I sometimes think the forest named it, and well, who the hell could change what this ol’ forest names?”

“Remember Jess? She had to be the one that broke things off.” Al replied. The two men chuckled through great plumes of their aged lives. Will felt at ease, almost entirely, the trees and the homestead still remained, but every so often some strange chill grazed his spine. The shadows did get long, the boughs became a mix of branches blocking the last light. Will turned his gaze at the homestead with the upright chimney and the many various windows. In one such window two wide cat eyes stared behind a clear glass window. Will flinched as the image sprang away. Just another grey tabby, short haired…but out here? “So you finally got a cat after all your unconditional love for your friends’ cats huh?” Will said. “Oh! You saw Taiyo?” “Tae-oh?” “Close enough. Yeah, she’s my little golden sunshine.” “Huh, she didn’t look golden, but it’s hard to tell that quick...” Will scratched his beard. “It’s ok Will, really. She’s not really even mine, so to speak, she’s her own little

“Heartfire?”

“It’s a fine name really, makes me think of a small warm campfire with you n’ me and the dads and moms from those cub scout trips we would take.” “And you almost setting your Dad on fire?” “Fuck Al, you guys’ll never let that go!” “Almost let your Dad go!” The two men began roaring with laughter. Will couldn’t stop gazing over at the few windows of the lodge built into a tree. No golden cat, or grey tabby, but his legs wanted to stand and take respite there. "Al, your home-“ “It’s a nice home, for sure. Just, I know you’re gonna ask to come in but just not yet.” “Al, I need to ask you something, it’s a bit…different from the stories we’ve been swapping.” Will felt a cold tendril brush against his calf. “Yee” Al said. “How the hell did you end up here, how the hell did I know, more importantly how Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

is all this happening?” Will’s eyes bored into Allen’s, who sat for a silent minute next to the oak table that looked like a giant stump. “Will, its been a long road these last five years, more so for you than me. I took up residence in this lodge right when we stopped talking. It really is a nice place, the foods warm, the coffee and location are peaceful, and the beer isn’t half bad.” Al smiled at Will who smiled back but his brow scrunched in confusion. “Ah, buddy, it’s ok. I promise when you take your leave, you’ll feel right as rain.” “I always hated that saying, how the hell is rain right?” “Well jeez dude, how the hell should I know? Just is I guess, just like this talk, just like you coming here. Just is. Look, we had a great afternoon, the suns mostly gone, and you do have to go. It’s ok though, the fireflies usually stick to the trail, and you can actually make out the trail in the night.” “I can’t stay here?” Will said. “No, I know seems fuckin’ heartless in a random forest with god knows what, but I promise you man, you’ll be ok. Here, take this.” Al bent over, lifted a lantern from under the stone table and handed it to Will. It looked old, ancient, Will’s face twisted in disbelief, “This thing will light?” “Sure as Heartfire will!” “Damn, well I don’t want to impose, I just…feel like there’s more to say.” Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

“There always will be friend, always, but you’ve said what you needed to.” The two men stood, though Will felt a growing terror rising in him, the cold now grasping at his feet in his boots, Al pulled Will into a hug and said, “Taiyo will definitely dart out when I go back inside. She’ll guide you, and I am confident in her keeping you way more safe than I ever could have.” Al held Will out in front of him, slapping his arms he laughed at a joke Will wasn’t privy to and nodded. With one last glance Al walked up the cobblestone stairs to the lodge with withered trees and some growing right out of the walls. A small wisp of smoke crept out of the slumped chimney. Al turned around as the oak door creaked open, a soothing light, warmth, and drowsiness filled Will's lungs as Al nodded again and turned in. A golden shape did in fact dart out. A golden striped long hair forest cat sat in front of Will. Cocking his head to the side at the golden tabby, not like an orange, like a shimmer actually came off the small creature's fur. Will took a breath, nodded, lifted his lantern and followed the small trail. Just outside the trail and fireflies, the wall of trees hung over like cloaked figures waiting to snatch Will from his trail. There were times that Taiyo darted in front of Will, at first Will became frustrated but looking back saw that he almost veered off trail and into some random unknown of the wall of trees. The lodge’s light receded, the cliff gaped to his side again, and the evergreens watched in silence above. The lantern flickered at times and as Will felt his breaths come in short panicked huffs, he felt a soft touch on his leg as Taiyo

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brushed past him. The golden cat always gave Will a second breath, barely. Finally the exit crept up from around a corner. The sign post signaling the different trails. The lantern just flickered out as he reached the trail's entrance. Will heard strange undulating noises coming from just beyond the treewall, but he now stood at the entrance. As Will stepped out the sun crept up from the horizon and what had to be almost midnight instead now felt like midmorning. Will stood in beleaguered silence. His old beat up Saturn sat on the parking spot, that’s right, he parked there at this old forest most people forgot or didn’t bother with. With trembling hands Will pulled something from his back pocket. A letter, addressed to his friend Allen Walter, the dates 1991 – 2015

underneath a polaroid he had of their time in the forest excursions. Tears rolled down his cheeks, Will felt something brush past his leg and saw a grey tabby walking away, and Will managed a smile through his disbelief. The cat leapt into the woods they came from, and a golden blur bounced away as Will felt a fire in his heart…

For Chris

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Spirited

Written by Elaina Davey Illustrated by Bianca Rader You have not slept in years, as you are wont To do when you cannot these thoughts annul— An empty room invites the endless haunt As easy as a cramped and crowded skull. Aghast! A ghost! A specter feigning form within your body! Hear that howling dread Behind the walls of home that wants you harm, Along this gnashing hole that wants you dead. No fiend to brawl beyond the truth aloud: You are the ill that ails you—awful blight Of brain and heart and mirror voices loud Enough to wake the thing that knows to fight, To hold the drumming pulse behind your eyes As something dead and rotting sideways climbs.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Burrowed and Used

Written and Illustrated by John Paul Amaral

I was born into this valley countless years ago, back when grizzly bears nibbled blackberries under massive oaks, and the tule deer swam across the changing river. Turning acorns hung heavy on branches where squirrels and woodpeckers fought to add on to their bronzing caches. Those times, however, changed. Those rancheros trafficked our ursine family from deeper and deeper beyond Pacheco, just to chain them up to the oaks and fight their bulls. Barred from intervening, I saw those monsters gore into the berry-eaters. Not that I could intervene, but doing so would risk my already Spartan living where they paid me to live with a bed and off beef and bread, not with cash or tanned hides cabaneros received. Tools mattered little when any farm implement served to dig a man, too. Their machetes slashed flesh the same as how longhorns gored pelts. Such were the ways with a life tormented by Californios who fancied themselves a fiesta now and again.

an old vaccaro. My last mortal pleasure is knowing I deprived those land-hungry Barbarians the satisfaction of good news when they found out that I died when they wanted him dead instead.

The somber days arrived for them, too, when the drunken Ossos led by that adulterer Thomas Fallon paraded down the streets of San José. We shared the same burden: live to work, work to live, but rarely did we live for ourselves. The time finally arrived for me to die. I passed away in a single-room house on the property of

Rotting wood barred me from my escapes and complicated the afterlife further. I needed to leave my body and belongings behind to make my trip along the western mountains, across their threshold, and down to the waves for the fourth sunset before parting onward. Due to that filthy rosary, a noose around my neck, and

I wanted to be with my loved ones and to go the way they departed. Yet, the old vaccaro and Padre made that decision for me. They thought enough to grant me a Catholic burial. Their heaping loads of sentimental muer did as much good as their criss-crossed religion. Instead of a holy grave, they sealed me away in a wooden coffin worth fifteen hides, dug out a spot outside the graveyard, and made that my funerary plot. Their sickening thoughts and prayers aided little to my lot, except to pin me down in the dirt. A Catholic burial did me no good since my parents dissolved my baptism at the good age of two, but at least I won’t see that vaccaro in Hell.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

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blessings in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti on my brow, I am forced six feet under the ground outside the sanctuary of church land. Whole-heartedly, I expected their dogs to dig me up within a few days for a quick feast—at least they would tear off that beaded shackle and let me breathe. No. Decades passed after worms, grubs, and ants ate me up and shitted me out, ground squirrels burrowed through my empty chest, and then for a short time a family of gophers used my pelvis as the back end of their nest. They moved out long before I finally felt light again on my weathered bones. You took your sweet time, I thought, but for once I found my speechlessness helpful when I saw two pairs of greedy, beady eyes that pulled smiles apart between each set by the seams on the faces of two crooked men. Their beards sat like those of fat quails and their breath reeked of tasteless beer. Each huffed and whooped with their heads thrown back as they picked and shoveled out more dirt to expose the rest of my bones, but they decided to not rid me of that horrid rosary. It mattered little as how they plucked me from the earth and cleaned my skull off, or placed me in a crate with the rest of my bones and belongings. I still felt confined to my ragged body like the day I died. One of the two demons plucked my skull out from the dirt, which exposed a different San José that I left. The pueblo, too, has decayed since I last saw it. Spring flowers from those orchards that they ordered us to plant years ago bloomed and filled the valley with every shade of pink, blue, yellow, and white possible. Orchards allotted Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

by their cutting roads replaced the open fields. Patchworks sewn by gravel roads littered the valley, which included the settling road that sat only feet away from my grave, but nothing crossed it save for a few horses. Never before had I seen the valley with so many trees that choked up the sky. Those bastardous dogs spent no time escorting my remains from the soil into a crate and plopped my new cell onto the back of a carriage. I waited and watched those men in heated intercourse with another group of men worse than wear. Finally, banknotes shifted between their hands and they carted me away northbound along the El Camino Real. The day bled out like the soil seeped from my crate that splotched the roadways. Houses and orchards passed on behind the carriage until buildings pooled together with smaller gardens. Voices, shouting, calls, and trotting filled out the expanse of the bustling city center. The screeching of a hefty machine scratched in my mind before I saw its source: a massive, hooded carriage with its passengers that slowly glided through the streets. However, we never stopped as we switched veins in the streets and headed east. Time trickled on some until suddenly, the vehicle stopped. The men copulated their desires for wealth while one took my crate in hand and walked in tow of the other man. Both men walked up to the wood-planked house slatted with long windows and decorated with a porch. A brief knocking rattled the door that swung open to another man who handed a check to the free-handed man as my crate shifted hands between seller to buyer.

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I rarely saw the sun from that moment on. Instead, I saw laboratories, gauges, layouts, and dioramas. My time spent outside of study consisted of the closet where other crates containing the bones of others resided. I rested alone there with the other bones, most of which laid lifeless and lucky. Yet, I heard the grunts and groans of others stowed away in the closet. Some voices belonged to other ragged, old men, while others belonged to women. None from children, though. I felt lost for words when a fairly young, dead couple came in and mourned about their murder. It occured right after the Californios sold them out to the Americans who took away their young ones near the Cottles’. Time went on, and the laboratory changed with it. Some of the locked souls have grown quiet in acceptance of eternal observation, until one day the aged jailer came in with others to remove all of us from the confounded closet. They placed all of us in new boxes, but they still kept me with that immoral shackle. He spoke with younger voices about a local college starting its collection, and then came the day when I saw people in white coats stepped into the room and took each box. I tried to see through the handle, but the White Coats’ fingers blocked the view until they placed me on the back end of a hooded wagon. Wide-eyed, I clamped my disjointed mouth shut while I heard others crying about what would come next. The couple made their sweet nothings, and continued on with them as we all rode down the street through a changed Valley of Heart’s Delight. Fortunately, I had the window view and saw a hodgepodge of older buildings in their symmetry and parlors, smaller two-roomed homes, and boxy buildings that lacked individuality.

I must have moved up in society with my compact living space. The wagon stopped abruptly at a building called Washington Square Hall. The driver stepped out and other men helped him lug each box into the building. They carried us down the wooden, white, and blue halls, down a low-ceiling stairway, and through a cavernous passage. They sat down our boxes along the shelves, and I immediately heard a woman’s cry. The couple grieved about how the White Coats placed them on two shelves, each across the room from each other. Both of them went on cursing at those Owl-Folk for as long as they loaded more of the boxes in the room. Their voices went hoarse after a couple of hours until everyone began to cry—some cried in tears, others to silence the misery, and few to hush the agitated to soothe the sting. Periodically, the White Coats opened the locked door, turned on the lights, and stepped in to probe us for information in any way they could. The young couple spat spiteful words at them each time they intruded, but their words changed nothing since our jailers had always been deaf to all but themselves. Time eventually came for them to examine me. Gloved, cream hands plucked me out of my box and rested me down on a pristine plate, followed by the rest of my bones until they aligned my whole body. That White Coat who exposed my body out in the open brought an audience, however; a bunch of young chicks prepared to learn from their mentor with young, hungry eyes and chirping novice quips. The head White Coat finally took out that damned rosary, along with other trinkets, and laid them on my side. I recognized what remained of my Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

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funerary clothes. My neck ached as one of the brats fondled the accursed thing and dared to call me a Catholic—a Catholic! The image of that runt burned into the back of my skull with that insult. That mentor went on about how haggard my bones were and my hard work, which I appreciated her input. I spent long hours herding cattle and constructing the ranchos while on a humble, meager diet. She read off from a board that I apparently lived a good sixty-four long years. Her gloved fingers held up my chewed and scratched pelvic bone to show her cooing charges ways to tell that I am a man. Yet, the compliments and good showmanship ended when one of them raised a hand, the same one who chirped about the rosary. The mentor White Coat agreed with her hatchling that I was most likely a Catholic because of the rosary, the site of my burial outside of Oak Hill, and shared similar bone trauma with other Californio bones through labor and nutrient deficiency. Hmph! she should speak for herself; that dancing corpse had no right to criticise my lifestyle with driedferns for hair, the way she shambled and quacked in what skin kept those bones bound together, and what else lived under her flowing cloth. She continued prattling between her and the clutch before she developed some sensibility to place my bones neatly back into my box, along with the rosary. Yet, she did not place me back on the shelf. Ceiling lights flicked off, and I heard the door close with a lock. Five minutes past, and the door unlocked and slightly opened, but without the click from a switch or fluttering of the lights. A small crack of light from outside the room leaked in before it snuffed out. I heard Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

soft footsteps growing closer to where my box sat, followed by a sudden shudder near me. No noise escaped my teeth as I heard a strong grinding that heightened and relaxed over and over. It grew closer until it filled my box and my hollowed skull. I felt a few small puffs of hot air and a strong intake. Something sniffed my forehead and rubbed it with soft fur. It took me a few seconds to figure out that I became a victim of an affectionate gatito. It sniffed around some more until I felt a slight tug on my neck. It found the rosary, played with it with one bat of the paw and another until it firmly grasped it, yanked the cord out of the box, and it clattered on the ground. I felt a sharp snap at that moment. Slightly humid air filled my lungs as I breathed it in for the very first time. The weight of my weathered bones left me as I stepped out of my box and stood there. My good eyesight returned in what could have been over a century, and I saw the small storage room in its minute glory, including the shelves of boxes that contained the remains of the others. I took a step forward to see one of many shelves that formed a maze in there, only to step and crunch on a few scattered round beads under my sole. The broken remains of that rosary rolled across the cold floor. I turned to face the gatito that sat on the table and it looked at me, rolled onto its back, and exposed its fuzzy white underbelly. “Alright, you deserved it,” I spoke with my lips once again. It felt good to have lips to smile with again as I rubbed and scratched its soft spot. “Thank you for freeing me.” It blissfully purred in response with smiling eyes. Although the cat freed me, something

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nagged me to look at two boxes, each one across the room. I struggled to read them, but their labels described a man and a woman from the same digsite and positioned next to each other when found, so I took the box that belonged to the miss. She startled and began to panic, but I hushed her whining. I found her husband, swapped out his right-side neighbor’s box with her’s, and placed the make-shift coffin with its silent long-dead bones on the open shelf space from across the room. The two profusely thanked me and wished to see me again when they, too, should leave. I exhaled and turned to see my box on the table and the broken rosary on the ground. Anxiety choked me up with the thought that the White Coats could try to find the beads and restore that profane entrapment. Thoughts wrapped and constricted my throat until I figured the gatito could help me with the issue. “Do you know the way out; can you help me make sure She does not bind me here again?” Its deergrass green eyes stared back at me. The gatito sat up, leaped from its place, and helped me collect each bead into my cupped hand. Nothing prepared me to find out the vacarro and Padre buried me with a wood-beaded rosary. Yet, such a cheap trinket made it all the easier for me to pull the aged leather cord bits out and break them apart. We finished gathering the remaining broken pieces, and I took one more glance at my bones as I placed my old box back on the shelf. The gatito then sat down, thumped its tail, and called for me. I knew the time had come.

to the wooden door. It pawed and pried it open wide enough for us to slip past. I carefully closed it behind us to cover our tracks as I made my escape from that necropolis. It led me down the same corridor and stairs the White Coats carried me down decades before, both discolored by time. The faux light leaked into the night and we stepped out past the glass doors and mosaic arches into the sanctuary of the gentle cold breeze I have not felt in ages. Task completed, the chocolate and white gatito sat down and looked at me once again. I gazed around and saw massive glass structures, a mighty brown tower, and a small, gated garden. My lips broke up into a grin as something tugged at me in a single direction: west. Laughter broke my grin once I realized I secured my release. None of the people who walked their dogs or played their games in the open field saw a free man, and I intended to keep it that way. Inspired by my liberation, I tossed a bead into the garden, and cupped the rest in my hand as I ventured west. Occasionally, I dropped another bead into the soil somewhere here and there, or in the old river to float down the way, and even down a couple of gopher and ground squirrel holes. I walked away a free man prepared for my next life.

It led me through the labyrinth of shelves

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

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Chilling Hallways

Written by Candice Phelan Illustrated by Katharine Taddei Laughter echos out of rooms I can no longer open The winds storm and I’m just waiting ever waiting for you

The tips taps echo from the other side of the hall without the light switching on and I still wait here ever waiting for you

as I sit here cross-legged in front of this dark harrowing hallway ever waiting just for you

A tail fluffing upward swaying high and dissipating towards the edges the darkness swallowing and ejecting his soft image drawing ever closer to me as I sit ever waiting for you

and the phone echos from an empty room and then stops to continue from another a room closer and I sit here ever waiting for you

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

After Hours

Written and Illustrated by Kelsey Ward I don’t remember what had brought me to campus so late at night, I just remember snapping awake in a darkened, empty lecture hall, pulling a tight, long breath into my chest. I blinked, my eyes were so dry they felt like two balls of cotton twisting around in my skull. The tray table beside me seemed stickier than usual, the dust in the air more pungent and stinging in my sinuses. My eyes adjusted to the stark contrast of the white screen at the front of the room, even though no one was there, it was illuminated, but blank. I turned around and squinted at the beam of light emanating from the back of the room, it held the sleeping tiers of seats in a cone of dancing dust. I couldn’t think of why the projector would be on, I didn’t see anyone else here. I called out to ask the darkness if I was alone, the high pitched buzz of the projector bulb was the only response. I rose with an aching spine. How long had I been asleep? When did I fall asleep? I didn’t remember. I stood and shut my eyes, anticipating for the motion lights to flood the room with fluorescent rays, but nothing changed. I wove my way around the curved rows of seats and dragged myself up the musty carpeted steps to the back of the room and contemplated turning off the projector, but I wasn’t all too excited about the idea of doing so without the room lights on. Smacking my sour tongue against my rough teeth and cracked lips, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and used my free arm against the cold beige painted metal of the door to push my way into the hall. I knew I must have been exhausted because the door seemed heavier than usual, my wrist made a creaking noise under its weight, then a popping and a crunch as it buckled back. I cursed and shook it out but was soon distracted by yet another discovery: The motion light here seemed to be out of order as well, luckily the adjoining hall was bathed in whining white light, giving me enough light to see by. But I wasn’t alone here. A small shape was moving in the dark. A cat. In the dim it’s silhouette nearly disappeared into the hallway behind it but its green-yellow eyes threw the projector light from behind me back towards myself, making its eyes flicker with glow as its gaze passed over me, devoid of interest. How did a cat get in here? I I crouched and moved toward it, attempting to make myself less threatening. But it darted off around a corner all the same. I went to follow it, to let it outside. Surely it wasn’t meant to be in here. I hurried to where it had gone and tried to tread lightly on the worn linoleum and make my footsteps echo as little as possible. Initially I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to do so. Upon reexamining my instincts I understood just what I was afraid of. A lit hallway meant someone, perhaps, may have been here recently, or maybe they were still here. I assured myself that the cat must have triggered it, not a person. I wasn’t even sure what

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

time it was but the darkness outside the windows made me assume I should have been alone. I rounded the corner into the lit hallway and glanced around. Nobody. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or not. I didn’t stop to think about it too carefully. I just wanted to get home, change into some sweatpants, microwave some popcorn or make small talk with my roommates. Why did such mundane things sound heavenly to me now? Maybe the cat could leave the way it came, I told myself, worst case scenario it would surely be safe here until morning. I began feeling queasy at the thought of scouring the dark old building alone for the animal. I decided to leave the cat. I grasped the cold stair railing, wincing at the pain in my wrist and recoiled. I continued down the stairs, fortuitously, my left foot landed on the only step with the safety grip tape worn away and my leg slid out from under me, bringing my mid back and tailbone crashing down onto the sharp right angles of the two steps behind me. I groaned, ready to mourn the injury on my vertebrae but a more pressing pain soon presented itself. My mouth pulsed with a pain much sharper now. My jaw and tongue throbbed. Admittedly it took me too long to piece together that I had bit my tongue as I landed. I reached my hands to my mouth to survey the damage, expecting the possibility of blood, but greeted with more than I could have feared.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Sheer adrenaline roared in my ears like a sharp wind on a cold day. My first instinct was to pick them up but my fingers were shaking and the small fragments were too numerous and slick to gather. Just then, a sound above made me stop cold. Footsteps. Heavy ones. Something in the deepest part of my brain began ringing alarm bells again. I heard the footsteps quicken and break out into a sprint. Like a frightened hare I abandoned the scattered dental bones, letting them slip through my fingers and clink to the floor and leapt down the stairs, ignoring the new foreign landscape perceived to my tongue. At the final landing my arm grazed something. I looked back to see what I had hit out of instinct and soon wished I hadn’t. There was something hanging from the edge of the handrail. Something familiar. Wet and glistening. I seized my forearm to find it was wet too, I prodded it, easily sloughing off the flesh on the arm with my fingertips like wet toilet paper. What was happening to me? Yet again something within me like a twitching in my muscles and a burning in my lungs urged my legs to keep moving. Someone or something was coming. I limped down the hall toward the main exit, elation of hope filling my chest. But perhaps I celebrated too soon. With all my weight I pushed on the door but it didn’t budge. It was kept locked after hours. And I was locked in. We were locked in. Together. The footsteps behind me continued to gain distance and speed, I tried to will myself to turn and face them, managing only to lock eyes with my own reflection in the glass, a sight I’ll never forget. I hardly recognized myself. A mouth half full of broken teeth, sputtering blood. Skin grey and taught over the bones. Wide, streaming, bloodshot eyes. Just then I jerked my head up off the desk with a gasp like a stun gun directly to the heart. “Wow, relax.” A voice beside me soothed. It was Kat. That was right. We had come here to get some of our group project work done. I could see out the window that it wasn’t night yet, the sun was just beginning to set over the crest of the adjacent building. “You’re clearly not getting any more work done so we might as well go home now.” She suggested. I cleared my throat and sat up straight, pain free. Bewildered but grateful. “Yeah... let’s go home.”

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Goldfish Maintenance P.S.A. Dear Petco Patrons,

Written by Ryan Steel Illustrated by Jiwoo Kim

Our corporate offices wish to offer our deepest apologies to any customers who have found our newest goldfish food to be unsatisfying to your little undersea friends. We would also like to use this time to offer our deepest condolences to any friends and family you may have lost to the hands of mutated, hyper-intelligent, ultra-violent goldfish that we inadvertently created with our infected batch of Sea-friend™ goldfish food. Compensation will be sent electronically to your card on file within the next 3-10 business days; please be sure to check your spam folder before angrily calling our toll-free helpline at 877-738-6742 Thank you for choosing Petco! Your one-stop shop for all pet-related needs! You know, like dog leashes and stuff? Stay safe! In the incident of a mutated goldfish attack, please refer to the pamphlet below conducted and distributed by The United States Department of Homeland Security, Lake Michigan Headquarters: Make Sure to Clean Your Fish's Bowl Once a Week Initially it’ll seem like your goldfish won’t require much maintenance due to its small size. I mean, there are only so many hours in the day; how many times were you really expected to clean the fishbowl? You only got the silly little fish because you thought it would help your son cope with the loneliness of living without his father. You completely forgot that he just plays on his iPad all day anyway. So, you decide that you only have to clean your new goldfish bowl once a week, but by the end of the week, the glass is filthier than ever. What then, are you expected to drop everything for your unimpressive child's fish? Of course not! It's your one night out with the Gals, and you've earned it! No one said being a single parent would be easy, but they didn't say it would be so hard either. If your little Johnny, who embodies all of the worst qualities of your ex-husband, has a problem with how dirty the fishbowl has become, he can take it up with the babysitter little Becky Hernandez from two doors down! The Proper Fish Food for Optimum Protein and Healthy Growth You get home around 1:00 am, three hours later than you had paid the babysitter for. Still, you hadn't expected to start crying outside the Cheesecake Factory in the Hillvalley shopping center after that third cosmopolitan. Don't be so hard on yourself; your friends were there to console you, and that's what friends are for! Besides, little Becky Hernandez probably invited her boyfriend over for some basement business anyway. Now as you Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

check the fishbowl you'll notice that it’s no longer on the counter where you placed it but instead smashed all over the floor, covering your designer rug, which you spent a fortune on, covered in water, broken glass, Sea-friend™ fish food and ginormous gill-like footprints indenting on the floor leading out to the sidewall that has been smashed through by what looks like some sort of horrible monster. You snap out of the drunken haze you're in and flip on Mom mode, dashing upstairs to check on your son, but before you can make it to his room, you notice the brutalized corpse of little Becky Hernandez, having been completely ripped apart in a manner so violent and cruel you'll most likely need a moment to ponder: "gee that's a little much isn't it? She was an innocent sixteen year old girl and wasn’t she just like a side character? I mean, I get from a narrative stand-point that someone had to die at this point in the story, but did her death really need to be this gratuitous?" It's important to snap out of this thought process quickly so that you can rescue your son, he's the only thing you have left, and the clock is ticking while some evil monster is still out there! After discovering your son in his locked room, you'll need to kick down the door to rescue him. Your diet must contain an optimum amount of protein so that you can survive the raging hellscape your life has become. Create a Proper Setting to Avoid Infections in Your Fish's Gills You've been living on the road with your son and a group of survivors that you've bunkered up with at an abandoned Petco store in the Lake Michigan Ave shopping center. By now, you've discovered the cause of the murderous goldfish having been the mutated batch of now recalled Sea-friend™ goldfish food. The bunker is stocked with a barrage of weapons, some of the deadliest weapons sold legally in the United States confused as to why the flesh piercing bullets are ineffective on the fish. At this point, your son has accepted that he needs to start taking personal responsibility for his life after he saved the entire team during that long car chase. You've remembered what you liked about yourself but are still holding back from learning your ultimate lesson. After the defeat that caused you to lose the team leader Marcus at the hands of your old pet goldfish who has become their ruthless leader "Steve the Fish," the resistance team begins to feel as though all hope is lost. Not only are the mutated goldfish stronger than you, but they have acquired a level of intellect so advanced it far surpassed all progress that had been made by humans up to that point. The stock market has collapsed, the internet has been hacked and broadcasts only mutated goldfish propaganda, the supreme court has been annexed by "Steve the Fishes" ruthless henchmen "Jerry the fish" and is now used to hold public executions of powerful world leaders for the mere amusement of the other mutated goldfish. However, as you pack up to take your son on the road, not knowing where you're going, but only knowing that you can never look back, you suddenly discover this pamphlet at the abandoned information desk at the bolted-up Petco you're in and you learn the weak point of the mutated goldfish. Instead of emptying your automatic AK-47 clips into the body and tail of the fish, you must aim directly at the gills. Just then, you're discovered by "Steve the Fish," his ruthless henchmen "Jerry the Fish," as well as a whole army of mutated goldfish, however having learned the fishes weakness as well as the most important lesson of

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

all, that you can no longer run away from your problems, you become the new leader of the resistance and destroy each of the mutated goldfish by explicitly following the instructions of this nifty little pamphlet. Don't worry if "Steve the Fish '' sneak attacks you; being the malignant narcissist that he is, he'll pause to give you an evil speech about how you should’ve cleaned his fish bowl more often before pulling the trigger. This will give your son ample time to throw a grenade directly into “Steve the Fishes” mouth, having learned how to throw a fastball from you, a skill your deadbeat (and now literally dead) ex-husband never taught him. Return to the World You Knew Before, Just Remember: It's Different Now You're a hero; you lead the reconstruction effort, you've become the person you were always destined to be, you have a stronger relationship with your son, the governor even orders a statue built of you at city hall, all is good, right? Almost! Just remember that while you help in rebuilding human civilization, the place that you're from doesn't exist anymore. But most importantly, you're wondering how to prevent such a disaster from happening again? In avoiding such future catastrophes, the United States Department of Homeland Security has teamed up with Petsmart to ensure that your little undersea friends are only fed the best goldfish food containing 0.0% mutated strains of infectious DNA. Because unlike those stupid jerks at Petco, at Petsmart: "We believe pets make us better people. That's why we create more moments for people to be inspired by pets." Petsmart acknowledges the role of pets in people's lives. As a result, Petsmart's mission statement contributes to the improvement of lives, unlike Petco who are only concerned with improving their own fat pockets, even if it's at the expense of human lives.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

The Big Toad

Written and Illustrated by Ken Wada Call me Ichimori. I am riding with my older brother Matsumori, (Mat), in an old Chevy Apache 10 pickup truck.

The date is August of 1972, and I am a young man of 14 years of age, (born in November). We are both heading out of our family farm near Caruthers, California. It is about 10:00 PM in the evening; and we are heading out to Virg’s landing in Morro Bay, California. The year is an El-Nino year. The big thing about El-Nino, in California, is not only the prodigious amounts of rain, but the warming of the Pacific Ocean brings the big-game warm water fish up to the Central Coast of California. My older brother and I are going fishing for the ultimate game fish. This fish is the albacore tuna. We are both very excited. Tuna is almost a religion in Japanese culture. It’s a big, strong and powerful fish which is highly prized for sushi and sashimi. The reason why we are going out at 10:00 PM is because the tuna boats put out at midnight. It takes roughly one and a half hours to drive from our farm to Morro Bay. We get to the landing, check in and pay the fees. The fees include all the rigging, tackle and bait for the day ahead. I ask the deck-hand how long it will take to get out to the fishing area. He tells me the fishing area is approximately 100 to 120 miles out from shore. We are on a very large boat which have bunk beds in the hold.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

They assign us to a bunk. After spending some time on the foredeck; I go to sleep at around 1:00 AM in the morning. We are rousted out of our bunks at around 5:30 AM. We find out the crew is comprised of three people. We have the captain or skipper, the main deckhand, known as the bosun, and the deckhand. The Skipper comes out of the pilothouse and yells out to us. “Escuchame! Listen up Amigos! The weather is looking good. The fishing will be good. Remember, there is a two fish per person limit on all the catches. Kiki is our main deckhand. Just follow his orders and directions, and you should be good. Muy Bueno no?” And another thing mi-compadres! There is a bonus pool that you can take part in. Whoever catches the biggest fish collects the pool. The lottery is $20 to participate. I will be the first to contribute.” He shows us a $20 bill, and posts it on the side of the pilothouse for all to see. All attention now goes to the bosun. Kiki looks Mexican; however, he tells us he is Portuguese. There’s a very large Azorean population in Central California. They take great pride in calling themselves Azorean instead of Portuguese. Kiki is an Azorean Campozino Pescadore; this is translated to Azorean Peasant Fisherman. Kiki is a very wiry and muscular fellow. He is wearing a yellow slicker with jeans and a flannel shirt. His shirt is rolled up and one can clearly see his arms are covered in tattoos. Kiki also has very long hair. To tell you the truth; this is the 1970’s, and most men, at the time, are sporting very long hair. Kiki wore his hair as a top knot. So, imagine this; we have a Mexican Skipper, and an Azorean bosun, who looks very much like Queequeg of “Moby Dick”! Kiki proceeds to show us how to do our own rigging for the fishing rods. We are using live anchovies from the baitwell along with razor-sharp stainless-steel hooks. Some are not paying attention. It’s clear this have done this before. It’s a bit unnerving to reach down into the live well, scoop up a wriggling anchovy and hook it onto your rig. This is done while folks are scurrying around a pitching, rocking boat. The smell of the scene is a bit wild. The smells are primarily that of testosterone mixed with diesel fuel and fish guts Unfortunately, due to the pitching, rocking, and smell; my brother got very seasick and was heaving over the transom, or laying down in the cabin. “FISH-ON!” That was the cry from the deckhand. Everyone got excited and grabbed their rigs and baited up and went to their assigned spots all around the boat. Kiki became very lively and started shouting orders to all the fishermen and deckhand. We got to the spot, and from a distance, you can see the anchovies jumping out of the Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

water. As I looked down over the transom, I could clearly see silver and blue flashes in the sea! This is it! This is the tuna! It was pure pandemonium. Anchovies, Albacore, razor sharp hooks flying everywhere! There were lots more fish guts which made for an extra treacherous footing. Kiki and the deckhand were both wielding a gaff. They were working as fast as possible and helping us to land the fish onto the deck. Kiki and the deckhand were both wielding a gaff. They were working as fast as possible and helping us to land the fish onto the deck.

After a while; there was albacore everywhere on the deck. I managed to get a hookup, but lost the fish in all the commotion. I did get another and managed, with Kiki’s help, to land it on the deck. After a while, the fishing stopped, and the skipper started moving the boat to another location. After hitting about three or four locations, there were fish everywhere on the deck. It was about this time, about 9 or 10 AM, the fishing really did slow down. It was pretty clear that we went out into the middle of the ocean, and were working our way back towards land. There was a lull of about 30 minutes or so. Kiki yells out, “BIG FISH!” All of us run for our rigs, and the captain says over the intercom. “Hold on amigos! This is not tuna; it is a BIG FISH. This is the one which will pay for our trip.” We moved over to the transom and checked out what the commotion is all about. Then, we see it. Not only do we see it; we see all manner of wild life, mostly pelicans, gulls and other birds are getting in on the commotion. Off in the distance, underneath the circling birds, we see the ocean boiling. It looks like a boiling cauldron fueled by the fires of Hell! The birds are going mad with frenzy. The view is surreal as in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Then I see it. The ocean is displaced by a fast-moving object. This thing is huge! Just ahead of the movement, the anchovies and sardines are leaping out of the water. The baitfish ball is leaping, gyrating in front of the displacement wake. Behind the wake are hundreds of wounded anchovies and sardines. The birds and wildlife are absolutely going nuts. Kiki is very busy. He goes to a very large storage chest on the starboard bow next to the live well. He reaches in and pulls out a vicious looking harpoon. The deckhand is helping Kiki pull out a bunch of rope which has barrels attached to it. One of the salts tells me there is about 1000 feet of line. Each barrel is spaced about 30 feet apart. The line has at least 25 to 30 barrels on it. This is about 1000 feet of line and barrels.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Kiki and the deck hand remove the railing from the starboard gunwale and place the coiled rope with barrels next to it. Kiki attaches the line to the harpoon. He moves out on the bow gang-plank. Treading out on the bow gangplank takes a fair amount of nerve. The plank is a foot wide with a very small railing. One can very easily fall into the ocean.

Kiki is on the bow gang-plank. The deckhand is adjusting the line to ensure the harpoon and rigging are always clear of any obstruction. The skipper is skillfully following the big wake and moving baitfish boil. It goes on like this for what seems like an eternity. Kiki then gives a massive heave of the harpoon! The barrels are leaping off the deck and plunging straight into the briny depths of the sea. One-barrel! Two, Three … Seven … Finally, the barrels start slowing down at around seventeen barrels. This is about two football fields, or about 500 feet of line! Kiki and the deck hand attach the end of the line to a small buoy. The buoy has a very long mast, with a big flag on the end. The rest of the barrels, along with the buoy and flag are heaved overboard. The captain then announces that we will continue fishing and come back periodically to check the barrels. We continue fishing. It’s almost 11 AM. We do not run into many schools. Some of the trollers put out rigs and catch some tuna. We periodically come back to check on the barrels. After about 20 or 30 minutes, we see that about 2 or 3 barrels have come up. We go out again, and check a few minutes later. More barrels come up. By an hour’s time, most of the barrels were up. We were originally at around 20 or so barrels, and by this time, barrel number 4 or so was showing up on the surface. This is about 120 feet below the surface. At about 3 barrels, the captain orders Kiki and the deckhand to attach the line to the fore deck winch. They attach the line to the winch and start pulling it. Kiki is pulling the line. The deckhand is moving the barrels and operating the winch. Once the slack is taken up, the fish notices the force and makes a mad dash! The line spools off at a frantic pace and makes a very loud buzzing sound! The captain lets off the propellor and allows the fish to drag the boat with it. The pulling in, with the line going out, continues for a half hour or so. Everyone leans over the transom and gets a look at a very large shiny olive-green yellow object in the sea. What we see is a broadbill swordfish!

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

It has a pair of huge sentient eyes. The bill is shaped like a large 6-inch-wide sword. It is no wonder it left a wake of wounded baitfish in its wake. As it was being winched up to the side of the boat, it started thrashing and heaving. Everyone was wondering how anybody could haul in such a beast which has a large sword for a snout.

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Kiki opens the big box which had the harpoon in it. He reaches in, and pulls out a pump-action 12-gauge Remington super-magnum shotgun. He reaches into the box and pulls out a box of deer slugs. He loads up the gun, and smiles and speaks. “Fish put up no more fight with deer slug!” The skipper starts reversing the boat. The boat along with the deckhand and winch is maneuvered to get the fish underneath the bow gang-plank. Kiki leans over the gang plank and leans over to the point where it looks like he is going to fall in. Then BOOM and four more shots are taken. Kiki expertly shoots the big fish right in the skull. The fish rolls over and the deckhand starts winching in. Kiki puts the gun away and helps the deckhand. They get the fish next to the transom and expertly tie the tail to the line on the aft winch. They pull the fish on the aft deck. It was at this time; we realized just how massive this thing is! They had to fit the thing along the length of the ship. The length, including bill, was measured to just short of 20 feet. The girth of the fish was measured at around 3 feet. The captain estimated that this fish must weigh at around 800 to nearly 1000 pounds. Kiki and the deckhand were all smiles. They said they are definitely going to get a huge bonus from the captain. They said that after paying off the expenses of the trip; the captain gets half, and the other half is split among the crew. They estimated the total payout for this fish to be nearly $3000. This is the price of a brand-new car in 1972! The captain comes out of the pilothouse. He says to us. “Hoy amigos! Today, we have a very good fishing trip. I say the big fish prize goes to Kiki and the deckhand. What do you say?” To this, a united raucous cheer goes up. Everyone is in very good spirits and gives a roar of approval to Kiki and the deckhand. We put back to Morro Bay. Kiki and the deckhand are cleaning and tagging all the fish. In the meantime; a young Chinese man is squatting next to the fish. He runs his hand over the fish. He puts his finger on the body. He scrawls out the phrase “Big Toad” on the fish. This fish is indeed a “Big Toad”. This image is the reason why I titled this story the “Big Toad”. This really did happen. I saw it with my very own eyes. The boat pulls into the dock. We collect all our stuff and exchange our tags for the fish we caught. Representatives from the Starkist seafood company are out near the parking lot with pallets of canned albacore tuna. Some local representatives from the restaurants have also setup tables near the parking lot. Some of the fishermen are trading in their second tuna for either cans of tuna or money from the restaurants.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

I go up to the Starkist table and ask the reps, “Hey? Where is Charlie the Tuna?”. They tell me “Charlie could not make it. He got waylaid by a grey tabby."

Everyone onshore has heard about the crew’s good fortune. There is an air of excitement at the dock. It’s quite apparent this does not happen very often. My brother immediately recovers from his seasickness. Unfortunately, he comes away empty handed. However, I have managed to catch a very nice tuna. Later that evening, we have vegetables, fresh sashimi, and teriyaki tuna. Authors Note: This is a true story. The names were changed around. Some of the facts were embellished to help fit it into another great maritime story by Herman Melville. But … what fish story is NOT embellished?

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

In Between Time

Written by Rebecca Lee Illustrated by Katharine Taddei Part 1: I’m sitting after hours in one of the empty classrooms. There were people here. I know because the chairs were slightly off from perfect rows. They’re never completely aligned. I chose a desk on the outside of the classroom to settle into. I’ve plugged my computer into the wall and I’m working on a homework assignment. I’m trying to finish an essay on a mural artist I chose. The light clacking of my keyboard echoes faintly through the room. Without a flicker of warning, the lights go dark with a thunk and I look up at them in confusion. I remember that the lights are motion-activated in this part of the building and I wave my arms above my head. It doesn’t change anything. I start to stand up in case the wall light switch is turned off but the lights come back on with my movement. I sit back down and continue my work.

The lights go off again, and once more I wave my arms. I feel the inevitable helplessness in the dark as it stops recognizing my space. The lights go off. I sigh and wave my arms for the third time. The lights are on and my computer is charged. Suddenly, there’s an unfamiliar tickle on my neck trailing upwards towards my chin. I pause and lift my hand to the movement. I brush my fingers against the spot and bring it back in front of my eyes. It’s not hair brushing my neck as I expected, but an ant, walking slowly across my hand. I flick it away and sit blinking. I pack up my backpack and laptop to leave. I stand up and the chair moves behind me, slightly out of alignment as the rest of them. The classroom door closes behind me and the hallway is lit by the spaced lights. The stairwell is empty. It’s dark outside. An agile cat watches from the bushes as I make my exit.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Part 2: I take the back stairs down to the first floor. They’re rarely used because they’re out of the way. They are the same as the front stairs. They are reversed and when I get to the bottom of the stairs, there’s an extra door. The doorway is open and the light is on. I look through, and it’s another set of stairs going downwards. They are bare and gray and thin. I poke my head in cautiously and look downwards. There isn’t anything on the stairs and I can’t see the ending but there are two flights. I back up and look at the sign. It says “B - Basement.” I turn towards the exit doorway on my left and begin moving. I get a few paces away before a muffled grinding metal noise sounds from behind me. The sound raises hairs on the back of my neck and my shoulders come up as I tense. It’s coming from the basement stairs, I know it. I don’t think about it and move quickly. It’s bright outside and the people passing by are unaware. I become one of them.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

The Theater Coalition

Written and Illustrated by Yeebing Tse The bright green grass greets me as I open the door to inside the theater, breathing in the fresh air and smelling baked bread from somewhere nearby. The sun also shone into my face, shining upon the grass and clearing up the bright blue sky. This is where my case has taken me. The disappearance of Victoria Chen, one of the first friends I made here in this school. She disappeared about a week ago, the last time she was seen entering the Hammer Theatre Center, which was close to the eight foot tall library that was always full of students walking in and out to study or go to online class. You’d think with the theater being right next to the always busy library, someone would’ve witnessed her entering and saw something that could’ve helped us figure out what happened to her. But, for some reason, there wasn’t a single witness in the entire city. The campus police and the city police were alerted six days ago, but for some reason, the ones who were sent to work on her case also disappeared into this theater. And so do the ones that get sent to look for them. And the ones who get sent to look for the ones that were sent to look for them. Since the police clearly aren’t helping, I decided to go and try find her myself. I went through the door of the school’s theater expecting to find something horrid, but am instead greeted with…whatever this is. I opened up her diary, which she gave to me

to hold before she disappeared, scanning the pages for anything specific. “Dear Diary,

August 16th, 2021

Today is my first day on campus! I got to go inside the buildings for the first time and both of my classes were a lot of fun. I feel like things will be good here, unlike with high school. I also saw this really cute cat! It’s brown and striped and it wears a little flower necklace. I think it’s a tabby! It reminds me of the stray cats near my house except it didn’t run away from me when I went towards it. I’m not sure who the owner of it is, as I didn’t see anywhere near it. There was someone was looking at me weird while I was petting it. I know this probably sounds weird, but I don’t think they had eyes. Their eyes were pitch black. It was a little scary, but luckily they just walked off. Hopefully that was just a hallucination or something. Maybe it’s contacts! I’m sure nothing ominous is going to come out of this. Signed, Victoria.” A student with pitch black eyes, huh? Maybe this is actually her creative writing portfolio. She said she wanted to get her work published one day… I flipped the page to the end, and scanned the last passage of her diary. “Dear Diary,

November 26th, 2021

I went to check out the theater today! Or at least, I tried. When I entered, I ended Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

up inside of a grass field. I met a girl with black eyes who said she was a member of the ‘Theater Coalition’ Apparently it’s a theater club here on campus! And they said something about helping me reach paradise. I’m guessing it’s probably a theater kid thing. Sounds fun, though! I guess I’ll give it a try tomorrow! Also Marshmallow was there too. Apparently Marshmallow is the pet cat of the club president! I hope I can see that cat again.

Victoria grinned soullessly, and I felt my soul shaking from somewhere inside me.

“MEOW.”

Signed, Victoria.”

“Isn’t this paradise?” she said. “Come join us.” I ran left, sliding under a dark skinned woman with long, curly hair, who was dressed simularly to the man I had seen before with a green blouse and long trousers. I bolted, not daring to look back, trying to look for the door that lead me here.

I turn, noticing a striped brown cat beside me, wearing a little flower necklace with a collar underneath it. I bent down to look at it, my hands shaking.

My legs froze, and I found myself unable to move. I looked back, noticing what seemed to be hundreds of people walking towards me, including some in police uniforms. In front of them was Marshmallow, whose face contorted to the cat equivalent of smirking.

“Marshmallow.”

One of us!

“We will not hurt you,” Marshmallow said, a deep, echoing voice coming out, “We’re going to take you to a better place.” “What did you do to Victoria?” “Do not fear,” Victoria said, taking a step forward, “I am in paradise. Come join me.” Black dust appeared from behind me, and more people appeared, circling around me.

“MEOW.”

They’re here. The black-eyed members of the Theater Coalition are here. And they’re going to come after me, just as they did with her. I sprinted to the left, before bumping into a tall, pale man with brunette hair tied into a ponytail. He was wearing a white blouse, paired with the ugliest brown suit that I had ever seen. He grinned, and I quickly ran in the other direction before crashing into another person in a straw hat and a pink dress with a strawberry pattern. I stared at her face, noticing the black eyes of Victoria Chen staring at me. “Victoria?” Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

One of us! The people got closer, and I felt them pin me to the ground, placing Marshmallow on top of me. I stared at the cat’s pitch black eyes, as the sky started getting bigger, engulfing parts of the grass. The smell of burning bread flew in the air, before bread started falling from the sky, pelting me as I felt several people grab my arms and legs, a hand placed over my mouth to stop me from

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

screaming.

One of us.

One of US.

ONE OF US.

And with that, the curtains were drawn, and the light was gone.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

RECIPES

Grand-aunt Dorothy's Batzels in the Belfry Recipe by John Paul Amaral Illustrated by Bianca Rader

Ingredients: 1 bag of large pretzels 1 bag of milk or dark chocolate candy melts 1 bag of red chocolate candy melts 1 3oz bottle of Wilton candy eyeballs 1 Wilton Halloween Candy Shapes 6-Variety Optional: Caramel bits Cinnamon candy Tools: 1 Chocolate Candy Melter Pot 2 Baking Sheets 1 Roll of Wax Paper Steps: 1. Melt the milk or dark chocolate melts in the chocolate melter pot until liquid. 2. Cut two pieces of wax paper to line your baking sheets and lay them on. 3. Once the chocolate is melted, submerge the pretzels in chocolate with a fork until bubbles start rising. 4. Remove the pretzel and place it evenly on the baking sheet. Repeat and space each 1 inch apart until you run out of pretzels. 5. Place two candy eyeballs on each pretzel as they cool. 6. Clean the chocolate melting pot and melt the red chocolate melts until liquid. 7. Once the chocolate is melted, use a spoon to drizzle the red chocolate over the pretzels. 8. Decorate the pretzels with your spooky sprinkle and optional caramel bits or small cinnamon candy. 9. After cooling, remove the pretzels from the wax paper and prepare to serve.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Teriyaki Tuna

Recipe by Ken Wada Illustrated by Cynthia Lee Ingredients: 2 lb Tuna (albacore, big-eye, or yellow-fin) Marinade: 2 tbsp Brown sugar 3 cloves garlic 2 tbsp finely minced ginger ½ tsp sambal oelek ¼ cup Aji Mirin ¼ cup dry sake 2 tbsp soy sauce Steps: 1. Cut tuna into 2 inch steaks or fillets. 2. Assemble the marinade. 3. Marinate the tuna for at least 30 minutes. 1 hour is preferred. 4. Fire up the grill, or hibachi. Get the grill temperature really hot. 5. Place the marinated tuna on the grill. 6. Grill on each side for about 5 minutes. You want the outer part of the tuna to have grill marks and a nice sear. 7. The innermost part of the tuna should be raw or nearly raw. 8. Serve with rice, salad, and some marinated cucumbers. Makes about four servings.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Dante's Inferno

Recipe and Illustration by Kelsey Ward Punish thyself in all nine circles of the poet's hell. Ingredients: 40 ml Bacardi Rum 40 ml Jack Daniel’s Whiskey 20 ml Fireball or substitute cinnamon on top 40 ml Ramune soda (Bloody Grapefruit flavor) 60 ml Dr Pepper 60 ml Cranberry juice 40 ml Watermelon or Ultra Red Monster Energy One Pomegranate One Orange Steps: 1. In a (minimum) 16 oz container muddle the seeds of about a quarter of a pomegranate in the bottom of the glass. 2. Add three to four ice cubes and pour the liquid ingredients over. 3. Add a dash of orange juice, stir, spiralize the orange rind and finish the drink by hanging the rind from the edge of the glass.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Pumpkin Sourdough Bread Bowl with Puebloan Chili Recipe by John Paul Amaral Illustrated by Bianca Rader

Pumpkin Sourdough Bread Ingredients (From Super Golden Bakes): 3 ½ oz Mature sourdough starter. • If you live in the Bay Area, you can just leave your dough overnight. 4 cups of Preferred Bread Flour (White, whole wheat, yucca/cassava, or acorn flour) 1 ¼ cups of water 1 can of Canned Pumpkin Puree 3 tbsp of Honey 1 tbsp Pumpkin Spice 2 tsp Fine sea salt Matching flour (dusting the bowl) 6 tbsp of Olive Oil (half for the bowl and half for the string) Tools: Closed container Plastic wrap 2 Baking sheets String Instructions: 1. Leave your sourdough starter at room temperature in a covered container dusted with flour. It should sit for 12 hours and have large bubbles once finished. 2. Place the sourdough starter into a mixing bowl and add in your canned pumpkin puree, honey, pumpkin spice, salt, and water, while stirring with your spatula. 3. Proceed to add your flour of choice and mix until formed. 4. Cover the mixing bowl with plastic wrap and wait 30 minutes to 4 hours later for the dough to rise. 5. After sitting, begin folding the dough 4 times each 30 minutes until 2 ½ hours pass. 6. Let the dough rise for 30-60 minutes until doubled in size. 7. Dust the dough with your flour of choice as you portion the dough into 4-to-6 balls. Dust each dough ball with flour. 8. Place the balls on sheets and let them sit for up to 30 minutes. 9. Preheat the oven to 450F. Spray vegetable oil on your baking sheets. Cut your string into 24 12-inch sections, rub them with vegetable oil. Cross four strings, place each ball of dough at the center, and tie the strings. This will allow your bread to form a pumpkin-shape. 10. Place the dough balls on the baking sheets 4 inches apart and bake for 20 minutes at 450F. Afterwards, lower the oven temperature to 425F and bake for an additional 20-25 minutes. 11. Once done, pull out your bread to cool for an hour before serving.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Hallo-Zine Fall 2021

Puebloan Chili Ingredients: 1 packet of Bear Creek “Darn Good” Chili 2 cups of Black Beans 2 cups of Cubed Zucchini 3 diced Roma Tomatoes 1 can of Yellow Corn 1 cubed Orange Bell Pepper ½ of of a cubed Red Onion 5 cloves of minced garlic 2 tbsp of Paprika 2 California Bay Leaves or 1 Avocado Leaf 1 lb of ground Bison or Elk Meat Tools: Crock pot Skillet Steps: 1. Rinse the black beans and let them soak in 4 cups of water in a medium-sized bowl overnight. Drain and rinse the black beans in the morning until the water runs clear. 2. Set the crock pot to high, and place the black beans in with 8 cups of water. Allow the beans to go for 6 hours on high. 3. After 6 hours, begin cubing your zucchini, roma tomatoes, red onion, and orange bell peppers, plus the minced garlic. Place them, along with the yellow corn and spices, into a medium bowl. 4. Begin browning your choice of ground bison or elk, and once completely brown remove the excess fat. 5. Mix in the Bear Creek “Darn Good” Chili contents and other ingredients into the crock pot, while also placing 2 California bay leaves or 1 avocado leaf. Let cook for 1-2 hours. 6. Once finished cooking, switch the crock pot setting to serving/warm. Cut a divot into each pumpkin sourdough bread ball to form a bowl and serve the chili in each.

Poets and Writers Coalition Hallo-Zine Fall 2021