Salt Lake Teens Write is published by the SLCC Community Writing Center All inquiries should be directed to: SLCC Community Writing Center
210 East 400 South, Suite 8, Salt Lake City, UT 84111
Salt Lake Community College (SLCC), The Salt Lake City Public Library, the Salt Lake City Arts Council, and the SLCC Community Writing Center (CWC) are not responsible for the opinions expressed in Salt Lake Teens Write, nor does the writing represent any official position of these organizations. Individual authors are solely responsible for the opinions expressed herein.
Each author retains copyright individually. Reprinting of this publication is permitted only with prior consultation and approval from the SLCC Community Writing Center.
This edition of Salt Lake Teens Write was compiled and edited by Jesse Focht, Kat Ibrahim, Justice Morath, and CWC Staff Members. Cover art created by Fiona Bowen.
Do you ever wonder what’s happening around the world at this very second? Well wonder no more because I’m going to tell you. 21 babies have been born. That’s right, Since the moment you started reading this, 21 babies have been born. Well now it’s 60. And now it’s about 70.
Since the moment you started reading this, 1,500 McDonald’s burgers have been sold, and so have 12 jars of Nutella.
1,230,000 statuses have now been posted on Facebook, and 2,100 pictures are now uploaded on Instagram. 9,500 tracks have been downloaded from iTunes, 301 Lego sets have been sold, and so have 18 Barbies.
Since the moment you started reading this, 1,470 stars have exploded, there’s been 4 earthquakes, 3,240 lightning strikes, and 912,000,000 tons of water has evaporated from the surface of the earth. A hummingbird flapped its wings 6,933 times, you’ve blinked about 20 times, and 10,500,000 chemical reactions just took place in every single cell of your body.
Now 422 more babies have been born, 234 have been born into poverty, and 23 have birth defects.
223 people just died, 38 of them from starvation.
6 violent crimes have been committed, and so have 4 auto thefts. A child has just been kidnapped, and someone has just been murdered.
Since the moment you started reading this, Nike has made $84,000, Oprah has made $1,238, and Bill Gates has made $36,750. Last but certainly not the least, you are approximately on average 3 pennies richer.
by Anthony Giorgio
Artwork
The Deepest Wonder
by Tiffany Webb
The deepest wonder a person can experience is looking to the night sky. There is wonder in the most distant stars and most distant planets. The deepest wonder is a world that has not been discovered and has yet to be explored. Paths not yet carved into the alien terrain by man or vehicles, colors of the sky and rocks on the ground so foreign. We have only ever been on earth forever, what is normal here is never the case for somewhere out there. The deepest wonder is one that has yet to be named by science and referenced in text. It is what is unknown that holds the deepest thoughts of wonder.
They Feel as We Do
by Anthony Giorgio
They feel as we do, so I hear, though I’ve never asked them. Not the same things, nor the same way, but they must feel. They ought to breathe and think in day and sing in showers; Whimper under lash and pray under fire, And they must love their children too They and we must not be so different.
Tomorrow I believe I’ll ask.
THE BATTLE (for P.F.C. William Hunter)
by Walt Hunter
Outside the window spruce and pine wait to advance with the wind— nothing moves except the crystal dust of snow scattering across the field. From here, in the kitchen, I see Uncle Bill’s hand strapped in November light, his fingers on the ball handle of his black rocker drumming cadence: your left, your left, your left right left; his cigarette going off in the unlit parlor filling the parlor with gray ghosts, stacking them into the corner, piling them up to the ceiling, running them out through the organdy curtains into the cold white lie of snow, into the waiting teeth of a hay rake, into the pines, needle by needle—under his breath calling them back—Paul, Dale, Hal, Jim! Jim! folding his body into a shot and letting go.
I Read
by Fiona Bowen
Color Trip
by Fiona Bowen
In a world that suffers from a lack of color, it’s said that if you can find a guy who knows a guy....you might just have a chance of seeing the brightest colors money can buy.
No one knows when the government relentlessly stole all the color from the world, only that He appeared soon after. It was a community secret, passed by word of mouth and though I suppose that wasn’t the best way to keep a secret, the government hadn’t found Him yet. It might have been weeks, or months, maybe even years. Time no longer holds meaning here. The only change in the Stranger’s appearance was his snow white and neatly plated beard growing longer with every passing day. He still stood tall. His brown eyes bright and hinting at mischief, handing out small bags of color for those willing to give something in return.
The strangest thing was the wide variety of things He asked for—20 bucks here, a roast duck there, a handful of daisy seeds one day, a whole, living, breathing cat the next. Said cat would often be seen roaming about the bridge the stranger seemed to reside under.
While there was never a line for the Stranger’s product, no sooner would one buyer leave than another would take their place. It would seem the man should be rich by now, yet He never left the bridge except for two weeks each summer; rumor had it that was when He resupplied His color store. No one has ever seen him leave, nor return. He was simply there, gone and back again without the slightest trace of movement.
I was a frequent customer of his, sneaking out to his bridge in the dead of night, a basket of sweet breads under my arm. The Stranger never seemed to sleep; always awake and ready to receive His customers, stoking the embers of His fire into a lively flame. Every time I visited, He would smile and wave me over, telling me to sit and warm myself before the fire while He looked
over what I had brought Him to trade. Each time He’d nod, eyes crinkling and rising to His feet, would rustle about in a sack that seemed much larger than it appeared. With a pleased hum, the Stranger would bring forth a small woven bag that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Placing it in my hands, He pats my shoulder, and giving our farewells, I take my leave as He rests by the fire, the cat purring at His feet.
And so this continued, me visiting the Stranger for his color every few weeks, trading with whatever I thought He might need. For years it went on, and though I aged, skin wrinkling and hair turning gray, the Stranger stayed the same. Whether it was how close He was to the color or connected to his yearly disappearances, no one knew. No one even seemed curious. And somehow no matter how I pondered, it never seemed to pique my interest, as though my curiosity was held just out of reach each time the subject crossed my mind.
It’s been years since I saw the Stranger, years since I’ve seen colors. It can be more than a little difficult to leave a secure home. Add a wheelchair to that and the farthest I’ve gone in a while is the gray toned gardens that surround the old folks home. And though the years have come and gone, I can still remember the vivid blues and reds, yellows and pinks that had once illuminated my small world. Sometimes I’ll sit at the large window in the dining room, lost in a vibrant fantasy of long ago.
I suppose, if you were to go look for Him, He’d be there still. Unchanged by the weather and years, with only His ever longer beard to signify the passing of time.
Thresholds
by Michelle Amelia Newman
I am sad myself, I cannot carry Your sadness too. We opened a door but then lost the threshold to the mist coating the lake before dawn.
Your sadness, too, we opened pulled the skin away in pieces, tossed to the mist coating the lake before dawn precious sacrifices to the near waking night
pull the skin away as pieces thrown to the wind that pushes our dreams on Down the river where our love lays, smeared amber in the sand, glowing with effort
as the wind that pushes our dreams
Beyond what is carefully understood, trapped in Amber. In the sand, glowing with effort we look at each other in recognition
Beyond our careful comprehension. Trapped in myself I am sad. I cannot carry Your body and mine through the door. But then we lost the threshold.
I’m sorry I can’t go.
Why I Really Can’t Go
by Yein Ji
It’s not that I have an essay to write or I have somewhere else to be. It’s that I already made plans tonight and they only involve me.
I’m going to remove all my makeup and eat a bag of potato chips. Then I’ll cozy up and watch a movie bout a zombie apocalypse.
I’m just not up for socializing with all the fake smiles. Going out is like exercising. I can only do it for a while.
It’s not that I don’t feel well, I’m just sick of people. I need time when it’s quiet and peaceful.
I know we’re friends and we get along, but when you’re going out on the weekend, I don’t want to tagalong.
It’s just that I like doing things on my own. Like looking at memes and laughing at them alone.
It’s not that I don’t like you I do appreciate the invite. You’re actually really cool, but I’d rather be alone tonight.
I mean I already put my pajamas on and took my contacts out. I’m sorry but for the rest of the night, I’m just not leaving my house.
On Preachers’ Daughters
by Victoria Vera
A father stands at a chapel and reigns down on punishment and forgiveness.
Looking back at his own childhood of hurt and misery and trying to find himself in a lost alley and among a group of men who are mixed in with the wrong things.
He sees this and feels the importance to save himself and others from going down this path.
He sees his daughters.
Young women he tries to shelter from the world. Girls who grow up thinking all things are either a sin or a miracle. Who are taught they must confess every sin. That they must resist temptation and remember that their bodies are a temple. Who feel as if God must reward or punish them for every action, and they would never test God’s word.
But as the saying goes, the worst girls are preachers’ daughters. Who grow up with so many restrictions: Songs they can’t listen to, shows they can’t watch and topics they can’t discuss. They grow up remembering that they must not indulge in worldly things because that is the way of the devil, but they long to question and tempt.
The girls look at their father, and they think back to when their father would dance with them and laugh and joke. Now they see a man who is so serious and stiff, who shuffles them from conversations, and is cold; yet, he is perceived to be Godly.
The church sees a man who is saved and keeps his daughters out of trouble. While the daughters see a father who keeps his head in a bible and strays from sin while he also strays from how happy he was.
What is he scared of?
The preacher looks down at his daughters and see what he feared them to
become. He doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, because he thought he was keeping them safe.
But what he lacks to understand is that what he tried to keep them safe from he took away from them: A connection to their father. Who instead of sheltering them should have opened up and offered himself, for what his daughters needed was a relationship to fall back on while they explore the world instead of hiding from it.
Isn’t that God’s plan?
Rock and Roll Forever
by Cassandra Goff
“Are you ready?” she asks.
“Am I ready?” I sarcastically reply. I have been ready for weeks, no months. Ever since we bought the tickets, I have been ready. All six of us were ready, ready for the time of our lives. The four of us girls had arrived at Sara’s small apartment early to spend hours in front of the mirror to make sure we all would look as fabulous as possible. We were now standing in the front room anxiously anticipating our departure and looking spectacular. Sara’s mom opens the door as our excitement bubbles. She gets trampled by a group of teenage girls as she walks out the door. We make it to the car in time to realize it’s locked. We wait impatiently for Sara’s mom and her boyfriend to lock the apartment and walk agonizingly (and purposely) slow to the car. They get into the car and wait as we figure out how to pile all of us in the puny back seat.
“Cassie,” they say, “you’re the smallest.”
I sigh in agreement. Sara, Karen and Britney get into the car and make themselves comfortable before looking up at me, smiling and sticking their arms out. I make an angry face and brutally leap into the car, landing spread-eagle across their laps. All the way to the venue, I watch the clouds fly by while continually being pushed down if I try to get a view of something else. Since we are all in tank tops and shorts it doesn’t take long for the sweat to pile up where there is skin on skin contact and the complaining to start. Sara’s mom continues to reassure us that we are almost to the venue; we don’t believe her, since this has been the case for forty five minutes.
Eventually, the car stops. I watch as Sara’s mom parks the car, gets out of the driver’s seat and walks around to open the back door. I slither out of the car, feet first, across the laps of my three best friends. I stand up and stretch as every muscle in my body screams at me for lying across three laps for so long. As my friends stumble out of the car they have big red marks on their
laps from where I had been lying. We groan and then laugh in unison until we look around us to find hundreds upon hundreds of people walking into the venue. As I scream with excitment in my head, we join the ranks of the crowd. As it starts to pack together I reach for Karen, she reaches for Sara and Sara grabs Britney. We hold each other close since we are small and can easily get lost in the mass. As the crowd parts, we are awestruck as the sunlight illuminates the stage. The four of us follow Sara’s mom like a train until she sits on the grass and announces that this is where she will stay. They weren’t the best seats in the venue but we are too overcome with excitement to care.
The music from Papa Roach’s famous song, Last Resort, starts to play catalyzing screams from the audience which fill the air. As we spring from our seats, our screams join the rest as we prepare for the best night of our lives. Sara grabs Britney, Britney yanks Karen and Karen pulls me as Sara leads the way, pushing us forward. She finally gets to a place where security won’t let her go any further and we firmly mark this as our designated spot. Crazy enthusiasts attempt to push us from our spot but we aren’t budging. Once that is clear, the crowd stays put and we are able to enjoy the fistpumping rock music.
Jealously fills our eyes as the lead singer from Hinder walks up through the crowd but never makes his way to us. It doesn’t matter, we are having fun dancing and singing along to every lyric.
After the first band is finished, the sun disappears over the mountains and the expensive lighting of the venue is put to good use. My nerdy side arises as I am impressed by the sound and light systems. The headliner finally comes onto the stage and just about the whole crowd faints. By the time this happens, the group of people standing behind us is pretty drunk. The entire time Nickelback is on stage, beer is raining onto our heads and drunken singing rapes our ears. We don’t mind though, we are having too much fun and we end up singing just as badly as they are, because
our singing is really screaming. In between every song the band plays, the lead singer cracks jokes, some of which are too inappropriate to put into this paper, but funny nonetheless. Every minute is an inappropriate, loud, exciting moment of rock and roll history in our lives.
Unfortunately, it comes to an end. The protests of the audience screaming “one more song” are ignored as we sulk back to Sara’s mom. As we walk out the door, we accept defeat, then as we remember what we just experienced our excitement arises again. Our ecstasy takes over as we skip and sing through the parking lot, heading back to the car. Once we get there, we realize that there is no way we will be getting out of here soon since every single person living today is trying to get out of the single lane exit at the same time. We all climb onto the top of the car as Sara’s mom cranks some music up; playing the same songs we had just heard live. As we are making fools of ourselves, a venue employee walks up to us, selling shirts for a discount price since they are overstocked. I immediately pull out my money because I wanted one anyway. Karen did the same. The employee only has two shirts; Sara and Britney claim not to want one. Another employee walks by a few minutes later, and they can’t resist. All four of us leave with matching shirts and of course we all promise to wear them the next day.
The line to the exit dies down and we all pile back into the car, this time Britney relieves my pain as she lays across our laps. We drive away with the stars shining overhead from the best night of our lives.
Harmoniums
by Katie Nolan
Salo’s Message
by Katie Nolan
“Salo’s Message” is an excerpt from a short story based on The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut. The novel was written in 1959 and takes place on Mars and Titan, the largest moon of Saturn. Vonnegut uses science fiction and space travel as a backdrop as he explores humanity’s purpose (or lack of purpose), and creates creative and often absurd stories and creatures to illustrate his thoughts on the matter. Vonnegut’s story ends as his character, Winston Niles Rumfoord, is ejected by the sun into space, and I decided to write what I envisioned happening next for Rumfoord, as well as the characters that remained in our solar system.
The illustration depicts harmoniums, a creature from Kurt Vonnegut’s book, The Sirens of Titan.
It is almost troublesome how much humans’ lives have been dictated by fear, thought Winston Niles Rumfoord as he flew at light speed between the Lupus star cluster and Messier Object 153. How much time have we spent avoiding the things that scare us, he thought. Dying. The vast nothingness of the universe at large. Being condemned to suffer for eternity. Large insects. The feeling one gets when he realizes he will be forgotten. Rumfoord let out a sigh. Humans often got themselves into quite a pickle to avoid ever have to feeling at all!
The balding man remembered fondly his days when he had been afraid of all of these things. He was quite foolish then and it had quite possibly been the best years of his life. Rumfoord was feeling quite foolish now, but not for the same reasons, and he didn’t find the experience enjoyable in the slightest.
Rumfoord fancied himself on being a smart man. He had begun to realize that the folly of man lied in his indulgence of his own importance,
and the fear attached to that notion. Although Rumfoord acknowledged deeply in his heart that human existence was pointless, or at least very near so, he had still proven that he was utterly human. He had fallen for it. He had believed for a moment—about as long as it takes to ram a spaceship into a chrono-synclastic infundibulum—that he was important.
No more of that, he thought, and quickly pressed the red END button on his flying saucer. He had reached his destination.
Chrono had been flying for about eight years when he suddenly started to fall. Uncontrollably, he fell to the hot, baked surface of Titan. He was going approximately 45 miles per hour when he crash landed into a sea of algae and scum that had been accumulating in Titan’s only swimming pool for almost a decade. He grasped the tiled sides of the pool and pulled himself out of the gunk. Gazing up, he saw the Taj Mahal standing in its decrepit and abandoned glory on the surface of Saturn’s moon. He had almost forgotten it was there, as the blue bird’s migration pattern hardly ever flew over it anymore.
He sighed. He would rather not think about his past.
Still covered in slime, Chrono marched toward the crumbling replica. He fell promptly on his face, a result of having not used his legs in eight years. After much struggling, Chrono finally made it to the wide steps of the Taj Mahal. He bent down to pick up a small piece of sheet metal, exactly three inches by three inches, laying on the steps. In the middle of the small slab was a singular dot.
“Greetings”, he said aloud. He let out a small laugh. He had not spoken in eight years either.
Salo was a robot, and robots didn’t have pockets. But if he did have pockets, he would be patting his metallic legs and behind in frustration. He had forgotten it. The message. He had forgotten the bloody message.
“Shit,” he said in his robotic voice.
He had been spending too much time watching humans and had begun to pick up on their habits. This included swearing, and making stupid mistakes.
Luckily, Salo had only been flying at light speed to his destination for seven and three-quarters years, hardly a tenth of a percent of his entire journey. Still, he had forgotten the message. He would have to go back.
“Stupid, Stupid Salo!” he said aloud to no one.
Suddenly, without warning, his flying saucer stopped. He was flung at near light speed against the side of his vessel, his feet cushioning the deafening crash. Disoriented, the old robot peered out of the saucer’s window.
His ship seemed to be floating in nothingness. He grabbed the controls and tried to move, but no matter which way he steered, the flying saucer would not budge. He seemed to be surrounded on all sides by an invisible wall.
Salo stood, dumbfounded. He looked out at the vast expanse of space that stretched out unimaginably in front of him. He had never felt so trapped.
Just as Rumfoord was reaching his destination, Alpha Camphor, a flash of white light momentarily blinded his view of the tropical planet. Suddenly his descent stopped, and the flying saucer began rotating rapidly. Rumfoord had never been fond of travel, and had often thrown up on family road trips as a boy, but the rapid spinning of his flying saucer was far and away the worst thing he had encountered, and he soon blacked out.
When Rumfoord woke up, it appeared he had landed. The saucer was still, and he felt the gravity of the new planet weighing down on his arms and legs. Rumfoord speculated that the humid and tropical atmosphere of Alpha C had perhaps made the descent rougher than he had calculated. Nevertheless, his vessel was in good shape and Rumfoord was ready for a break in Tropical Planet Paradise. Just thinking about all of the philosophy and theoretical physics he could ponder made him giddy with excitement.
Rumfoord opened the door to his intergalactic retirement. Instead of breathing in the thick and humid atmosphere of the galaxy’s favorite vacation spot, however, Rumfoord was met with a sharp breath of dry, thin air. There was a metallic taste that he recognized instantly. He was back on Titan, 300,000 light years away from Alpha Camphor.
by Anthony Giorgio
Artwork
Scholarship Essay
by Mac Gough
I wrote this for a scholarship application.The prompt was about current politics and race relations and with the current tensions regarding immigrant rights I knew I should write about my little brother, Wilmer.
Essay Question: How has a person, book, or event changed your view on race relations in the United States?
In the current American political situation, immigration is a major topic. I used to be very neutral about immigration, because none of these things were really important to me until a few years ago when I met my little brother. “Little brother” may be a bit of a stretch of a term; our connection is a tad complex. My eldest sister Brie Ann fell in love with a fantastic guy named Tony and they got married. Tony is from El Salvador, and when he married my sister, Tony became part of the family.
Meanwhile, Tony’s little brother Wilmer was still in El Salvador—a very unsafe country. Wilmer was born here in America with his little sister and they and their parents went back willingly because at the time the hands hadn’t reached their rural town. At age 11, Wilmer was being recruited by a drug cartel in the area. That’s right: an ELEVEN year old. He was clearly never going to join, but the cartel threatened him and his family with their lives and the destruction of the family farm. My sister decided to bring Wilmer up to the States in order to keep him safe. Wilmer was born in the US, but it still required a lot of paperwork to get Wilmer through the immigration process. It took a while, but it was worth it.
When I first met Wilmer I thought he would have been a scared, shy kid. Brie had told me about the cartel and about why Wilmer had to be brought to America, and so I thought that he must have been terrified. I was completely
wrong about Wilmer. I spent an entire summer with him; I learned he loved Tom and Jerry cartoons, was much better at soccer than me, and was still generally a regular kid. It was fun to hang out with him.
The thought of Wilmer in a gang is terrifying. I only know a kid who loves to play with the dog he was skeptical of at first. I know the kid who was a natural at kayaking when we took him for the first time. It is nearly inconceivable to think of him in a gang. It makes me physically sick to think of him in a gang, doing illegal things; that’s just not him.
My little brother Wilmer has had a huge impact on me. He was brought back to this country after being raised by his parents in El Salvador, he was nearly recruited by a drug cartel, and yet he is still going into seventh grade next year. He is a goofball, a fantastic soccer player, and my brother. If he wasn’t born here to begin with, he might not have been granted re-entry, and he might be in a gang. If he wasn’t born here, I would have never known him. He made the outside world real to me. He showed me that just because you are in a bad situation at a certain point, that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to live your life. My little brother showed me that people who immigrate to the United States do so to have a chance to live their lives in as safe a situation as they can. It is for their safety, and the benefit of the families they become a part of. I am so glad to have Wilmer as a brother.
My one a.m. thoughts are filled with you... Filled with you smiling, laughing, and even talking And full of the memories you’ll never remember. My one a.m. thoughts are filled with us, Filled with what ifs and what could have been.
A.M. Part One
by Alyssa Minjares
My one a.m. thoughts are filled with pain Knowing you’ll never smile at me, you won’t ever spare me a glance and we’ll never share another laugh. So my one a.m. thoughts are filled with us
Full of what ifs and what could have been
Imagine by Fiona Bowen
In a life on a world so lonely and haunted as this Why would one look to the sky when ones got not to look up to?
When the stars have gone but the scars don’t fade
It’s like the world is playing some game that you’re losing
If this is life’s version of a joke it’s cruel and unnecessary
But what’s new?
It’s like love is a lie and sight is an idea
Can’t trust your eyes can’t trust your brain
Truth isn’t true because what’s a world that’s fake?
Falling over the edge of the world
Watching as the sky falls
They say the eyes are the window to the soul but what if they’ve got no eyes at all?
A Real Scientist Tests Their Theories
by Fiona Bowen
6-foot-7 & 73 years old
Walt, As I See Him
by Anthony Giorgio
Moved from Rhode Island to New York City at 19. Sang in mafia bars, sung on broadway, worked as a bouncer. Then I imagine he bummed around, walked Paul Simon’s streets of cobblestone for twenty-odd years. At 50, he found himself in the words of Philip Levine. Learned poetry in an LA furnace that made grown actors sweat, crack and cry.
Utah is where he hangs his hat now, a black ball cap that sits on the table in front of me. He sets down a fresh notebook, hands me a pen, lectures me on Ezra Pound, tells me the rules of poetry and asks me to ignore them.
“Write me a line of poetry” he says, so I write a couplet which does not satisfy. “I guess you’re clever” he says flatly.
No time to be delicate.
“If it doesn’t rhyme, what makes it poetry?” I do not know, because I haven’t read much of that, and never written it but I muster “I suppose it’s a broth made from the bones of prose.” I was proud of that. “Maybe you’re right, hell if I know.” He challenges me to write one good, clean sentence, and if it means anything, it’s probably poetry.
150 WEETAMOE DRIVE
by Walt Hunter
I mowed a green lawn to the edge of another green lawn, had a dog named Rex, a Magnavox TV set, brick linoleum on the kitchen floor, fuzzy wallpaper and a teardrop chandelier in the dining room where Mother played “Deep Purple” on an old upright
Father’s cough boiled over in the den, his silhouette etched in the blinds, cigarette smoke slipped out one ghost at a time. I sat in the breakfast nook; Rex kept his eye on me, his long black nose an inch away from my TV dinner.
Upstairs, my sister stuffed herself with fish sticks and movie magazines. Termites broke through the basement timbers the summer I left for Boston. The neighbors waved good-bye from their driveway, but never came over in all those years.
Living Window
by Fiona Bowen
Metanoia (Excerpt)
by Alyssa Minjares
Prologue
This isn’t your common romance story, oh no, this is far from it.
It’s not where two people meet and somehow instantly fall in love. No, it’s when one person pushes the other one away only to have them get under their skin to the point that they become unshakable.
It’s something new, different, and uncommon for these two people. They never believed that love was possible for them, whether it be because of their disabilities, or maybe it was the fact that they feared the idea of having someone being able to hurt them.
Only when it happened to them, neither of them were ready.
So, my fellow friends who enjoy good slow burn romance, this is the tale of two boys who have two very different disabilities and yet have so many things in common.
Meet 18-year-old Malakai Dayes, he was born with a rare eye cancer known as Retinoblastoma (RB) and it was on his second birthday that his mother realized something wasn’t right with his eyes. Camila Dayes, his mother, loved the fact that her son was a photogenic baby and took advantage of that knowledge only to soon realize that something wasn’t right. In the midst of her camera’s flash going off, the light flared off of his eyes slightly and she couldn’t deny that his eyes looked to be white.
In the midst of what was to be a happy day, his life was forever changed.
Now meet 18-year-old Xavier Quinonez, who has Sensorineural Hearing Loss and it wasn’t until one eventful day when his father had saved his life. Cecilia Lang and Frank Quinonez both knew that something was different about their son but they refused to face the truth or so Cecilia refused to believe that something was wrong. So one day they took Xavier to the park. It was then
that they could no longer deny that something was wrong and they needed help.
Who knew that family events could end with heartbreaking news?
You wouldn’t think that these two would have had anything in common but hey, neither did they.
They were such an unlikely duo that it was hard for them to comprehend that they had actually become friends with one another.
Everyone knows that falling for someone is easy but they’re never ready for what’s to come along the way and that is the hard part of it all.
But come on, who said love was easy?
Chapter One: Where it All Began pt. 1
Malakai
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Malakai, happy birthday to you!” Everyone sung aloud as they watched Malakai giggle and clap his hands together whereas Camila helped her now two year old son blow out the birthday candles. Today happened to be Malakai’s second birthday and in celebration of that, his mom invited their close friends and family over to the house.
People clapped and cheered as the candles were blown out, cameras flashed capturing this moment before allowing the kids to disperse along with Malakai by their side to go and play in the rented bouncy house.
Talking to her friends, Camila couldn’t help but keep an eye out on Malakai’s whereabouts. She’s always afraid of something happening to him even if he was several feet away.
“We should take photos of the kids together!” One of her friends suggested and Camila was more than willing to agree seeing as she loved to take pictures with and of Mal. Oddly enough, it was in the midst of taking a photo of Malakai and one of his friends, that Camila watched with a frown as the flash reflected off his eyes causing them to appear white.
Confused, she chose to ignore it believing it to be nothing more than her eyes playing tricks on her. However, several photos later Camila could no longer deny that Malakai’s eyes appeared to be white.
She knew that she couldn’t just up and leave her own son’s birthday party without causing suspicion, so she waited. She waited until the end of the party when everyone had left and the backyard was clean before rushing her two year old to the hospital.
Camila didn’t know what to expect as she waited for an answer, maybe it was nothing and it really was just her eyes being weird but that wasn’t the case at all. When the doctor returned with the results, she wasn’t prepared for what he had to say.
The words that left his lips were enough to crush her entirely, for she refused to believe that it was something major but she knew, she knew he wasn’t lying. Retinoblastoma was very rare and her son was one of the unlucky few to have it.
Glancing at Malakai, she couldn’t fight the smile that appeared as he babbled and moved his arms up and down. He’s only two years old, she thought to herself. How could this happen to him? Why now? Why ever? The questions were endless and she knew the possibility of getting an answer for all of them wasn’t likely to happen.
“It’s very rare and there are fewer than 20,000 US cases per year but with the right treatment he’ll be okay.” Dr. William’s reassured her, but she knew he couldn’t promise anything.
Camila nodded, thanking him once more before beginning to fill out the necessary paperwork for Malakai. Camila wouldn’t love Malakai any less nor would she view him any different, but she knew that there were going to be struggles for them and she didn’t know if they were ready for that then again, who really is?
Yet, this new discovery didn’t change anything about Malakai, he was still photogenic as can be for a two year old and she loved him more than words could explain.
Malakai wouldn’t remember this experience, he wouldn’t remember the nights where his mother cried at night while he slept peacefully in the next room, and he wouldn’t remember her crying when they told her they were going to switch treatments. Malakai was too young for his mind to truly grasp onto what was happening, but growing up he remembered.
Ignorance was bliss, and Malakai grew up learning that the hard way.
Chapter Two: Where it All Began pt. 2
Xavier
“Catch me daddy!” Cecelia Lang heard her four year old shout as she recorded her family outing.
A surge of happiness flowed through Cecilia as she watched her boyfriend chase after his son, it was a feeling she never wanted to lose.
Xavier squealed in joy as Frank Quinonez, his father, caught him and lifted him into the air.
Cecilia laughed while pleading for them to be careful at the same moment that Frank was lowering Xavier to the ground.
Once his feet were on the ground, he took off once more unaware of his surroundings except that he didn’t want his dad to catch him. They were playing tag and he was having so much fun that he didn’t want it to end.
Frank couldn’t deny the unfamiliar feeling he felt as he heard his son’s laughter, his heart leaped with happiness knowing it was he who made Xavier so happy. Only that feeling didn’t last long when Xavier took a detour by accident and was now headed in the direction of the parking lot.
Cecilia’s heart sunk to her stomach as she screamed for her son, “Xavier! Xavier! Stop!” Her voice echoed throughout the park but Xavier heard nothing. He continued to run, giggles leaving from his lips for he believed they were still playing.
Frank pushed himself to run faster despite his legs screaming at him to stop and take a break.
The sound of a sudden car honking caused Xavier to stop running and look around confused, he knew that he heard something but he didn’t know what it was exactly.
Everything felt as if it was going in slow motion as Frank lunged forward practically pushing his four year old out of the way before the car could even touch him. Regrettably, that didn’t apply for Frank as the car had hit him full force, sending him over the car itself.
A loud scream left Cecilia’s lips as she finally reached where her boyfriend lay withering in pain and where her four year old was crying because his knees hurt. Cecilia rushed to Xavier first, taking him into her arms before carrying him over to where Frank laid on the ground.
Frank couldn’t help but sigh in relief when he saw that Xavier was okay, sure he had bruised knees but he was okay. “God, you’re an idiot.” Cecilia sobbed as she placed Frank’s head on her lap. He chuckled only to groan in pain, “Anything for him.” Was his only response but it was enough to have Cecilia smile at him fondly. The driver was hysterical as she apologized to the family, she had tears streaming down her face as she was explaining her side of the story as she was calling for help.
The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, numerous amount of people rushed over trying to make sure they were okay, but Cecilia paid no attention to them as she hushed her son who cried in pain. Sniffling, Xavier looked around confused before looking towards where his dad laid.
“Papa?” Frank forced a smile onto his face, “It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay.” He promised but much to Xavier’s dismay, he couldn’t hear the words that left his father’s lips.
Regrettably enough as they reached the hospital and Frank was labeled as okay, the couple soon realized that things were not okay, well at least for their four year old. Cecilia was a mess once more as the doctor delivered the news about her son, she didn’t think that they would patch up his knees then come back with such news.
Cecilia covered her face with her hands, tears now falling as she sobbed
violently. “What did we do wrong? Where did we go wrong?” She wasn’t really asking anyone but Frank still pulled her into his arms and gave her an answer. “Nothing, we did nothing wrong. This happens, you heard the doctor.”
Their son had Sensorineural Hearing Loss, it was something they had no idea ran in either of their families. Cecilia was afraid that people would view him differently and that’s the last thing she wanted. However, they had no money for a cochlear implant and they weren’t even completely sure about the entire procedure.
Nonetheless that afternoon, they left the hospital with appointments planned and a now happy four year old who didn’t fully understand what was going on.
You know what they say though, ignorance is bliss and Xavier was about to learn that.
Chapter Three
The sun was out, that much he knew, the feeling of heat hitting his back was proof enough.
October was a month that was to be chilly and more fall like but instead the sun still made its appearances. The wind still roared loudly during the night, reminding everyone exactly what season it was to be. The sound of leaves blowing around could be heard as the wind roared slightly, branches on the trees swayed ever so slightly creating a soft tapping noise against the windows of nearby houses.
The chilly weather was perfect for this day, despite the mood being quite sad for the Dayes boy.
He still enjoyed this weather for his mind raced with unanswered questions. The weather allowed him to find peace and allow his thoughts to roam free searching for the answers they so yearned for.
“Malakai come inside before you catch a cold.” The sound of his aunt beckoning him could be heard but he didn’t want to go inside. Inside was
where nothing from the outside could be heard, and inside was where the only sound that could be heard was the sound of his aunt humming or his dogs breathing.
Malakai enjoyed these moments of bittersweet silence, he enjoyed being able to let his thoughts roam about for it allowed him for just a moment to feel at ease. However, he knew that the longer he stayed outside then the more his aunt would call for him. Taking one last moment outside, Malakai then pushed himself to his feet and made his way inside his house.
The kitchen sink was running and he knew that it was his aunt possibly making dinner or maybe she was making a snack? Pushing the thought to the back of his head he made his way upstairs, of course he had to be careful considering the fact that he couldn’t see. Malakai Dayes was indeed blind and of course it involved many difficult roles for the boy, he didn’t let it affect the way he wanted to be.
He had memorized his entire house, he how many steps to take to reach his bedroom, his mothers room, the bathroom, and even the guestroom. He knew where the stairs were and how many steps he needs to take so that he didn’t fall down them. Malakai had adapted to the best of his abilities when it came to his disabilities, and he would be damned if someone dared to say that he needed them.
As Malakai neared his bed, he couldn’t help but pause and turn towards the direction where his desk was placed. It wasn’t anything special, but it held his most precious items. Things such as his fully drawn in sketchpads, multiple types of coloring pencils, and regular pencils. Knowing the differences was something simple, it was all based upon the markings on each of the pencils which helped him decipher what was what.
Deciding against sketching his thoughts, he wasted no time in climbing onto his bed and laying on his back. Closing his eyes, he couldn’t help but think back on the last couple of days, to say that it was different would be an understatement for it was unusual more than anything.
Malakai wasn’t used to change and change is exactly what he got.
by Anthony Giorgio
Artwork
Sophie
by Fiona Bowen
The friendly greyhound Sophie loved everyone. On every walk she would pull and tug at her leash till she was allowed to sniff and shove her nose at each passerby. She would seamlessly beg for treats from strangers at the local dog park. She was well loved at the dog groomers. But she loved her human Erin the most.
On the night Erin brought home a date, Sophie had been eagerly waiting at the door with her favorite chew toy, hopping up and down as the key turned in the lock. But no sooner had Erin’s date stepped in then Sophie backed away, clenching her toy in her mouth, muffling the faint growl that shuttered through her entire body. Erin knelt down, cooing and bringing her date’s attention to her dog. But Sophie scoots backward, head lowered, ears up, eyes on The Man. Sophie knew he was no good. She could smell it in him, something wasn’t right. But Erin had led him right into their home.
Sophie growls again, and this time Erin hears. Erin’s voice is soothing, with the hint of laughter, as she scratches Sophie’s ears. Erin says something to her date, he says something back and kneels down holding out a hand to Sophie. But she didn’t trust him. He reeked of bad decisions. Erin didn’t know. She couldn’t tell. And no matter how Sophie tried, begged, cowered, Erin dismissed it as shyness or a need to go outside. Nothing could be done, no understanding made. Till the fateful afternoon all of Sophie’s fears became reality.
Erin was preparing lunch, The Man was in the living room, watching TV. Sophie was watching him, head resting on her paws, brown eyes focused. The Man noticed and called her over. Her name sounded wrong coming from him. Sophie stayed. He called her again, snapping his fingers this time but Sophie felt a lurking dread, and she stayed. The Man didn’t call a third time, he stood, newspaper in hand, and moved to stand over her. Sophie hunched her shoulders, growling faintly. The Man crouches, and Sophie’s growl grew louder,
warning him to back off. And then it happened; The Man’s hand slapped against Sophie’s snout, his words a harsh whisper. Sophie yelps, no one had ever hit her before, she didn’t know how to react, but she was acting before she had a thought. Lunging forward, her jaws snaps down on his hand, a mix of fear and relief coming from his scream. Erin was there in a second, her voice loud, Sophie’s name was there, in Erin’s loud tones, and that scared her. Sophie lets The Man go, backing into her corner. Erin had never yelled at her before. Erin’s loudness doesn’t last long, her voice going soft and apologetic. But not to Sophie. Erin cradles The Man’s hand, taking care of him, never seeming to question why this happened. Why Sophie had had to go that far. Sophie slept outside that night. And that was only the beginning. It wasn’t long before The Man progressed from hitting Sophie when Erin wasn’t around, to hitting her when Erin was around. Erin wouldn’t stand for that, but then The Man hit her too. Sophie tried to stop it, god she tried, but The Man chained her outside, and all she could do was watch through the windows and bark.
It went on for a long time, too long. But one day Sophie was awoken by the sound of sirens. People flooded the house and yard. Sophie could hear yelling. She could smell blood. It wasn’t long before someone with a kind, but worry lined face unchained Sophie. Sophie tried to run into the house, to find Erin, but the kind faced person held fast, leading her out of the yard and toward a car. But Sophie could smell Erin, and she felt a horrible dread. She needed to find her, she needed to find Erin. Sophie barked, pulling against her chain with surprising force, breaking free from the kind person, she darts though the open door, into the house, following Erin’s scent. There! Sophie saw Erin, lying on the floor, surrounding by people who all looked the same but smelled different. Sophie couldn’t think about that. Something was wrong. She crossed the room, nudging Erin with her nose and whining, licking her all over. But Erin didn’t move. Didn’t laugh. Sophie whined louder, her whines turning to barks as she felt hands close around her. Panic blinded her. She barked and whined, struggling to stay with Erin, her beloved human. Something was wrong, Sophie
knew she needed to be there with her! Try as she might, the many self same people tore her away from Erin’s side, and as time blurred, Sophie ended up in a car, lying listlessly on the floor, not heeding the many kind voices.
As time went on, some faces from that terrible day became familiar; the kind but worry wrought person Sophie had first seen became the face she woke up to. They were nice. Sophie always had food to eat, and toys to play with. She was never hit again, but she couldn’t forget that day....the day things ended. She never saw Erin again, and somehow she knew she never would. If only Erin had listened, if only Sophie had tried harder....if only it had been different.
by Yein Ji
Untitled
A.M. Pt. Two
by Alyssa Minjares
My three a.m. thoughts are no longer of you
No longer am I plagued with the images of your smile and the way your eyes would crinkle ever so slightly
No longer can I hear the sound of your voice or the sound of your beautiful laugh that was once the cause of my racing heart
My three a.m. thoughts may no longer be of you
But that doesn’t change the fact that my heart only beats for you
Only for you will my heart yearn for your touch
Only for you will my heart yearn to hear your laughter
Only for you will my heart yearn to see your smile
My three a.m. thoughts may no longer be of you
But I do, I do still love you.
Theo and Audrey Train Scene
by Yein Ji
FADE IN:
EXT—OUTSIDE THE TUNNEL–DAY
Audrey pulls into an area off the freeway.
She and Theo get out of the car and walk down the hill, which reveals a rail road track.
The tracks are old and abandoned.
AUDREY
Do you think the trains still go down these tracks?
THEO
I don’t think so; the tracks are all messed up.
AUDREY Okay, let’s hope we don’t get run over.
THEO
If I hear something coming I will save you don’t worry.
AUDREY Oh really?
THEO
Yeah, I’ll jump and pull you to the ground like they do in the movies.
Audrey and Theo have reached the tunnel. It’s dark in there.
They stop and stare. There’s graffiti around the edges.
Theo starts walking.
THEO Let’s go.
AUDREY Wait, should we? What if a train really does come?
THEO
No train is going to come. Look at all this graffiti. The worst thing that could happen is that we find a dead animal or a dead body, which would be cool.
AUDREY (hesitant)
I don’t know.
Theo holds his hand out to her, bowing slightly.
Audrey gives in, taking his hand.
sparks of time on a lighted shore like sand we wash away and leave no trace
Sparks on Sand
By Anthony Giorgio
Sunday Sonnet
by Michelle Amelia Newman
This life we have is drawn out of one next, The cells in death that stay to fasten growth. Those at the edge look over and object, Failing to recognize the truth in both: Life only in contrast becomes alive, And death––a language we cannot yet speak––Beside immense heaviness we survive Through space and time troubled of what we seek. The difference is the scale on which we work
A moon or else the face unraveling
Pulled by movements ever collapsing down . . . He says it hangs on contrast and balance.
So turn, and make the sky the ground, and sit. Focus the edge and see the dusk to life.
Danika
by Yein Ji
Danika liked riding the public transit. She’d watch strangers get on, each person unique. Danika didn’t have anywhere to be. She liked watching each person in their own world, unaware that they were being watched. If Danika was lucky, she’d be able to listen in on a conversation.
Danika wondered what was in each person’s head.
What were they thinking?
Who were they thinking about?
Where are they from?
How much money do they have?
How many kids do they have?
What’s going on in their life?
It was like each person was a puzzle and Danika was trying to solve them. Most people sat alone and listened to music, but she still found them interesting.
Danika would rather be surrounded by strangers than be alone. She enjoyed the presence of other people. Occasionally she’d see someone that looked so sad. She’d make up scenarios for them; like their significant other broke up with them or they just lost their job.
Danika didn’t believe that people could have perfect lives and be happy. Whenever she saw someone that looked happy and normal, she’d make up something bad for them; maybe they’re the one who broke up with someone or fired an employee. She did this to feel better about herself. Danika wished she could be like those women that seemed carefree and confident, wearing fancy earrings and expensive shoes, but she was not like those women. She probably never would be. Those women must have friends and a lot of things to do. Danika had no friends and not a lot of things to do, but that was okay. That just left more time for people watching.
Deadlines
by Anthony Giorgio
It has to be done by tomorrow, so at least I ought to start. They didn’t rush me, six months was plenty.
Yet I’d forgotten, or maybe I put it off.
Deadlines are strange and awful blessings, for they inspire more than any muse could ever hope to.
Can you see me?
Can you hear me?
Can You?
by Alyssa Minjares
As you shine up in the sky, do you hear me talking to you?
Every night, of every day, do you see me looking at you?
Hey maybe one day, we can talk together.
Can you see me?
Can you hear me?
As you shine up in the sky, do you hear me talking to you?
by Alyssa Minjares
by Mac Gough
Untitled
R JAM BLUES (for Rodney King)
by Walt Hunter
The 45’s on the dresser
The Louisville Slugger’s under the bed
The neighbor’s on the roof with a shot
Gun
This is a Mingus riot
Blow the notes right off their stems
Blow your skirt right over your head
Blues tears and black coffee
Hot ash and soot on rose
Beds
Riff after riff
Of fat-black gray-black gray gray-white smoke
Jammin over granite towers
Hip hoppin canyon walls
Rainin down on tract houses penthouses apartment houses
Lit
With TV fires
This is a jam for Rodney
Blow the tears right out of your eyes
Blow the walls right out of your head
Rat blue stone gray nightstick black
Chasing breaking cries
Exploding
Riff after riff
This is the blues blowing up your driveway
This is the streets of Los Angeles ready for cremation
This is the river tearing up its bed searching for its mouth.
by Anthony Giorgio
Artwork
On Drugs
by Victoria Vera
A homeless woman sits on the corner of a busy road and pulls out a lighter. She thinks of her day in the blaring sun, attempting to ask passerby’s for money. She knows she should have spent the money she got on food instead of a smoke, but lights up anyway and lets her problems drift away.
A group of middle-schoolers hide in a bathroom stall in a tight circle. They attempt to hide their good time by repressing their giggles, but worry about getting caught and stress about looking high. They walk the halls stoned and try to avoid teachers.
An artist sits back on their stool examining his artwork as he takes a second hit. He feels as if the smoke ignites his creativity. He has been high for four days and has done nothing but eat and paint.
A college student bends down to place a towel under the threshold of the doorway. He leans against the door and lets a trail of smoke leave his lips. The student takes a break from studying to smoke and calm his nerves, which helps him to study.
A drug prevention advocate stands on a stage. They teach the kids to say no to drugs and stay safe. They teach them that drugs are bad, but are they?
