Connective Tissue 2013 | Volume 6

Connective Tissue Art and Literature Journal at the UT Health Science Center at San Antonio

2013 • Volume VI 1

http://www.texashumanities.org/connective_tissue

Connective Tissue 2013 • Volume VI

Faculty Advisors Jerald Winakur, MD Lee Robinson, JD Ruth Berggren, MD Craig M. Klugman, PhD

Editor in Chief Amanda E. Lipsitt

Layout & Cover Design Carlos Martinez

Head Editors Chris Yan Whitley Aamodt

Copy Editors Andrew Mark Henrik Close Myra Liu

Literature Committee Members Carlos P. Cardenas Maeghan P. Gibson Erin Leigh Foster

Andrew Mark Joseph Peterson Henrik Close

Alissa Gonzalez Laura Iglesias Sara Ostrosky

Visual Arts and Photography Committee Members Maggie Klein Gainer Joseph Peterson Carlos P. Cardenas Maeghan P. Gibson Danish Jaffer

Mark Paulick Danielle Kolitz Erin Leigh Foster Henrik Close Stephanie Lynch Alissa Gonzalez

Michael Herzik Sarah Yang Laura Iglesias Myra Liu Jason Rocha

The faculty, staff, and students of the UT Health Science Center at San Antonio are one body with one common mission - “We make lives better.� Yet we often seem individual, separated by different specialties. This journal aims to provide the fiber that binds us; to draw out and reunite all the artistic and literary minds of our community; to bring together all fields of health care and science with one Connective Tissue.

We express our sincerest gratitude to those who constantly encourage us and provide the opportunities and inspiration that ultimately lead to the development of this journal.

Thank you to those who came before us and began this saga, and to those who continue to support us and provide us with the means to keep Connective Tissue going year after year.

Special thanks to the Center for Medical Humanities & Ethics for making this journal possible; to Jerald Winakur and Lee Robinson for their inspiring ideas, moral support and financial contribution; to Susan Hunnicutt for her support and assistance in showcasing the journal for the UTHSCSA community; and to all of the authors and artists who provided the most important part of all. Thank you all for adding your life and passion into Connective Tissue!

For more information, including past issues and details on how to submit your own original and unpublished work, please visit our web site:

http://www.texashumanities.org/connective_tissue

**The works published in this journal were selected based on their artistic and literary merit and do not reflect the personal views of the UT Health Science Center San Antonio, the Center for Medical Humanities & Ethics or the editorial staff.

Front Cover: Krithika Srinivasan 7 of Hearts

Back Cover: Art Category Honorable Mention Danielle Brining Indignati

Contents Francisco Cigarroa, MD The Beauty of Medicine ..................................................................................................... 1 Kathlyn Parr A Day Outdoors ................................................................................................................. 3 Thomas Robert Lafitte Mark My Words ................................................................................................................. 8 Susan Seale Jarvis, JD What Color are My Eyes, Doc? ....................................................................................... 9 Rachel Baker Portrait of a Brother ....................................................................................................... 10 William Miller Old Man on Red Bench . ................................................................................................. 15 Colleen Boehme February 15th .................................................................................................................. 16 Chris Yan Memory, Like a Prophecy of Heaven and Earth ......................................................... 19 Jennifer Kaye Shepard As Time Ticks...................................................................................................................... 20 Whitney Haseman Kapaleeswarar Temple, Mylapore, India ..................................................................... 21 Pooja Sarkar Flat ..................................................................................................................................... 22 Myra Liu Spiral ................................................................................................................................. 24 Shannon Baldwin The People’s Church ......................................................................................................... 25 Jessica Hollingsworth Individuality ...................................................................................................................... 28 Anna Gonzalez Slow Ride............................................................................................................................ 29 Patricia I. Watten, MD What We Had Built......................................................................................................... 30 Morgan Bailey Untitled............................................................................................................................... 32 Courtney Wiener King Henry VIII and His Physician ................................................................................ 33 Morgan Bailey Untitled............................................................................................................................... 34

Veronica Bove Krista’s Flower....................................................................................................................

Christine Cheng The Writer and the Intersection .....................................................................................

Nina Guo Light....................................................................................................................................

Meaghan P. Gibson The Major .........................................................................................................................

Melissa Hernandez White Sands National Monument, NM ........................................................................

Dorothy Long Parma, MD, MPH A Mother’s Gift..................................................................................................................

Jessica Hollingsworth Home from War ..............................................................................................................

Morgan Bailey T-cell and HIV....................................................................................................................

Julie Wilson A Will to Live ...................................................................................................................

Cynthia Leigh-Nussenblatt Sanctuary...........................................................................................................................

Colleen Boehme The Knees ..........................................................................................................................

William Miller Boat Relax ........................................................................................................................

Abbie Ornelas Pistil and Stamen .............................................................................................................

Joanne P. Wright Nature’s Body Armor ......................................................................................................

Dorothy Long Parma, MD, MPH End of Day.........................................................................................................................

Shannon Baldwin The Fourth of July ............................................................................................................

Krithika Srinivasan Self Portrait ......................................................................................................................

Venkatakrishnan Rengarajan As Soft as Music................................................................................................................

Chris Yan Wedding Day ..................................................................................................................

35 36 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 47 48 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

Editor’s Section Whitley Aamodt, Head Editor The Steel City.....................................................................................................................

Chris Yan, Head Editor Pancake Wednesday........................................................................................................

Carlos Martinez, Layout & Cover Design Editor Pride....................................................................................................................................

Amanda E. Lipsitt, Editor in Chief Moroccan Sunrise ............................................................................................................

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Francisco Cigarroa, MD Chancellor of the University of Texas System

The Beauty of Medicine

My first love is caring for patients. I am a doctor, a transplant surgeon, but these days I spend the majority of my time immersed in administrative duties focused on running the University of Texas system in my role as Chancellor.

But on this lovely fall day, I am driving from Austin to San Antonio. I will soon be shedding my business suit and changing into my surgical greens; leaving my UT System office in Austin for the excitement of the hushed and sterile Operating Room #6 at University hospital in San Antonio, where I was once President of the Health Science Center before I assumed my chancellorship position. This weekend, like so many other weekends in the past, I am the Transplant Surgeon On-Call.

These on-call weekends give me the opportunity to re-connect with the hands-on work I love to do, re-connect with my co-workers and colleagues in San Antonio, and, most importantly, to help train the next generation of physicians. I feel strongly that caring for patients, interacting with medical students, nursing staff, and all who make a hospital a place for healing, also makes me a better person and Chancellor.

Passing through San Marcos on I-35, my phone starts ringing and it’s Misty, our enthusiastic Transplant Coordinator. My on-call weekend has begun.

“Dr. Cigarroa,” she says, “There’s a kidney transplant due to start in a few hours, at 5 p.m. Are you available?”

“I’m on my way now. Alert the OR team that I’ll be there. And I’ll want to introduce myself to the patient and family first, so tell anesthesia to hold sedation until I get there, please.”

I enter University Hospital through the lobby specifically so I can greet my favorite Patient Admissions Officer who always gives me a hug and a smile.

I head up to the Operating Suite and find my patient in the holding area. I introduce myself, explain the operation I am about to perform, and elicit questions and concerns from my patient and his family. Ideally, I wish I could have gotten to know this man prior to today through consultations and clinic visits over time.

1

This is the best way to nourish that most important relationship between a doctor and his patient. But in my role these days as a regular “on-call” transplant surgeon, I no longer have the time and luxury to nurture these relationships as I have in the past. Still, I do my best.

My patient, Mr. Francisco Flores (fictitious name for confidentiality)and his family, speak only Spanish and as I answer their questions, as I read the concern on their faces, I recall thinking how blessed I am having grown up in Laredo, Texas. Spanish is my first language and I know that because of this I am able to provide an extra measure of comfort to Mr. Flores and his family. Especially with the abrazo--the only way to introduce oneself to a fellow Laredoan! As I hug Mr. Flores, as I reassure him that I will do my very best to give him his new kidney today--and as I am embraced by him and his loved ones in return—I am overcome with a feeling that I know this man, that he is somehow family.

It is now time for the anesthesiologist to give my patient just a touch of Versed, and Mr. Flores is off to the OR while I begin the surgeon’s ritual of scrubbing in for the case. Here I meet the Chief Resident, introduce myself to the intern and medical student. This is to be the first kidney transplant this third year student has witnessed. All of us are excited to get started.

After the all-important “Time Out” surgeons call to review the case and the plans to proceed, we prep Mr. Flores and begin.

I have performed hundreds of kidney transplants in my career. I can dictate the standard operative report in my sleep: the initial incision in the left lower quadrant, the mobilization of the peritoneum, the exposure of the left external iliac artery, vein and bladder. We are lucky today; Mr. Flores’ anatomy is perfect, the exposure excellent.

As we work, the donor kidney is being prepared.

The ritual continues: controlling the left external iliac vein with a Satinsky clamp and performing the venotomy. I watch the resident suture the left renal vein of the donor kidney in end-to-side fashion to the left external iliac vein.

Then on to the iliac artery, controlling the large vessel with DeBakey clamps, carefully performing the arteriotomy and anastomosis of the donor renal artery.

After inspecting our work, it is time to release the clamps—and it is always a dramatic moment for me and the team when we watch this pale, new kidney redden as Mr. Flores’ blood surges through it.

Then on to the attachment of the new ureter into the bladder. Before we 2

Kathlyn Parr A Day Outdoors

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know it, urine is flowing into the Foley bag. Not flowing—pouring. Like Niagara Falls! Mr. Flores has a new lease on life. The medical student is glowing, as am I. These are moments we train for, the moments—in the lives of doctors and patients both—to celebrate, to live for.

When the case is complete--the transplant incision closed in layers, the skin sutured meticulously--I go to the family waiting room with the good news. I am smothered in hugs and kisses, enough to send me home that night with a huge smile on my face.

But the story does not end here.

The next morning, Saturday of my on-call weekend, (and after my Starbuck’s coffee which made me 10 minutes late for my 8 a.m. start time) the team and I begin our hospital rounds on the post-op transplant patients.

Two patients are recuperating from liver transplants and doing well. And then we come to Mr. Flores’ room. He has been in my thoughts all night long, and although I don’t like “surprises” in my post-op patients—no surgeon does—I know that if something untoward had happened in the night, the Chief Resident would have called me. Still, I have been thinking about my patient since I left him in the Recovery Room, and I can’t wait to see for myself how he is doing.

And here he is, in Intensive Care, but sitting up in a chair, smiling. He looks great. Better still, his Foley bag—empty before the transplant—is now full!

Another Eureka moment.

I sit next to him, taking my time.

“How are you feeling this morning?” I ask him in Spanish.

“Well, Doctor,” he answers.

I examine his incision. All seems to be going as I had hoped. I have a few questions for the residents. They are prepared but nervous. This is how it always is—how it was for me at their stage of training. At times I am still nervous— but this is a good thing, keeps me from complacency, keeps me humble.

The surgery has been performed. All is proceeding nicely. It is time to go on to the next case. But something is keeping me in my seat next to Mr. Flores.

There is more I want to know about him and his family—and perhaps his connection to mine.

“I had a great uncle named Francisco Flores,” I say to him

“Doctor, did your uncle live in Hidalgo, Mexico?” he asks.

“My uncle had a ranch close to Hidalgo,” I say.

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“Did your uncle have a brother named Emeterio?” he asks.

“Yes, yes! Emeterio Flores is my grandfather!” I am overwhelmed with surprise.

“How do you know my great uncle and my grandfather?” I ask.

“I knew them both because I worked at your grandfather’s ranch in Mexico. I drove a Caterpillar tractor and made lakes and roads for the ranches.”

“Mr. Flores,” I ask, “were you at my grandfather’s ranch named Cuevas Pintas (Painted Caves) when my grandfather first purchased that Caterpillar?”

“Yes,” he answers.

“Do you recall a small kid who was crying, who insisted he wanted to drive the tractor?”

“Yes,” he says.

“That crying kid was me!” I found myself choking up. We were both overcome and hugged each other.

Mr. Flores chuckles. “I guess I made the right decision to let you drive the tractor!”

I look at my residents and medical students and convey to them that what we are witnessing is the beauty of medicine, the reason one has to always take the time to learn about one’s patients.

Here I am, a surgeon on-call who happens to transplant a kidney into Francisco Flores, a man I have presumably met for the very first time in my life.

But by getting to know each other a bit, we learn that we actually first connected 45 years ago. Making these connections, these friends, establishing this doctorpatient relationship—this is, at its most ideal, what the practice of medicine is all about.

After rounds, I feel the need to call my mother and tell her about this unbelievable encounter. We reflect together on our wonderful memories of my grandfather, her father. My only regret is that I did not buy a MegaLotto ticket right then and there: the chances of winning the Lotto are greater than suddenly--one on-call weekend--being asked to do a kidney transplant for a patient who, 45 years ago, put me on his lap and let me drive his enormous tractor!

I am still thinking about all of this as I drive back to Austin the next night.

It is time to resume my duties as Chancellor of the UT System. The teaching lessons for my residents and my students has been, ostensibly, all about how to transplant a kidney and manage the patient post operatively. But, really, the main 5

lesson for them and for me is how important it is to get to know one’s patients and their families. How important these connections are, and how they will often lead to unexplainable revelations. And how rewarding the practice of medicine can be as a result.

I am, indeed, a lucky man. Having Francisco Flores come back into my life this weekend was like having my grandfather Emeterio with me once again.

As a doctor, as a transplant surgeon, I was able to give the gift of life to a man who trod the same dirt roads as my own family.

In my role as Chancellor, I can continue to give back--not only to the community of my birth--but to Texans everywhere, ensuring first class medical care to those who, at one time, never had access to it.

As Chancellor, I will continue to do just this. But between you and me, what I am really looking forward to is my next weekend on-call.

6

Tommy Fite “I write my path.”

November 24, 1975 - May 26, 2013

7

Thomas Robert Lafitte (Tommy Fite)

Mark My Words I do not know the life expectancy Of this paper.

But these words will leave An impression on me forever.

I do not know how long this life will last But it will be long enough, Just‌ long enough.

This pen could be a weapon, This page could be a war.

I do not always follow rules, That’s not what this is for.

I search for ways out of my head.

And write them down, For a way back in.

8

Susan Seale Jarvis, JD

What Color are My Eyes, Doc?

Resentment permeates Room 423, flowing from patient to doctor, from doctor to patient.

Ask the scrawny kid in the bile green too-large hospital gown and he will tell you the drab hospital room sucks, responding to the same inane questions for the umpteenth time is a drag, and the doctor nerd across from him staring at his computer screen is the ultimate bore.

Ask the doctor and he will tell you the room in the children’s wing of the county hospital is depressing, repeating the same questions to the kid again is a waste of his time and the kid himself is the most obnoxious eleven-year-old in the city. He won’t tell you about the other boy, same age, same type injury, the one named Ahmad. The story hurts too much. Even now.

Neither is here by choice. The kid is waiting for the infection from the gunshot wound to the leg to heal, and then he’s good to go. The doctor is fulfilling his private clinic’s requirement of pro bono work, then he’s made partner.

“How old are you, Seth?” The kid named Aaron looks over at the whitecoated man. He guesses the nerd doc is somewhere between forty and fifty. On the other hand, if he has a face full of Botox he could be decades older. Tough to tell ages these days, especially when one has enough green backs.

“That’s a rude question, Aaron. You don’t ask adults their age. And my name is Doctor Carlisle to you. Not Seth.” Cheeky kid.

“Double standard, eh Doc? You adults ask kids their age all the time. By the way, you can call me Mr. Hebert. Just don’t pronounce the ‘H.’ And the ‘e’ is like an ‘a’. I’m Cajun you know. I’m a Katrina kid transplanted up here to live with my Granny Angelina. Been here long enough to start sounding like you Yankees.”

Seth knows Aaron’s background. The social worker carefully documented the family history. The boy’s chronological age may have been eleven, but street-wise, he was one of the savviest kids in the inner city 9

Art Category Winner Rachel Baker Portrait of a Brother

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neighborhood. He lived with his only living relative, his elderly diabetic grandmother. The two shared a one-bedroom unit on the fourteenth floor until Aaron got caught between two warring gangs on his way from school. The gunshot wound shattered his left leg, leaving him with a permanent limp. Unable to live alone, Granny Angelina was quickly moved to a county assisted living facility. New tenants now live in the apartment. The case file does not mention future housing plans for Aaron.

“Any pain in the leg today, Aaron?”

“Nothing new, Seth.” Two can play this game. Respect or lack thereof, is a two-way street. “Is that watch a real Rolex? I saw a knockoff just like it down on Fifth last year. I can bite into it for you and tell you real quick if you were ripped off.”

Without thinking, Seth glances down at the timepiece with a critical eye.

Aaron grins. “Gotcha! Just checking the goods, Seth?”

The doctor quickly takes his eyes off the boy and focuses on the computer screen. The scene is somehow too familiar: same dark too-weary eyes, same toothy grin, same street-smart savvy.

Just like Aaron, Ahmad was cheeky, lightening quick and plenty gutsy.

Just like Aaron, he was also the innocent victim of someone else’s war. The only difference was Aaron was caught in the crossfire in a conflict between warring teenage gangs in his own neighborhood. Ahmad was caught between warring adult troops in Kabul. Seth was on call the night Ahmad was brought into the makeshift military clinic. For four days, he treated the war orphan, hoping the limited supply of antibiotics could counter the infection spreading through the frail body. On the last night, the boy looked up and asked in broken English, “You take me home with you, Mister Doctor? You be my new family?”

Knowing he would never have to fulfill the promise, Seth nodded. “You bet, Ahmad, we’ll be in America together soon. You just wait and see.” Five hours later, Ahmad died.

Seth reminds himself this is why he remains a childless bachelor. Get too close to a kid like Aaron or Ahmad today, and tomorrow he may be gone, taking part of you with him. A sniper from a rooftop in Afghanistan, a gang lord in a local inner city—the results are the same. Why risk the loss, the heartbreak, the vacuum?

11

Seth picks up the crayon sketch of a dog lying on Aaron’s bed.

“I didn’t know you had a pet, Aaron. You must really miss this dog.”

“Wrong guess, Seth. I don’t have a dog now but I will one day. I’ll call him ‘Dexter.’ We’ll be known as ‘Mr. H. and Dexter.’ Pretty classy, huh?”

Seth is relieved. Dexter is one more reason not to get involved with Aaron.

Imagine what Mr. H. and Dexter would do to his minimalist high-rise condo overlooking the park.

Why is he even thinking about Aaron in his condo? The kid’s future living accommodations are no worry of his. After all, he pays plenty of taxes to the city to take care of just this sort of thing. Serving in the military for two decades followed by five years in private practice and he is about to become partner in one of the most prestigious internal medicine clinics in the city. Life is good.

Aaron breaks the silence. “You have a hot time over the weekend, Seth?

Hooked up with some babe? I bet a rich doc like you knows plenty of hot mamas.” The kid is especially sarcastic today.

Ignoring the remark, Seth scans his computer to check the updated file.

“Aaron, this is great! Why didn’t you tell me you’re breaking out of this joint in three days? You can go back into what you call the ‘free world.’”

“No big deal, Doc. Weird as it sounds, this dump has kinda become my home. And nerd that you are, you’ve kinda become my best friend. Actually, my only friend. I guess I’ll miss all that. Foster homes aren’t always warm and fuzzy you know. Besides, Dexter probably wouldn’t be welcome. You know how foster care is.”

Seth doesn’t know. Why should he? A comfortable east coast childhood and Ivy League schooling doesn’t include kids needing foster care. Right now he just wants to get out of this gloomy county hospital. Quickly and for good.

Too many memories, old scarred ones and fresh new ones.

“Well, Aaron, this is my last visit. I’ve made partnership and won’t be coming around anymore. Best of luck to you, pal. I know you’ll be glad to leave.”

Silence. Turning to face the wall, the patient ignores the doctor.

Seth closes his computer and quickly leaves the room. He should feel relieved; Aaron isn’t his worry any more. He’s fulfilled his pro bono hours.

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Walking down the hall, he hears the kid scream, “What color are my eyes, Doc? You don’t even know the color of my eyes, do you?”

Seth calls the hospital the following day to check on Aaron’s progress.

Good news, bad news. The dismissal is still on schedule but no foster home is willing to take him. Streetwise eleven-year-old boys can’t compete with cuddly babies on adoptive parents’ priority lists. He is scheduled to go to the county children’s home the day he is dismissed. No chance of a Dexter in Aaron’s life any time soon.

Sleep evades Seth. Too many questions. How diligent will the caretakers at the children’s home be in making sure his wound continues to heal? What if he’s bullied because of his permanent limp? Will he be called ‘Gimpy’? Why is he, Dr. Seth Carlisle, even asking these questions? This kid is no relative of his, no responsibility. Why care? After all, he had promised to bring Ahmad home with him. The boy died happy, dreaming of a new life in America. Never mind that he knew the boy wouldn’t survive another twenty-four hours.

Seth comes up with a way to quickly resolve the matter. Satisfied with the simple solution, he picks up the phone and calls the president of his condo association. This approach will allow him to forget the kid’s dilemma and move on with his own life with a clear conscious and no regrets. After all, Aaron’s dream includes a dog named Baxter. Or was it Dexter?

“Ms. Applegate, Seth Carlisle here. Quick question. Are pets allowed in the condos?” A negative response and he’ll be off the hook. The kid would be bored stiff in the condo without a pet.

“I see. No, just thinking about getting one. Yes, I’ll remember to take my scoop with me if I do get one.” So much for that excuse.

Two days later Seth walks down the familiar fourth floor corridor. Aaron is still in his old room, his old bed, staring out the window. A paper bag lies at the foot of the bed, holding his one change of street clothes. An unsigned dismissal sheet sits on the bedside table, waiting for the attending doctor’s signature.

“Hey, Mr. Hebert, got a minute?”

“Not going anywhere until this afternoon, Seth. What are you doing here?

Thought your charity case days were over long ago.”

13

“I’ve got a business proposal for you, Mr. Hebert. You’ve got to be up to it though. I’m getting a dog, but there’s a hitch. The condo association where I live says I’ve got to have someone walk it outside the building and scoop up everything it drops. That means everything. It means you’ve got to live with me, go to school and all that. Are you up to the job?”

Aaron’s silence worries Seth. Finally a response.

“Yeah, I think I can handle that, Dr. Carlisle. And you can all me Aaron.

That’s O.K. with me. And if you haven’t picked out a name for the dog yet, I can help you there too.”

“Fine, Aaron, I’ll start the paper work for you to live with me. There should be no problems.”

Seth walks down the fourth floor hall, turns and yells, “By the way, Aaron, your eyes are brown. Dark brown. I knew that the first time I visited you. See you tomorrow!”

14

William Miller Old Man on Red Bench

15

Colleen Boehme

February 15th It was an important day It was the important day I waited over a year for that day to come.

Well actually, for a semester I sat in the dark, on the floor of a dorm-room closet in North Carolina praying that it wouldn’t.

I can’t believe I ever did that.

It seems so ridiculous now, embarrassingly childish.

And of course, the day came anyway...

So now it wants remembering, Demands observance.

And I try to observe it Though I’ve been up two hours before the realization that today was the day.

And then I note I must observe that Time, when it comes.

That time recorded on that Paper.

There’s a copy of it buried somewhere in the study.

The original is in some file, In some part of a records department, Some place in downtown Dallas.

I don’t know where exactly, But I know it says: 3:10pm.

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Right now, it’s just a little after ten in the morning, I haven’t missed it yet.

But the day rolls on---perfunctorily.

I roll on.

And I pass 3:10 pm in a mechanic’s waiting room, Thinking of nothing.

I did not think of you, Or that today marks two years since I’ve seen your face or heard your voice, That I shall never see you again.

No. My mind drums on with its worldly concentrations and material wants, such as they are.

My car is a mess.

My brain spins its wheels.

I have hollow dreams and no desire, And my world crumbled when you left...

Real life stopped, and this is some hollow shell of life that goes on And most of the time I’m just some self-shell too.

A shell that easily forgets (apparently).

And I’m sorry for that.

I’m so sorry.

I’m sorry that it’s almost five when I finally remember I’ve forgotten.

I’m sorry that I let it completely pass me by.

Because now I’m sitting here at work, It’s 9:30 pm.

The world is quiet and still The world feels so lonely.

And I find that it’s all I can think about.

It’s why I started writing this...

17

Because I just wanted you to know that I truly don’t forget that Day, that Time, that Paper in the study-I don’t forget you.

I wanted you to know that there is remembering.

Constant remembering It’s in the gray that has tinted these years without you.

It’s why I feel so much older now than I was then.

So much older than I imagine I should feel.

It’s things I was going to do, but didn’t.

It’s things I forget to do.

And all those things I used to love, but don’t feel like doing anymore.

It’s this strangling hopelessness, And this ruinous apathy, That always comes upon me at the worst possible moments.

None of these things would make you happy.

I know that.

And I don’t think it will always be this way.

Honestly, I hope not.

But I do know, That in some way, I am always remembering you, That in some way, I will always be remembering you.

All of the time.

Even on February 15th.

Even at 3:10 pm.

18

Chris Yan

Memory, Like a Prophecy of Heaven and Earth Memory, like a prophecy of heaven and earth, seals itself up for appointed times.

A story grows in northern Manchuria, a hot summer sun rises over a field of spawning dragonflies.

In 1989, students are shot in the capital, a throng of thirsty souls weeps outside the Forbidden City, this is the story: My mother and father in New York are granted green cards.

And for my passage, a consul in a black suit awaits a bribe in Nebraska—I arrive by plane with candied hawthorne in my pockets and my grandmother’s voice in my ear, she is saying be careful of your knees, you always scrape them.

Behind her is my uncle smoking cigarettes, holding a jar of eggs. I run to join the other children taunting alley dogs.

And here, where everything is promised in a way I don’t yet understand, my father waits in the airport for a boy who doesn’t recognize him.

This is my first lesson, at the age of four, that remembering is equally as important as forgetting in the discipline of love.

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My mother wakes late at night, she waits before holding my head in her arms. One hand pushes my hair back, the other strokes my ear calmly, tuning a melody of dragonflies that were once so vivid, now phantoms spreading in the dark, becoming the forgotten wisdom of the ancients: Memory, we say.

Memory, like a prophecy of heaven and earth, finds no place for rest when it is open.

It is equally weighed in heaven as it is on earth, filling and fulfilling all distance in-between.

Jennifer Kaye Shepard As Time Ticks 20

Whitney Haseman Kapaleeswarar Temple, Mylapore, India

21

Pooja Sarkar

Flat from My Brother’s Sister I knew I had pulled up to the right house when I saw the red Solo cups littered across the unmowed lawn. Heavy bass music thumped through the chilly night air, and I could feel its vibrations in the seat of my car. Lights turned on in the bedrooms on the second floor, and then promptly turned off. I parked haphazardly across the street and ran towards the party.

I was home for winter break after my first semester away at college, and was out looking for my sister Gauri that night. My parents were worried sick –she had told them she was just going out to eat with friends—so I made up some excuse about her getting a flat tire and rushed out to find her. She wouldn’t pick up her phone. After calling a series of friends, and friends of friends, I made it to the party, though I wasn’t even sure she would be there.

Inside was suffocating. People were everywhere –half-dressed and sweaty, perfumed with the stench of beer, vomit and Kool-Aid. The hallway lights were dimmed, and I stumbled through the foyer, squeezing through hoards of drunken and disorientated girls. I recognized a few faces from the high school – but they seemed too intoxicated to notice or remember me. I didn’t see Gauri anywhere and headed to the kitchen to look for her friends or anyone that might have seen her.

My phone vibrated in my jeans pocket. My father was calling again. I quickly texted some nonsense message about stopping for gas and continued to push through the throngs of people. No one was in the kitchen, but the counters were sticky and littered with trash, half-empty bottles of rum and vodka. The sink was full of dirty and broken dishes, and watered down dish soap dripped down the bottom of the cabinets and onto the floor.

I bolted upstairs. Music continued to thump through the floorboards and rattle the railing as I raced up the staircase, two steps at a time. The second floor was larger than I had expected, and I moved quickly down the hallway, opening each door. I found her in the last bedroom before the hallway ended.

I shut that door as soon as I had forced it open. I heard Gauri scream in 22

rage inside, and a few seconds later she came out and stormed into the hallway.

“What the hell?!” she screamed as she pulled her shirt on.

“Ma and Baba are worried.” I mumbled, and stared down at my feet.

I couldn’t look up at her.

“Let’s go home,” I added, and reached for her wrist.

“No!” She snapped sharply.

I looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot and her chin thrust out, defiantly.

“Gauri.” I repeated, narrowing my eyes. “You’ve given me enough shit already. Let’s go.”

Before she could protest, the bedroom door opened again, and the other girl stumbled out. Her blouse was buttoned up unevenly, and she stumbled past us, muttering to herself and groping the wall for support. I watched as she swayed back downstairs and disappeared into the crowd below. *** Gauri heaved on the lawn once we left the house. I gently pushed her shortened hair behind her ears and held her shoulders as she crumpled to her knees. I helped her into the car and took one last look at the house. People were still stumbling about inside, and I could see their silhouettes moving erratically in the windows. As I turned the car around, I spotted Gauri’s car, parked behind the house we’d just left.

“Hang on,” I said, and slid out.

I jogged quickly to Gauri’s car and uncapped the air nozzle of one of the back tires. I gave it a swift kick with the back of my heel, and watched as the tire slowly deflated. I then hastily screwed the nozzle cap back on and ran back to Gauri. We’d have to come back in the morning for the car.

Gauri looked at me confused, though a weak smile crept across her face.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

23

Myra Liu Spiral 24

Shannon Baldwin

The People’s Church “Great cities have great cathedrals.”

The plaza in front of the San Fernando Cathedral is busy this afternoon.

Strollers, tricycles, small potted palm trees and pigeons are among the patrons.

The sun has called them all out on this cloudless golden January day. Inside a metal shack, a man and his father sell lemonade, hot chocolate, various meat sandwiches, pickles, and ice cream. A little girl, atop her father’s shoulders, begs for lemonade from her place in the sky. Black metal tables and chairs dot the plaza. A few families picnic, unwrapping homemade sandwiches. Kids scamper over small holes in the ground, ignoring the ever-present signs declaring PLEASE KEEP OFF THE FOUNTAINS; it is still officially winter, and the fountains are not flowing yet. A little boy stomps up to a lone pigeon, causing the bird to take flight in a boisterous flutter of feathery wings. An older man with leathery skin and a skullcap pushes around a barrel on wheels for trash. An even older man with his right leg amputated up to his knee rolls by on a red power chair. Two o’clock English-language mass has just ended. A Father, wearing a green robe, shakes the hands of the people pouring out of church. The green of his robe is not a forest green, not an emerald green, but a fresh-cut-grass green, sort of reminiscent of a good tomatillo salsa. The cathedral’s gothic front looks like someone plucked it out of Europe and placed it here, a grim limestone creation. The two towers on either side of the roof are systematically patterned with small circular and rectangular stain glass windows. To the immediate left of the cathedral is a sign for Segway tours, and five silver segways are lined up, ready to roll.

The cornerstone for the San Fernando Cathedral was laid on May 11, 1738 by the Isleños, the courageous group of families and adventurers who had journeyed to San Antonio from the Canary Islands. So began a community-wide project of building a place of worship, a center for the town. Because they had no money, building fell onto the shoulders of the people. The leaders of the prov25

ince ordered that everyone help with cathedral-building, and that failure to do so would result in fines. From it’s inception, it was always the people’s church. A few gaveto help build, others donated: 10 fangeas (Spanish-American word for bushels) of corn, 20 cartloads of rock, a one-year-old lamb, a yearling calf. The people decided on two patronesses for the church, Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe of Mexico and Nuestra Señora de Candelaria of the Canary Islands.

In the back of the cathedral, tucked in a corner, is Cristo Negro, a thorncrowned Jesus nailed on the cross, all in black, except for the cranberry blood dripping down from his head and his hands. Cristo Negro is situated on a wall, and in front of him are three-foot high candle holders with rows of white candles, flames wiggling. Next to and a little below this scene on the cross is a rectangular corkboard filled with pinned pictures and letters; photographs of newborn babies, glamour shots of married couples, a printed-out photo of a man in armygreens crouching in a plane, a small scrap of paper with a handwritten note that says “Lord hear our prayers,” pictures of teenagers smiling, a photo of a dog. No brown from the corkboard is showing. Most of the letters are written in Spanish, most are folded into small boxes and tacked to the board. There seems to be some hair or thin string caught on Jesus’s right hand; it flutters softly as it catches a current.

The original cathedral had a modest façade, white and smooth, only interrupted by the front door. Two domes with crosses atop them shot out from the roof. At that time, the domes of the church were considered to be the geographic center of the city, and all mileage calculations started from the domes. The church was the center of life in old San Antonio, with the city itself said to extend out from the front doors of the cathedral. The church served as a lookout spot for the Spanish military. Mexican General Santa Anna began his siege of the province in 1836 after he displayed a flag of “no quarter” from the tower of the church; the notorious battle at the Alamo would follow. The purported remains of dead Alamo heroes were said to have been buried under the old sanctuary railing by Colonel Juan Seguin after Texas won its independence. The Civil War began in Texas in 1861, when on February 16th, General David Twiggs, commissioner of the Department of Texas, surrendered his troops to Colonel Ben McCullouch on the plaza in front of San Fernando.

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“A cathedral is more than a grand edifice---it is a preview of heaven, a taste of eternity.”

A short man enters the cathedral with what appears to be his family. His greasy hair is long, about shoulder length, and he is wearing a blue long-sleeved button-down with dark jeans. He steps up to an ivory font attached to the back left wall of the small cathedral. Not many people are here anymore. It is the lull between the two o’clock and five o’clock mass. The man pulls out an orange plastic pill bottle, the cylindrical ones with the white caps. He opens up the small bottle and sticks it into the font. With one hand he holds the bottle still, and with the other he very discreetly tries to scrape holy water into the bottle. Hand cupped, he uses quick movements to get as much of the water as he can into the orange container. No one seems to see. Once he is satisfied, he fastens the top back on the bottle and slowly moves to the other side of the cathedral. Soon, he and his family have left.

27

Jessica Hollingsworth Individuality

28

Anna Gonzalez Slow Ride

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Literature Category Winner Patricia I Wathen, MD

What We Had Built These cars crawl along the skin of the earth while the rain dissolves our urgent purposes.

Beneath us the bones of the earth stir, rocking the worms.

These highways shudder and shed concrete scale.

Their spines give iron back into the ground where it is impossible to find just one smooth stone one hand of loam without gravel or glass.

You were there when all this was happening and so was I. We were there when what we had built overtopped the cranes and our feet never touched the soil.

Now we are depending on the rain to hammer it all down.

We are depending on the fortitude of worms and bones to rise again.

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Morgan Bailey Untitled (Sculpture - 3 views)

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Literature Category Honorable Mention Courtney Wiener

King Henry VIII and His Physician Oh doctor, my toe, tis swollen and hot!

Hunting, jousting, carouse I cannot!

My dear king, pray tell, on what do you eat?

For we shall investigate this sad state of your feet.

Duck, black pudding, cured wild boar Fresh simmered whale, and a petit four.

Venison, veal, six gallons of beer Badger, eel, mutton and steer.

Custard, fritters, port wine and ale Goose, peacock and whole beaver tail.

Carp, roasted swan, a bushel of wine Fruits and sweet candies: Yes, I do dine!

Oh king, surely the heart of your discontent Lies in crystals negatively birefringent.

Quick, quaff back some ale, and following to chase This potion - inhibitor of xanthine oxidase!

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Morgan Bailey Untitled

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Veronica Bove Krista’s Flower

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Christine Cheng

The Writer and the Intersection ACT I (The writer sees the beautiful girl At the intersection.

So taken, He approaches her Oh to inquire.)

WRITER Your beauty astounds me, will you not let me write you?

Write me?

BEAUTIFUL GIRL (The writer wraps her head, And Her heart)

WRITER Yes. I will cherish every part of you like a thing so small and precious, Lay foundations of love, Slap cements of affection, I will not exist But For your skin, your hair, your eyes.

Then after we have made sweet, sweet love, I will lay next to you, Caressing you in my arms, Whilst my heart writes love notes to you With the ink of my blood.

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(The girl So taken, Oh to even exhale) Yes.

But will you love me?

BEAUTIFUL GIRL (He takes her by the hand, Starts to lead her away, But for her, Pauses them in their tracks.)

BEAUTIFUL GIRL

WRITER I shall write you.

I will heap more love onto you than a single being can accept.

(Her beautiful face scrunches Slight Yet angelic Hopeful frustration.)

So you will love me?

I will write you.

Notes, poems, novels, plays.

BEAUTIFUL GIRL WRITER

(She loosens her fingers from his, Her hurt eyes turn away from his, Not to return.)

ACT II (The writer stands at the intersection, Waiting to write.)

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Nina Guo Light

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Meaghan P. Gibson

The Major The sand radiated with the power of the sun.

Footsteps already heavy become labored upon the singed earth.

Each step leaving droplets of myself behind.

A click underfoot.

I close my eyes and take in the moistureless breeze.

One last look. Wishing it were home.

Then a vicious bass boom. The very sand leaps with its power.

The air seems almost visible with heat and flame.

My skin exudes pain into a voiceless cry.

The pit of my stomach wrenched with hatred, Spreading its agony through my wretched innards.

Then finally nothing.

Awaken. Awaken warrior and see.

Plastic and metal piping, shields of linens and tape.

I struggle against those who would restrain me, but no action can I take.

Are you in any pain sir?

I try to scream around the cylindrical mass occluding my throat Feel the pull at the corner of my eye and wonder Are there tears left in this torn husk?

A sting. Then more darkness.

Faces appear and disappear.

Strangers all. All with kindness in their eyes.

Kindness and pity. What a wonder I must be now.

Hold.

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A familiar sniffle. I’d know it in the darkness of hell.

She’s here. I reach out, try to call the name upon my cracked lips.

I love you. God how I love you.

The gentle pressure on my fingers.

She knows.

A brush of my hair, a whisper.

Don’t be afraid.

My heart leaps within me.

I fear nothing.

Melissa Hernandez White Sands National Monument, NM 40

Dorothy Long Parma, MD, MPH

A Mother’s Gift You nurse, half-drowsing, in my embrace I gaze down at your shining face What I would give to keep you safe From endless strife, cradle to grave A love to soothe the ugly wounds Have yet to mar your little hands So great a love that blankets fear Upholds each step, dries every tear Where would I find a Love like this Chose mortal life o’er heavenly bliss A Love that strode beyond the grave The balance of the world to save My baby boy, one Gift I know Outstrips all others I can bestow More than my time, my care, my blood Foremost of all, I must give you God. How, you ask, can this be done?

That is another tale, my son I hope that when you are full grown You’ll claim this love for your very own.

And pass it on to your newborn And grow it with each passing morn.

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Jessica Hollingsworth Home from War

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Morgan Bailey T-cell and HIV

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Julie Wilson

A Will to Live After my work is done and my evening complete, I end each day with a bath. I put three handfuls of Epsom salt and four drops of sage essential oil in my bathtub with the hottest water I can stand. I crawl into the tub and immerse myself in water that covers my broken body, leaving just enough of my face exposed that I can continue to breathe. Then I cry.

I cry because by the end of the day I am so tired I don’t know how I will go on.

I cry because of the pain that no God, not even the gods of medicine and morphine, have alleviated. I cry because the night is when I feel the futility of my efforts most acutely. I cry because despite the love of a wonderful understanding husband, I am and always will be alone in my suffering. I also cry because each day I lose function and ability that I will never get back. Mostly I cry because despite my love of words and any attempts I’ve made to earn a living through them, the impotent rage that consumes me cannot be communicated with such banal methods as conversation.

No matter what I do, I will be sick. No matter how many medications I take or how much constancy I bring to following doctors instructions, I will never be well.

A drug will never be found nor will a treatment be perfected that will give me the health that most people take for granted through the majority of their lives.

I live a life of frustration. I envy the functionality and vigor of my in-laws in their 60s. I long to be the stressed woman on the commercials whose largest worry is her high cholesterol. I have begged on my knees for God to leave me with just one horribly disabling illness. My pleas have fallen on deaf ears; I am screwed and I know it.

I also cry because I know that I am one of the lucky ones. I have a wonderful and supportive husband who knows what it is like to be disabled, and he loves me disabling diseases and all. We manage to find joy in a life where, on paper, 44

little reason for joy can be found. I have a job that provides me the income and insurance to allow me the medications that keep me off of the suicide watch and the disability dole. I am able to do it well and that allows me to be ill and gainfully employed. I live in a city with the largest medical center in the world, which provides me not only just about every conceivable treatment, but also an array of hospitals and doctors to choose from. I can fire doctors on a whim and find one in the same specialty by the end of the week. New doctors, specialists, treatments and studies come out of my city every day, allowing me the benefit of the bleeding edge of medicine, and bleed I do. All of these wonderful things make me a privileged sick person, yet I am still holding on to this life by my fingernails.

I am not the African woman who is HIV positive with a gaggle of small children to care for. I am not the illegal alien who is injured on a construction site that can neither get proper care nor go back to work. I am not the Canadian who cannot get a hip replacement for years and must live in agony as a consequence. I’m not the elderly chronically ill person in the United Kingdom who is told that aging necessitates a decline, and that he needs to accept it. I am a rich (on a global scale) white woman with access to the best medical care in the world. I have a supportive family and job security in spite of my illnesses. The medical world is at my fingers and I am still horribly sick, frighteningly tired, and run down by the endless fight of it all. How do others survive being this ill without all of the benefits that surround me like presents under a tree on Christmas morning?

I suspect that we all survive a life of sickness and decay the same way. We don’t give ourselves any other option. Sick people get up and drag themselves forward in life because the only other option is to lie down and die. When you give up you don’t die once when the essence of your energy leaves your body. You die a little each day watching life go on without you. You die as you see your friends and family create lives without you in them. You die as you watch your loved ones mourn the life you once had. You die as your lover turns into your nurse-maid and your children become your servants. You die as your life becomes a circular track of doctors offices, medications, insurance companies, and miserable pain.

Aging requires this of many of us toward the end, but decades of this death is a new level of Dante’s Inferno to which Judas would not be sentenced. As hard as it is living sick, tired and in pain, it is much easier than living through thousands of 45

deaths each year until your body gives up trying.

By the time I have once again come to this realization, the water surrounding me has gone cold. I get up and dry my pruned body while I listen to the water drain from the bathtub. I imagine all of my sickness, pain, anger, and misery trickling down the drain to be purified by the earth that will soon receive it. I wrap myself in a warm fluffy towel and go to my husband to give him a smile and a hug, passing on the peace that I found at the bottom of a tub filled with Epsom salt, sage, hot water, and a will to live.

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Cynthia Leigh-Nussenblatt Sanctuary

47

Colleen Boehme

The Knees You come home with skinned knees (falling in a parking lot).

You’re smiling.

Your legs are dripping blood.

They bruise something-Purple, Green and Brown.

A terrible injury on a body already so gaunt and so gone, Yet you smile.

You say, “Life’s not supposed to be easy.”

The skin takes forever to heal.

Healing knees on a dying body, Wasted effort I suppose.

It’s hard to look at them, Your battered knees.

It’s hard to look at you, Or hug your wasting frame.

But I do. I force myself.

I look at you.

I smile weakly.

Because lately, the only other thing I ever seem to do is cry.

Or seethe.

I think that God failed you in so many ways.

I think you’ve been forgotten and abandoned.

And your ruined knees are nothing but the latest example of this.

The latest assault and attack against you.

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Anyway, I cannot hold with Him. I can’t really hold with anything much at all anymore.

Or remember how I ever did.

Still, I don’t think these things (a frown, a tear, an attack on your God) would help you.

My mind is filled with a thousand thoughts that can bring you no comfort, That offer nothing good.

I wish I could stop thinking them myself.

The best I can do is never share them.

All we can do now is smile at each other, even when it’s hard to Even when we’re smiling through this big, black ugliness which a year ago I couldn’t have imagined, that now consumes every day, And stands between you and me and Life, with a loudly ticking pocket watch, And a switch knife.

Your knees are gone now.

There are no wounds to see.

No frail body to fall in the wind.

There is no one to give a smile to I do not know where you are.

Or if you are.

I have only this hope.

This impossible hope, That finds me in the morning, And withers with the night.

The hope is in the withering, That each day that falls away, brings me closer to where I saw you fall the last time.

I will waste.

I will fail.

I will leave here too.

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This is certain.

And then, at the very least, I will meet you in the Nothingness.

But in the meantime, I often hope that you were right all along.

I hope that there is more than Nothingness.

I hope that there are answers to the questions that dance in my head.

That there’s a relevance to the things I can’t help but wonder, Things like: Do you fall where you are now?

Is there pain?

Wild colored bruises?

Injustice and robbery (like we were robbed)?

I don’t know.

And you tell me nothing.

But if you fall again, May it be on soft ground.

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William Miller Boat Relax

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Abbie Ornelas Pistil and Stamen

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Joanne P. Wright Nature’s Body Armor 53

Dorothy Long Parma, MD, MPH

End-of-day Your scent evokes a tropical memory From my childhood Of dry, chalk-white Asian rice It comes in 50-kilo white sacks We spill it onto shallow rattan trays to sift out tiny pebbles and bugs.

Now I’ve a “bug,” my very own You nestle contentedly against my breast I breathe in your red-gold hair, and remember.

How very odd, this feeling The deepest of motherhood, yet At the same time I, too, am a child again

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Shannon Baldwin

The Fourth of July It wasn’t the fireworks that scared her, but the moment right before.

Before match met fuse and fuse burned then blazed into a million shrieking lights, blinding whites and cobalt blues.

The moment before.

Standing barefoot on asphalt so black it was like she was standing on darkness---melting into darkness.

Her black-bottomed feet winced as I struck the match.

The pop and hiss.

Then, for a moment, Silence.

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Krithika Srinivasan Self Portrait

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Venkatakrishnan Rengarajan As Soft as Music

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Chris Yan

Wedding Day A small car approached the black iron gates and parked a few feet away. A young man and woman stepped out wearing dark, heavy clothing and sunglasses. Even in the bright, mid-March sun, Jiangsu province was cold this time of year.

Holding hands, the couple nodded to the gatekeeper and walked in. The young woman held a bouquet of white chrysanthemums in her arms, and the young man held a packet of Hongtashan cigarettes—“Mountain of Red Towers.” The air was calm and the sky was a cloudless bright blue, an occasional sparrow crossing above plots of wizened cypress trees.

This is a good place, said the young man.

He followed the woman past rows of small stone shrines, many with fresh flora, incense and bowls of rice wine placed carefully on the bases and mantelpieces.

Her steps were evenly-paced, tracing a path through the maze of stone plots that had been walked many times before. Finally they reached the plot they sought, stopping a few feet away and turning to directly face a vertical stone tablet.

Ba, I’ve come home, said the woman, bowing her head.

Hello, Ba, said the man, bowing as well.

I’ve brought your nuxu—“son-in-law”—home to see you, she said.

He knelt down before the stone and moved aside the shriveled chrysanthemums that lay on the stone base-piece, exchanging it for the fresh white ones in the woman’s arms. With great care, he repositioned the bouquet in the center of the stone, suddenly remembering the time he had brought home a bundle of chrysanthemums for her.

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In China, you only give these at funerals, she had said, laughing. They are never for the living.

Back home in the states, there were no such sayings. There was no such tradition in Texas.

He carefully opened the pack of cigarettes and lit a few while puffing them with his own lips, then placed them along with the rest of the pack on the mantelpiece.

I’ve brought you your favorite Hongtashan cigarettes, Ba, he said. We are getting married today, so fangxin—“don’t worry”—I will take good care of your daughter.

Thank you for raising such a lovely woman.

The young woman sniffed and looked up at the sky before wiping her eyes.

Please fangxin, Baba, we are all getting along fine. Everyone at home is very well. We will come back home often to see you.

The young man stood up and put his arm around his bride’s waist. He looked down on the small, circular picture embossed on the vertical tablet. Looking back at him was a slightly older man with large oval eyes and a beaming smile. He looked so full of energy in the picture. Had he been standing there with them, he could’ve been mistaken for the young man’s brother.

She laid her head on his shoulder and wiped her eyes again.

Do you think he can hear us? She asked.

Such a thing was tradition also, but everywhere—something in common with even Texas. Speaking to the dead, belief in the soul, the spirit, the next plane of existence. And prayer, prayer as well. Perhaps death was not the end.

Yes, he said.

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She squeezed his hand, and turning together, they once again bowed before the large tablet framing her father’s picture. As they walked off back toward the cemetery gates, a gentle breeze wafted through the cypress trees. The sky was bright, and birds sang their small songs in the quiet lull of mid-day, far and away from the roiling cars and bicycles sputtering about their usual business in the city.

This is a good place, he said.

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Editors’ Section

Whitley Aamodt, Head Editor The Steel City 62

Chris Yan, Head Editor

Pancake Wednesday “Biscuits and gravy, please. You’re out of biscuits? I see. Well, just bring me the gravy then.”

Jack was a bit disappointed at the establishment’s lack of biscuits. The establishment had come highly recommended from a trusted friend, who had also gone on to describe in great detail the strawberry crepes and Sunday pot roast. The establishment was called the International House of Pancakes.

Jack was, however, quite taken with the impressive array of flavored syrups arranged on every table top. He could tell that the establishment retained a certain pride in their time-honored tradition of serving pancakes. He could also tell that Wendy the waitress was slightly nauseated at the prospect of serving a customer a plate of gravy. The situation called for a bit more tact on his part.

“Actually miss, I’d also like to add an order of pancakes to my gravy. Er, with strawberries on top.”

Jack then dismissed Wendy the waitress with a satisfied nod, feeling rather pleased with himself for having diffused an otherwise awkward situation. As he sipped on his coffee and waited for his food, Jack noticed that Wendy the waitress bore an uncanny resemblance to Wendy from accounting, who worked downstairs in his office building. Upon further inspection, Jack also noticed that he was, in fact, not at the International House of Pancakes, but rather, at his office building. Wendy the waitress was, in fact, Wendy from accounting downstairs.

It was at this point that Jack realized how very drunk he was. It was a Wednesday afternoon.

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Carlos Martinez, Layout & Cover Design Editor Pride

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Amanda E. Lipsitt, Editor in Chief Moroccan Sunrise 65

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