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Refrain from Being Painted as Ordinary South Seattle Community College Student Anthology 2010-2011

Refrain Being Painted as - South Seattle · PDF fileRefrain from Being Painted as Ordinary ... what were their lives like to ... The Red of Night Chelsea Holman (Acrylic) 24

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Refrain from Being Painted as OrdinarySouth Seattle Community College Student Anthology

2010-2011

IdentityKim Burrroughs

South Seattle Community College Student Anthology 2010-2011

UntitledMilana Fin

Refrain from

Being Painted as

Ordinary

Table of Contents

Editors’ Note

So there we sat, combing carefully through hundreds of poems, essays, stories, photos, paintings, drawings and images, sometimes marveling, sometimes shivering, and always wondering who these people were, what were their lives like to have resulted in these micromoments of art?

After much thought, we conclude that working on the Student Anthology is akin to being a voyeur. Voyeurs, after all, act out of a sense of fascination. They get something out of peeking, some sort of thrill or pleasure. We five voyeurs hope that the final product of all of our efforts of peering, questioning and finally selecting from hundreds of pieces of art, poetry and prose will delight you as we invite you to stand beside us and look into the finer workings of South Seattle Community College.

One thing we do know is that, for many of the writers and artists, part of what led to the expression of their secret selves was the effort, encouragement and instruction from their teachers here at South. We thank Mike Hickey and Jennifer Moss (Creative Writing), Mary Lantz (Painting and Drawing), James Lobb (Ceramics), Jan Koutsky (Digital Art), Kenji Tachibana (photography), Steve Ford (Autobody) and all the other instructors who had a hand in motivating students to create and submit their art.

Flight of FrenzyCarol Morris

Untitled Milana Fin (Photography) Front CoverIdentify Kim Burroughs (Photography) Inside Front CoverMe Daniel Vu Epiphone (Digital Art) Back CoverFlight of Frenzy Carol Morris (Acrylic) 4 Editors’ Note 4Climbers Margot Newman (Clay) 5Sunset Forest Nancy Elliott (Acrylic) 6Thoughts from the Window Sill Sarah Austin (Poetry) 7Virgil & Dante Brandon Rountree (Ink) 7An Old Classic Johanna Lench (Photography) 8Man Eats Car Christopher Tilstra (Poetry) 9Clown of Hearts Emilda Padullo (Digital Art) 10, 11Babushka Gretchen Flickinger (Collage) 12Babushka Paula Jacoby McCarthy (Poetry) 13Art Saves Lives Katharine Watts (Persuasive Essay) 14, 15Painted Hood Hance Edwards 15Strumming My Escape Liberty Cruz (Poetry) 16Sentimental Keys Monnii Boatwright (Photography) 17Pray for the Dead Sally Phnouk (Photography) 18The Walk Micaela Gomez (Personal Essay) 18,19Crystal Peaches Jolee Nebert (Photography) 20Tina Krysta J. Perozzo (Personal Essay) 21Incendiary Brynna Stariha (Painting) 22Heart of Stone Chris Cody (Poem) 23High Tide Patricia J. Williams (Pen and Watercolor) 23The Red of Night Chelsea Holman (Acrylic) 24Shadows of Satin Heather Stone (Short Story) 25-27Sea and Trees Barbara Brozusky (Acrylic) 28Man Emerging Carol M. Griffin (Acrylic) 29Twins Gema Baldwin (Watercolor) 30Sunset at the Cove Rheda Helman (Pastel) 31Our New House Tracy Hansmire (Digital Art) 32Fuschia Rhododendron Terry Ahern (Digital Art) 32Bullet Fernando J. Duenas (Poem) 33Ol’ Laz is Back Michael Warlum (Acrylic) 34Lazarus Alex Hughes (Poem) 34The Motherland Nary Nouch (Acrylic) 35Making Waves Bill Cruikshank (Acrylic) 35Everything I Used To Be Brian Gaston (Short Story) 36-38Heaven’s Light Johanna Lench (Photography) 38It’s Tough to See Venice From a Cartwheeling Bus Alexander Hughes (Poem) 39Traveling Baby Yana Rudneva (Painting) 40Every Goddamn Morning Montana Fillius (Poetry) 41Majestic Mountains Barbara Selberg (Acrylic) 43Gifts from Cambodia Souphanmy Manifong (Poem) 43Vase Leslie Weiser (Clay) 43

As we have tried to do for the past few years, we have increased the type of work showcased in these pages. One of the student editors had the notion that we should take a look at the great stuff being created in some of our technical programs. Therefore, this year’s Anthology includes for the very first time an image of art produced in South’s Automotive Collision Technology program. What a natural and brilliant idea!

For all of those who risked exposure, we are awed by the courage required to submit your private selves to public scrutiny. And what we have learned by gazing into the expressions of our contributors is that they have, indeed, all refrained from being painted as ordinary.

~ Don Jensen, Gema Baldwin, Holly Gilman, Jolee Nebert, and Micaela Gomez

All students are encouraged to submit their work, produced either for a class or independently. For information on submitting to next year’s student

anthology, or to inquire about working on the team of student editors, contact Holly Gilman, [email protected].

54

Layout Design and Photography: Glenn Gauthier, Public Information Office, South Seattle Community College

Climbers Margot Newman

Sunset Forest

Virgil & DanteBrandon Rountree

Looking out the windowand down the street, past the dirty glass.The distance from hereto there.We’ve heard of slowing down timeof adding more hours in the daymore time with loved onesmore time to completebut what if we slowed down gravitythings would fall from the windowmuchslowerfewer teacups would be shattered fewer vases brokenwith less water to clean upmore time to catch the falling pieceand rain would take its sweet time. But if gravityslowed would it be harder to fall in love?

Thoughts from

the Window

Sill Sarah Austin

Nancy Elliott

7 6

An Old ClassicJohanna Lench

Man Eats CarChristopher Tilstra

this man ate this car because he was hungryobviouslyisn’t that why we eat anything anyways?he must have had one hell of a steel deficiencywhen he looked at the car and saw a Hostess cupcakelike a pregnant women craving pickles and ice creamhe knew that he would DIEif he didn’t eat this car

this man was enough of a realist to understand that his mouthgaping maw as it wascould never possibly fit that entire Daewooso he took it apartstarting with the lug nutswhich incidentally were the parts most hard on his digestion

only after the fact did people begin to assign meaning to his actionsonly after the fact did he become a champion for the cause against modernization only after the fact was he known as the man who started the green movement

9 8

Screaming… Excitement.Yelling… Disappointment.This is all I hear and see.I am shuffled and bentvigorously, daily.This friction wears my edges.My color begins to fade,I wear a crooked smile,but it’s obviously fake.People buy-in. People cash-out.They come and go,but I am stuck here,at this table,on this green felt,a fuzzy prison,shuffled and shuffled,over and over again.The monotony, it kills me,And you wonder whyI have a knife in my head.

Clown of HeartsEmilda Padullo

The King of Hearts

Tasha Le

11 10

An azure dayI go for a long walkclouds sit packed like bigstacks of meringue

I listen to real old musicand I listen to the newa meld of psychedelic angstdance from ear to earcrash in the center of my mindkaleidoscope of notesnever played before

the fugue begins to splinterthe cat wants to eatthe dog has to peesomething has to give

She never sees me coming until I am almost right next to herBabushka pirouettes up off the benchshe grasps her chest shoulders raisehands clench into fistsher liquid brown eyes give way to solid black

She stares at the dogas if she is in shockand there is nothingI can doMy warm smileit is not enough that you will be assured and so the dog and I walk quickly walk away

Babushka widowhead covered in blacktrimmed in whitelike Chopin’s pianobefore it became kindlingon its fateful defenestration day.

Babushka Paula Jacoby McCarthy

BabushkaGretchen Flickinger

13 12

The children arrived home, rosy-cheeked and panting, and plopped their backpacks onto the dining room table. “How was your first day of school?” I asked. All three chimed in at once, unloading their experiences of the cafeteria, their new teachers, the kids they’d met, and all of the things that were different from the schools they’d left behind in Wisconsin. Their favorite part of every school day had always been “the Specials”: music, art, and PE. When I inquired about which days they had Specials this year, they told me they had music one day and PE another. Period. Something was missing. “What day do you have art?” I asked. They looked at me with blank faces. “We don’t,” my son informed me. “What do you mean you don’t? You don’t have an art room? The art teacher comes to your class?” “No. We don’t have an art teacher. At all.” Because art is an essential component to a well-rounded education, I was certain that my child was mistaken. But when I called the school the following morning to verify, I was told that there was no money for an art teacher. Each class was dependent on an “art docent”, a parent who would volunteer to come in once every four to twelve weeks to lead an art activity; some classes didn’t even have an art docent. I was floored. How could this be? How could they not recognize the importance of art in a child’s education? Every child should have opportunities to explore their world through art, music, and movement; without those experiences, academic instruction is flat, missing the mark of teaching to the learning styles of over half the students. Schools’ budgets may be tight, but art and music curricula must remain intact if students are expected to gain the skills necessary do well in the standard subjects. In Wisconsin’s Elmbrook School District, the academic subjects came alive through the Arts, with instruction in music, PE, and art for nearly two hours each per week. Far from being time taken away from academics, this was where the kids got hands-on training that engaged them and related back to the history, geography, social studies, math, reading assignments and science they were learning in the classroom. Art reaches even very young children by visually and emotionally stimulating their senses, making them receptive to learning subjects and information we might imagine is outside the scope of their abilities. As kindergarteners, my children and their classmates learned to paint “in the style of” various artists in art class. In the classroom, they discussed periods of art and were taught the alphabet as it corresponded to the names of famous artists or pieces of art. On a field trip to the Milwaukee Art Museum, these youngsters were not bored: they enthusiastically recognized famous pieces, could take an educated guess at the artist of an unfamiliar painting or sculpture by its style, and could examine a painting for clues about what was happening in history at the time of its creation. They understood that groundbreaking art movements were started by people who saw

the world differently, and that there is no right or wrong answer in making art; with the possibility of failure removed, the children themselves created art fearlessly. These kids would do well in academic subjects throughout the remainder of their education, because they were willing to take risks and think outside the box. They will grow up to be the critical thinkers and problem solvers of their generation, because they were taught to see the world “through artist’s eyes.” Many real-world skills can be taught through music in a way that engages a child better than expecting him to sit at a desk with eyes forward, feet and hands still and quiet. Within our district, all first graders were familiar with Stravinsky’s “Firebird”; they learned the story and background of the piece, gained a sense of rhythm and spatial awareness by waving chiffon scarves and dancing to the music, and stepped out the beats and notes on floor charts. By learning to read music and to write their own, these 6-year-olds gained math skills: notes and time signatures are fractions. As the year progressed, they could listen to a piece of classical music and tell which instruments were being used; those listening skills allowed them to pick up on details in class lectures later. They could tell why a genre sounded they way it did: composers, instruments available or popular in a particular period, and perhaps political or religious influences, or country of origin. This approach to history, math, and listening skills resulted in better absorption and retention of the information than if it had been presented in lecture, because it had a relevant hands-on application and enlivened multiple intelligences. While we lived in Wisconsin, my children were lucky to take part in the Arts in Community Education program (ACE), a collaboration between the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra, other arts organizations, and schools in the area. Symphony, theatre, and ballet ensembles came to the classrooms three times per school year to provide hands-on experiences that enhanced the academic curriculum. The highlight of every school year was attending a symphony performance at the magnificent Uihlein concert hall. The majority of students in the district played at least one instrument, beginning in the third grade orchestra or maybe joining the band in fourth grade. It is no coincidence that children who play instruments do well academically; music training helps them develop study skills, a sense of responsibility, and the ability to think creatively. Scores on standardized and classroom tests were the best in the state, and 95% or better of graduates in the district go on to attend a 4-year college or university. It was no surprise that at my children’s new schools, with limited music and art education, standardized test scores were in the dumps, kids were bored with school, and the dropout rates were higher. How could they learn to think for themselves when so much of the year was spent “teaching to the test,” in hopes that higher WASL scores would score better funding for the schools? Critical thinking is undervalued in an educational system that turns out drones for short-term economic gain rather than free

thinkers who can forge ahead for the betterment of mankind, and a new class of workers and voters is being created who will neither question authority nor look for solutions. Arturo Madrid, Distinguished Professor of Humanities at Trinity University, said that “quality in our society proceeds in large measure out of the stimulus of diverse modes of thinking and acting; out of the creativity made possible by the different ways we approach things; out of diversion from the paths or modes hallowed by tradition” (323). When we narrow a student’s education by removing the creative components that encourage thinking in favor of rote memorization of facts, and dictate that they receive a limited core of academic studies only, we have destroyed the quality of student and citizen being turned out by our educational institutions. Music can be a child’s voice. My aunt, Jane, is an elementary music teacher in a district that had a large influx of children from Bosnia. In addition to processing the traumas they had witnessed in their homeland before leaving, many of those children had difficulty learning a new language. One little boy had barely spoken a word all school year, and struggled socially and academically. One day every year, Jane encourages any kid who can play an instrument to bring it and perform a piece for the class. That silent little boy raised his hand and pointed to the piano. “Clavier?” he asked in German. Jane granted permission, not knowing what to expect; the boy sat at the piano, and classical music flowed from his fingers through the keys. The class applauded. At that moment, he shed his shell and opened up. His academic studies improved, he made friends, and frequently visited Jane’s room throughout the remainder of the school year to play the piano. That one opportunity made the difference between a child lost and a child found. In my high school, a refugee student who barely spoke English excelled in art, a universal language. He used sculpture and drawings to communicate the beauty of his culture, and to exorcize the horrors of a war at home where most of his family had been killed. He created a bridge through art connecting his country to ours, his reality to ours, without the need for written or spoken language. Art became his voice.

I, too, have used art in the classroom to reach a broader range of students and tie their studies to a relevant, hands-on experience. A few years ago, I became the art docent for a fourth grade class, using quilts as a way to show family history, regional techniques, historical patterns, and to illustrate “community,” the theme of their social studies unit. The class was disproportionately male (21:4), so when we first began making our own “classroom community” quilt I heard a lot of comments about sewing being for girls; over the 4-week period of the project, their attitudes changed. The kids used math skills to measure and cut the pieces for our pattern. I taught them to embroider their favorite quotes from the book the class was reading. Several kids requested to sing while they sewed. The teacher informed me that, on days I wasn’t there to work with them, the biggest troublemakers and slackers in class were begging to stay in at recess to work on their embroidery; many went above and beyond the quote to embroider illustrations as well. Just as important as the reading, math, social studies, and history gained during the project, they felt pride, accomplishment, and community through art when the completed quilt was presented to the teacher. This year, the Des Moines Iowa School District faces a huge budget gap. In response, the school board decided to cut 300 teaching positions, starting with art, music, and PE. These classes were deemed “non-essential” when compared to the academic core classes. For many students, academics don’t come easily, yet every child needs to have at least one area in school in which he or she can find a sense of accomplishment; a kid who can’t do math might be a talented painter, a kid who can’t write well might be able to play an instrument. Perhaps a kid’s only measure of success comes from being the kid who can consistently make baskets or who is the fastest runner in PE, or on a high school sports team. These opportunities to shine can be the determining factor to keeping a kid in school. It is unconscionable that a district would cut these programs from their budget, while expecting to retain students through graduation. I predict that next year, when the cuts have gone into effect, and in the years that follow, they will see a drop in standardized test scores and graduation rates, and a rise in negative behaviors among students. Academic core classes are important, but we must preserve funding for the arts in all schools. Art teaches critical thinking that will make the difference in the careers and daily lives of the upcoming generation. It creates a sense of self-esteem for a kid who might otherwise drop out of school or life. It creates opportunities to excel, communicate, and take risks in a medium where there is more than one answer to the problem. Art is essential. Art saves lives.

Works CitedMadrid, Arturo. “Chapter 7: Cultural Encounters.” Across Cultures: A Reader for Writers. Eds. Robert Becker and Sheena Gillespie. New York: Pearson, 2011. 323. Print.

Art Saves Lives Katharine Watts

15 14

Painted HoodHance Edwards

pounding fingers against the pianomy fingers waltz across the keysperfect rhythmic vibrationsfulfill my father’saspirationsand my mother’s expectations ofdiscipline

fingers beating against the keysmy wrists go deadand my knuckles numbjust to perform and please youit’s hostile to sit here poised

I refrain from being painted as ordinarylike molded jelloI refuse to portraythat standardized Asian girlwho plays the pianoand gets perfect A’s

the only thing you care aboutis perfectiontoo busy to notice I am no longer 13and have replaced little floral dresseswith tattered, ripped jeans

across the pianomy fingers refuse to waltzpounding my fist against the keysI can no longer pretend

Strumming My Escape Liberty Cruz

Sentimental Keys17 16

Monnii Boatwright

Pray for the DeadSally Phnouk

Tlachichila, Zacatecas, Mexico is a small pueblo nestled a top the Sierra Madres Mountain range. It’s so high up, at night the stars seem like if I had reached for them they would have been within my grasp. A small insignificant town with a population of less than a thousand people, it will forever burn within my memories. I left my yellow stucco house before the sun was up. I walked through the streets knowing this would be the last time I would ever see Tlachichila. The town is only five miles long by approximately five miles wide. Most of it is farm land, most of it owned by my Grandma. It’s a pretty primitive town; very few of the houses have running water. I walk up the street towards the plaza town. I pass our family’s disco. All of the houses on my street are brightly colored, not like how they are in Seattle. The colors in Mexico seem so much brighter. The radiant sun seems to magnify the bright oranges, yellows, and turquoises just like a Kodak picture. Things are still cool though, the perfect time for one last view. I enter the plaza from the left side of town. I pass the ice-cream parlor and stop, staring at the beautiful gazebo in the center. It has bright coral and fuschia geraniums hanging off of its roof. The ground is made of bricks, laying in a nice pattern; they remind me of a labyrinth. The gazebo is painted a bright crisp white, and the roof is painted a red to match the red flowers and bricks surrounding it. Good bye town center.

The Walk Micaela Gomez

I turn away and walk to my left. I stop in front of the towering white gates connected to the tall brick pillars. The wrought iron design is of angels and crucifixes. I push them open and walk up the long brick stairs. The only church in Tlachichila is a hundred years old. On the outside, it’s a tall building made of brick. It looks more like a school house except for the huge cross above the doors. I take its image in, trying to memorize it. To the right of me are basketball courts. I smile just thinking about how annoyed the father would get during mass when he would be interrupted by the sound of a basketball bouncing on the pavement, or the loud cheer of children after making a basket. Directly in front is a clock tower. It chimes loudly before mass, calling us all to the church. They also chime the bells seven times when someone dies. I can still hear the bells. I walk through the doors of the church expecting to be alone; I am not though. Many of the women in town are already there, waiting for me. Everyone grieves together in Tlachichila, just as everyone would have come to rejoice with me if things had turned out differently. Inside the church in the front is a large statue of Saint Augustine and he stares down his congregation from a top of a large marble stage. The inside of the church is white and the walls are a lathed plaster and cracked in some areas but nonetheless are still well taken care of. It smells of the lemon oil used to polish all of the ornate wood pieces and the benches. It’s really a beautiful church inside. These women and I sit for hours inside the church. Together we watch the sun come up. We do mass for my son, his first and his last time in that church. The mortician had brought him to me there. After mass we wait for everyone to gather, so we can all take him to his resting place. We, to the outside world, could have looked like a parade: a procession of mainly women and children with the occasional spats of men here and there. Except for the four men carrying my Jovanny’s small sarcophagus, I know the others very little. We march in silence over the unpaved gravel roads, our feet sometimes struggling to grasp whatever road that lay beneath them. I inhale the smell of pungent, rich, red dirt, the aroma strong in my nostrils. A cool breeze is fluttering against me, cooling the temperature some, making the heat bearable. The sun rivaling the breeze beats down on our backs. Our black rebozos covering our hair and our black attire also beckon to the heat, but no one complains. We march on, to lay him at rest, our task at hand. The beautiful rustic view is calming and lightens my heavy heart for a brief moment. We have walked the longest half a mile in my life. I stare straight ahead fixated on willing my legs to go. We near a giant statuesque Oak tree. It stands strong and tall against the long prairie grass. This solitary, serene tree with nothing but the blue sky accompanying it is the first indication that we have reached our destination. The second would be the sports field next to it. This long straight away of flat land is perfect for the sporting field as well as for the cemetery.

I hold my breath as we pass through the rusted wrought iron gates. Exhaling in disbelief, I tell myself this is happening to someone else, not to me. I touch my soft but flat belly, a clear indication that indeed it is happening to me. What had been there for six months is clearly missing now. Reality sets in and I grow dizzy with grief. The ornate mausoleums stand before us; each structure bearing some kind of religious symbol is painted white. We pass through this maze, like ants finding their way through an ant farm. Bright yellow marigolds cover the crypts and tombstones. They are the traditional funeral flower in Zacatecas. I stop, amazed by the flowers on a grave, lowering my hand to gently feel the bright yellow flower. Feeling the softness of them under my hand, I pull away and continue walking. Three years later after purchasing my first home, my American husband—Jovanny’s father—tries to surprise me by planting those same death flowers in front of our home. He stands next to me, proud of the work he has done in the yard. Happiness is exuding off of him, waiting in anticipation for me to respond happily to the flowers. I turn and look at him blankly. Stalking forward, I touch one of the flowers. That simple touch ignites a fire in me. I rip every one of those flowers out of the ground, chucking them all behind me in a mad fury. Exhausted and covered in dirt, I stormed inside, leaving him utterly baffled about what just occurred. I can’t say that I remember much of the service. I feel the heat of the sun and the slow touch of the breeze. Gentle hands guide me along to ensure I find my way to my son’s final resting place. The earth beneath my knees is hard and compact as I am pulled to a kneeling position to pray. I do not bow my head like everyone else is. I stare aimlessly ahead, my eyes fixed on the perpetual horizon. The sky and earth hug each other endlessly. Someone is gathering me to a standing position and an echo of amen rings around me, voices in unison. My heart feels as cold and heavy as the white and grey marble that now encases my Jovanny’s small coffin. I want to stand there forever; I, in my all black shrouds standing drunkenly, one hand fixed on the all white tomb. A stark contrast we must look like. I touch it gingerly, nothing but cold death underneath my fingers, yet I am unable to pull my hand away. The ceremony concludes and I am being nudged to walk the half a mile home. I have no recollection of that walk home. Now eight years later these memories are the only ones that form in my mind when family speaks of Tlachichila. Overshadowing the good memories, this memory makes everything obscure, or ominous and black. I left on a flight to Seattle that night and have yet to ever return to my once beloved Tlachichila.

“I have no recollection of that walk home.”19 18

Are you in need of a vacation from your emotions? Are you tired of the nagging, bitching, and constant disappointments, or are you just looking to increase your confidence, alertness, and energy level? Possibly you just want some incredible weight loss? Perfect. Tina will help you out with all that. She will be there for you day and night, always picking you up when you’re down. Tina is an unbelievable multipurpose aide. It only takes one meeting with Tina and you will fall in love. She will lure you with her intense fusty aroma, shimmer and affection. Once you allow Tina to enter your life, she becomes your everything. You will immediately begin to generate excuses just to be with her and your mutual friends, and eventually you feel you owe her your life. Tina is very persuasive. For instance, she will convince you that it is okay to take your babies out at all hours of the night to some stranger’s houses and leave them alone for hours while you join her and your friends in the other room. Not having a care in the world, you will sometimes even forget your responsibilities as a parent, such as feeding or giving your child something to drink. Bathing or brushing their teeth is completely out of the question; you won’t have time for that, nor will you think your babies need clean clothes because you need to spend all your time with Tina. She is great at finding babysitters too. You will be able to go out with her for days at a time and not have a need to check in with them. On numerous occasions Tina has found permanent babysitters for children. Maybe you can be just as lucky! Before long she will have you believing you are the only one who matters, invincible even. You will spend endless days with her. Some who don’t know her will probably say you are addicted to her, but you know you won’t be like the rest. You will say to yourself, “I won’t be like that guy.” You are correct, you won’t be like “that guy.” Until Tina leaves you. The day you don’t know where she went or how to get her back is the day when you realize the power she has over you. You need her in your life to be happy; nothing else matters but to get her back. She has now put you in predicaments that, as your normal self, you would never enter. You will do anything to get her back, anything. Something as small as pawning some of your deceased mother’s jewelry, pilfering from your child’s piggy bank, selling you state-issued food stamps for fifty cents on the dollar or stealing from what friends and family you have left. Maybe you can start stealing items from stores and returning them for cash, just to have money to spend on her. At this point you are a professional thief, and why? Just to get Tina back? Now stealing has just become another addiction. So you will steal cars with nothing but a flat head screw driver and a little encouragement from Tina. Sometimes you will sell it, parts of it, sell systems of it, or sometimes you just want to take it for a joyride. Possibly you just want to see if you could, so you steal it just to park it three drive-ways down. Either way Tina has turned you into a criminal.

Tina Krysta J. Perozzo

At this point in your relationship, you will chase her, catch her and she will seem to satisfy you, yet you can never be fully satisfied anymore. She will vanish again and again, always leaving you wanting more. You will soon go through a withdrawal process. Only 24 to 48 hours from the last time you saw her is when you become mean and agitated, crazy without sleep because of your severe anxiety. You don’t care who your behaviour affects, could be your friends, parents, or even your children. Regardless you don’t care. She will take all your money, your house, friends, family and get your children taken away. Tina left you with only one thing, the need to depend on her. Now you have hit rock bottom and have nothing to get her back but to sell yourself. You can trade your dignity just to touch, smell, or even taste her again. Guess what? you’ve become “that guy.” Tina doesn’t care who you are or what you do; if you meet her she will take over your life. Whether you are a father, son, brother, sister, grandmother, doctor, lawyer, janitor or a stay at home mom; doesn’t matter to Tina, she will destroy you and your family. Ultimately, Tina will detach you from your feelings, make you sickly skinny, give you a false sense of long-lasting energy and she won’t nag you or tell you how bad of a parent you are. On the other hand, she takes away your ability to be truly happy, makes your teeth so rotten that they just fall out of your head, creates big craters in your face, and she has even made people turn their skin inside out. There is not one good thing about her; Tina will ruin your life; she ruins everyone she touches.

Crystal PeachesJolee Nebert

21 20

IncendiaryBrynna Stariha

High TidePatricia J. WIlliams

Heart of Stone Chris Cody

Whether disco music or sweet sambaThe stone can dance no complicated or fancy stepsDance instructors act pusillanimously when it comes to stonesFor they have no left feet.

This open mouthed assertion’Regarding stone cold grooves is unkind to the rock of whom I speakOne who spent countless seasons working his way towardSandy shores to experience swing-similar moves

Ten thousand years drifting on currentsSoaking salt water whilst working rocky hipsNubbins in training for a grand ball or shocking grindRocks learn their rhythm from the seat too

At last interminable journey endedGranite covered coast sighted marble pillarsHousing halls of funk and philanderingWhere mineral mates meet for merriment

Difficulty for our inanimate brethren beginsUpon reaching destination reliance on kindness only worksIf a ride garnered from a beach pedestrianDoesn’t get you thrown back in

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The Red of NightChelsea Holman

The front of the line started at an unassuming green steel door, propped open by a white bucket filled with rocks. The end of the line disappeared behind the building. Every day at eight o’clock AM and five o’clock PM, they would line up for a plate of hot food, thankful for the warmth in their bellies. Well, most of them. Etta was late this Tuesday evening as she had been in a territory fight with another woman who was known to act hysterical on the streets in order to swindle gullible city-goers into giving her money. She was a crackhead named Denise and was notorious for ratting out new dealers in order to avoid jail time. Denise had shoved aside Etta’s few belongings neatly arranged in a covered stoop of a condemned building - a sleeping bag, a duffle filled with clothes for each season, a red shopping basket, and a stack of old tattered magazines - and replaced the space with her own assortment of possessions. This had happened in mere minutes as Etta was only around the corner relieving herself in a Port-A-Potty intended for construction workers. Upon finding Denise in her space, Etta confronted her with a mouthful of words filled with venom, of which Denise didn’t understand half but still took offense to. Etta wrapped her arms around her stomach in a futile effort to fill the void. The end of the line meant she got the cold dregs of beef stew or lasagna or whatever they were serving that day. She hated being last. Hated it. A younger man standing in line asked for her name. Her reply was the left shoulder of her self-embraced body. He continued to harass her about not getting laid due to the fact she was old and ugly. She didn’t give a shit about these people. She wanted to vomit at the thought that she was one of them, even after a few years in. “Hey there Etta,” said a young female volunteer with a messy updo. “I hope you like today’s macaroni and cheese with broccoli. I helped cook it!”

The enthusiasm was nice, but a little too much to bear. Etta half smiled and nodded a thank you. She choked down the room temperature mac and cheese while movies played in her head about the restaurants she enjoyed every Sunday with her husband. Lamb chops with a cranberry reduction at Tula, filet mignon with a French red wine from Tony’s Steakhouse, and always for dessert an ice cream cone from the local San Francisco creamery. No kids meant Gerald could afford to take her out every week for movies and fine dining. That bastard died too early. He was supposed to live until he was ninety. Startled at how long she had been sitting there staring at the empty plate with trails of cheese turning hard, she picked herself up and without looking at anyone snuck out into the damp evening. Another layer would be in order for tonight. The temperature was dropping lower these days and the sun went into hiding earlier. The air smelled fresh and new, like flowers at a farmers market. Odd, she thought. The only thing around were rows of unassuming cement buildings meant for industrial life.

Shadows of Satin Heather Stone

The air smelled fresh and new, like flowers at a farmers market.

Instead of taking her usual route home, she walked left onto Brooke Street instead of forward down 6th Avenue. Feeling nostalgic, she yearned for the smell of good food and to see the faces of a restaurant she and Gerald would frequent. The gum speckled pavement held her gaze until she came upon the big window that showcased people drinking wine, laughing, glowing. The table tops were adorned with cream colored linens, white plates rimmed in gold and little vases filled with lavender and basil. She yearned for just a taste.

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A crisp breeze blew a piece of her dull red hair into her face. As she tucked it behind her ear, a man’s voice snapped her out of the self indulgent drool fest. She hadn’t seen him when she first walked up, but there he was, a homeless black man sitting on the other side of the restaurant window with a fabricated instrument singing with every ounce of passion contained in his body, and then some. By a force of magnetism, Etta felt as if she had floated over to the man, and then, in a moment of clarity, dropped to her knees. She didn’t feel the chilly air around her neck or the sharp pebble pressing into her kneecap. The ache of her back from sleeping on hard ground disappeared. She felt alive, felt as though this man knew how she felt and was singing it. Her eyes filled with water and in a weak attempt to keep it there, she wept. She cried at the feet of the man singing her soul out loud. It felt like years of tears had finally come out of hiding and were not afraid to show themselves anymore. It could have been minutes, hours or eternity that she had been crying. This feeling knew no time. People walked by; others listened for a few minutes and left a couple dollars only to go home to their pillow top mattresses and down feather blankets. Finally the man laughed a quiet genuine laugh and looked sideways at Etta. “My name’s Pops. What’s yours?” “Etta,” she said with a timid smile, wiping her face dry with her hands. “Etta. Now that’s a pretty name. Where you from?” She took a deep breath in and puffed out her cheeks with her exhale. “Do you want to know where I sleep or where I lived before the streets or where I was born?” His wide smile showed perfectly white teeth against his dark skin. Deep crow’s feet wrinkles at the corner of his eyes almost matched Etta’s in depth and number. “Where’d you live before the streets?” “Oakland Hills, in a nice house too,” she paused and eyed Pops. She had only just met this man, yet somehow she wanted to tell him everything. “My husband died six years ago and failed to tell me he was renting the house. I thought the bastard owned

it. Thought I’d have a place to live, apparently this is what you get for assuming,” she held her hands out side to side. “His family is useless, too. They’re in big industry and never much cared for me, so when he went, so did I in their eyes. My father left for another man when I was twenty five. He’s been happy living in France with Tom, or at least I hate to think so. My mom died ten years ago from leukemia. Everything got so fucked up, so here I am.” She blushed for the first time in years and excused herself. “Stay. It’s okay. I got nowhere to be but here, talking to you,” he said. “I lived in the Bay area with my wife and two daughters. I was the only man in the house except for the cat, Meaty. My oldest, Trudy, was twelve and my youngest, Teagan, was seven. As a family we decided to go into the city to a specialty chocolate store that had just opened up. They sold all kinds of chocolate, spicy, almond, toffee and all that. I don’t know. I’m not really much of a chocolate guy. On the way there, a car was going the wrong direction on the freeway, in my lane. I was driving and tried to swerve to avoid the lunatic, but couldn’t. When I came back to life in the hospital, I asked where my family was. Where are my girls? Where is my wife? No one would answer. Finally a doctor came in and broke the news to me: My family didn’t make it. Daddy didn’t protect them. I choose to live in these streets.” “You choose this? Why?” she asked in disbelief. “Well, I can’t go back to the life I had, now can I? Nothin’ would be the same. I don’t know that life no more. Now I make music. I know I’m gonna see all my girls in heaven one day, be rejoined. Out here, I’m free. I’m free as a bird to make all this wonderful music and I can feel my soul healing little by little.” His instrument was put together with various bits of this and that. A five gallon water jug cut in half turned upside down was the body and main drum, fashioned to it were bits of metal that looked like tabs. All four, when struck, were perfectly tuned in harmony. Drums and tabs and his soulful voice were all that he needed. He sang of heartbreak and hope, love and loss. The awkward hand motions needed to make the sounds didn’t interfere with the perfectness of the song. Gritty blues with melodic

choruses and heart piercing lyrics accompanied by unique drum beats held Etta in a trance. “How long have you been writing songs?” “Ever since I can remember. I was probably writing songs before I knew how to use the toilet. Music is in my blood, it is my blood.” He smiled wide. “I love my music. I like to find spots in the city that feel right, you know? A space that can handle it. What about you Etta? You have any passions? Any loves?” She quickly inhaled through her nose and looked to the sky, crossing her arms. “No. Not anymore,” she said. “So you had passions then?” “Ages ago, in another lifetime.” She paused then gave in to his smile, “Ok. It was ballet. I used to dance.” She hadn’t told anyone in years. In fact, if her husband were still around, he probably wouldn’t have even remembered. “Ahh a dancer she was,” he chuckled. “Do you still have the drive inside you? Perhaps tucked way down in your soul? That piece of you that feels like you have to dance to live?” Etta’s eyes welled up with tears again. She remembered how the ballet room smelled, the soft silk ribbons of her point shoes, how free her soul felt. She hadn’t thought about dance in so long; that part of her died a long time ago. It died when Etta killed it. “I used to,” she said, her voice conveying loss. “As a young woman, I would practice and practice until my legs felt like rubber. Not because I felt I had to be perfect, but because I loved the way my body moved. I loved how easily I could bring my leg up into the air. Loved how I felt alive. Who knew that at one point in my life I could do standing splits?” “I see it. I see that love inside you. You think that the world has turned its back on you. That you got no choice but to be out here, you put up a cold front, Etta. But I see that love and fire inside you. You need to feel it.” “Ha! I don’t think so. That part of me is gone. I think you’re a little delusional.” “No ma’am I am not delusional. Matter of fact, I see things pretty clearly. I see that you haven’t felt love for yourself or for the world in a very long time.

You know what I think? I think you need to dance.” “What? Are you crazy? I can’t dance anymore.” “Sure you can. You’re not on stage, you don’t have to perform for anyone but yourself.” “Pops, I’m as old as you are probably, this body doesn’t move like it used to. No way.” “Etta. Close your eyes. I want you to open your heart and move your body however feels right. Let that passion flood your veins, clear your mind, feel the beauty in the world.” Etta humored him. She closed her eyes and stood there, feeling ridiculous. Pops began a song in his deep Louis Armstrong-like voice with the light tinkling of the tabs as his only accompaniment. She hesitated, didn’t know where to begin, felt awkward, until it was as if an otherworldly force was moved her limbs. Clumsily at first, but as the percussion started, Etta found herself using every part of her body to express every emotion she had felt all at once. Grief, happiness, sorrow, joy all came flooding from her heart into her body. Her legs, arms, head all twirling and swaying in perfect synchronicity with the energy of the music. This feeling was better than any drug the world had to offer. She laughed and cried, felt stupid and overjoyed. The chilly night air whispered it was time to leave, obeying, she started down the sidewalk, turned to thank him and he was gone.

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Sea and TreesBarbara Brozusky

Man EmergingCarol M. Griffin

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TwinsGema Baldwin

Sunset at the CoveRheda Helman

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Fractured edges of the photographpeel at the cornersof translucent sky.

Paper thin shin capturescrinkled pink rhododendronsbehind you and me, intertwinedon the concrete stepsin front of the house.

Crackled lines like veinsagainst your profile.and in the grain, my armswrap around yourslike a bow.

You are wearing those shoes that don’t shine without you.

I match the rhododendron bushin my pink dressand you and I are quite a spectaclenow lost in time

Through the lens, butterfliesdancing, in a jar.

Our New House Tracy Hansmire

Fuschia RhododendronTerry Ahern

Bullet Fernando J. Duenas

Eagerly awaiting my turnseeking asylum from my wretched prison.Wondering if I’ll ever get to leave, for I was the ultimate.

Thenthirteen “BANGS” rang in my head,one after the other freeing all but one of my fifteen lifelong friends.While being held in that dark chamberwith my last remaining cell mate,I was petrified that we would be next.

I kept hearing those horrid “BANGS,”accompanied by even more atrocious screamsring vividly in my ears, over and over.Screams that overwhelmed me with a feeling of exacerbationfor they were friends, forcibly removed maybe even to be tortured.

Sure enough, my remaining cellmate was withdrawn likethe others, forcibly, screaming as he wentas if in writhing agony.

I was alone in the chamber,it was my turn to look down the barrel, realizing, only then, what I was,where I was and, now, fearing my inevitable fate.

Suddenly, the “BANG” I had been dreadinglouder than all the previous combined. Trying to hold on to the dark and opaque chamber of the gunbut unable to,for the force was too powerful.

While flying through the airwind flowing past as fast as wings, like those of a hummingbirdI saw the carnage that my friends and I helped create,

women, holding babies, both mother and child lifeless on the ground.A bank teller shot multiple times with the kill shot resting in his head.While I am aimed for a child’s heart.

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Making WavesBill Cruikshank

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Trouble is he’s still open in spots,all pulled away from himself,and on clear days the sun shines right through him.Nobody cares to be around him anymore, we’re all a bit scared.And his poor mother, imagine her state; she lost so much already.Somebody strangled all the goats last week and we’re sure it was him.He never used to booze much but now he’s plowed dark to dark.He kicks the dogs when he’s in town.He pissed on the priest’s sandals and clubbed the tax collector.He grins sometimes all the way back to his ears,and hums the songs we sang as we washed his corpse.There’s something queer in his eyes that wasn’t before,and the way he watches the little girls now…He’s living in that cave across the lake like a wretched gentile,barefoot and nearly naked, reeking and weeping.Last night we could hear him over there screaming at the moon:Put it back! Put it back!He’s not at all himself since he came home.He isn’t anybody.

Ol’ Laz is BackMichael Warlum

LazarusAlex Hughes

The MotherlandNary Nouch

Adam and Dr. Michaud sat across from one another, staring at indistinct points of their respective sightlines, just enough to avoid making direct eye contact. Adam gazed at the antique picture frame situated on the bookshelf behind Dr. Michaud. It was a photo of his wife, Alice. She was wearing a white hospital dress gown and holding her newborn baby. Her head was soaked in sweat but her smile was so genuine that it implied the photographer had actually captured a perfect moment in time, a moment of pure joy that transcended the agonizing pain that had preceded it. “Your wife looks so beautiful,” he said. “I envy your life, Dr. Michaud.” Michaud broke from his self-induced trance. He’d been staring at the minute hand of the wall clock just above Adam’s head, counting down to the moments that would signal the triumphant end of yet another torturously boring session. Adam’s disruption of this ritual filled him with a sense of quiet resentment. “Yes she is.” “I didn’t know she was even pregnant,” said Adam. “Congratulations. What’s the baby’s name?” “Strangely enough…it’s Adam.” Michaud offered this reluctantly, but in doing so he surprised even himself. The truth is that he found this patient in particular to be dreadfully dull. And with each session that ended he placed this young man out of sight, out of mind, a mental exercise that ended up making each subsequent visit something of a re-introduction. “I’m honored,” Adam said half jokingly. “I’m glad someone with my namesake gets a fresh start.” “Jesus Christ, this is like a nightmare,” Michaud said, not realizing that he had failed to restrict this thought to the confines of his inner monologue. “Excuse me? Dr. Michaud, are you—?” “I’m getting pretty goddamn sick of having to listen to you get down on yourself, Adam!” He recovered nicely. “You have so much potential. You’re only twenty-nine for Christ sakes! Why resign yourself to the notion that your life is over? And call me Brian, please. You’ve been coming to see me for what, six weeks now?” “Six months,” Adam said. “That’s what I meant, six months. Listen, if you’re unhappy in your job, then quit. Why wait?” “It’s not just that. My girlfriend Anika treats me like shit; it’s worse now than it was—” “Then dump her.” Michaud was determined to undercut every self-pitying remark with an instant solution. “I can’t just quit my job. I’ve got so many college loans to pay off, how am I supposed— ” “File for bankruptcy then. Look Adam, there’s no such thing as a shortcut to happiness. It has to be earned and it means making hard decisions. Your problem is that you’re too afraid of making the wrong decision. You feel like if you do something

drastic, like quitting your job or leaving the shrew, and things actually get worse, you will have only compounded your problems into even bigger ones.” “Yeah, that’s the gist of it, I suppose.” “Well here’s where it gets tricky kiddo. That bleak scenario is a distinct possibility. But if you never bother to try, your life will always be stuck in a stagnant holding pattern.” Adam nodded. The change in his expression showed promise. “But what about karma?” “What about it?” “I feel like I’ve had bad karma my entire life. What if nothing I try to change makes a difference?” Michaud looked visibly irritated. “You’re too hung up on buts and what-ifs. If you’re prone to relying on Karma and fate, then let me tell you something, if a man feels like he’s going to die tomorrow, he’s probably gonna find a way to make it happen. If you want to believe that fate guides your decisions then believe this too: fate can only take you so far because once you get there it’s up to you to make it happen.” Michaud was sure he got that obscure reference from an episode of Star Trek. Regardless of where it came from, he found himself finally starting to have fun with the session. Adam had clearly reached a moment of epiphany. Michaud could tell from the look on his face. It was a kind but simple face, incapable of subtlety or subterfuge. “You’re right. There are so many things I have to do—” “Hold on there tiger,” Michaud put his reading glasses on and opened his notebook looking for a specific passage. The file was thin. He didn’t need to search long. “I want you to start slow. You don’t want to make a bunch of drastic changes all at once. You’ll end up shell-shocked. Now you once told me that every Tuesday, which incidentally, is today, you go to the softball field in Evergreen Park and throw pitches until your arm is numb and spend the majority of your time dreaming about how your life could be better. Do you still do that?” “Yeah, only now I change pitching venues every Tuesday. The kids at Evergreen thought I was a loon. They even called the cops on me once.” “And it’s not even about softball is it? I mean you don’t fancy yourself an aspiring ball player, do you?” Adam exhibited embarrassment. “No, it’s just—” “You’re just chasing your dreams. Maybe you’re just going about it the wrong way though.” Adam didn’t respond. He knew Michaud was right, but he was also tired of being interrupted. “Ok, here’s your homework for tonight. Pick a field and throw one pitch. Imbue the ball with everything you used to be. Fill it with your doubts, fears, frustrations and self pity, then throw it into the air as hard and as far as you can.” “How do I fill the ball?” Michaud gasped a sigh of vexation. “It’s a metaphor Adam, a mental exercise. Just pretend, okay?”

“OK!” Adam felt triumph in his grasp. “Remember, change is slow, but if you try, it can also be so constant that you don’t really know whether your life is better or worse until it is. I know you can do this. And trust me, after you throw that pitch you will feel renewed, like being born again. Just not in the Christian sense.” Michaud grinned with self-satisfaction. He was fairly certain that that one was an original and he made sure to make a note of it in Adam’s file so he could use it for his future novel. Just then the intercom buzzed. “Dr. Michaud, I have your wife on line one.” “Thanks Genie. Tell her I’ll be right there.” Adam smiled, overcome with emotion. His thoughts flooded with feelings of gratitude and spiritual cleansing. “I, I don’t know how to thank you Doctor, I mean, Brian.” “Think nothing of it. But we need to cut this short, this phone call might be important.” “Oh, right, same time next week?” “Of course, Genie will schedule you on your way out.” “Can I give you a hug before I go?” Michaud shuddered. The thought of touching Adam made him wince. “Better to keep this professional Adam. Just think of me as a stripper.” Adam looked befuddled. “Uh, I once had a patient who found his daughter dancing in a strip club. He ended up, well, touching her. Suffice it to say that didn’t end well. Look, talk, but don’t touch.” Michaud laughed uncomfortably. Adam laughed in unison. “You’re a cool cat Doc. Next week then.” “Until then.” As soon as Adam left, Michaud breathed easy. He felt the joints in his jaw ache from all of that faux smiling. He pulled a bottle of sour mash from his bottom left drawer and poured himself a double shot. Alice wasn’t actually waiting for him on the line. It was merely one of many protocols he’d established with Genie for dealing with patients who possessed the ability to slow the fabric of time. Michaud leaned back in his chair and turned to face the window. He caught himself staring at the photo of his wife and son that Adam had been admiring earlier. He smiled gently, taking in the scene and for one brief moment he found himself reliving the birth of his son. He remembered what it felt like to be unencumbered by selfish preoccupations, to love someone without pretense or condition. But the moment quickly passed and he turned back around to face the desk, letting his thoughts drift away from such romantic abstractions. After two more shots he grabbed his coat and walked into the reception area. Genie was standing on her chair trying to adjust the imitation Chagall by the waiting area sofa. Michaud slapped her on the ass with a familiarity that transcended the employer, employee bond. She turned around startled, but quickly smiled.

“Will I see you tomorrow night doll? I got us the same room.” “I can’t wait Brian. You know how I love to play Doctor.” “Excellent. Did you schedule Mr. Densmore for next week?” “Sure did.” Genie winked at him flirtatiously. She was a voluptuous blonde bombshell with a Betty Boop swagger and Angelina Jolie lips, the kind of woman who was accustomed to getting what she wanted. “Oh don’t do that or I’ll never get home. Do me a favor though. Make a note and remind yourself to call Mr. Densmore the day before his appointment and reschedule. I’m not terribly inclined to see him again so soon.” Michaud arrived home an hour later. There was an air of tranquility in the loft. It was the kind of peaceful ambiance that was all too often absent from his psychiatric practice. He headed into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of Pinot Gris from a nearly empty bottle. He finished the glass in record time and walked quietly into the master bedroom to find Alice and Adam in a deep sleep on the bed. He turned around and began to walk in the hallway but was quickly interrupted by his son’s infant moan. Alice woke up in a half daze. “Hey baby, could you do me a favor and feed Adam? I’m so tired. He kept me up all last night.” “Of course sweetheart.” Michaud’s attempts to avoid the typical domestic entanglements for the evening were thwarted. He picked up Adam attempting to rock him into a calm stupor, but to no avail. “How was your day babe?” Alice asked. “Nothing much happened today sweetie. Go back to sleep.” Michaud returned to the kitchen with Adam in arm and prepared a bottle of baby formula. He placed it into a pot of water and waited for it to boil. Noticing that his wine glass was dry, he headed to the cellar to retrieve another bottle. As he opened the cellar door, a fulminant thunderous crash at the window charged him like an electric current. He suddenly turned to face the window while instantaneously taking a step backward in a defensive posture. But there was no footing to step back to, only the empty space of the stairwell. The fall had a surreal quality to it. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and every step he landed on, every fresh break, released a warm sensation of complete and total abandon. It was almost as if he was experiencing his perfect moment in time, not joyous by any means, but life changing nevertheless. When he came to he noticed that he couldn’t move, nor could he hear himself speak. His larynx was crushed but he could still breathe, and both of his legs were broken in several places. As he began to try to pull himself up, he felt an obstruction under his arm. It was Adam’s head. He remembered now. He remembered that he hadn’t been alone in his descent. The boy’s skull had been fractured, completely caved in by the weight of his father’s body, concentrated through the tiny point of his elbow.

Everything I Used To Be Brian Gaston

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Michaud began to thrust his head back and forth with violent intensity and let loose a wail that was at once silent and deafening. After several moments passed, calmness returned to him as he realized he could hardly breathe, as he realized that no amount of remorse could undo that which had been finished before it began. He looked at his son, his pupils glazed with the bitter shame of guilt and saltwater. Blood seeped from the boy’s eye sockets as if he was shedding tears of blood. But his expression exuded exhilaration rather than terror. It was strange. Michaud wondered if his son enjoyed himself on his way to his final moments. Would he have been a thrill seeker, Michaud thought. What kind of man would he have been? But judgment began to shine through the boy’s vacant stare and he had to turn away. This was not the time to entertain pompous self-indulgent notions of what might have been. He removed his shirt and placed it over the small body, then turned his head to face the foot of the staircase. On the second to last step rested an old worn out softball. He reached out to grab it despite his paralysis and noticed a fresh inscription in black sharpie was written on its side. Everything I used to be – it read. Michaud sobbed and chuckled at the same time.

The weatherman called for a mild dusting,and I’m writing a poem,trying to write a poem,thinking about writing a poem,but twenty minutes after our bus is due,the night turns against us like the hand of an angry god,a squall of whistling white bullets exploding across creation,sucking the last lingering warmth violently from the earth,boiling us all instantly frozenat the bus shelter that suddenly isn’t,a mad sudden yelping scrambling for cover,behind garbage cans and thin divider walls and each other,as the world is shrunk to a shaken snow globe,claustrophobic and sickly-lit in the flickering sodium lights,two dozen strangers huddling together,shivering, shaking, shaking hands, sharing coats and hats,wary but weary, and everyone agrees,it never gets like this in Seattle,there must be some mistake,but an hour after our bus is due,a different bus pulls in like a holocaust survivorand jack-knifes elegantly into a fence,the driver pours himself out into the cold,borrows a cell to call in his immediate resignation,and as the temperature nears zero-degrees Kelvin,the absolute freezing point of all atomic matter,I’m passing out cigarettes like a Red Cross man in World War I,to Charlie with his great electrocuted silver bird nest beard flowing down over his belly,to the cauldron-shaped woman with the rhinoceros legs in her Eleanor Roosevelt hat,whose body I use surreptitiously and unsuccessfully as a wind-break,and to all the others,but by now some of us have vanished,simply swirled away into the violent white,and rumors circulate that a yeti or two out in the dark is picking off stragglers,and I’m trying to write a poem,a poem about Venice,a poem about picture about Venice,but there is nothing Mediterranean about this,about the smothering mortuary silencebroken by the occasional curse or coughand what is surely the howl of blood-thirsty arcticwolves in the distance,and in a hypothermic epiphanyI realize I can’t write my poem here,I’ll go to Venice, I’ll write my poem in pleasant,temperate Venice,but then a second bus shudders inwith all the gravity of a dead bird crashing to earthand jack-knifes in the first,

and the fat woman in her Eleanor Roosevelt hat is already savoring us all with Donner Party eyes,our pathetic wagon train of stranded pilgrims,but ninety minutes after it’s dueour bus limps in at least,a frightened half-dead thing,and hardly any of us are left,but as a single sodden popsicled mass we shove inside,and I would forgive the driver had he a bottle in his hand,we collapse in the seats, thankfully strangers again,fingers and faces thaw,and I am sure now I can write my poem,about shadows lurking in empty vasesand windowsills stacked with lonely apples,as the sun rises or sets perfectly over an ancient emptyItalian street hungry for life,but only ten minutes out,at the crest of a hill overlooking the freeway,our bus surrenders like fate to maelstrom,our bus driver throws up his handsas we start our inevitable suicide slide,skidding past houses,caroming off parked cars,spinning faster and faster in a drunken slalom waltztowards the edge of the roadinto the blackest part of night.

Heaven’s LightJohanna Lench

Start slow Adam, he thought. He laid back onto the cold cement floor, resting his head next to his son and allowed his mind to drift into the recesses of his memory, far from the reality of the man he’d become. He thought about the day he proposed to Alice and how she said no right before she said yes just to play with his mind. He remembered the day his son was born and how perfect he was in every minor detail, right down to the last chubby digit. He remembered the day the real estate agent showed him and Alice the loft and how he remarked on what a perfect location it was, right across the street from the Valley High School baseball field. Then he turned back to face his son but not quite close enough to make eye contact. This truly was the ideal place to raise a family, he thought.

It’s Tough to See Venice From a Cartwheeling Bus

Alexander Hughes

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Traveling BabyYana Rudneva

Just in this month, $542 in daycare expenseschildproof orange bottle that keeps her stable, $67the crib, over $200 from Penny’s (Jason wouldn’t let her buy it used)and she hasn’t even been keeping the grocery receipts.

The apartment is cold in autumn, too many bus rides awayfrom the fabric store, where she still hasn’t been promotedand too small even for one-and-one fourth people(much less two-and-one fourth, Jason had remarked).Often she does not get enough sleep and she cannot

keep blaming it on the neighbors now that they’ve moved out.Three hours and sixteen minutes or sometimes just 45 minutesbefore her alarm, a wet and curdling throat-burning noise(reluctantly, Jason used to deal with this)feeding or diaper-changing is not always the solution.

Hadn’t her aunt advised against trusting green eyes?If not, then at least her father had told her she was too youngto settle down, and had offered his home to her(her alone, minus Jason)But between her palm and his doorknob stood her pride.

So one morning she wraps her burden in a ratty polar coat six layers of fleece.Smiling, she leaves this bundle on the cement stepof St. Peter’s Catholic Church, takes the #58 bus home(Jason never calls and so will not have to know)and gets dressed for work.

Every Goddamn Morning Montana Fillius

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The MotherlandNary Nouch

In the twelfth centurymany died here.Hundreds of years agopeople lived here, but now it’s empty.

The temple is floating on the pond.The tall green grasses are swordsprotecting the king.Two big palm trees in the fieldare in love.

Six pairs of serpent headswait on the sidewalk.The building is angryand hungry for people.Dark, gray windowswait to be opened.Hundred year old sand stoneslowly breaks apart.

Moss is unhappy waiting for water on the roof.The tree’s roots are swallowing sand stone and become part of it.

Gray and white cloudsfight on the top of the temple.Sooner or laterthe rain will come.

Gifts from Cambodia Souphanmy Manifong

Majestic MountainsBarbara Selberg

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VaseLeslie Weiser

6000 16th Avenue SW, Seattle, WA 98106 • (206) 934-5300 • www.southseattle.edu

MeDaniel Vu Epiphone