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League for Innovation in the Community CollegeNational Student Literary Competition

Winners Anthology2016 – 2017

Hosted by

Maricopa Center for Learning and Instruction, Tempe, Arizona

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Standing on the Transcendental Sidewalk

If I believed in hearing voices from another world,

they would be singing right now.

I stop. Look around. I look again

at the ground. Cross over. Come on over.

With the point of my right shoe

touching the heel of my left, I take

two steps back; two forward.

Nothing feels the same. How can I explain

that silence hanging in the air

is like a word about to be spoken?

As the mind races toward it, it

draws inward, shutters

like the mighty breath a small girl makes

before falling into sleep.

— Lois Roma-Deeley, Ph.D. Professor Emeritus Paradise Valley Community College

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Maricopa County Community College District is honored to host the League for Innovation National Student Literary Competition 2016–2017. As a vibrant and diverse college community, we are committed to educational excellence. We are also proud to support and encourage the power of the written word.

We congratulate all who participated in this competition and who shared their hearts and minds. We extend special praise to the winners who fearlessly imparted their creativity and insights. They each gave us a unique glimpse into the human spirit, uniting us as a community with their stories. With every word, they embraced this year’s theme: “Live. Breathe. Write.”

As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. famously said, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” Let us continue to celebrate the written word and always remember the importance of telling our story.

Enjoy the living, breathing words penned in this literary anthology.

Maria Harper-Marinick, Ph.D.Chancellor, Maricopa County Community College District

Introduction

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Personal Essay Judge Bio: Rigoberto Gonzalez ...............................................................................................................Page 10 First Place He Doesn’t Know by Lisa L. Wasikowski ..................................................................................................Page 12 Seattle College District

Second Place All My Dreams Torn Asunder by Anwesha Chattopadhyay ...................................................................Page 17 Cuyahoga Community College

Third Place Peeling My Onion by Cynthia Rogers-Harrison ......................................................................................Page 22 Monroe Community College

Fiction Judge Bio: Matthew David Bell ...............................................................................................................Page 28 First Place Flipping the Bird by Maja Malgorzata Zymslowski ...............................................................................Page 30 Maricopa Community Colleges

Second Place Star Eater by Amanda Akers....................................................................................................................Page 36 Sinclair Community College

Third Place Simon’s Dinosaurs by Kelsey Winter .......................................................................................................Page 44 Lane Community College

Table of Contents

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One-Act Play Judge Bio: Virgina Grise ...........................................................................................................................Page 50 First Place A Solider’s Account of Phantasmagoria by Maddi Ghatak ....................................................................Page 52 Foothill-De Anza Community College District

Second Place The Ones We Left Behind by Cynthia Porter ...........................................................................................Page 56 Dallas County Community College District

Third Place Ruthless by Brandon Fair .........................................................................................................................Page 63 Monroe Community College

Poetry Judge Bio: Sarah Vap ...............................................................................................................................Page 70 First Place On the Corner of Rural and Guadalupe by Jaime Faulkner ..................................................................Page 72 Maricopa Community Colleges

Second Place America, True or False by James M. Ballard ...........................................................................................Page 74 Anne Arundel Community College

Third Place Sonny Membrane by Alicia M. Oberlachner ...........................................................................................Page 76 Dallas Community College

Regional Winners ...............................................................................................................................................Page 78

Member College Regional Coordinators .........................................................................................................Page 79

Acknowledgements ...........................................................................................................................................Page 80

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Rigoberto González is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Unpeopled Eden, which won the Lambda Literary Award and the Lenore Marshall Prize from the Academy of American Poets. His 10 books of prose include two bilingual children’s books, three young adult novels in the Mariposa Club series, the novel Crossing Vines, and the story collection Men Without Bliss. His three books of nonfiction include Butterfly Boy: Memories of a Chicano Mariposa, which received the American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation. He also edited Camino del Sol: Fifteen Years of Latina and Latino Writing and Alurista’s new and selected volume, Xicano Duende: A Select Anthology.

Rigoberto Gonzalez is the recipient of Guggenheim, NEA, and USA Rolón fellowships, an NYFA Grant in poetry, the Shelley Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America, The Poetry Center Book Award, and the Barnes & Noble Writer for Writers Award. He is a contributing editor for Poets & Writers Magazine and writes a monthly column for NBC-Latino online. Currently, he is a professor of English at Rutgers-Newark, the State University of New Jersey, and the inaugural Stan Rubin Distinguished Writer-in-Residence at the Rainier Writing Workshop. In 2015, he received The Bill Whitehead Award for Lifetime Achievement from the Publishing Triangle. As of 2016, he serves as critic-at-large with the L.A. Times and sits on the Board of Trustees of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP).

Personal Essay

National JudgeRigoberto Gonzalez

Phot

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First PlaceHe Doesn’t KnowLisa L. Wasikowski

Seattle College District

Second PlaceAll My Dreams Torn Asunder

Anwesha ChattopadhyayCuyahoga Community College

Third PlacePeeling My Onion

Cynthia Rogers-HarrisonMonroe Community College

Personal Essay

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“Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant.”

— Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas

This emotional unrest is like fresh into a break up or like right after Trump was elected or a few weeks into postpartum depression or notice of a bounced paycheck. A disturbance and its ripple effect is a virtual stranglehold on anything settling or peaceful, the pit in the stomach, the inability to keep food down, the constant hiccup of words regretted on repeat.

A couple weeks ago, he had a stroke. My life is far removed from his. We went our separate ways after ripping each other’s hearts out, and did our best to not keep in touch.

First loves. Young and foolish, invincible, constantly self-medicated with food, and deep inhalations of life beyond mirrors and repercussions; we were escapists together, perpetually stuck. We were miserable. We were miserable as individuals. We were miserable in life. We loved each other in ways we could not love ourselves.

Now his eyes are blank, whitewashed, as if their creator took some glue or milk and a soapy sponge and wiped most of it away. Empty, ghostly, devoid of life.

Rounding the halls as they twisted and turned, and eventually led to his room down the way, past a few nurse’s stations. The expectation was of contortion, distortion, undeniable brokenness, a pile of rubble, an unmistakable bad landing, proof all is unwell. Shockingly, the shell looks the same.

We were married young, knew before he proposed it would not work out. Not one for the story books, except maybe fairy tales. Happily ever after is never too fleshed out. Our bond was intense but skewed, dependent and tainted, an unhealthy draw, a pull, a sanctioned hypnosis, a routine woven into the foundation of the day. Feet to the cold hard floor, each step felt like the last, but closer to the next wave of consciousness. We hungered for more, but could not get enough. We wanted to grow old together, but how? Bonds like those are destined to break, but not completely, only enough to move on.

He Doesn’t KnowLisa L. Wasikowski

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The last time we spoke in person was about two and a half years ago, a coffee date in his neighborhood. Been years since then and the time before that, enough to feel awkward, too distanced, too far from each other’s present tense for real connection. Not strangers, exactly. Not friends, but not without love or remorse or a yearning to stay in touch. Ever sit across from a former lover, with lifetimes worth of chapters written that neither of you knew about, neither of you thumbed through, earmarked by loved ones, but barely touched upon, tiptoed across by the leads actually living it? Breaths in, and breaths out, gone.

We frayed for many reasons other than incompatibility and total nonchalance. We were barely grown-up enough to pay rent. I wanted to excel in school and to find myself before being grounded to housewife status, before committing to children and a cottage. He wanted to fade, to skip around and ignore adulthood, board down the slopes, inhale deeply, melt away until the naps faded, and do it all over again. Once we were married, the thrill receded. The sex wasn’t dirty. The play wasn’t fun. The bond was way too legal. We ended bitterly, turned our backs and never rewound. Done.

The day we broke-up for good was the darkest day of my life, at least until then. We had taken other lovers, broken our vows, and never really apologized. I begged him not to go. Down on my knees, pathetic desperation bellowed from my body, a final plea, a dig, a last-ditch effort to get him to stay. Love and escapism were not enough, and there we were, crumbs on the floor, nowhere to go – but away.

We had lives to get on with. How to resurrect when the living are still throwing dirt? When the roses haven’t dried? When the black shrouded shuffle still wanes in the distance? How to move on when life is not life anymore? One foot in front of the other, one breath at a time, one minute, then one hour, then one day, then one week, and it all blends together. Before you know it he has kids and is remarried and you are walking the edges of the earth with mortal angels, juggling your own mortality as if it could boomerang right back. So much life has been crammed into the chapters between then and now, so much he doesn’t know.

Now. Now his body is a shell. He breathes on his own, but his brain will never allow him back, not the way he’s grown accustomed. Even in the depths of despair and depression, even the days he almost drowned in loneliness, almost ripped his skin off from sheer frustration of being stuck and being sad, those days would be heaven compared to now. I want to tell him about all he’s missed, all the stories, all the color from all the chapters he never knew about. My first love, my first devotion, my first escape artist, my first lover, my first very best friend beyond the bounds of my childhood constraints, my first everything, and our final chance to exchange words is now a one sided conversation.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know about the couches I slept on, the heroin addicts, and the near fatal overdose. He doesn’t know about the Beatles and Radiohead at ear splitting volume in the wee hours, and the pink intravenous cocktail, and the bottles of vodka. He doesn’t know about the 5 am walks through Interlaken,

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a start on my daily journey to the Pike Place Market, to my first restaurant job. He doesn’t know about the ghosts playing with coffee cups or the near horizontal walks up those dark wooden stairs after the kitchen closed. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know about Bruce and the car accident. He doesn’t know about the trip Bruce and I took from Seattle to Vegas and back, and all the altered states we visited. Oregon Sand Dunes, the mighty Redwoods, Zion, Bryce, Flagstaff, Sedona, the Grand Canyon, he doesn’t know about the night Bruce grew wings on the cliff-side where we camped illegally, and watched UFOs, and played drums. He doesn’t know that the Grand Canyon harbors my soul from another lifetime, and the reunion I had with myself for a split second, a burst of what was, nearly subdued me.

He doesn’t know about South Dakota, and being pulled over, and my little sundress he’d bought for me on Haight flapping in the wind while the K-9 searched the van and the officer put Bruce in handcuffs. He doesn’t know about the police station, and the bail money, and the beers in Wall, and the full orange moon, and the overturned van after we collided with a pick-up truck on reservation land at 60 mph. He doesn’t know about Bruce’s flat-line in the ER and the nice Irish social worker who took me home with her so I wouldn’t be forced onto the street. He doesn’t know she sent me to Vegas to be with my grandmother, which led me back to the twilight zone I’d worked so hard to escape those years when the two of us were together. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know I made amends with my family, and got my own apartment above Portage Bay. He doesn’t know I used to stare at the UW campus every night and dream about what I’d study. He doesn’t know that when I moved out of that apartment, I vowed to come back, and I did. He doesn’t know that I left for Portland and ended up going to culinary school, and served my externship on Kauai, and graduated with honors, and then moved back into that very same apartment and got accepted into the UW. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know I met someone worth marrying, and that while he courted me, this man helped put me through school, and sent me to study in Prague for a quarter, and visited me, and whisked me away to Krakow for the weekend. He doesn’t know about the amber engagement ring and the plate of perogis and pitcher of beer we shared before walking through the narrow park on the way back to the youth hostel. He doesn’t know about the bench, and where this man proposed to me, and he doesn’t know we got up early the next morning and drove to Auschwitz.

He doesn’t know about how disturbingly clean the camp was, how devoid of life it felt, how much guilt weighed on me for not being able to commune with the souls whose bodies had died there. He doesn’t know it’s a museum in the middle of a town called Auschwitz, and it was not in black and white, and we arrived on a tour bus, not on a train. He doesn’t know about the skinheads I saw with SS thunderbolts on their suspenders, their rolled up skinny jeans, and their Doc Martens. He doesn’t know about Birkenau

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either, and the stark difference between the two camps or about the dilapidated cabin I walked into, how uninsulated it was, dirt floor, one tiny cast iron stove for a hundred and fifty feet worth of length. He doesn’t know about the wooden slats that were supposed to be beds, and the holes in the walls where bits of sunrays poked through. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know I was so hungry while visiting Auschwitz that I actually ate lunch in the cafeteria, and it was the best damn schnitzel I’ve ever had, and that made me feel guiltier than anything. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know I graduated with honors but skipped the ceremonies to see Tom Petty and the Steve Miller Band at the Gorge. Then after the hangover, became my own wedding coordinator.

He doesn’t know about my dear friend Michael who I met while working in the Pike Place Market, and the hours and hours Michael and I spent drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, and talking about everything we could possibly think of. He doesn’t know that Michael was the best friend I’ve ever had, the one person I could talk to with no shame. He doesn’t know that Michael was more than twice my age, and wanted me as his lover, but settled for deep, soul enriching, life-changing conversations instead. He doesn’t know Michael served in the Korean War. He doesn’t know that Michael passed away from complications due to prostate cancer and the last conversation I had with him was awkward and tense because the depression and isolation had affected his emotional stability, and it was the first argument we’d ever had. He doesn’t know it was the last time I saw Michael alive, and the day I found out Michael had died was the day I’d returned from an epic one month trip to Puerto Vallarta. I’d missed the funeral by an hour, and because of that I hopped a train to Vancouver BC, checked myself into a youth hostel, made a bunch of friends, let one of them get me wasted and drag me to the skydiving office, and signed a waiver after handing the nice man behind the counter $200 so I could jump out of a perfectly good airplane. He doesn’t know how close I came to bowing out, but realized the worst that could happen was death. The jump changed everything about my life, and inspired me to write a poem that won me a video-camera. He doesn’t know.

The worst that could happen was death.

My ex had a major stroke a couple weeks ago. It’s the kind of stroke he can never recover from. He has four kids and two sick parents. I’ve been to see him five times since he was admitted. First time, a crash reintroduction to the life I left all those chapters ago, friends I hadn’t seen in twenty years. He looked so peaceful though, aside from the ventilator and the wrist restraints.

He is unable to speak, but tries. All we hear are rumbles and mumbles under his breath, slight whispers, gags, and the occasional cough which doesn’t sound like his. He as he was will no longer be.

The brutal brow beats of reality keep coming in waves. I believe the body and soul are connected, but are mutually exclusive. He exists whether his body does or not, which brings me comfort, but death is death, and there is no turning back the clock, no white-out editing, no rewind. He and I will never engage in awkward, past-tense, coffee induced reminiscence again, no side stories on Facebook, no out-of-the-blue

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texts. He’s gone. We are gone. His body is barely functioning. We will never be a we again.

The bond of love, of real love may bend, but never truly breaks. So my husband watches as I mourn while my first love dies in a hospital bed, while the memories sputter like fearful forgotten popcorn kernels stuck in the back of the cabinet, finally in a hot oil bath, finally able to break free.

His brain is broken. Beyond broken. I sit with his cold hand in mine, trying to crack the code of the mumbled words, cheering his every move, his every attempt at progress, a cough, a raised arm, a furrowed brow. It’s all a tease, hopeful torture, teetering on the brink of the end.

Recently, a mentor of mine suggested Fear And Loathing as choice reading material. My ex was never much of a reader, not in the times we were together, but he seemed to love to live life by the balls: fast cars, loose women, gluttony and excess, debauchery, late-night antics until the wee hours. We’ve only gotten through chapter two so far, but the first night I read to him, he seemed to understand. This was my description.

“I started reading Fear and Loathing to him last night. He’s still buried under the stroke. It’s hard to tell what I’m really seeing and what I’m projecting, but there was a moment when he let out a muffled,“heh, heh,” a sinister nod to this already twisted colorful story. “

The end, for real.r twisted, colorful story.

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It was 10:40 PM. Our house was quiet and so was the nocturnal world outside. I stood frozen in my living room, the shock starting to creep in. The eerie calm and peace of the night was in such stark contrast with the unfolding horror in front of my eyes, that I felt disoriented. I whispered to my cats, “This cannot be true!” They looked back at me with silent eyes. Slowly, retreating back from the scene, I hid in my study room and tried to finish the chapter, I was supposed to be studying.

11:15 PM. I peeked in cautiously into the living room. The situation had gone downhill and true fear, the likes of which I had not felt in decades, gripped me. I felt absolutely helpless, unable to do anything, but keep watching as if hypnotized. For the next three hours, the assault continued and everything I held dear to my heart was crushed methodically.

2:30 AM. I crumpled onto the living room couch; unable to contain the waves of grief crashing into me, I broke down in tears. All my dreams torn asunder, all my faith in humanity lost, all my angels defeated, I sobbed silently.

The trees outside stood swaying in gentle breeze and a slight drizzle cleansed the harmless dirt from the windowsills. When my body had nothing more to give, I trudged upstairs to my six year old son’s bedroom and stood watching over his peaceful sleeping form. My rescue cats — the guardians of the night — followed me. I told them, “Tomorrow he will wake up in a different country – a country which has rejected me and him. And he doesn’t know it. And I don’t know where to hide him…. I have no where left to go.” They looked at me, the way animals do – with trust and acceptance. So in reassurance, I knelt down, petted them with all my love and added “You are safe though. You are Americans.”

Next morning, as my son chirped on happily about monster vehicles, I braced myself to face the bus stop. Every weekday morning, I had stood at that little patch of neighborhood and chatted away merrily with my all-white neighbors. Never in my dreams, had I doubted what a fool I had been, that perhaps some, if not all of them, despised our presence behind my back. It was only on account of politeness that they kept up the pretense. My sheer idiocy and naivety boggled me. That morning, the two minute walk from our driveway to the one across the street, felt like the last mile.

When we reached, I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I wasn’t prepared to see what lay in them, so I focused on the kids as they jostled with each other, trying to decide who was going to be standing first today.

All My Dreams Torn AsunderAnwesha Chattopadhyay

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It was 10:40 PM. Our house was quiet and so was the nocturnal world outside. I stood frozen in my living room, the shock starting to creep in. The eerie calm and peace of the night was in such stark contrast with the unfolding horror in front of my eyes, that I felt disoriented. I whispered to my cats, “This cannot be true!” They looked back at me with silent eyes. Slowly, retreating back from the scene, I hid in my study room and tried to finish the chapter, I was supposed to be studying.

11:15 PM. I peeked in cautiously into the living room. The situation had gone downhill and true fear, the likes of which I had not felt in decades, gripped me. I felt absolutely helpless, unable to do anything, but keep watching as if hypnotized. For the next three hours, the assault continued and everything I held dear to my heart was crushed methodically.

2:30 AM. I crumpled onto the living room couch; unable to contain the waves of grief crashing into me, I broke down in tears. All my dreams torn asunder, all my faith in humanity lost, all my angels defeated, I sobbed silently.

The trees outside stood swaying in gentle breeze and a slight drizzle cleansed the harmless dirt from the windowsills. When my body had nothing more to give, I trudged upstairs to my six year old son’s bedroom and stood watching over his peaceful sleeping form. My rescue cats — the guardians of the night — followed me. I told them, “Tomorrow he will wake up in a different country – a country which has rejected me and him. And he doesn’t know it. And I don’t know where to hide him…. I have no where left to go.” They looked at me, the way animals do – with trust and acceptance. So in reassurance, I knelt down, petted them with all my love and added “You are safe though. You are Americans.”

Next morning, as my son chirped on happily about monster vehicles, I braced myself to face the bus stop. Every weekday morning, I had stood at that little patch of neighborhood and chatted away merrily with my all-white neighbors. Never in my dreams, had I doubted what a fool I had been, that perhaps some, if not all of them, despised our presence behind my back. It was only on account of politeness that they kept up the pretense. My sheer idiocy and naivety boggled me. That morning, the two minute walk from our driveway to the one across the street, felt like the last mile.

When we reached it, I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I wasn’t prepared to see what lay in them, so I focused on the kids as they jostled with each other, trying to decide who was going to be standing first today.

The axis on which my world revolved had forever shifted and for the next many hours, days and weeks, I struggled with finding my bearing. My family back in my birth country interrogated me. I defended the country which had no blood ties to me, but for whom my stupid heart bled nevertheless.

“It is not all of the country. Half of them voted against.” I spoke into the phone, feebly taking refuge in statistics. “And still you want to keep living there?” I was used to the accusatory tone. I had left behind

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all of that decades ago, in my quest to find a land where my dreams would be recognized, where all men were considered equal and most importantly to me – women were equal to those men as well. I thought to myself – Yes I still want to keep living here. It is not a choice. This is where I belong. This is where I studied, held my job, this is where my son was born, where our first home stands, where we have built a life together piece by piece, where I have been accepted as a student one more time even though I am no longer a teenager. This is the land whose principles I believe in, whose abused children are mine and its troubles are mine too. Saying all this aloud was useless, as my love for this country is not recognized on paper.

I have been on a visa here, technically a resident alien; our application towards becoming citizens going through the slow grinds of immigration. So I have no legal claim over my country. Like a mistress, I was ashamed to express my love. I was left standing mutely at the sidelines, while the word “united” in the USA, suffered rounds after rounds of attack. More than ever before, I sought to understand those who wanted to build walls.

The world we live in today is infinitely more complex than the world fifty years ago, and that world was yet again more complex than the one a hundred years ago. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus said, “Change is the only constant in life”. Truer words have not been uttered, for we are but players in this drama of life – whether we like it or not, it will continue to unfold. To hold on to the illusion of perfection from a past era, perhaps offers a comfort for those, who are too battle worn. “Make America Great Again” is lost on me and that is perhaps the entire point.

I remember when I first came to this country and stepped into a public library in awe. I was enthralled by the sight of rows and rows of books lined neatly in shelves waiting to be read. I excitedly went to the librarian and asked how many could I borrow. She replied, “As many as you want”. This didn’t satisfy me and I insisted on knowing the limit. She was flustered – she admitted she actually did not know the precise answer since no one had asked her before. She went off to confer with her colleagues. By the time I was about to leave the establishment, she came back with the answer – 75. Seventy five! I repeated in my head in wonder. This alone made American great to me. I had never seen a public library before, till that day. Is it not the mark of greatness of a land where the masses can walk in and all the knowledge in this world, is available to them freely?

I learnt that there were several things about America, which made her a bonafide great nation in my books. The people were warm, the streets were smooth, children were guaranteed free education no matter what your background, electricity and water was available 24 hours a day, and so on. Curiously, no one seemed to acknowledge all of these luxuries. We humans are creatures of adaptation. I can see why all of these novelties, which still excite me to this day, can become mundane and people may seek “greatness” in other forms. For some, the ways of a bygone era where the world was simpler, more homogenous, more hierarchical, holds appeal ; they would elect to erect as many walls as possible in every configuration, some visible, others invisible, between them and others.

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Perhaps, I thought, we had indeed crossed the line, beyond which hatred wins over love, divisions rule over unions and my dream of a country which lived and breathed the ideals of the best of humankind was forever lost. After all, the “People of the United States” had decided NOT to “form a more perfect Union.”

One afternoon, my son got off the school bus and excitedly announced that they had learnt about maps. He has many obsessions – space, ocean, cars etc. and geography is one among them. I had bought a globe for him many months back. He had poured over it and by now, knew every country in every continent and every group of islands in far flung oceans. He often greeted people with the question, “What is your favorite country in Africa?” which was met by confused silence. So I cautiously asked my-true-nerd -in -the making, “Did you remember not to brag about all the countries you know?” He was nonchalant. “Of course I did, Mom! We played a game.”

“You did? What was it about?”

“Mrs. Osborne said whatever you wish it to be. So, my game was finding fishes in Afghanistan.”

Well! If that is not an original idea, I do not know what is!

“Okay….but, Afghanistan?!”

“Yes!” He was jubilant.

“Ummm…why Afghanistan?”

“Because I love it, Mom!”

I was flabbergasted. “Since when? We don’t know anyone from there.”

“No, but its shape is so cool. Like a rabbit.”

Oh of course, that explained everything. It was about a rabbit.

“That’s very cool indeed.” Then I took a deep breath and continued, because this was the new reality, and I had to prepare him. “But you can’t tell anyone you love Afghanistan. Only at home, okay?”

“Why? Is it a bad word?”

“No, no, it’s not a bad word. It’s just a rule. Some countries don’t like each other. Just like you don’t like some of your classmates, right? America and Afghanistan are not friends right now.”

His face fell. Dark black eyes filled with tears and he declared defiantly, “But I love Afghanistan. I love all the countries and all the people in the world.” I pulled him close, pressed him against my chest and re-

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plied, “I know you do. I am proud of you. But still, you cannot tell it outloud outside our home. Some people may get mad at you.” The tears spilled, the little heart broke and he still declared, “I hate those people. I will never listen to them.” I looked at my only child – neither black nor white but brown skinned, neither Christian not Jew but Hindu. He was born in America but forever marked by his ethnicity. I replied, “Yes, I hope you never listen and I hope when you grow up, you show everyone how we can live as friends. But till you grow up, you should not talk about it to others.” Then he asked a question, the kind of question which causes time to stop for a moment, as you take stock of everything around you and the purpose of your existence.

“Mom, will you listen to them when you grow up?”

Such a simple question – could my answer be as simple? Tears threatened to invade my eyes but I willed them away. I took another deep breath and it seemed my entire life flashed by me. I shook my head and answered with all my heart, “No, no, I will not.”

Maybe I had, I thought to myself but then I remembered when I was young, how I had believed in the triumph of love over hate. I asked myself, why would you stop believing? If you did, then what will become of the children? If you didn’t fight for your country, who will?

His world restored, my son scampered away to play with the cats.

My world alas, is not as easily restored, but the work has begun in earnest. The words of a popular song sung by Rachel Platten, nowadays floats in my head often, as my personal battle cry:

Like a small boat, On the ocean.

Sending big waves, Into motion.

Like how a single word, Can make a heart open,

I might only have one match, But I can make an explosion.

This is my fight song, Take back my life song.

Work Cited: Platten, Rachel. “Fight Song”. RachelPlattenVEVO, Columbia Records, 2015, YouTube.

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Today is just an ordinary Wednesday and I’m playing hooky from the bible study group. I called my leader about 8:30 AM and said, “I’m just getting out of bed and I’m not going to make it to the 9:15 brunch.” The gathering is less than a ten minute drive from my house. In fact, it’s on the same street where I live. But, I feel like writing this morning, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do. One of those files drawers in my head just opened and something wants to escape and make its mark on blank white paper. I’ve got to find out what that’s all about. I grab my steaming coffee cup and head to my favorite spot.

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There is much discussion in the mental health community about the impact of repeated trauma upon the treatment provider. Crisis responders have also long self-reported trauma related exposure symptoms. The category of crisis responder includes mental health workers, first responders, and medical providers. Symptoms can manifest themselves both in physical and emotional responses. It is not uncom-mon to experience fatigue, sleep disturbance, headaches, and nightmares, feelings of anger, emptiness, and depression too. These symptoms may last in varying degrees from days to months or more. They can negatively impact the work environment, home life, and personal relationships of the crisis worker. One of the most recognizable terms for this concern is burnout. More contemporary terms include caregiver stress, compassion fatigue, vicarious trauma, and secondary trauma. These concerns mimic, to a lesser degree, post traumatic stress disorder.

• • •

I spend the entire morning lost in memories, making discoveries with happy fingers typing on the keyboard. Allowing myself an unexpected break is something new to me. A lifetime has been spent adhering to schedules that were flexed only when the next crisis occurred. Multitasking was a basic survival skill that was mastered long ago. It is not easy to break away from the bonds of those controls.

• • •

My career has included working with abused and neglected children, medical and psychiatric emer-gencies, and suicidal veterans. Thereby, I was accountable to children and their families, courts, attorneys, state and federal laws, local and government agencies, and to the public as part of my daily routine. Layers and layers of trauma exposure had to be addressed. I found myself, after retiring, peeling my own onion.

Peeling My OnionCynthia Rogers-Harrison

23

Disruption of my sleep pattern was the first indicator of concern. At times, I’d regularly be awake during the night for several hours. Every three to four months, in a leap year fashion, I’d totally miss a night of sleep. My dreams were stimulated with a recurring theme. Once, I got off a bus in the middle of the desert and tried to walk home. Another time, I was in Mexico and needed to leap over a canyon to get to the other side, where home awaited me. In none of my dreams did I ever actually get back home. The dreams were not frightening but rather exhausting. I’d awake more tired after a night’s rest. Thankfully, over time, the dreams became far less frequent.

It has been quite a journey re-discovering those things that bring joy into my life. The roles of caregiver and receiver are diametrically opposed. Transitioning from one to the other is a challenging, and at times, painful process. On the surface everything can look alright but with each layer, hidden triggers can cause more tears to flow.

I became increasingly aware of my joyless existence. Whether I tried to look at a magazine or watch a movie or listen to music, these activities seemed to be just a waste of time. Absent them, I could not recall what actually had once given me joy. I could vividly recall the noon trauma alert bells in the emergency room and the shooting victims being brought in, the fight that broke out between warring families as chairs were being thrown and my escape with the client’s hand held tight in my own. I remember the tearful young woman who I found sitting alone after being told her one week old baby had just died. I remember the many veterans who said their life would never be the same and their repeated requests that I give them a reason not to end it all.

• • •

Preparing to fill my tea kettle with water from the tap, I lift the lever. I see my son-in-laws’ smiling face and I unexpectedly smile back. He’d replaced my faucet that for more than a year, had dripped, sprayed wildly, and could only be shut off by positioning the lever at the most precise point. There he was, under that sink, just prior to making a ten hour drive home with a wife and two infants. The Thanksgiving holiday had been great, and his family was the last to leave. My, it does feel good to be taken care of. Words from the bible echoed in my head, “Let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart. Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all.” (Galatians 6:9)

• • •

I am retired now, after thirty some years as a Social Worker. I’ve spent a lot of time taking care of other people and hopefully, doing some good along the way. Silence can fill the room after all the people and things living are gone. The LORD says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10) Retirement truly allowed me the option to be still, perhaps, for the very first time. No clients awaited me. The nest was empty. Adult children had all moved out of state. My divorce papers had a nice yellowish glow from age. The

24

words of scripture have always been a comfort to me so I began to search for words that strengthen me, healing words that encouraged me, and loving words that chased away my fears. I had faith that my onion would be peeled. Hopefully, the tears would fade as more layers were pulled away.

One day, I sat with a yellow legal pad determined to figure out what I enjoyed. I recalled loving to dance. In college I’d taken so many dance classes that the instructor thought my desire was to dance profes-sionally. I wrote that down on the pad…I like to dance. Dance led to music and music to travel. I loved travel and yet I’d never been outside the country. I desperately wanted to get a passport. So, I did, with no place to go. Prior to 911, the government discouraged you from getting a passport until you planned to travel, within the next eighteen months. I assured the agent that I would go somewhere within those next eighteen months. I did. Within that period, my son joined the Marines and was assigned to Okinawa. That was my first passport stamp.

Then I received a letter from the National Social Workers Organization. They were preparing to begin international travel with teams of Social Workers as Ambassadors. I was invited to attend. Although I didn’t make that trip, I did go on the next one to Johannesburg and Cape Town, South Africa. I had awakened a passion for travel. Other trips, with the group, included Brazil, Costa Rica and Cuba.

In Africa, young women were excited about developing a college curriculum for Social Work stud-ies and meeting us, the professionals. They each were happily managing caseloads of about one thousand families. I gave a New York City alphabet preschool book to a teacher and her hug took my breath away. Another group of twenty-five mothers had fearfully signed up to start a support group for themselves. Their lesbian daughters were being raped and murdered by the local men. “What happens in a group meeting?” they asked. In Brazil, armed gang members permitted us into their shanty town after we agreed to abandon our bus and ride in their vehicle. No picture taking was permitted. Their children were wonderful and welcomed us with performances of music and dance. Like people everywhere they dreamed of better times and a better life someday.

In Costa Rica, a young boy told me his mother had left him and his two siblings at the gate of the orphanage five years earlier and never returned. He remembered she was with an unknown man driving a white car. There were twelve cottages at the orphanage. We found a Wal-Mart and bought twelve fans and one hundred twenty ice cream cones for them. Governments take gifts of money from their people so it’s best to give a gift only. There were no toys on the property, not even a ball. We were told not to hug any child for that would necessitate hugging them all. There was no artwork on the walls and not even success-ful homework assignments displayed. Too much jealousy, we were told. We played with them. We talked with them. Later, we played a wild and wacky bingo games with the elderly in an improvised group home. They delighted with the little gifts they won. One elderly woman, Maria, asked why I came. “To see you,” I replied. With tears she lowered her eyes and said, “Nobody comes to see us anymore.”

25

My daughter was assigned to work in Hermosillo, Sonora, Mexico, for six months. I decided to visit her and took the bus from Dallas instead of flying in. Along the way, our bus was stopped by several jeeps containing armed shirtless young men wearing jeans. They demanded we get off the bus and identify our luggage. Selectively, bags were opened and possessions taken. An elderly man carrying a huge luggage, tied and taped tightly, became angry and argued with them. My silent prayers were answered, when he finally relented to their command. I had embarked on the journey knowing about twenty Spanish words, specifi-cally learned for the trip. Some of those included bank, bathroom, money, restaurant, hello, goodbye, yes, no and chicken. On my return trip, the customs agent quickly exhausted my limited Spanish vocabulary and remarked, “You took a bus to Mexico and can’t speak Spanish?” I replied, “Si, señor.” He shook his head in disbelief as my passport was returned. I smiled at him and said, “It’s the American way.” Remembering that I’d always wanted to learn to speak a foreign language, I then decided Spanish would be it. The bible says, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1) And, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)

• • •

I hear the whistling of my tea kettle now. This has been a most productive morning. It’s time for a cup of tea before moving on to Spanish practice. Reading and writing Spanish is now doable. Listening comprehension and speaking is yet another matter. A blend a green tea with chamomile will surely get me going. Tea is like life, there are so many ways you can go with it.

26

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Matthew Bell is an American author whose most recent works include the novel Scrapper and the story collection A Tree or a Person or a Wall. His previous novel, In the House upon the Dirt between the Lake and the Woods, was a finalist for the Young Lions Fiction Award, an Indies Choice Adult Debut Book of the Year Honor Recipient, and the winner of the Paula Anderson Book Award. Matthew is also the author of two collections of fiction and a nonfiction book about the classic video game, Baldur’s Gate II. His writing has appeared in The New York Times, Tin House, Conjunctions, and many other publications.

A native of Michigan, Matthew now teaches creative writing at Arizona State University, where he serves as the Interim Director of the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing.

Fiction

National JudgeMatthew David Bell

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First PlaceFlipping the Bird

Maja Malgorzata ZymslowskiMaricopa Community Colleges

Second PlaceStar Eater

Amanda AkersSinclair Community College

Third PlaceSimon’s Dinosaurs

Kelsey WinterLane Community College

Fiction

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A parrot once told me, though in fewer words, that in order to accomplish anything in life you have to hate yourself a little. That human behavior is dictated by dissatisfaction, be it with one’s appearance, financial situation, or place in society. That being uncomfortable with oneself or one’s situation is a catalyst for change and that the government can remedy all that ails us. That being said, no one should listen to a parrot, especially that one, because he was ideologically confused.

Red liked to perch on the kitchen windowsill, his blue head zig-zagging as cars went by. Whenever he’d see other birds, he would dutifully quote Chairman Mao, spouting old lines of propaganda that he picked up from a documentary on public television. Last I heard, even with such gems as “In waking a tiger, squaaark, use a long stick,” he’s failed to recruit any of them.

• • •

California State Route 128, awake.  I haven’t taken a road trip in a decade. Now I’m somewhere between Boonville and the Russian River valley, at a rest stop, not resting. My mind is mud. I need a sieve to extract the splintered dinosaur bone thoughts and reassemble them into a recognizable skeleton. No matter that it will probably look like a cross between an emu and an alligator. At least it’s a solid form, not psyche soup.

There are several cars at the rest stop. Most of the windows are steamed up, but I can see silhou-ettes of heads leaning back or to the side. It is 4am, and it is quiet. There is a mobile trailer with an open window and a handwritten sign advertising “FREE COFFEE, donations accepted.” I decide I need coffee and drop two dollars in the coin-filled fishbowl on the counter, thinking It’s only money, my mother’s saying. A crooked-nosed man pours tar into a Dixie cup and hands it over. The coffee is hot. Not just in temperature, but in spiciness. The sides and tip of my tongue feel cut and the roof of my mouth is crawling with a burnt popcorn flavor. My seared tongue is bloated with heat. I think of Tom and his coffee.

• • •

 The coffee was hot. The kind of hot that causes your neck to flush and your nostrils to expand, capillaries flaring. Seeing my distressed face, Tom laughed heartily. I didn’t think a man whose music collection included Jan Hammer’s Greatest Hits could afford to be rude to any attractive woman. The synthe-sized and sharply metallic theme from Miami Vice lit up the stereo, and the suffering in my face grew more

Flipping the BirdMaja Malgorzata Zymslowski

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pronounced. It was our third date, and I needed it to work in my favor.

An electric turquoise parrot perching on the bookshelf squawked its amusement.

“Kisses! LEMON drops! Lemon drop kisses!” it screeched, startling me, as I hadn’t noticed it earlier. The bird stepped on the corner of a small mangled paper box containing the yellow candies, tilted it and gingerly extracted its sour treat. Its beak cracked loudly against the candy shell, “Ich bin ein BERLINER, lemon drop!” it sung and proceeded to squat for a second, then launched itself high in the air, tumbling head over tail and alighting once more on the shelf.  “Perfect TEN – squaaaarrrk!”

“Tom, you know how some people say pets take after their owners?” I smirked.

“Let’s hope I’m at least as smart as the bird. He can speak some German…and you should hear him sing opera music. Red loves Luciano Pavarotti, the three tenors, the whole bit. He won’t let me watch sports if PBS is highlighting a concert.” He grinned like a man on too much anti-anxiety medication.

We were in the tight living room of his second story apartment. I shifted in my seat, sinking deeper into the tacky brown crushed velvet chair. It was obviously a relic of his earliest bachelor days, smelling faintly of “this is my hippy phase” incense and stale pizza. There were no longer any springs in the base of the seat so dropping further down was no problem. Tom balanced on a too-short bar stool facing me on the opposite side of a weathered treasure chest coffee table.

“Okay, that’s funny…but why do you call the parrot ‘Red’ when he’s obviously blue?”

“Because he’s a Communist.” His face was serious.

“Ha! What evidence do you have of that?”

“To read too many books is harmful! Squaaark!” Red clawed at the bookshelf, chest puffing, a feathered Mao reincarnation.

“Well, he refuses to recommend employment outside of the governmental sector. He believes jobs in the private arena are capitalist black holes that contribute little to the overall welfare of the general public. How do you think I got my present job?” he smiled. Tom worked as an auditor for the IRS, that unsexiest of professions.

“Didn’t you earn your degree at a private university?”

“No, I joined the military after high school – they pay for tuition at state schools and state-funded graduate programs. All on Red’s recommendation. He’s been with me for the last twenty years. Red doesn’t believe privatized industry is very stable.” He sipped his coffee, watching me.

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“Don’t tell me you consult your parrot for stock tips,” I teased.

“Best portfolio this side of New York!” he beamed. “I asked him about tech stocks right before the boom and he advised me to steer clear of that disaster and stick with the safety of government bonds and precious metals. I nearly have enough in quarterly interest checks to pay for that solid gold cage that he wants.” He laughed, nodding in the parrot’s direction. Clutching the lemon drop box, the bird stopped feasting to shriek an affirmation.

“You’re kidding – it’s a bird.”

“A brilliant bird. Keeps me out of trouble.”

He took a mouthful of the Turkish lava, pausing a moment before swallowing. “Don’t focus on the heat.” His words were carefully pronounced. “Explore the quieter flavor.” My scorched taste buds tasted jack. The cups we drank from were made of porous plum-sized ceramic and were painted a muted yellow with a green band etched near the brim. I assumed they were original Turkish craftsmanship. Several antique artifacts were impeccably maintained and arranged in the large room. A polished knight’s helmet hung in a corner of the living room, while a hefty hunting spear with violet ribbons tied at the top was mounted on the opposite wall. An Egyptian goat-skin drum was growing beside the modern stereo system like a mushroom. A quick survey of the ivory walls revealed various paintings, some colorful and expertly detailed, others crudely drawn in what appeared to be black charcoal pencil.

“Quite a unique collection,” I mused.

“My tastes are eclectic, but simple.” His gaze lingered on the bird for a moment.

“Mm hmm…” I mumbled, sipping, careful not to dribble. I closed my eyes, feeling the sting of the coffee spice animate my salivary glands. After a moment, the undercurrent of vanilla arose, then, suddenly, it cooled the corners of my mouth. Soft, buttery vanilla bean peppered my senses, the texture of the coffee transformed into a sugar crystal slurry. My eyes flickered open, delighted at the sensation.

“How did you make this?” I was determined to get the recipe before I left the apartment.

“You have to steep Brazilian vanilla beans in hot bottled spring water — tap water is too polluted — and use that mixture to brew the coffee. Add lots of sugar, and grate a couple of the remaining vanilla beans into the liquid. The vanilla shavings melt away.” He gave me a sideways glance again. “Storing rare Turkish coffee beans in your freezer helps, too,” he concluded.

Finishing the last of the wild coffee quickly, I rose from the crushed bottom of the old chair with minor difficulty. The parrot shot me a sideways glance similar to his owner’s as I ambled over to it.

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“Hey, Red,” I cooed. “I think Communist ideology masks a fear of success and serves as a stifling means of controlling the masses.” He let me touch his turquoise blue tail feathers. “I also think that the stock market can yield good results if you watch the trends closely, ignore many of them, and implement some risk-taking into your strategy.” The bird bristled with each stroke. “I think you’re an insecure consumer and citizen. You could stand to adopt more confident strategies.” Red eyeballed me with a glossy black stare.

“Do you even understand what that means?” Tom interrupted, looking insulted. The bird turned to me and squawked “BUBBLE-head! ANAR-chist!” I flinched, both from the language and the sour lemon candy shards that sprayed my face. Tom’s mad laughter boomed to my left, tears springing in his eyes. I stared at him, incredulous.

“Red, I don’t think even your master knows the depths of avian intellect,” I sputtered, plucking sticky splinters from my face and hair.

“Ah! You’ve got that right,” he winked, his dirty sneakers squeaking across the wood floor. For a moment a clear silence separated us, a hushed blanket of dust and parrot feathers draping the book-shelves. Tom caressed the parrot, the talons on one foot aimed at me like a trident.

“How about another cup of coffee?” I purred, offering truce.

“Lemon drop, bubble-HEAD, flip!” Red flapped his wings and jumped up excitedly, executing a perfect somersault.

“First, you should try on my knight’s helmet,” Tom pointed to the shiny metal hanging on the wall. “I’ll play bongos – do you like reggae? Bob Marley?” He moved toward the stereo, looking back at me.

“Yeah, sure…play that ‘buffalo’ song,” I giggled. “By the way, I’d really like some of those vanilla beans to take home.” He turned the stereo dial and the subtle thuds of island drums began to throb against the walls.

“No problem. Just don’t antagonize my bird. We shouldn’t force capitalism and democracy on him. He’s old, rooted in his ways.”

I nodded in agreement, slipping the helmet off its hook. It was much heavier than I had expected; I tugged it over my head, the cold metal pressing into my collarbones. Harmless chaos ensued: music vibrated throughout the living room, crawled along the floor and swung off the bookshelves. The full face plate featured a narrow slit through which to look. Golden lamp lights created a warped sunset through my diminished view. I captured moments, one snapshot at a time: the parrot bopping its head to the beat, Tom grinning as he struck the drums with his hands. They resembled awkward fish in out-of-water death throes bouncing up and smacking down, repeating with building intensity. Thud ticka thud thud tick ticka thud punctuated Red’s diatribes. We danced.

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• • •

Moonlight spilled liquid nickels through the half-open blinds across a cherry wood desk and onto the side of the bed where Tom lay snoring.

The closet mirror to the left of the bed offered a slanted view of a portion of the bed. Looking at the mirror from an angle, I felt like a voyeur peeping into someone else’s bedroom. The reflected curving silhouette of my hip glowed like a silver hill against the dim wall. The landscape of my body full of bends and U-turns – a freeway of flesh.

Red’s beak was clicking against his cage in the living room. The parrot’s caustic banter served as appropriate ruckus in the apartment, his clicks and shrieks merging with clanking and swooshing noises from the Laundromat downstairs and the sharp honking traffic berating the adjacent street.

Red began to slide his beak back and forth along the cage wires creating a tinny rumbling sound. “Let me OUT! GUARDS! Let me squaaarrk!”

“Your political prisoner seeks liberation,” I nudge Tom’s chest with my elbow.

“Yeah, yeah...I’m coming.”

Tom tumbled in the sheets awkwardly, using the far corner of a nightstand to pull himself upright. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, locating the clothing I’d discarded earlier. In the living room, Tom was chasing the parrot – I could hear the sound of the stereo come on, books crashing on the floor, cursing from man and bird alike.

“I WILL BURY YOU! Capitalist!” The bird was screeching, its wings beating the air loudly as Tom swore amidst a cloud of blue feathers. Peeking around the corner, I watched him dash to the kitchen and fling open a drawer, hands diving into its depths for a box of lemon drops.

“HERE! Take it!” The small carton sailed through the air and landed with a loud crack and rumble as the candies spilled across the floor. Red tottered over to the pile of yellow pebbles and beaked one fiercely.

“Treasure of the CZARS!!”

“Why don’t you pour him some vodka to dip those in,” I shook my head.

Tom was on his hands and knees in front of the parrot, his face flushed and breathing heavily. Red was happily crunching sour sugar on the floor, not looking at either of us. His thin black legs bent and quickly launched him in the air, somersaulting and landing perfectly amidst his sweet golden gravel.

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“FLIP! perfect TEN!” He bowed three times and resumed eating.

“Why are you dressed? You don’t need to go.” Tom sounded pained, tired.         

“I can see that I’m coming between you and your bird,” I teased. He scowled at me as I walked to the door. “About the books….”

“Unfortunately, this doesn’t change anything – we will still be auditing your company beginning Monday. But we can still keep this going, if you want?” He sounded hopeful. Red was emancipating pale droppings on the floor.

I smiled, pocketing vanilla beans from the counter, and flipped him another bird.

• • •

Back on the highway, heading toward Monterey, coffee ravens sailing my veins. It’s as good a place to start over as any. Somewhere I’m comfortable and satisfied, where I can like myself more than a little. I could watch divers hunt for abalone, eat sardines out of a can. I could get lost in a white moon jelly maze at the aquarium sanctuary near Cannery Row, land a job shucking oysters. Under the table, of course.

36

No two stars tasted alike.

Some were sweet, filled with syrup and sugar, their juices formed my lips. Others were bitter, covered in eons of uncertainty, breaking apart with cracks that glowed with gaseous fire. Even more were salty, stuffing themselves into my cheeks with an aftertaste that built in my chest and left my breath stained with hunger. Many tended to be gummy, they stuck to my teeth, snapping my mouth shut, until they were nothing more than a pile of dust spilling over in my gut. The ones I liked the best were the ones that tasted like the cosmos they were born into, saturated with yellows and oranges, exhaling light. They dissolved into my tongue, spread through my body with a heat that suffocated my insides, bursting with a spectrum that colored my bones with hints of nebulas and dying my tissues shades of Jupiter’s storm. My addiction replaced my veins with constellations. I plucked them from the sky and became something not even I could reach.

With every star I ate, a life passed through me. I could see, through human eyes, all their vulnera-bilities, their good days, their bad, but most of all I could see their wishes. They left an imprint on the stars they wished upon. Sometimes, it made them lighter, others it made them sink from one galaxy to the next, but what always changed for the better was how bright they shone. When a wishing star was ready, the rays around it would shimmer in golds and blues with diamonds twirling in their light. Just like the way the North Star’s eyes shone when she would listen to my stories.

They were all I could think about. It wasn’t the taste that kept my mouth watering. It was the way I felt myself getting lost in the lives of people I had only hoped to envision myself as. Once I ate a star a man wished upon, asking to survive a walk between two buildings in midair. He called it “tightrope walking.” His idea was madness. People told him he was a lunatic. But the way he asked, and how much he yearned for it, made me desperate to try it. So, I walked along the tiniest string of constellations I could find, my arms outstretched for balance with the Moon shining onto my back, and became one too.

I ate them because I could. I ate them to feel their fire on my lips and the way they swallowed up my insides with their heat. I ate them to see what the North Star saw when she gave away smiles while looking down at Earth and to become something that her eyes were drawn to. My hunger was constant. It was all I knew. And the way it swapped words with my desires crawled over my skin until I could feel them digging themselves into my ears, calling out to me, lightyears away. It was all I could think about. Even when

Star EaterAmanda Akers

37

I ate mounds of stars and licked their dust from under my nails, I never felt full.

I remember myself jumping through cosmic dust, from one constellation to the next, searching for the best wishing star that side of the galaxy. I found myself inches away from the North Star. She was sitting cross legged in her favorite spot with stardust in her hair and new born stars at her fingertips. I gazed at the star burning in the center of her chest. It was crammed with wishes that only she could see that were piled high onto one another. They tumbled inside her, making her chest shine with blues and oranges that faded into a shade of white that shimmered with heat. My sights were set on the small star to the right of her and the way it made my mouth water. I picked it out from the sky like I had so many times before. It was plump with hues of faded yellows, and it shone like magic when I held it up to my lips. When I bit into its skin, it crackled against my tongue. Its center was plump with a fiery orange, full of a life that was meant for me. And when I swallowed, I could feel my stomach burst with an explosion of purples and golds.

“Are you eating my stars again, Nova?” North asked from behind me.

I turned around. She always hated when I ate her stars. “Only this one,” I told her as I lifted the half-eaten star to show her.

“Pity. I liked that one the most,” she pouted at me.

“Is that so?”

“I even named it.”

I took another bite, savoring the saturation of yellows and oranges for all that they were worth. “Was it delicious? Because that’s what I would’ve called it.”

“It was Betelgeuse.”

“There’s already a star named that.”

“I know that. But that one was better. Go over to Orion and eat his, so that I can have one all my own.”

Betelgeuse is one of the brightest star in the sky and the biggest, too. It pulsates a bright red that’s cram packed with wishes. Even just a taste might’ve sent me plummeting into Earth’s oceans.

“Orion won’t let me near his stars. Just eating one would be catastrophic to him. How would he hold up his club if his shoulder was gone? All he’d have left to brag about would be his belt and how he used to be able to walk on water when he dreamt that he was a man.” I glided over to her, shifting through stars and bits of comets.

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“That doesn’t stop you from eating mine.” The star in my hand warmed my palm as I rubbed my thumb around its crumbling core. I looked her up and down, only now regretting that I didn’t stare at her long enough.

I laughed as I said, “Yours just taste the best.” That didn’t satisfy her. I sat down in front of her and asked, “Don’t you ever get tired of staying in the same spot?” I had never known her to leave her spot in the sky just above Earth, who slept below her with clouds covering his eyes while blues and greens composed the shadows on his face.

Her eyes flickered from the space her Betelgeuse used to be, to me. A small string of constellations covered the area on the side of her left eye that reminded me of the one that centered my chest. “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to find me anymore.”

I crammed the last bite in while watching the way her eyes followed the crumbs that spilled onto my chest. “Do you like it when I’m near you?”

A smile took over her lips. “Do you know what you are?” Her question shook me. It brought me back to the time Oblivion, the black hole, and I spoke. He called me a “chaos bringer” for the eruption of light I brought whenever I ate.

I pulled my knees to my chest and ducked my head away from her eyes. “A Star Eater. I eat all day and never feel satisfied. Then I eat some more and wait for a new batch of stars to be born. This is who I am and all that I’ll ever be.” I outstretched my left arm and felt the constant heat and intensity of a single star within my reach. When I touched it with my finger, it started to break. Bits of light fell from it, creating a rainfall of tiny stars that crashed into the sky beneath me.

“You’re a Wish Granter. When you eat those stars, all those wishes come true.”

“They do?” I didn’t notice it at the time, but the more I look back on it, the more I can feel a stream of tears pooling around my eyes.

She nodded with starlight in her dimples. “What’s your wish, Nova?”

There were so many ways to say it: to not feel hungry any more, to have a purpose, to live an actual life, but all that I could manage was, “To be human.”

She came closer and interlocked her fingers with my left hand. With her free hand, she lifted my head up so that I could see the gleam in her eyes. Her fingers held me there as she kissed my forehead, burning her heat into skin. It didn’t hurt. She never hurt. But it’s a feeling that I’ve never forgotten.

“Maybe you’ll get your wish.”

39

That was two-hundred forty-three days ago, or one day on Venus. I’ve counted them all to make sure that I’ll never forget them. Not a single one. That night, I fell asleep in the deepest part of the Big Dipper and woke up on a hill overlooking a river with a city behind me. It was incredible. Streams of colors went from one building to the next. It was still dark, and the fireflies shone as scattered specks of echoing light that reminded me of home. The grass beneath me was cool, damp with dew, and when I spread my hands out over it, the way I used to over the velvet touch of Ursa Major, I could feel every blade glide against my palms.

I ran down every street that crisscrossed between buildings with spectrums of art on their outsides and white lights within, sometimes going beyond the city to be swallowed by Earth’s deep blues and get lost in his evergreens. I inspected every store. The bakery where chocolate melted on my tongue and seeped through my teeth, the pet shop where I met a bird who used the same words humans do and tried to dance to their songs instead of its own, even down to the streets where I realized I was doing the same thing. I was putting on clothes, trying to cascade through a life I was only borrowing, getting a taste of everything I could before I was brought back home. But that never happened. I waited a day, then a week, a month, and now I’ve come close to a year on Earth and still nothing has changed.

A good part of my time is lost at the planetarium where I work as a janitor. Instead of cleaning, I mostly listen to the scientists and their phenomena. When they talked about how many moons Jupiter has and all the asteroids that hang around him from his size and gravity, I shook my head and laughed. Jupiter is a collector. When he finds something that he likes, he keeps it close to him just like the way Saturn does with her rings. And when they spoke about not knowing every name to Jupiter’s moons, pride radiated from me in the form of a smile as I swept up a pile of paper into my dustpan, listing them all in my head.

Once, I heard them claim Earth as their mother. I had to bite my lip to keep myself from blurting out how ridiculous they sounded. Being a part of Earth is not the same as sitting with him. He and I would watch Aurora dance with her hands invading atmospheres and ribbons of soft greens and purples falling from her hair as he would hum to the people who lived inside his head. Every now and then, I catch myself trying to talk to him the way I used to. I say little things that humans have taught me, “Nice weather we’re having,” “What have you been up to lately,” and “We should talk more.” Sometimes I say things like, “I heard your sister telling Mercury and Sun about how old you look lately,” “How far have you chased Halley’s comet,” and “What’s your favorite constellation to fall asleep by,” just like before. Either way, he never gives me an answer. I’m just one voice rattling against a cluster of billions.

I spend my nights in a coffee shop on the corner of the building where I live. I like it there. The people are sparse and those who do come in usually know what they want and leave right away. And every night, just like tonight, I sit at the counter with a cup of coffee strong enough to keep me awake until morning, my sketch book covered in the faces of people I used to know. I hold my pencil in my hand the same way I would scribble pictures in passing stardust. I take my time defining their eyes and rounding out their cheeks.

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Arms drape around my neck followed by a, “You draw her a lot.”

“I draw them all a lot.”

“No, see,” the fingers point to four tiny sketches of the same woman on a single page. “They’re all the same girl. Does she have a name?”

I take a moment to look at them all. She’s sitting cross legged in a couple, laying down in another, and standing with tiny stars tickling her fingertips in the other. Sometimes she’s laughing, smiling, making funny faces, but I keep redrawing the one with the face from the last time I saw her. “She’s the North Star.”

“And who’s that?” The fingers point to the woman on the other page with long, star streaked hair that almost covers her eyes, and a galaxy bonded in her chest full of spirals of light.

“That’s Andromeda.”

“You’re always drawing outer space things. Maybe it’s time you came back down to Earth where you belong.”

“Would you like me better that way?”

“No, but you might.”

Her name’s Nora. She likes the freckles on my chest that look like a constellation and how I’m young enough to be her boyfriend but my hair is as white as starlight. But her favorite part about me is my name. She claims to have never heard Nova used as someone’s name before, but the way it sounds when it rolls off her tongue makes her think of someone she used to know. What I like about her is the way her dimples stand out when she smiles and how when her hair is put up in a messy bun like tonight with her bangs across her forehead and loose strands framing her face, she can’t help but remind me of North.

“Your drawings are always so good. You should enter them into one of those competitions.”

“No way.” I continue to shade around North’s lips, trying to capture what they looked like when I told her my wish.

“Why not?” There’s a disappointment in her voice that makes me put my pencil down. She’s since moved from hanging off the back of me to sitting in the stool beside me. Her eyes sparkle when she notices that she’s finally caught my attention. But the answer is no. It will always be no. These aren’t just drawings. They’re my friends and I don’t want to share them, but I can’t possibly tell her that. She likes long, drawn out excuses. They get her mind going like short stories and a simple no just won’t cut it.

“Because they’re not done yet.”

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“When will they be done?”

“Probably the next time Pluto tells a joke funny enough to make Mercury laugh.”

“But those two are so far away from each other. How will Mercury hear the joke?”

“Pluto will send it in a message with Corvus.”

“Doesn’t Corvus usually deliver bad news?”

“Pluto’s jokes aren’t usually very good.”

This makes her laugh. Not in a way that resembles an outburst of any kind, but in a way that makes her nose crinkle and teeth shine. She holds the back of my neck and pulls me in closer as she whispers a kiss onto my ear.

After she leaves me for the night, I get up from my usual spot at the counter and head for the hill that I came from. It’s on the far end of the city where nobody really goes around this hour, but the sky’s clear for the first time in a long time and I want to see them. I skip across streets, dart through alleys, only stopping to pick up a cat I named Felis who wanders around the city, but never all that far from me. I named him that because the way his irises glitter reminded me of the constellation that has long since vanished from the sky. I carry him to the hill, sketch book in hand, and sit beneath the northern stars to watch. They look quiet from here, but I know they’re anything but. His purring echoes me as I point them all out to him for probably the ninetieth time.

Ursa Major and Minor, Draco, even Cassiopeia, but no North. I picture her cross legged in her usual spot, probably with Lynx in her lap, reflecting Felis in mine. She’s gotten harder to find lately. And the idea of her falling from the sky or being swallowed by a black hole clumps in my throat. But the first time I did see her on this hill, I realized how much brighter she was from down here. My fingers curl around Felis’ fur the way they curled around countless streams of blue and magenta cosmic dust. It puts me at ease seeing them. The last time, I felt completely lost and started to forget who was where.

“Is that where you’re from too?” I ask the cat. His eyes close as he tucks his feet under himself, almost smiling at me. “We can be lost together.”

I lick my lips thinking about how many people I could be in a given day. Eating the stars, tasting their wishes. The regret builds in my gut. I lie back and think about how Gemini’s fighting used to put me to sleep and how Venus used to talk enough for Earth and her combined. They all look so far away from me, so still. Minutes toll by as I wait to watch Sun chase away Moon. They were constantly doing that. Both being too shy to speak to the other, except on rather spectacular occasions.

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“I gave you the Earth, but your head’s full of stars.”

I shoot up to see Nora standing over me. She comes to sit beside me cross legged with her hands folded on her ankles. She looks up at the sky the way people do when they find something that resembles peace inside themselves. By Moon’s light, her skin starts to shimmer with stars and universes collide in her eyes.

“I thought that this was what you wanted,” she says without taking her eyes off the stars. “To be human like the rest of them.”

A tear falls from the corner of my eye, past the ear that she kissed. “North?”

At first, I’m upset that she’s here and at the fact that she’s always been here. Nora was one of the first people I met on Earth, and when I asked her what her favorite thing to do was she said, “People watching,” I thought it was boring. Why would I want to watch people do things that I could do myself? But now I see it. She’s always watched them. She’s watched them by the masses. Soaking up their wishes and keeping them inside herself like a locket around her neck. She knew more about people than I could by eating their dreams one by one.

I choke on my words, “Why did you leave your spot to come here? Won’t people miss you?”

She gives me a shrug and says, “Why did you?”

“I’m only here because --”

“You wished it.” She leans in close so that we’re nose to nose with her finger by her lips and whispers, “And yours was mine to grant.”

For a split second, I don’t think about going home, this city, the wish, or how much they all might laugh or cheer when they see what I’m about to do. I take her in my arms, pull her in close and kiss her in a way planets are made. I forget about who we are and where we came from and let the moment orbit around our own gravitation. On her lips, in her mouth, I can taste them all over again. They’re nutty and sweet, fiery and tart, creamy and cool. Our tongues exchange wishes. My own is full of bitterness that sticks to the back of my throat. Hers is fresh and mild with a richness that makes my eyes roll into the back of my head. It meets the bitterness in my throat, softening it into syrup that glazes over my insides as our energies are equally exchanged.

My hand travels from her cheek, down her neck, shoulder, and arm, leaving trails of spiral galaxies that resemble my fingerprints. “I was just about to wish to be with you.”

“But I’m already here.”

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• • •

I walk into my apartment full of the sweet scent of sugar and warmth. White lights decorate my ceilings and drape down my walls and around my windows. Felis sits atop a bookcase full of astronomy books and maps to find my way back home. He likes to be as high up as possible, only walking between my legs.

Nora’s in the kitchen, humming to herself as she barely looks over her shoulder to watch me. I sit on one of the stools by the counter. There’s a plate full of cookies in the shape of stars sitting in the middle. Some are frosted faded yellows and the rest are light blues except for one. A bright red one lies on top of the pile. I pick it up and bite into it. The cookie crumbles in my mouth. It’s slightly buttery and the frosting melts on my tongue with its sugars sticking to my teeth.

“Are you eating my stars again, Nova?”

“Only this one.”

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The smell of cheap black coffee fills Margaret’s nostrils as she waits in the hospitals cafeteria.

She fixes her eyes on the clock. The little hand ticks away time. Seconds pass. Then minutes. Then hours. Hours she should be spending with her son. She would trace the lines on his face softly, she would tell him everything would be okay, and he would get better again just like he always had. But she didn’t want spend their moments together lying to her precious boy. She didn’t want spend those moments lying to herself. The cafeteria is filled with people, probably husbands, brothers, friends, and like Margaret, mothers.

Although she was surrounded by people, everything was muffled.

Like being underwater.

Except for a ringing, it came from a distance and in any other circumstance she would be irritated by the annoying sound. But in this moment she welcomes it as an old friend, not wanting the noise to leave her company. It is almost soothing in the way it never leaves her side. The constant ringing keeps her sane. Sane enough not scream at anyone who looked at her too long. Sane enough not to knock her disgusting two-dollar coffee on the ground. Sane enough not to cry whenever the stupid clock ticks away another one of her and her son’s moments.

‘’Margaret.” She hears through the muffled voices, bringing her back to reality. Where things exist. Where people move on just as fast as the small hand on the clock. Where she can no longer sit in the comfort of her abstract mind, with her son, where time stops. Reality refuses to stop.

She prays for stillness.

It does not come.

He put a hand on her shoulder, probably to comfort her. Because that’s what people do. They try to make the pain go away. They try, and try, and try but it never really succeeds.

Margaret leaned into the hand. This was a moment she wanted the comfort to work.To take away not only her pain but her son’s pain, too.

“It’s time to say goodbye.” He said.

Simon’s DinosaursKelsey Winter

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The need to laugh overtakes Margaret’s body. She wants to laugh, and sob, and hit, and yell, and scream at the people in the cafeteria that this isn’t fair. And then she just wants to stop.

Stop breathing.

Stop seeing.

Stop being.

Because wasn’t she promised a future with her son and grandchildren, when eventually a man would put a hand on her son’s shoulder and tell him what she’s hearing now?

She looks at the clock once more. Time felt like it stopped in that instant. But the clock reassured her the world was still moving, and it’s moving on without him. Without his big toothy smile, and his round glasses. Without his love for music, and the way he can’t say his “R’s”. Yes, the world will move on without him. He was too young to make his mark; he was too small to be remembered.

Margaret listened for the ringing, and she couldn’t seem to find it.

It’s funny how when something traumatic happens, a person can remember every detail about that moment. Margaret remembers the white walls in the hospital’s cafeteria. The way she wore her hair in a messy ponytail. And the fact that the ringing noise had come and gone so fast. In that moment she came to the realization that she no longer had a son. And he too had come and gone as fast as the ringing had.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

• • •

‘’Simon, it’s time for bed!” Margaret called, as she climbed the stairs with a laundry basket tucked under her arm.

When she opened the door, she saw her son sitting with his legs crisscrossed. He had his Lego pajamas on, and his short hair still glistened from his bath earlier that night. His face was focused, almost concerned, as he moved the smaller dinosaur to the end of the line. She knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he finished.

She sat down next to him and watched him closely.

“Alright bud, do you want some help?” She said, softly nudging his shoulder.

He nodded his head slowly. He always had a concentrated look on his face, like he was afraid that he would miss something if he didn’t focus hard enough.

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“Did you learn anything new today?” She asked him, while she moved a yellow triceratops next to a purple one.

‘’Mmhmm, I learned that the Brachiosaurus was an herbivore.” He paused to think this through. ‘’Momma, what is an herbivore?” He was always so full of wonder about the world and what things did.

She laughed and patted his hand, “It means they only eat plants. They don’t like meat.”

He smiled and grabbed his notepad. This signaled Margaret to write it down so he could remember.

‘’Maybe you should be like a Brachiosaurus and eat your vegetables.” He scrunched his face and shook his head quickly, this caused her to laugh.

“Anything else?” She asked, as she flipped to a clean page in the notepad.

‘’I met a boy at my appointment today.” He paused, turning his focus away from his dinosaurs. ‘’He’s sick, just like me.”

At eight years old he was always so careful of people’s feelings. He spent his time watching others and how they reacted to things. He paid extra attention to his mother. He knew talking about his illness made her upset.

She set the notepad down. ‘’It’s time for bed little buddy.”

Simon looked at the floor and sighed. He crawled over to the bed and tucked himself under the covers.

She removed his glasses from his face carefully setting them on the night stand.

‘’Momma?”

“Yes, Simon?”

“What’s Heaven?”

Simon noticed his mother tense up and kept going, “the boy at the doctors told me he was going to Heaven soon, and he might see me there.”

Margaret crawled into the bed next to him and wrapped Simon into her arms.

‘’Heaven is a beautiful and magical place, where you spend the rest of your time being happy.”

He looked at her, “I’m happy here, can I stay here?” She closed her eyes.

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‘’I’m happy you’re here too!” She said poking his tummy.

He began giggling, but then grabbed his mother’s hand. ‘’Can I tell you a secret momma?”

“Of course!”

“I want to go to Heaven.” He paused and waited for a reaction.

Silence.

‘’The boy said I won’t be sick in Heaven.” Margaret let out a sigh.

‘’Hey kiddo it’s time for bed. I love you, okay.” She kissed his forehead lingering a little longer than usual.

• • •

Margaret walked past Simon’s room after his memorial service. There they were. His giant collection that hadn’t been touched in awhile. Simon was very careful about where they were placed. Each dinosaur had a certain spot, and he would put them in the correct place every night. Margaret didn’t know why, but looking at the dinosaurs made her want to laugh. Her eight-year-old son couldn’t keep his face clean while eating, but he could keep a bunch of dinosaurs in perfect order like they were a troop of soldiers.

Simon was given his first dinosaur at his first trip to the hospital. He was having abdominal pain, which was caused by abnormal blood cells accumulating in organs. He was a little over six years-old when he was diagnosed with leukemia. The doctors caught it in time to get rid of it. But when it came back a year later, Margaret bought Simon a different dinosaur, so he would look forward to going to the hospital instead of dreading it. After that it became a tradition. Every time Simon needed to go to the doctor’s Margaret would buy him a new dinosaur. Simon grew infatuated with them, and he would always tell people he was going to be a paleontologist.

She walked into his room and looked around. She felt a sting in her eyes. She had kept her composure throughout the whole process. She would shed a few tears here and there, but crying didn’t really depict the pain she was feeling. It was the first time she was alone in his bedroom since the day of his death. No one was there to squeeze her hand or tell her she was going to be okay. She knew the more time would go on, the more people would forget. Their lives would go on, and their wounds would heal. But not for a mother. The more time passed is just more time he will have missed.

She looked at his laundry basket full of dirty clothes sitting in the corner. She looked at the Pokémon cards on his nightstand. She looked at the brand new T-Rex she had just bought Simon during his last hospital trip laying on his pillow. She told him once he got home he could have it.

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It was never even opened.

She looked at it, and looked at it, and looked at it. Maybe if she stared hard enough he would come back. Maybe if she wished hard enough he would come back. Maybe if she prayed hard enough he would come back.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Impossible.

Silence.

She waited for a moment. But heard nothing. What she was expecting to hear, she didn’t even know.

She let out a sigh and turned away from her little boy’s bedroom, taking one last look at Simon’s dinosaurs.

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From panzas to prisons, from street theater to large-scale multimedia performances, from princess to chafa – Virginia Grise writes plays that are set in bars without windows, barrio rooftops, and lesbian bedrooms. Her play, blu, was the winner of the 2010 Yale Drama Series Award and was recently published by Yale University Press. Her other published work includes The Panza Monologues, co-written with Irma Mayorga (University of Texas Press), and an edited volume of Zapatista communiqués titled Conversations with Don Durito (Autonomedia Press).

Virginia is a recipient of the Whiting Award, the Princess Grace Award in Theater Directing, the Playwrights’ Center’s Jerome Fellowship, the Loft Literary Center’s Spoken Word Fellowship, and Pregones Theatre’s Asuncion Award for Queer Playwriting. She is also a Time Warner Fellow Alum at the Women’s Project Theatre Lab. Her work has been produced, commissioned, and/or developed at the Alliance Theatre, Bihl Haus Arts, Company of Angels, Cornerstone Theater, Highways Performance Space, Playwrights’ Center, Pregones Theater, REDCAT, Victory Gardens Theater, Women’s Project Theater, and Yale Repertory Theater. In addition to showing people her panza in college classrooms, cafeterias, and conference halls all across the nation, she has also performed both nationally and internationally at venues including the Catedra Jose Marti in Havana, Cuba, and the National University of Rwanda-Butare in Rwanda, Africa.

As a curator, artist, and activist, Virginia has facilitated organizing efforts among women, immigrant, Chicano, working class, and queer youth. Virginia has taught writing for performance at the university level as a public school teacher in community centers, women’s prisons, and the juvenile correction system. She holds an M.F.A. in Writing for Performance from the California Institute of the Arts. She currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she still writes plays about Tejas.

One-Act Play

National JudgeVirginia Grise

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First PlaceA Solider’s Account of Phantasmagoria

Maddi GhatakFoothill-De Anza Community College District

Second PlaceThe Ones We Left Behind

Cynthia PorterDallas County Community College District

Third PlaceRuthless

Brandon FairMonroe Community College

One-Act Play

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The following is an interpretive series of hallucinations and visions based around the figure of Rat Kiley in Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried and the psychological transformation he undergoes during his time as a doctor in the Vietnam War.

• • •

A chicken. Yellow beak, yellow feathers. Yellow like the sunlight and the crisp fragrant air and the flames that rage through the village emerging from hell. Yellow like yellow had never been perceived before. Man, it even sounds like yellow. Just a mellow yellow, enveloping everything, impassively smothering it all in a whole shower of acidic yellow. Except the eyes. Her eyes are small and black and beady, but oh, are they bright and blue and eternally young, so distant, so impassive, so full of neither life nor death but everything in between that seems so serene and so tranquil, if only they didn’t absorb the encroaching darkness and enlarge past the size of her head, staring back so stupidly, so unknowingly, never destined to know of matters of fate. But fate is what she happens to face. She takes a stroll across the incinerated fields in her feigned (feigned? what do you have to feign? there it is with the world, and you have the nerve to feign?) nonchalance, so unaware of Robin Hood who now enters her head like a bullet and steals her cheekbone and her teeth and the innocence of her bright blue eyes and with those her future, her present, and her destiny, and gives all of the wealth and riches he has collected to the weary filmmaker who then strings it onto his film reel and plays it over without cease. It’s a silent film. There is not even a whisper. Just an overwhelming screech of yellow. And there it is. No more chicken. The guy’s dead. How could she have known? But there it just is. She couldn’t. She was a part of the war now. Vietnam and the chicken: one and the same. Let’s eat.

A baby water buffalo. Passive, impassive, so far away from home. Smooth to the touch and entirely numb from the decay of her liver. There is nothing left to detoxify the chemical impurities she absorbs from the start (the smell of) smoke and filth from the hot, humid mountain air. (Where are the others? The habits, the daily quirks, the simplicities of life? Where is the familiarity? Where did the lifestyle go?) Burned down. No longer flaming yellow, no longer tinged with a blinding spectrum of technicolor, but dull, black, and frayed. Shine remains only in the dumb black pupils, encased

A Soldier’s Account of PhantasmagoriaMaddi Ghatak

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by a reflection of enormous, helpless eyes. Sharp and almost gray, but pure black and glazed over from numbness. She radiates (serenity) in ripples of distortion, but the ripples are far too distant to ever have an effect on herself. The rope lassos in on her. Now, she knows. There’s no use, there’s no meaning. She knows of her fate, and she accepts it, but an inkling remains; an inkling of dignity, maybe, or some reserve of self-preservation, but it takes its own style now. The right front knee is lost, but she does not yet give in to the night; she regains her balance on her own. The ear flies away; the endless chatter of the land and its ghosts can no longer be heard. The hindquarters, the back, the sides; only damaged, a few broken goods in a larger war to be endured. The mouth, and it is now that silence sinks in. Now, when there is nothing left to say, not when there is nothing left to hear. It is a shroud of circumstance, infiltrating not just the air but the land and the seas and the flesh itself. There was pain before but only now is it felt. Below the ribs, the belly, the butt: mere casualties. Her left front knee bows and takes its leave; support can no longer be found. The pain has gone too far, and she has come undone. The nose and the throat are her last hope for sensation, memory, feeling, personality, or anything that can differentiate her from the thousands of baby water buffaloes that roam Vietnam, all afflicted by loss, all bound and constricted by the same fate: to come undone. So alas, the nose and throat are shot into extinction and are replaced by a bubbling noise. Soft at first, like a creek rolling down a hill, or a fountain spouting endlessly into the air. But then, the noise emerges , tumbling tumultuously like a snowball down a mountainside, growing in volume, intensity, distortion, and lack of clarity. The air fills with the low buzzing of insects underlying the fervent thunder of volcanoes, geysers, and hot springs, all gathering together to sing in dissonant harmony about the ghosts and the demons and the creatures of all natures bearing the brunt of the land in detached unison and carrying its troubles on the little humps in their backs. But the baby water buffalo was alone, and she could only carry so much. With wide, penetrating eyes that abided religiously to the tribal beat of the eroded and perpetually eroding land, the baby water buffalo watched the synesthetic demonstrations of the bubbling and the buzzing and the immensity of the chorus with nothing more than perfect impassivity.

A human. She wears a timeline of seventeen years painted in shades of pink and white and crystal blue. Pristine is her appearance, a swirl of winter snow and summer strawberries, accented by the seas in her eyes, full on the surface of nothing but empty curiosity. The dirt and the grime of the receiving banquet do not taint her face. She is innocence. She radiates stability; she bubbles to the brim with gregarious fluidity. But the skin; the skin is permeable. The skin is a sponge, and the sponge soaks in the dirt and the grime and the mud and the bile and the water and the grass and the sharp gray clouds and the bright blue sky and the nature of everything is soaked into the pale, rosy skin and smothered under a swirl of winter snow and summer strawberries and a pure sea of void. The tides of the water in her eyes in a marvelous show of flexibility are drawn in and out by

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the magnetic poles of the shadows in the forest and the clouds in the sky. The waves grow more elongated, and she starts to sink. Down, down, her eyes change in concavity, and she falls through the middle encased in a glass elevator, taking the expressway down and never failing to gaze at the exquisite view. A coded message is tapped on the elevator wall. A gunshot is heard. An explosion is felt. A flurry of pink and white feathers is observed. And then? Life grows. Life grows fast. Life grows in patches of Cyanobacteria and chlorophyta and seaweed and kelp, growing into the sea, growing out of the sea, growing at all corners of the sea, growing, multiplying, faster and faster, consuming, defeating, staging battles, enacting civil wars, planning elaborate military tactics to maintain an empire not to be lost with ease. Nothing is heard. Nothing is felt. Oh, but it is seen. It is observed. It is everything; it is Vietnam itself. It is first taken note of in cute little pink and white notebooks and then taken over by the green, by the Cyanobacteria and the chlorophyta and the seaweed and the kelp, not just extinguished but torn apart, bleeding out blood and bleeding in chlorophyll, infected by the words of the wise wilderness and brutally dismembered by the tides perpetually being drawn in and out by the shadows in the forest and the shadows in the sky. She has taken Vietnam, as Vietnam has taken her.

Worms. Slimy, slithery worms. Crawling out of the Earth. Twisting, curving worms. Crawling out of the tunnels. Gnawing, chewing worms. Crawling out of the graves. Ardent, agile worms. Crawling out of the cheekbones, the teeth, the right front knee, the ear, the hindquarters, the back, the sides, the mouth, the chunks of meat below the ribs, the belly, the butt, the left front knee, the nose, the throat, the sea, the forest, the sky (where am I?). Colorful, chameleon-like worms. Crawling into the yellow acid, out of the yellow acid, into the innocent blue eyes, out of the sharp gray eyes, into the dull, black mountainside, out of the dull, black mountainside, into the winter snow, the summer strawberries, the crystal blue sea, the green wilderness; the psyche. Graceful, floating worms. Crawling into the eyes, transported through tunnels of vision, and thrown like fireworks into the air, creating booming noises of volcanic eruption and delicate fragrances of lemon and lavender. Ubiquitous, spiritual worms. Crawling in and out of land and flesh, forming intricate tapestries and purely functional networks, connecting past to present to future to friend to acquaintance to foe, committing it all to a single perfect monochromatic mural before tearing it apart with laser-like tails and throwing its remains into the corners of fields and hospitals and memories. Supernatural, transcendental worms. (What else is out there?)

Bugs. Big giant mutant killer Bugs. Crawling out of the shadows beneath the green cytoplasm that holds the dead in an eternal suspension of worms. But the Bugs are not the same. They are not the cytoplasm. They are not the green. They are not the chicken, the baby water buffalo, the human, not even the worms. They are not Vietnam. They are pure chemical, a discordant set of identical

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nucleotides, monochromatic remains just blown into incongruous cohesion and inflated to the point of mutation. And that’s enough. They are everywhere where location is indeterminable. They are dangerous. They are ready for the kill. And they speak. Man, they don’t just speak, they chatter. They cluck and bubble and chat and discourse and tell stories and hold full-length conversations with the night and rant and babble and sing and dance and echo and mock and eat and drink and hold banquets and attend family conventions and make love and congress and break up and disperse and bicker and argue and debate and propose theories about the meaning of it all. But they do not listen. They have no reason to listen. They are the sound where sound cannot be heard, the sound where sound cannot exist. They are the paradox. They have all to offer and nothing to take. And the rat; the rat takes all they offer and offers nothing in return. The rat absorbs their chatter and lets it sink into her veins through the scabs and the open sores in her permeable skin, permitting it to transform her chemical makeup, allowing it to foster the growth of the green. Nucleotides rearrange, taking in bits and pieces from the dirt and the grime and the deafeningly loud bodily remains that litter the fields and the hospitals and her memories and her night. Purely chemical now. Naturally synthetic. The rat absorbs the worms and performs their task of painting and throwing and painting and throwing, fixing, repairing, to no aim but apathetic generalization, only to tear apart and detach from the big picture. Mechanical. A machine powered by the pitch black fuel of the night. Then, it self-destructs. The heart and the kidneys tire from strained relations and say their goodbyes; they no longer have utility, and their fate is manifested in black. The Bugs are here; the chemicals have arrived to pay their respects. They crawl in and out of guts and bones, forming dead ends and landmines in their pathways, each spelling out its own self-destruction in light (but there is no light) of the greater good. All martyrs in their own respects, the Bugs take on the chicken, they take on the baby water buffalo, they take on the human, and the worms, and the rat, and their eyes shine bright red in the midst of the black as the rat bursts into flames of acidic yellow and sharp gray and dull black and snowy white and strawberry red and crystal blue and chlorophyll green, all in a final adieu that extinguishes those final flickering spots of red and submits them to the greater darkness of the night.

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Characters PAULINA, old woman 60’s ALOMA, young woman 30’s NAIA, a young girl about 10 Setting Kenya: Turkana County, Kakuma Refugee Camp, 2010. Two years after the Country’s Presidential elections.

Inside the camp is a small green canvas tent with black soot covering the insides of the roof. Paulina is hunched over the biomass cooking stove, which is constructed with cow dung and mud. A pot of porridge is boiling on the stove. Aloma sits on the floor at one corner of the tent, rubbing Naia’s hair. Naia is laying on a makeshift grain sack bed. On the opposite corner is a sack full of grains with the “World Food Program” logo written on it and two empty plastic containers with the same logo. PAULINA: (Blows air into the bottom of the stove and gets the fire going, then looks up) You need to stop rubbing that girl’s hair like that. With all the crazy diseases that people are transmitting in this camp. You should be more careful.

ALOMA: (Looking down at NAIA) She is not sick mama. Maybe hungry and cold but not sick.

PAULINA: How would you know? You pick a random child from outside and bring her in our tent. No clue if she is infected with something.

ALOMA: (Looks up and smiles) She is a beauty too. Look at her cheekbones. Such innocence. I don’t remember the last time I slept as deeply as she is sleeping. Kids can be so lucky sometimes. (Pauses) It has been a while.

PAULINA: (Stands upright and adjusts her fabric wrapper around her waist) Don’t let her beauty fool you. She is carrying some type of disease. Soon as she wakes up, we feed her and off she goes.

ALOMA: Where will she go, mama?

PAULINA: Don’t act smart with me. You know where. That white woman, the one in charge of…. what do they call themselves? Um…. (Closes her eyes)

The Ones We Left BehindCynthia Porter

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ALOMA: Displacement. Head of family affairs and...

PAULINA: (Interrupts) Yes. That one. She walks around here acting like she knows everything. Let her figure out what to do with her. That is her job. Find a home for all these kids roaming around the camps causing trouble for the rest of us.

ALOMA: (Shaking her head) Mama, they are orphans. Children of the war. Or should I say wars? With no one to care for them. Nurse Anna told me that they trek for hundreds of kilometers to this place. Carrying their siblings on their backs. Imagine that mama. Hundreds. Some from as far as the Sudan border. They keep pouring in like baby termites. No one has a solution for all these kids. They get placed in similar tents and they painfully figure out this thing we call refugee living.

(Naia slowly begins to open her eyes and is suddenly startled by her new surroundings. She tries to get up but is too weak. Both women stare at her in dismay)

ALOMA: What should I do mama? (Inching closer at the girl) What is your name?

(The girl looks at ALOMA in a confused state and remains silent)

ALOMA: Maybe she is too hungry to even speak up. Is the porridge ready yet?

PAULINA: (Puts a finger into the boiling porridge and licks it) This rotten Bulgur wheat never gets to the right temperature. (Scoops a bowl of porridge and hands it to ALOMA) Here, get her to eat this before she falls asleep again. I need her to get some strength before she heads out. So, tell me again, where did you find her?

PAULINA: I already told you, mama, she was lying right outside our tent this morning. A soon as I opened the door. Found her right there. Asleep. I thought she was dead or something. (Turns towards the girl) Here little girl, get something to eat. (Pauses) I hope she understands what I am saying.

(NAIA stares at the food, looks up at ALOMA and takes the plate from her hand. She soon begins to sip the hot porridge in a rush)

PAULINA: She is hungry. I wonder when her last meal was. You know what, she reminds me of your neighbor’s kid that used to play with our Paul. The one who could sing well. Remember her? She had the same eyes as this girl.

ALOMA: (Softy) I remember her mama.

PAULINA: Young girl, what is your name?

ALOMA: Mama, let her be. Let her eat first.

PAULINA: (Ignoring her) Little girl, tell me your name. I am Paulina, and this is my daughter, Aloma.

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(Naia looks up from her bowl of food but remains silent)

PAULINA: I have a bad feeling about this one.

NAIA: What do you mean mama?

PAULINA: Does she look Sudanese to you? She is too light to be a Sudanese. You don’t think she is a Kikuyu, do you? Look at her eyes and those loose hairs. Typical Kikuyu hair.

ALOMA: How would a Kikuyu kid end up on this side of the camp? You know the rebels stopped the mixing of these two tribes. She can’t be.

PAULINA: I don’t blame them for separating us from them. They cause too much trouble. Always fighting and causing trouble for the rest of us. We are in this God Forsaken war because of them.

ALOMA: Mama, don’t say such a thing.

PAULINA: But it is true. They brought their arrogance and greed to this camp. Look around you. Who oversees the food distribution? They do. They started the war and it was not enough that they cost us the peace in this country. Now we must live every day with our hands out, begging for their mercy. And you know what the irony is in all this? The food is donated by the Americans. So, who put these Kikuyus in charge in the first place? No one. They took over, the same greed that made them steal the votes and start the war in the first place.

ALOMA: You must be confused. Somalis are the ones in charge of the food here.

PAULINA: (Angrily) Same thing. When the food ration lines are open, they are busy sending their kids as orphans so that they can get extra food portions. I have seen it happen. Right in front of my eyes. The things those people will do to get ahead. Double portions I tell you. Who do they think they are fooling?

ALOMA: But can you blame them, mama? They are starving.

PAULINA: (Interrupting) Starving? Who is not starving in this camp? Tell me. Who? Do you see me running after my chickens for dinner? They kicked me out of my home. Took all my animals. All my chickens. What do I have to live for now? Nothing. I should line up like a beggar in the streets, waiting for American handouts. Expired Bulgur wheat and Beans. But still, that does not cause me to take extra portions.

(Silence)

PAULINA: (Shouting) I must wake up every morning, in this smelly tent. Me? I have never lived like this in my entire life. (Pauses) Anyway, you have brought trouble in this tent.

ALOMA: (Surprised) Trouble? What do you mean trouble?

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PAULINA: A Kikuyu kid hiding in a Luo side of the camp. We are finished. You know that. If they find her here, we are finished.

ALOMA: Mama, calm down. No one goes around poking their noses into people’s tents. Besides, she is just a kid.

PAULINA: Don’t tell me she is just a kid. The war had brought out evil in everyone. Even these small kids. The rebels arm little boys with guns and send them out to rape old women who might as well be their own mothers. (Spits on the floor) What madness is that? Young girls already having babies instead of going to school. I have heard some horror stories about those poor boys.

ALOMA: (Suddenly agitated) Which horror stories? You and your many lies. Which lie are you about to tell this time, huh?

(PAULINA turns towards her daughter, surprised)

ALOMA: So, what do these boys do? (Starts to shout) Speak up, mama. You seem to be the expert in war crimes.

(Silence)

ALOMA: You now act speechless. You are a piece of work, mama. Continue with your lies. Go on. Don’t let me stop you. So what do these kids do again?

(Silence)

(In an angry fit, ALOMA takes the now empty bowl of porridge from NAIA’s hand and tosses it across the tent. It hits the wall and bounces right at PAULINA’s feet)

PAULINA: (Stares at the bowl and then at her daughter) What is your problem? (In a calm tone) Have you lost your mind? You are scaring the girl. This whole camp will hear you now. Hush up before you get in…

ALOMA: (Interrupting) I don’t care about who or what is listening. Do you want to know what my problem is, mama? Do you?

(Silence)

ALOMA: (She begins to weep) My son. My baby son. That is my problem. (Covering her eyes with her hands) My baby is out there, roaming around somewhere, maybe even walking around with a weapon too big to fit his tiny hands. He must be so terrified. (wipes tears) So, do you think it’s his fault mama? That he is lost, so far away from his mother? Does he have a choice on what those fools make him do? Does he?

PAULINA: (Looking away) We don’t even know if the soldiers took him away. He might be… (Pauses) It has been months now.

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ALOMA: He is still alive. I know he is. My little Paul is alive. Out there. I know he is, mama.

(Silence)

ALOMA: (Wipes her tears again) You talk about our tribe with so much pride. That we, luos, need to stick together. That we were victims and we should place all the blame on the Kikuyus. But you forget something, mama. When the Kikuyus won the elections two years ago, we refused to accept defeat. So, we were the first ones to take to the streets. To cast the first stones. It was our tribe that first burnt houses with innocent people inside. Senseless mass slaughter. And when the Kikuyus chose to retaliate, nothing could bring them back to sanity.

PAULINA: You and those Kikuyus. What did they ever give you except pain and loss? You lost your husband and child because of them. Your beautiful home and your Law Firm. Everything, all gone. Because of those people. They kicked us all out. From our own lands. Our own ancestral homes. Gone. Burnt to the ground. Yet you still choose them over your own people.

ALOMA: I do not choose them over anyone mama. I was married to one. Remember? That same Kikuyu husband that you seem so tortured about took you in after Papa kicked you out of your own home.

PAULINA: Your father did not kick…

ALOMA: (Interrupts) Papa made you hate a man who chose to love me for me. Not my tribe. Not my money. For me mama. And he gave you the gift of a wonderful grandson. He gave me a son mama.

(ALOMA begins to sob)

ALOMA: My son…Oh, God. My baby.

PAULINA: Now see what you are doing to yourself.

ALOMA: They killed him, mama. My own tribesmen killed my husband. They killed Andrew. Such a wonderful man. What did he ever do to anyone? He was their doctor for all those years. He would treat them for free sometimes. Most of their babies were born in his Clinic. Yet they killed him. And for what? Because he spoke a different language than theirs? Oh God. (sobbing) I hate this war. I hate this country. I hate my people. I hate it all.

PAULINA: Here. Do eat something. (Hands her a bowl of porridge)

ALOMA: (Pushes it away) Let me be, mama. Please let me soak in my own sorrow, lest I go mad.

NAIA: Thanks for the porridge.

(Both women suddenly turn towards the girl, having not noticed her presence in a while. Their faces stare at her, in complete shock)

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PAULINA: (Clapping her hands) Wonders never cease. You mean this little girl can speak? (Pauses) What is your name? Where did you come from? Do you know where you are?

NAIA: My name is Naia. I am a friend.

BOTH WOMEN: (In unison) A friend?

PAULINA: Whose friend? Do we know you?

NAIA: A friend of your son. Paul. He sent me to come here and look for you. He said you were in this camp.

ALOMA: (Angrily) What sick joke is this? What are you trying to say?

PAULINA: What do you mean Paul sent you here? Do you know Paul? Our Paul?

NAIA: Yes. Paul Namanga. I went to school with him when you lived in Eldoret. (Whispering) The nuns, at the Catholic Convent across the valley. There are about 30 children hiding in there. Your Paul is among them. One of the nuns sent me here. I snuck into the camp to look for you. Been searching for three days. Something urgent came up at the Convent.

ALOMA: (Holding her chest) My Paul? Where is he? Is my baby alive?

PAULINA: (Whispering) Hush. Silence, please. The neighbors might hear you.

NAIA: The nun instructed me to tell you that we are all leaving tonight. That I should hurry and get you two.

ALOMA: Get us? Why? Is something wrong with Paul?

NAIA: No. She said that the Frenchman knows you. That he had made a promise to your late husband not to leave you two behind. We are leaving tonight.

PAULINA: The who? Who is this Mr. Frenchman? Aloma, what is she talking about?

(ALOMA rushes to the edge of the tent and retrieves a hidden envelope. She opens it and stares at the contents. Then she slowly walks towards her mother.)

PAULINA: Aloma. You are scaring your poor mother. What is it, this time?

ALOMA: (Reaches out and holds her mother’s hand) Mama, I need to tell you something.

PAULINA: Please. I can’t take any more bad news.

ALOMA: Remember when Andrew worked in Angola?

(Paulina nods)

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ALOMA: He once told me of the Frenchman. I think he worked with him when he was stationed in Angola. How he rescues children from war-torn countries. I believe that Frenchman had an army of fellow former military men from France. I never believed Andrew when he told me that story at the time. I thought he was just making things up. (Pauses) But it all makes sense now.

PAULINA: What are you talking about? We are in Kenya. In the middle of a civil war. Living in a refugee camp. What has a man from France got to do with.... (Pauses) Oh…. I see.

(PAULINA unwraps her fabric wrapper from her waist and unfolds a small knot. She takes out a small box and tucks it inside ALOMA’s hand)

PAULINA: Here. Take this with you. You both need to hurry along before Nurse Mary leaves the clinic. Tell her I sent you. She will sneak you out of the camp. She knows what to do. You better leave now before it gets too dark.

ALOMA: (Staring at the box in her hands) These are your favorite diamond earrings, mama. Why are you giving them to me? (Looks up). No, mama. Mama? What are you doing?

NAIA: We need to hurry up. We must get back tonight.

ALOMA: Mama. Come on. We must leave. You are coming with us. I am not leaving you here.

PAULINA: Stop the foolishness now. I will wait here. This is my home. An old woman like me making that long journey? Not this time. Anyway. No one will bother an old woman. You know your mother well. Nobody will lay a finger on me. I can take care of myself.

ALOMA: (Hugging and Clinging to her mother) No momma. I am not leaving you behind. Please, mama. I need you with me. You can make it out too. Don’t do this, mama. (sobbing) Not like this.

PAULINA: (Gently Pushing her away) Now, now, you will be late. Your son is waiting for you. You will both be in my prayers. You hear? Don’t turn back. Just keep walking and get to your son. Just keep walking and don’t look back. You hear?

(ALOMA and PAULINA hold each other’s hand for a while, without saying a word. Then ALOMA lifts NAIA and carries her on her back. She turns and looks at her mother)

ALOMA: Thank you, mama. (She pauses and then exits the stage)

PAULINA: (wiping her eyes) Be well my daughter.

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Characters Helen Parks – Elderly Lady Catherine – The attending nurse Theodore “Teddy” Parks – Elderly man Setting (Open on Helen sitting at a small table on the right side of the stage in a relaxation center of a retirement home. She wears a multicolored scarf. Teddy is lying in a recliner facing the audience fast asleep periodically snoring. He has a piece of yarn on his shoulder, a walker in front of his chair, and a newspaper next to his chair. Helen is reading a book, and occasionally tears out a page and continues reading.) (Enter Catherine)

Catherine: Mrs. Parks? (beat) Mrs. Parks? (beat) Helen?

Helen: Yes?

Catherine: I’ve told you, you can’t keep ripping out those pages.

Helen: Oh, but I… I don’t really care for those parts.

Catherine: The book’s ruined now. What if somebody else wanted to read it?

Helen: Ruth and I are going to read it. We… She... We’re going to the beach today. (beat) Do you know where Ruth is? It’s not like her to be late.

Catherine: Mrs. Parks...Helen, you and Teddy need to start getting ready.

Helen: She probably forgot to set her clock back... It’s so easy to forget things sometimes.

(Catherine moves over to Teddy and gently shakes his shoulder)

Teddy: (Chokes on some phlegm and is abruptly woken up, coughing hysterically. He speaks in a choked tone) Let go of me you cowards! Wha- Where am I?

RuthlessBrandon Fair

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Catherine: Teddy, Helen needs to get ready. The service starts in an hour. I’ll let them know you’re on your way.

(Teddy swats his hand, signaling Catherine to go away. Exit Catherine)

Teddy: It’s Mr. Parks by the way, Theodore if you know me. Bah, but you don’t know me. I’ll tell you Helen, this whole generation’s disrespectful. Calling me Teddy. What’s this all over the floor?

Helen: (Looking at the ground) Pages.

Teddy: Now what the heck did you go and do that for?

Helen: Do what?

Teddy: You can’t just ruin things like that, Helen.

Helen: What did I ruin?

Teddy: Never mind, you’re almost finished anyway. Speaking of which, we have to start getting ready.

Helen: Ruth is supposed to be here. She’s on her way. She had the sun behind her, so bright, and that smile...

Teddy: Helen, it’s cloudy. And December. Ain’t no sunshine, won’t be for a while. Especially not today.

Helen: I don’t know what could be keeping her.

Teddy: (Quietly) About six feet I’d wager.

Helen: (Rips out a page) What?

Teddy: Helen...Oh, I guess we have an hour, We can wait here a little longer.

(Teddy picks up the newspaper. Beat)

Teddy: Riots in St. Louis, look at this, Helen. Some of ‘em barely out of diapers. Out there looting, flipping over cars. My generation labored in factories building those Chevys, now they’re out there destroying them. Can you believe this?

Helen: Those factories. I was never good at hauling machines.

Teddy: (Puts down the newspaper) You never worked in a Chevy factory. Hell, you haven’t worked in sixty years by now.

65

Helen: And that gunpowder smell, made me so nauseous. (Rips a page out) But not Ruth. She filled those casings all day.

Teddy: Bah. Gunpowder smell never bothered me. That’s what this country needs is a war. A good war will stop all this violence. Gave me a purpose.

Helen: She puts those boys to shame. She puts those bullets together faster than they can fire. Teddy: Why do you always talk like that?

Helen: Yes she does.

Teddy: I’ll tell you about putting to shame. Why after the Number 1 exploded in Bluffview, we just worked harder! (Beat) 91 dead, I remember... good men too. Went to their funeral during my lunch break. Daddy made it to their service on one leg… said “better to hobble toward a grave than be buried in one.”

Helen: Such a change from tending the victory gardens (rips out a page). Oh, but the beach. We are going to the beach.

Teddy: Well I’m glad you’re not listening to a word I say but are going to have fun at the beach.

Helen: I am.

Teddy: I still remember taking that beach. Me and Ol’ Roy. We stormed that beach like men. Bullets like hellfire, but we charged on. One caught me in the ankle, but I kept going. Still feels like hot sand, but you won’t hear me complain.

Helen: Her ankles... Ruth and I snuck off to Baraboo Beach during our lunch break.

Teddy: I’m trying to tell you about Roy. Why do you ruin everything Helen?

Helen: Kicked off our work boots and walked along the coast. Her steps… so...light, but her hands…so many roots and grass. The paths are so cluttered… The roots…

Teddy: Of course Roy, he didn’t make it. But you know that. Ended up as nothing but an ankle, that’s all we could find of him. Had to bury that one piece on that beach. Can you believe it Helen? Burying an ankle.

Helen: Her ankles… I have a man though, he’s (rips out a page)... Ruth always says “my lover is working everday to keep the war in Europe, and those men away from us”.

Teddy: Ruth never had a man, Helen.

Helen: Yes she did.

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Teddy: Unlike you.

Helen: Me?

Teddy: I remember proposing to you before I left. Wanted to keep all those men away from you. You were so nervous because we only knew each other a month, but I wore you down and you said “yes”. Those were the days when men married women...

Helen: We had to hide our pink bellies....

Teddy: Who?

Helen: We went to the beach and nobody knew. And the women gathering around the radio… Poor Mary, hearing her man’s name on the radio… Stole a bullet from the factory and (rips out a page).

Teddy: Now men are loving other men, it’s just disgraceful.

Helen: Men. Winter came and brought the men back with it.

Teddy: Is nothing sacred anymore, Helen? Men marrying other men? Say I wanted to come back home and marry that scarf you’re wearing, so be it? I’ll tell you, I didn’t go to war for that.

Helen: Ruth made me this scarf…

Teddy: I’m just trying to make a point… That’s what this country is coming to. If Roy were still here he’d help me set this country straight.

Helen: You have some yarn on you.

Teddy: Wha? (Sweeping his shoulder) Oh, thanks. Damned Catherine is trying to get me into crocheting, like I’m going to waste my time doing woman’s work... Women marrying women, did you hear me? Ruining everything. Men marrying men. Won’t even let me drink in here, “too unhealthy” Catherine says, they took my Johnny and left me a walker. (Kicks the walker with his bad ankle) Ah! Dang it.

(Enter Catherine. Helen rips out a page)

Catherine: You should start getting Helen ready. The service is in ten minutes.

Teddy: She’ll be there. She’s having her time is all.

Catherine: (Places a hand on Teddy’s shoulder) You remember where we’re holding the service? Remember, we had to change the room because of the chair exercise class?

67

Teddy: (Angrily) Yes I remember. We’ll be there.

Catherine: And Helen will be there?

Teddy: I can get my wife to a funeral. We’ll be there.

(Exit Catherine)

Teddy: That attitude, I know she wants me just to die, I know it, but she does things to keep me alive longer. Makes no sense, Helen. Come on, we’re going to the service.

Helen: The water on our feet… We… Ruth and I are going to the beach today.

Teddy: Oh for god sakes, it’s always Ruth this and Ruth that with you.

Helen: Ruth and I are reading this book, but where… I don’t know what could be keeping her.

Teddy: I hope you’re like this when I die, Theodore this and Theodore that...

Helen: Her ankles…

Teddy: They just bury me here in this home like Ol’ Roy, no idea the hero they’re walking over every day. They just run around marrying and blowing up cars with no idea what we sacrificed on that beach...

Helen: The beach…

Teddy: Won’t even listen to me when I tell them the truth, this country has turned disgraceful. The whole lot of them just burying me, dead in the hot sand.

Helen: So hot…

Teddy: I’ll tell you Helen, you do everything you’re supposed to, get married to a woman, fight in a war, respect your elders and what does it get you? A spot in the meadows? Your name on a wall? A place in the Good Book?

Helen: Our book…

Teddy: Bah. At least you’ll remember me when I’m gone though, right Helen?

Helen: (Rips a page out of her book) Ruth was supposed to be here… I don’t know…

Teddy: You don’t know what could be keeping her, I know. That’s all you talk about is Ruth and that damned book. Give me that.

68

(Teddy snatches the book from Helen)

Teddy: Where’s the page with Ruth in here? I’ll take it out and then you can forget about the whole Ruth thing. (Rips out a page) Where is she? I’ll tell you. She’s dead damn it. Dead and she isn’t coming back. Not on a beach, not in the factory, not anywhere (Rips out a page) Dead as dogfood like Ol’ Roy (rips pages).

Helen: Don’t you say that.

(Helen grabs the book from Teddy’s hands. There’s a struggle and Teddy falls to the floor)

Teddy: Ah. Dammit Helen my ankle. I can’t get up, it’s numb. Don’t just sit there, get some help. Oh God, this hurts I can’t… I can’t… move I… Don’t, let me get up… (Attempts to get up and falls) Just bury me here. Just bury me and get it over with. For God sakes get someone to end it Helen.

Helen: (Panicked) Oh I don’t… what…. What do I… Ruth… Where’s Ruth? She’ll know what to do… Ruth? Ruth?

Curtains

69

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Sarah Vap is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Viability (Penguin 2016), which was selected for the National Poetry Series. Her book of hybrid poetics, End of the Sentimental Journey, inaugurated the Infidel Poetics Series with Noemi Press (2013). Sarah is the recipient of a National Endowment of the Arts Fellowship for poetry. Her first book, Dummy Fire, was selected by Forrest Gander to receive the Saturnalia Poetry Prize. Her second book, American Spikenard, was selected by Ira Sadoff to receive the Iowa Poetry Prize. Her third book, Faulkner’s Rosary, was released by Saturnalia Books (2010). Her fourth book, Arco Iris, (2012) was named a Library Journal Best Book.

Sarah Vap grew up in Missoula, Montana. She attended Brown University, where she studied English and American literature. She received her M.F.A. from Arizona State University, and is completing her Ph.D. at the University of Southern California.

Poetry

National JudgeSarah Vap

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First PlaceOn the Corner of Rural and Guadalupe

Jaime FaulknerMaricopa Community Colleges

Second PlaceAmerica, True or False

James M. BallardAnne Arundel Community College

Third PlaceSonny Membrane

Alicia M. OberlachnerDallas County Community College District

Poetry

72

lays a squat, stucco building, where I had my brief stint with therapy. I spent a lot of time choking up in the parking lot, squinting against the glare of sunlight as I prepared for the cracking open of my psyche. The orange trees planted against the curb didn’t move or undulate– it was still and hot, already hot in April. I bit my nails and hated the ragged edges of them and did not stop. I didn’t know you’re supposed to wait in the lobby so I busted in, gung ho, to the therapist’s office– a prickling start for that blonde lady who spent half a session discussing my insurance coverage and the other half asking about my childhood and if I had ever been raped. I wanted her to like me, so I lied through my teeth, about all of it. We never got to the smothering blanket or the way I need to read digital clocks and add the numbers together or I feel strange and I feel strange all the time, in the middle of sex and the middle of traffic and when I take that loop from the 60 to the 10 too fast and I don’t care and I stop myself from smoking cigarettes because I have an addictive personality but I still look too long at the serrated edge of my knife when I am chopping tomatoes and I drive too close to the median

On the Corner of Rural and GuadalupeJaime Faulkner

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without slowing down. The therapist didn’t ask for any of this information and so I held my tongue, my hands clenched in my lap, white as the paper she was taking notes on, the precursor for a prescription of Xanax, Celexa, Effexor. I didn’t like giving any of me over to a stranger, but I was trying until she told me to choose a happy place and I willed myself to a heavy pebbled beach shredded with rain and thunder but I felt foolish and if there’s one thing I hate more than myself it is feeling foolish. This is the real reason why I never called back to schedule another appointment. There was a gift in the painful awkwardness of it all —I felt something stronger than the dullness of the last few months and it was the autoclave of panic, hot in my mouth and purer than anything I could muster on my own. I thought to myself I gotta get out of this place or maybe I said it out loud because that blonde lady looked at me across the polished table covered in strategic boxes of Kleenex and said, with adamancy, that this is a safe space for you. I could have laughed, but instead I looked at the glint of her manicured nails and thought easy for you to say.

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America, a place where dreams come true. True False “True” America, a place where his dreams come true. True False “True and False” Does he look like George Washington or Malcom X? Is he found in most of Hollywood’s A-list movies, and portrayed as the hero, intellectual, successful, introspective, extraverted, innovating, human being? Or is he the villain, gangster, hood boy always wearing a hoodie boy, thoughtless dope, smoking dope, thinks its dope, always cussing to express himself, never uttering words smarter than the star co-star? America, a place where her dreams come true. True False “True and False” Does she look like Ellen DeGeneres or Viola Davis? Is she the lead actress using stereotypes that make her seem inherently beautiful, With hair reminding us all of Eldorado’s perfection, eyes filled with small droplets of blue Caribbean oceans, and skin so fair it defines what America thinks a woman should look like?

Or is she routinely portrayed as the sassy, inconsiderate baby momma, never knew her own momma, momma of four...teen teenagers who disrespect her like she taught them to, grotesque beast ready to feast on the lust of the light skinned bright skinned man? America, a place where their family’s dreams come true. True False “True… and False” Does the family look more like the Beavers or the Cosbys? Does the family claim to embody innocence? Portrayed as always loving, understanding, forgiving, and emotionally forth giving. Can they say “leave the doors unlocked” with pride, “we’ve got the cops, no need to hide?” Do the cops see familiarity in the face of these strangers? Do their sons leave the house expecting respect, careless as to what they wear because they will always receive the benefit of the doubt?

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America, True or FalseJames M. Ballard

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Are their daughters catered to like goddesses left to believe respect from them is holy and just? Or do they represent heathens smudged on the Picasoesque painting that was America? Are they acknowledged as a different type of American, though they are just as American as the immigrants who abused and forced their citizenship? Do they wish, hope, and pray for better days, tuning into the wishes, hopes, and prayers of their desecrated ancestors? Are their sons lied to, told “to be a man your pants must scrape the sand, that beach towel you lay on with that bitch you laid on all the same, just things being used?” Are their sons told, “Sagging and shagging are key preparations for life, a life behind bars? Only spitting bars, lifting cars, or shooting for the stars are ways out.” Are their daughters never pretty enough? Are their daughters ever really considered women at all? Do their daughters conveniently blend in with the dark, able to be looked past, looked over, but never looked at time and time again? Is the family normally portrayed as a family of none? America, an ambiguous place created on the torn and torcher True False whipped backs of blacks, the ones who look like W.E.B Dubois and Madam C.J. Walker? “True” But credited to the witty hard work and creative whitening of the whites, the ones who look like Cristopher Columbus and Helen Keller?

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Sonny MembraneAlicia M. Oberlachner

Son you ran away too soon

Your cerebrum touched the grooves

Of my septum

Grasping the frame of what was

To what is

Deoxygenated flow

You swallowed me whole

Left me with no food to eat

Nor air to breathe

In a casket beneath

Nearly twenty-eight

Carrying the weight of your dreams

In a world obscene

Waiting for acetylcholine

Or a false sense of hope

The money choked us all

Beckoned your call

As you stood on my porch

Listening to the caws

We loved you so

Though your spirit resides home

Your memories rest within

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Anne Arundel Community College — James M. Ballard, poetry, Sarah M. Fredericks, personal essay, Sarah M. Fredericks, fiction

Central Piedmont Community College — Molly Shores, personal essay, Victoria Wheeler, fiction, Jesse Gonzalez, poetry

Cuyahoga Community College — Anwesha Chattopadhyay, personal essay and poetry, Malena Grigoli, fiction

Dallas County Community College District — Cynthia Porter, one-act play, Alicia M. Oberlachner, poetry, Alice Robinson, personal essay, Juanita Torres, fiction

Delta College — Frederick Ferguson III, personal essay, Julia Moreno, fiction, Nathan Haney, one-act play

Foothill-De Anza Community College District — Maddi Ghatak, one-act play and fiction, Yubey Delgado, personal essay, Alex Rosa, poetry

Humber Institute of Technology & Advanced Learning — Zachary McGregor, personal essay, Renee Peace-Miller, fiction, Michael McInnes, poetry

Johnson County Community College District — Emily Spradlin, fiction, Jonah O’Brien, poetry

Kirkwood Community College District — Charlie Wicker, personal essay

Lane Community College — Kelsey Winter, fiction, Scott Zeigler, personal essay, Rebecca Blanchard, one-act play and poetry

Maricopa Community Colleges — Maja Malgorzata Zymslowski, fiction, Jaime Faulkner, poetry, Malka Daskai, personal essay, Eric Bond, one-act play

Monroe Community College — Cynthia Rogers-Harrison, personal essay, Brandon Fair, one-act play, Julia Palozzi, fiction, Vinh Nguyen, poetry

Moraine Valley Community College — Elijah Roberts, personal essay, Brittany Crosse, fiction, Kennth Potocki, one-act play, Haley Carrero, poetry

San Diego Community College District — Kelly Clemen, personal essay, Ian Eckelman, fiction, Kaitlyn Daley, poetry

Santa Fe College – Northwest Campus — Halina Nix, fiction, Aubrey Webster, poetry

Seattle College District — Lisa L. Wasikowski, personal essay, Malachi Musclerat, fiction, Ross Showalter, one-act play, Linnea Young, poetry

Sinclair Community College — Amanda Akers, fiction, Mary Ellen Bagen, personal essay, Kendra Healy, poetry

Valencia College — Natasha Garcia, personal essay, Samantha Ferrer, fiction, Cliff Erickson, poetry

Regional Winners

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Susan Cohen, Professor, English and Women’s Studies, Anne Arundel Community College, Arnold, MD

Colin Hickey, Instructor, English, Central Piedmont Community College, Matthews, NC

Amy Cruickshank, Assistant Professor, English, Cuyahoga Community College, Parma, OH

Rebekah Rios-Harris, Coordinator for English and Dev. Reading/Writing, Liberal Arts Division, Dallas County Community College District, Cedar Valley College, Lancaster, TX

Mark Brown, Associate Professor of English, Delta College, University Center, MI

Ken Weisner, English Faculty, Language Arts Division, Foothill–De Anza Community College District, De Anza College, Cupertino, CA

Carol Bueglas, English Secretary, School of Liberal Arts & Sciences, Humber Institute of Technology & Advanced Learning, Toronto, ON

Tom Reynolds, Assistant Dean, English, Johnson County Community College, Overland Park, KS

Darek Benesh, Director, English, Kirkwood Community College, Cedar Rapids, IA

Jennifer von Ammon, Faculty, English, Lane Community College, Eugene, OR

Linda M. Speranza, District Fine Arts Coordinator; Don Jensen-Bobadilla, Programs and Events Coordinator, Center for Learning & Instruction, Maricopa Community Colleges, Tempe, AZ

Cathryn Smith, Assistant Professor, English, Monroe Community College, Rochester, NY

Carey Millsap-Spears, Assistant Professor, Communications, Moraine Valley Community College, Palos Hills, IL

Stephanie Bulger, Vice Chancellor, Instructional Services, San Diego Community College District, Miramar College, San Diego, CA

Clay Arnold, Faculty, English, Santa Fe College – NW Campus, Gainesville, FL

Mike Hickey, Faculty, Academic Programs, Seattle Colleges, South Seattle Community College, Seattle, WA

Tim Waggoner, Assistant Professor, English, Sinclair Community College, Dayton, OH

Jackie Zuromski, English Professor, Discipline Coordinator for English, Valencia College, Orlando, FL

Member CollegeRegional Coordinators

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AcknowledgementsThe quality and integrity of the work in this anthology speaks for itself. I am honored to be one of the coordinators from the fine colleges represented. If your work is included in this anthology, keep this honor close to your heart and use that strength to gain the courage to go forward with your career in the arts.

I would like to thank,

Dr. Maria Harper-Marinick, ChancellorDr. Paul Dale, Interim Executive Vice Chancellor and ProvostDr. Sam Dosomu, Associate Vice Chancellor of Academic Affairsfor their continuing support of the Maricopa Community College District Arts Programming Dr. Polly Miller, Interim District Director for Academic Support Programs and Services and the Maricopa Center for Learning and Instruction for supplying the support to produce the anthology With much appreciation for this years’ design concept and book layoutLaura Carr, Graphic Designer, with the support of Maricopa Community College District Marketing and Communications department

Dr. Lois Roma-Deeley, Professor Emeritus, Paradise Valley Community Collegefor the use of her poem, “Standing on the Transcendental Sidewalk” Josh Rathkamp, English Faculty, Mesa Community College, Coordinator of the Student Literary Competitionfor his outstanding support of the literary arts

Sincerely,

Linda M. Speranza, M.F.A.District Fine Arts Coordinator, Maricopa Community Colleges

Maricopa County Community College District ©20172411 W. 14th Street • Tempe, Arizona 85281

Upon publication, all rights revert to contributors. The thoughts expressed in this publication are solely the authors’ and do not neces-sarily represent the views of the League for Innovation in the Community College or of Maricopa County Community College District.

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