CR Journal, Vol. 8 - Cosumnes River College

"Clear Lake Magic"
M A R T I N M c I L R OY
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
SPRING 2014
»
VOLUME 8
The Cosumnes River Journal is published annually by the English
Department of Cosumnes River College, Los Rios Community College
District, 8401 Center Parkway, Sacramento, CA 95823.
To contribute poetry, short stories, essays, interviews (or other
creative writing), black and white photography, and other visual art,
please send electronic submissions or inquiries to
CRC-LJSubmit@crc.losrios.edu. We accept submissions year-round.
Send three to five poems and up to three stories or other manuscripts
(up to 2,500 words, MS Word or jpeg formats) per year. Artwork can
be submitted in three formats: orignal prints; high-resolution digital
images (>300dpi at the scale of journal); or professional
high-resolution scans (>300dpi at the scale of journal). Signed
photo releases may be required with certain photos for submission.
your submission is published. Reporting time is up to six months.
1
bios
Also, include a fifty-word bio written in the third person—to be used if
SPRING 2014
»
VOLUME 8
acknowledgements
president's message
We are sincerely grateful to our donors
It is my pleasure to share the Spring 2014
and supporters and for the many writers
Cosumnes River Journal with you. This
and artists who submitted their work for
inspiring publication engages the mind and
consideration. Thank you.
the heart with writings of life's incredible
experiences, meaningful reminiscences, and
special thanks
Dean of Humanities and Social Science
Ginny McReynolds
Cosumnes River Journal is published by
the English Department and highlights
CRC English Department
the imaginative and literary talents of
YOU CAN FIND COPIES AT:
our own poets, writers, and visual artists.
CRC College Store
Hart Senior Center
STUDENTS
Justin Brandt
Kevin Frodahl
Mark Henderson
Brandon Mosley
Evey Teems
FACULTY
Andi Adkins Pogue
Kerstin Feindert
Heather Hutcheson
Heidi Emmerling Muñoz
Erica Reeves
Rose Spisak
David Weinshilboum
Sacramento Poetry Center
tribute
We humbly dedicate the 2014 Cosumnes
River Journal to Ginny McReynolds, our
colleague, our dean, our mentor and friend.
She has served the Los Rios Community
College District in a variety of capacities,
most recently as dean of our division,
Humanities and Social Science. Because of
her commitment to students, this publication
has advanced and expanded. She is a shining
example of our campus vision and mission.
We are inspired by her intelligence,
frankness, fairness, wit, engagement with
bios
graphic design
mention her work as a writer.
Amber Foreman
next leg of her journey, and you can read
Ginny leaves her position to begin the
about it in the essay section on the theme of
printing
Paul Baker Printing
A unique collection of works, the
Our campus possesses an innovative and
supportive learning environment that
draws from exceptional faculty, staff,
community supporters, and friends. At
Cosumnes River College, we strive for
academic excellence and the cultivation
students and all things English—not to
2
and restore us.
CRC President Deborah Travis
Beers Books
editorial staff
the cycles of living that define, transform,
Bouncing Back.
We celebrate her and all of the ways she
will continue to contribute to our world.
of wisdom, personal growth, and global
awareness through individual and collective
action. In each educational experience and
environment, we emphasize the power of
resilience and the infinite possibilities of
reinventing ourselves through openness to
learning. Reverberations of this distinctive
CRC ethos and a wellspring of inspiration
are evident in the works compiled in this
newest journal edition.
I encourage you to spend a little time
enjoying and reflecting on these writings
and works of art. Echoes of their voices,
messages, emotions, beauty, and energy
will bounce back into your mind and
capture your heart!
Deborah J. Travis
President
table of contents
cover
"Pelican" Drawing » AFTON KERN
inside front cover
"Clear Lake Magic" Photography » MARTIN McILROY
« creative nonfiction »
32 Letter to the Boatman » KIMBERLY WHITE
33Regret » STAN ZUMBIEL
34 "Blue Butterfly" Painting » APPRIA NEGRETE
35
Tag Line » BOB STANLEY
36 "Tulip's Last Hoorah"
Photography » JENNIFER O’NEILL PICKERING
4
Lost and Found » PHOEBE BASILIO
36
4
"Rain's Light" Photography » BLAIR WELLS
37Laziness » JONATHAN DE YOUNG
cignificant » DAVID POTERAS
6Fat » HUMNAH FAROOQUI
8
If This Is Going to Be Life » TAMARA LIPANOVICH
10
Staying on Task » KRISTINE DAVID
11 "Classical Piano" Photography » MARTIN McILROY
12 Media Bias » SCOTT REDMOND
13 Somewhere Over the Heliopause » ROBERT PAYNE
13 Photography » JULIAN ELIAS
« poetry »
14 "Row Away from the Rocks"
Photography » JOSH SLOWICZEK
14 Into the Mist » JAKE KOIYOTH
15
Pen to Air » JAKE KOIYOTH
16 Falling for DH » JODY ANSELL
17Untitled » JONATHAN DE YOUNG
18
"Tree's Light" Photography » BLAIR WELLS
« fiction »
38
They Don’t Have Roses in Heaven » JOSH SLOWICZEK
39
"Garden's Light" Photography » BLAIR WELLS
42 "The Absurd" Photography » JOSH SLOWICZEK
« bouncing back »
43
Bouncing Back » DIVA2DIVAS
44
Unexpected Speed and Velocity » GINNY McREYNOLDS
45
"4087" Photography » GERRY “GOS” SIMPSON
45Cycle » DAN BERGET
46
A Nightmare or A Dream Come True? » NAREMAN RASHID
47
Huckleberry Hill, June 1987 » LORRAINE DOLL
48Stagnate » ALEXIS BACCUS
48
"Tower Bridge" Photography » MARTIN McILROY
18 The Birds’ Home » MAI DUONG
49Methamphetamine » EMCEE
19 Birth of a Monarch » DIANE BADER
49
"ILX Dragon" Drawing » AFTON KERN
20 Persimmons (A Conundrum) » DIANE BADER
50Mom » ZAIREEN AIYUB
21 The World Looks at Me » LISA COWANS
51
Bouncing Back » REID THOMPSON
22Gratitude » PAT SOBERANIS
"Fine Art Dog" Photography » SCOTT REDMOND
23 Lesson Learned » MARINA HUTCHINS
24 Out of the Frying Pan,
into the Flame » YASSMINA MONTES
« quotes »
52 "Muscat Corniche Sea Tower"
Photography » SAMUEL INIGUEZ
53
Inspirations on Bouncing Back
25 First Harvest » JENNIFER O’NEILL PICKERING
26 Blank Page » VS CHOCHEZI
« artist bios »
27 "6125" Photography » GERRY “GOS” SIMPSON
54Bios
27 Do the Dead Speak? » DIANA SAXON
55
28 "Stallion" Photography » MARTIN McILROY
30 By the Numbers » STAAJABU
31Prologue » DIANA SAXON
Photography » ZACH HANNIGAN
inside back cover
"Cosmic Butterfly" Painting » APPRIA NEGRETE.
3
bios
23
PHOEBE BASILIO
Lost and Found
Years ago, one day of the week outside of
that mom would fill drawers with or nag me
a scene or gliding around the store in the cart.
the five I'd spend being taught my ABCs and
about in the mornings until she finally found
But the epitome of the shopping experience
numbers, I learned what loneliness was.
me something that was apparently more
was, of course, hiding in the secret burrows.
appropriate for school than a black leotard.
store that has just about disappeared from
Shopping trips were a lot like car trips—
Every preoccupied mother out shopping
most shopping centers, I was out "shopping"
drawn out and boring. Kids had to find a way
has probably become intimately and
with my mom and older sister—as much as a
to entertain themselves. Unfortunately this
uncomfortably familiar with these spaces at
five-year-old could, of course. To me, at least,
is usually accomplished in ways that drive
some time after losing a curious child to them,
clothes were nothing more than coverings
parents nothing short of insane, like messing
the two-sided racks of clothes that line a store
that found their way on to me daily—stuff
around with sister until I made big enough of
from wall to wall, and hold just enough space
In the heyday of Ross, a chain clothing
The burrows weren't actually secret.
"Rain's Light"
BLAIR WELLS
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
for a kid to fit in. But that's the thing—they
my unresponsive friend, but friend nonetheless,
"Mom?"
were our secret. They were sacred spaces for
was quickly snatched away.
adventuring kids—large enough doors as long
moment when I had attached myself to
as the rack itself that would slide open at the
sleeves of the friendly forest that surrounded
the wrong mom with the right hair color. I
parting of clothing and seal closed once you'd
me, and the light danced off the metal necks of
climbed back into the cart­—I don't remember
wander far enough from the gap. Big enough
the plastic hangers, and the carts and mountains
mom being overly worried, but I remember
spaces for kids to squat inside and hide, and
of clothes and clamor of feet and voices and
feeling safe, even with the bright white lights
small enough to keep pestering adults out.
loudspeaker talking about a party waiting were
and disarray of clothes around me. I remember
And why not enter? I mean, parents didn't
never ending, but I was safe.
telling my stories over and over about a friend
want you to leave, of course, but it was more
And alone.
that I found in the burrows and being really
exciting to hide from your inattentive padres
I was one of those kids that would wait for
brave and finally finding them while I stayed
that sorted through clothes like paperwork, as
an hour in the dark during a game of hide-and-
calm. I remember talking quickly without
if there was some kind of distinction between
seek just to make sure that I won, but in that
stopping so that my voice was louder than
one pink blouse and… one pink blouse? And
game someone was always looking. And this
my fear. And I remember the relief in being
what's the difference between a blouse and a
was only my game, and maybe people didn't
found, because they apparently were looking
shirt, anyway? So between the time when my
want to play. I discovered that even more than
for me—for some reason I only found out a
mother was probably explaining something
safety or adventure, I wanted to be found.
year later in WalMart that a when "a party is
like the difference between the two and asking
waiting for you," as said over the loudspeaker,
myself why we couldn't just call one a regular
until I was well out of the aisle that my eyes
it means a group of people, not a birthday
pink shirt and another a fancy pink shirt, I
finally adjusted to the light, but my fear of
celebration, like the loudspeaker repeated
disappeared in-between the forbidden aisles of
solitude pushed me further than my body's
many times as I hid in my burrow.
I was in my secret burrow nestled in the
So I ventured out of the burrow. It wasn't
Thankfully it wasn't another embarrassing
clothing. It wasn't the wardrobe to Narnia, but it
was certainly the gateway out of Willy Wonka's
factory of ridiculousness. What was once harsh
overhanging light gently filtered through the
rows of shirts, or perhaps they were dresses
B I G E NOU GH SPACES FOR KI DS TO SQU AT I N S IDE
A N D H I DE, AND SMALL ENOU GH TO KEEP
P E S T E R I NG ADU LT S OU T. AND W H Y NOT ENTER?
(just clothes, really), and the muted tones of
cry for stability. I didn't run—people couldn't
of retreat and misplaced adventure. I gleefully
know I was afraid, or they might be scared
tranquility, I wanted to be found. And not by
waited to see when my mom would finally find
of me, or think I was just some needy child,
anyone—I wanted my mom. And in her own
me­—there was a thrill in rebellion and a rush
or my mom might tell me that I was causing
way, I knew she was searching for me, even
of adrenaline in anticipation of the punishment
a scene. I didn't know what that meant, and
if it wasn't the way I had wanted to be found.
that might've awaited me. So I lingered in my
my mom wasn't anywhere in sight, but she'd
She had someone call me over the store's
woods of my burrow.
probably find out anyway. And honestly, I
speaker time and time again, and she scolded
didn't care at this point. I just hoped they hadn't
me for hiding for so long, especially as I knew
left without me.
better (supposedly). But she had searched for
me, and there is unspeakable comfort in being
And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
People had started staring and I didn't want
But over comfort and safety and
And a friend came along in our burrow,
them to find out I was lost, so I calmly walked
found by someone that you need.
another kid, dirty blonde both in hair and kind,
up to a pile of stuffed animals and hugged one
as it seemed to my naive self since she was
tightly. It didn't protest.
spend when I'm not being taught at school five
kind of grimy and didn't respond when I said
days of a week, I know that alone and at home
hello. But I heard her mother yell a name over
black hair went into an aisle­—I let go of the toy
I am safe, and calm, and comfortable. But
and over and quickly the giant arm of an adult
and dashed behind them, and said, almost as a
I've learned that more than all of that, I need
reached through the towering clothing trees and
question, what I thought was my mom's name.
to be found.
In the periphery an adult and a kid with
And on the days of solitude I sometimes
5
creative nonfiction
the once neon fabrics melded into a quiet forest
HUMNAH FAROOQUI
Fat
creative nonfiction
6
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Claire!” He shouts. I flinch.
me is like a wisp of smoke; it rises up, and
I feel my body contort as it waits for what
poses a question:
arms open wide and a white halo plays on top
comes next.
of his head. He seems like an angel.
Think, Claire. Who is the monster? Who is
His grey eyes hold pity. He spreads his
the man?
He comes closer, to embrace me.
I crouch low, bracing myself for the attack. My
I shake my head, my cheeks damp, and my
ears tremble but are alert, intently listening to
the cow!”
stomach queasy. I shake it again. “No!”
the wind whisper in the gleeful hush. I feel the
warmth of a hundred bodies around me, the
drown in the tears. I turn in one swift, practiced
always does.
eyes of a thousand more.
move and I run.
senses. They take me across empty hallways
Waits for what always comes next.
I clench my eyes shut as the “Moo!”
“Me” I think. “I’m the monster. I’m
My eyes water at the words and Self-Esteem
I stumble across the cafeteria like a blind
He shimmers, and then disappears, like he
I choke out a sob. My legs come to their
rings through the cafeteria like a dong from a
man in a marsh. I send my tray flying.
lined with lockers. White paint peels off the
funeral bell.
century-old walls. Shadows roam about freely,
towards the double doors and then I stop.
gathering their skirts and hiding from the light
eyes and look around me. I see a sea of people,
I look back.
the overhead windows let in. Silence oozes into
their laughing heads bobbing to and fro on
My soiled lunch is splattered across the
dark corners and seeps into cracks in the ceiling.
an ocean of teenaged bodies. Schools of tiny
white-tiled floor. The squashed cherries look
fish, they laugh at the beached whale, laying
daunting from this angle, stark red against the
multiply with each echo, turning into the
on the tiny shoal, with bits of her tumbling out
immense white, like blood seeping into milk.
footsteps of a hasty, many-legged creature
comically into the ocean. HA-HA-HA. The
Hoots of laughter rise up towards the ceiling,
fleeing from something that seems more
sounds tumble out of their mouths in giant
and I turn away.
sinister than hairy skin and pincers.
black letters, flowing into the current of the
waves, drowning my pathetic pleas of “No!”
reaches me before I see him.
and classrooms. They call after me. I ignore
“Don’t!” “Please!”
them. When I spot the bathroom, I dive into it
I see them, but they don’t see me. They
draw his face down, his skin is papery, fragile.
and break down.
see a large girl in the concession stand, a pale
His hair is peppered with grey, slicked back in
mound of flab gazing at them, cross-eyed.
an incongruous manner. You’d think Madness
tears subside. I stand, knees weak, and wash
They see the star attraction at a circus of freaks
would look crazier, but it doesn’t. That’s the
my face. Breathing deep, I look up and face
that the circus master—the big, blonde and
thing about insanity. It sparks up in the most
myself, the mirror reflection that stares at me
beautiful Sean Gaines points out to entertain
ordinary situations. You could be doing the
as if it is someone else.
the crowd, a large entity itself, about to devour
laundry and then—snap—something breaks
me whole.
inside you like a bone. Only it isn’t a bone, it’s
its fist, refusing to let go of my rattling bones,
Laughter erupts in the room. I open my
There are more jeers and laughs. I hurtle
The sickly sweet incense of decaying roses
I look up and he is there. Madness. Lines
My footsteps echo through the halls. They
Shuddering slightly, I dart past teachers
Time ticks by on my wrist watch and my
Flab hangs from my body. It clutches it in
I see him double up with laughter, and
your core, the vein linking you to the realm
bones that are weakened from the burden they
feel the pang that his cruel, blue eyes always
of sanity. Some people slip into its coolness
bear. It pulls them down, causing them to
send through me. They’re a crystalline blue,
in a feverish moment, its slides over them
bend low. My pale skin, dusted with freckles,
and sharp, like a stake. They cut through the
like a wave. Others break into it like it is a
is flushed pink from the humiliation I suffer
core of me, kill the monster, and bring out the
watermelon. Me? I’m chased into its arms
every day, and yet cannot get used to. My blue
human tears, with the less-than human wailing.
every day.
eyes are puffy and red, like the coil of red hair
atop my head.
I clutch my lunch tray and I stand frozen,
I watch him warily now as he stands in
terrified. Eyes downcast, I am unable to look
front of me in his usual tailored suit, the old
Pudgy hands wipe my face clean.
at the Claude Frollo of my life. The lingering
man with the time to spare, who first found me
I sigh.
bit of Self-Esteem (empty words that parade
when I lost Deb, and began to linger on the
“Fat.” I think. “Fat. That is what I am, that
around self-help seminars and books) within
periphery of my life.
is what I see. That’s all I can see. I’m Claire
ON DAYS WHEN SHE LAUGHED HER HONEY LAUGH AND SWUNG ABOUT HER
FAVORITE TOTE B AG, FULL OF MY SECRETS, UNDER AZURE SKIES AND BRILLIANT
SUNSHINE, WITH SMILES IN THE AIR AND THE OPEN SEA BEFORE US.
inside, a girl, a pretty girl, but on the outside,
smiles in the air and the open sea before us.
don’t understand.”
I’m a freak!” The last words burst out of in a
wave of hysteria. I feel anger boil up in me.
I lost her, but I could still find her in food; in
mouth open.
The girl in the mirror glares at me, revulsion
Oreos, burgers, ice cream, pizzas, and candies.
etched across her face.
All the things that she adored, and left behind,
stare at it for an instant. It’s frail, breakable,
I adopted, finding solace in their memories of
like a twig.
lonely freak!” I shout at her and her mouth
her. They still remind of her smiling, chubby
I feel dizzy.
forms the same words. I scream in frustration
face. They are my friends, my comfort, but
Madness creeps up behind me, and looks on.
and look down at my feet, tears streaming out
because of them I am damned.
I look at him. “What are you doing here?”
of me once more.
I feel a sharp twinge of pain, and gasp. I
He smiles at me. “Go ahead, look.”
I turn to the arm, trace it back to my
I don’t understand, either. I stare at her, my
She sighs and holds up a skinny arm. I
realize I have moved. I am standing in front of
Loneliness. It is a constant presence, like
a sink. There is a lock of hair inside it, perfect
shoulder. Shock floods through me like an
a ghost. It shadows you, goes everywhere
corn silk that lies innocent, sheltered. I gaze
ocean breeze, strong and sudden. “How—”
you go. It is a stalker, following you even in
with envy at the lock of hair, so much shinier
your dreams, watching over you as you cry,
and glossier than my red frizz.
elephant trunk. Grey, rotting, thick. It stares
grinning with malice as you grow to hate even
at me, with a jeering smile playing upon its
yourself. You shrink into the shadows then,
I start, and whirl about. Donna Evans stands
lips. It starts to bubble up and flesh falls away,
seeking comfort in darkness, but you always
in front of me. Aphrodite in the flesh. A Mac
and flab melts down. Bones remain; skin
know that you are alone.
blowout and Jimmy Choo heels are the perfect
clings to it here and there. I look down at my
touches to her celestial beauty. My envy for the
body and the fat begins to subside, chunks
I feel hollow. Clasping my hands over a huge
strand of hair directs itself towards her. I draw
dropping to the floor. I look up into the mirror,
belly, I moan. Pain surges through me, like a
back from her, suspicious of her intent gaze, of
and a stranger looks back at me. Pale hair
river breaking through a dam. The intensity of
her green eyes filled with concern.
hangs loose around her gaunt face; there are
it overwhelms me.
half-moons of premature age under her puffy
“A freak. A sad, lonely freak.” I whisper
I slide down to the floor, weeping bitterly.
“Claire.” Someone whispers behind me.
“Claire, why did you rip out your hair?” I
I gasp in horror as it morphs into an
gape at her. She reaches out and gently grabs
brown eyes. White skin, tinged with the green
I hear a laugh. A laugh that drips with honey
the strands of hair around my face, those that
of seaweeds, clings to her face. Her lips are
and vanilla, that comes from a place of
escaped the confines of the tight knot I coaxed
bruised and battered, her body thin, skeletal.
sanctuary, of safety and certitude. I listen to it
them into.
for a moment and then I hear it disappear. It
to place her. She looks back at me.
never lingers. The sudden sunbeam that goes
focus and I see gold instead of red. The hair in
away too quickly, eaten up by cloudy skies and
her grasp gleams. Like sunshine.
sinister lines appear on her face. A happy
icy mountains.
corpse. A jolly corpse. A skipping, dancing,
She opens her mouth, worried, and I hear her
pleasant, playful, merry corpse. I start to shake.
is still as alive as she was all those years ago.
voice as if from far away, lingering towards me
So does she. I gasp, she gasps. I stop. She
from the other end of a tunnel. I strain my eyes,
stares. Her smile widens.
before I could even understand what happened.
trying to catch the words streaming from her.
I could never forget that night. Deb lay in a
Madness catches me and I feel the silk of his
bed of satin, pale, unmoving, cold as the ice
Sean and Tammy and all. They just get kicks
suit, hear the rumble of his manic laughter
lollies she used to eat on sunny days. On days
out of calling you fat. It’s just that you let it get
resonate in his chest.
when she laughed her honey laugh and swung
to you so much, they just go on. But sweetie,”
about her favorite tote bag, full of my secrets,
her green eyes peer at me, “why do you think
I start to scream. I scream and scream, and
under azure skies and brilliant sunshine, with
you’re fat, anyway? You’re skin and bone. I
Donna shakes me, “Claire! Claire! Hey!”
After a minute, it fades away.
Deb. My best friend. It’s been years, but she
Leukemia. We had been twelve. It took her
Confusion replaces the envy as my eyes
“What?” I say, through a haze.
“Claire, I’m so sorry about those guys,
I stare at her, and terror rises in me as I try
A smile creeps up her mouth, making
Horrified, I recoil and step backwards.
I feel his hold on me tighten.
7
creative nonfiction
“You’re just a sideshow! A Freak! A sad,
It’s been years, but… I still miss her.
TA M A R A L I PA N OV I C H
If This Is Going to Be Life
creative nonfiction
8
Traveling is the worst. In the car. Out of the
adds to the room's ambiance. A refrigerator,
entrance of the major tourist attraction and
car. Each action a torturous event. The stares
microwave and flat screen TV bring modern
notes there are a multitude of stairs, but no
of people as she struggles to help him in and
comforts. As she helps her husband onto the
ramp. This ought to be interesting.
out. More stares as she helps him to balance.
plush burgundy comforter on the bed, she
He is so big and tall. Their faces show their
wonders if this vacation is really going to be a
for a handicapped entrance sign and finds one
concern and the inward battle of whether to
good thing. If this is going to be life, then we
near the handrail. The arrow points to the right
help. She thinks that many times they must
need to learn how to live it.
so she begins to push him that way. Following
believe he is drunk, and only when they see
the next sign they arrive to the delivery
the wheelchair do they realize it is a disability
husband to dress, she calls for the car. The
entrance, and are directed by more signs to the
not a drunken escapade. As he toddles along,
loud ringing of the hotel phone startles her,
foot of a flight of about ten stairs. On the wall
leaning heavily on her, she wishes, just once
even though she is expecting the call. The
there is a contraption that appears to slide on a
they would quit staring.
car is ready. She helps her husband into his
rail. “Ring bell for handicapped assistance,” a
wheelchair, pushes him the short distance
sign reads.
Street is bustling with typical San Francisco
down the hall, and once again backs him
furor. She prays they don't get run over as
into the elevator. The drive from the hotel to
a small speaker.
she struggles to get him safely to the curb.
Ghirardelli Square is brief but nerve-racking
“Can I help you?”
A bewildered bellboy asks what he can
as she struggles to remember the route.
“I'd like to get my disabled husband up
do to help and she instructs him to get the
Pedestrians bustle in droves up and down the
the stairs.”
wheelchair from the trunk, as well as the bags
sidewalks; a bicyclist nearly collides with her
from the back seat of the outdated car. Too
as he swerves around a barking dog, and the
voice answers.
busy to be embarrassed by the car she helps
traffic is moving far too quickly for the narrow
her husband across the sidewalk to the marble
city streets. As they approach the Square,
black man appears. His broad smile helps to
entryway. A patron opens a door for her as
traffic slows and her stress level begins to
alleviate the annoyance of having to take such
she helps him up the steps and into the posh
fall. She maneuvers the dark green car around
a long inconvenient way around. He unlocks
lobby. Again the stares of the curious. By now
the block looking for suitable parking and is
the arm holding the contraption together, as it
he is pale and shaking. A clerk asks if he will
relieved to find a spot close to the entrance.
unfolds a small platform protrudes.
be okay; she responds with reassurance that
She parks the car and unloads the wheelchair
he will be. Bending down to his eye level she
from the trunk. Grasping her husband's hand
in getting her husband onto the platform. Then
explains that she is going to check them in and
she pulls and balances him as he grabs the
he begins to give him instructions. “Push this
beseeches him to please stay put.
top of the car door with his free hand and
button to go up,” he says pointing to a button
works to pull himself upright. For a moment
near her husband's arm. “But don't push it too
forms and as she does the bellboy arrives
she wishes they had brought their much taller
hard or you'll go flying off.”
with their bags, the wheelchair tipping
truck, but parking that beast would have
precariously on the luggage cart. She removes
been impossible. Again the stares of those
eyes open wide with concern and she
the wheelchair from the load and helps her
passing by. We aren't the tourist attraction
recognizes the anxiety in his tone.
fatigued husband into it. The elevator is small,
here people, so can you look at something else
so she backs the chair into it. The bellboy will
please, she thinks to herself. Holding his arm,
smiling man instructs.
come up after. The room is not large, a studio,
she maneuvers his body around and he plops
the view out the window is the alley below.
into the waiting wheelchair. He is shaking
and the lift begins to rise.
But to her it's heavenly. The room's buttery
from the effort, so she offers him a drink
“Careful, that's too hard!”
color rises up the tall walls to the crown
of water. He drinks, and as she returns the
“But I'm barely touching it. Am I going to
molding of eras gone by. The refurbished
half empty bottle to the pouch hanging from
be safe?” His eyes widen with fear.
bathroom, still sporting fixtures from the 20s,
the back of chair, she looks up to the brick
Arriving at their hotel, she notes that Post
At the counter she fills out the necessary
The next morning, after helping her
Wheeling him toward the stairs she looks
She rings the bell and a voice comes out of
“Someone will be right there,” the
After several minutes a somewhat large
“Roll him onto this.” The man directs her
“What? Are you serious?” Her husband's
“It's OK, just don't push it too hard,” the
Carefully her husband pushes the button
Laughing the man replies, “I’m just
kidding with you! Feel how slow you are
is only half full, she worries he may tip it.
leaves a lot to be desired, she thinks as she
going? That's as fast as it will go!”
“You got it okay?” His “yes” does not match
inserts the key card into the door. Entering,
his movements as his shaky hand reaches
she blinks to help her eyes adjust to the dimly
the joke her husband continues to use caution
for the bowl. “Here, let me help you sit up,”
lit room. Not seeing him on the bed where she
as he is carried up the rail. Once at the top he
she says setting the two bowls on the small
left him her eyes dart to the floor. She sees his
asks his wife, “Was he just kidding with me?”
nightstand. The pillows re-arranged, she helps
slippers first. As she rounds the corner of the
him sit upright. As she hands him the bowl for
bed, she sees his body out flat; the tremors that
was a joke.”
a second time, she steadies his outstretched
shake his body are visible but not jerking. She
hand with her own free hand. Grasping the
bends to wake him and calls to him, “Theo,
round handle of the soup-sized spoon he
Theo honey, wake up,” as she gently shakes
struggles to get each bite safely from the bowl
him. He opens his eyes, dazed and disoriented,
to his mouth. She watches him take a bite and
“What happened?”
She rolls over and opens her eyes, for a moment
then slides in next to him with her own bowl
disoriented. Her eyes focusing she remembers
and begins to eat.
she grasps a half empty bottle of water and
that they are in a new hotel room. The morning
twists off the lid. Holding his head with one
gray plays peek-a-boo around the darkness of
medicines, does her hair and make-up,
hand, she uses her free hand to place the bottle
the drapery edges. She lies for a moment and
and then begins to pack their bags. The
in his hand and helps him put it to his lips. He
hears his breathing, soft and slow. She thinks
black travel bag is full of zip-locks; one for
drinks deeply. “I'm so cold; help me back to
about the differences between the posh hotel of
shampoo and conditioners, one for toothpaste
the bed.”
yesterday and this emergency stop on the way
and toothbrushes, another of medicine bottles,
“Not yet, you need to be more stable.”
home from their San Francisco adventure when
she adds a hairbrush from the counter and
“I can do it,” he replies as he attempts to
he declared he was too tired to make it the last
zips it closed. The medium-sized suitcase full
rise up and falls backward again.
half of the ninety minute drive. If this is going
of clothing shows signs of wear from travels
to be life, then we need to learn how to live
taken long before she bought it at a yard sale
more firmly.
it, the words echo in her mind. Easing herself
for five bucks. Asking him what he would
“But I can do it!” he says insistently.
out of bed she walks quietly to the bathroom.
like to wear, she removes a dark blue pair of
“No, wait until the tremors have subsided.
Returning to the bedside, she glances at her
sweats with a small tear near the waistband,
Here, I'll get you a blanket.” Her tone is
phone, 6:45. She is wide-awake. With the stealth
a white t-shirt with the words “don't bother
what she would use for an impetuous child.
of a cat she pulls out the chair at the small round
me” in large gray and green letters, and a
Reaching over to the bed she pulls off the soft
table. Quietly she opens her computer and clicks
slightly dingy pair of crew cut socks, and
fleece comforter emblazoned with Steelers
it on. For the next hour or two she works on
she tosses them to the bed. Returning to her
insignias that she has brought from home.
the computer, entertaining herself with emails,
packing she adds her pajamas and turns to find
Draping it over him she recalls the Christmas
Facebook, and then homework.
him grabbing onto the flimsy hotel table. His
that her daughter made fleece blankets for
knuckles white and his face drawn, he rocks
everyone, personalizing each to the receiver’s
you been up? You could have turned on a light.”
from toe to heel. Moving quickly, she grabs
favorite thing. Moving her own horse-covered
him by an arm, preventing a fall. “Here, sit on
blanket, she grabs a hotel pillow and places it
drapes; a ray of sunshine enters the room. She
the bed, and I'll help you get your pants on.”
under his head. “Rest here for a minute.”
slides under the covers and draws him near.
“I, I, I got it,” he stutters in reply.
“How did you sleep?”
“No, I'll help you,” she insists as she helps
and picks up the receiver from the old hotel
“Okay” he responds as she clicks the TV on.
him dress, much as a mother helps a child. His
phone, “Hi, I'm in room seventeen; I'd like to
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
clothes on, she helps him lay back on the bed.
make arrangements to stay another night.”
“I could eat” he replies.
“Rest, honey, let me pack the car.”
Pulling the package of shredded wheat
“I should help you,” he says dejectedly.
from the white cardboard box full of travel
“You are too unsteady. Rest, so you will
snacks and supplies, she pours two bowls
feel up to travel,” she replies.
of cereal; pulling a container from the small
blue and white travel ice chest, she adds
it sideways so it will slide into the backseat of
milk. Carefully she hands him his slightly
the two-door Thunderbird, leaving the trunk
oversized bowl. And, even though the bowl
free for the wheelchair. This Motel 6 sure
“Yes dear he was just playing with you. It
“I thought he was being serious. Very funny!”
* * * * *
Finally, he opens his eyes. “How long have
Rising stiffly from her chair, she cracks the
After breakfast she gets him his morning
Loading the suitcase into the car she turns
Reaching to the top of the hotel nightstand
“Not, yet.” she says again, this time
Rising from the floor, she crosses the room
9
creative nonfiction
Still not sure and unable to fully process
KRISTINE DAVID
Staying on Task
Everyone in the computer lab stares intently
students in that computer lab sit behind their
then appears to be suddenly struck with
at the screens, each pair of eyes seeing
computers, but their eyes are on their energetic
the awareness of whatever social cue it is
something different, a glow reflected back
teacher who draws a diagram in steps, pausing
that causes him to regard the quiet he has
into them. Most of them appear to be only
to gesture some explanations intermittently.
disturbed. As though someone has turned
foreheads, the rest of their faces obscured by
Students will occasionally call out a question
down his volume button mid-sentence, his
computer monitors. They all work quietly,
or an answer to something and the teacher
voice drops to an almost imperceptible level
the clacking keys of the keyboards the only
responds with matched enthusiasm. It appears
to say a quick word of goodbye to the person
sounds most people make. Others, when
to be an oddly exuberant group for what I take
on the other end of the phone. He hangs up
they do talk, do so in hushed, respectful
to be a computer class and I wish briefly that
and shoves the phone into his pocket before
tones usually reserved for a library. The only
we were as animated in our own classroom.
making his way to a computer.
consistent movement, aside from busy, typing
hands, are the teachers’ aids walking around,
hand, bored, as she waits for her computer
more windows and these offer a second story
going to various students in an effort to help
to log in. Her finger lazily scrolls through
view of the inviting, sunny day just outside.
anyone that might need their assistance. We
something on the screen of her phone, that sort
I find myself staring longingly at towering
are all working on different projects, unknown
of absent minded trolling through Facebook
treetops rustling in the breeze, the students
to each other, and my observing them is quite
people are prone to engage in when attempting
down below on their way to the rest of their
unknown to them. As quiet as the room is,
to kill time. On the other side of me is just the
days, appearing to enjoy the sun. It’s hard to
there seems to be a buzz of energy in the air.
opposite, a man busily typing, his eyes moving
not draw a comparison between the inviting,
So many keenly focused brains in one room
back and forth between a piece of paper and
fresh aired afternoon outside and the gray
create an almost palpable mood that makes me
his computer screen. He contemplates the
walled, air-conditioned classroom that offers
want to stop staring and get back to work.
In front of me is my screen and keyboard,
or the one I’ve chosen that day. My essay, as
I write it, takes shape on the screen in bursts,
punctuated by long, thought-filled pauses while
the curser waits impatiently with its blink,
blink, blinking rhythm. It seems to say, ‘and?
creative nonfiction
10
The girl next to me rests her chin in her
The back wall of the room is made up of
B E H I N D T H E G L A S S O F T H AT W I N D OW I S A
S E E M I N G LY R A M B U N C T I O U S C L A S S E N G AG E D
W I T H A N E Q U A L LY R A M B U N C T I O U S T E A C H E R
W H O S TA N D S AT T H E W H I T E B O A R D.
And? And?’ with each waiting pulse as I search
paper, the clicking at his fingertips halted for
little in the way of relaxing beauty. As inspiring
my mind and surroundings for inspiration.
a moment, hovering just above the keyboard.
as the atmosphere can be in here to work, it’s
The next burst of inspiration comes and in a
nothing compared to the thought of laying in
lab are windows. Instead of facing the world
flash, his eyes are back on the screen, hands
one of the many patches of soft green grass
outside, the windows allow us a view into two
punching out his thoughts with spirited
outside and doing nothing at all. I tell myself
other computer lab classrooms. The one to my
keystrokes. In my periphery, I get the odd
that the more I stay focused, the faster I can
left is almost identical to the one I occupy. All
sensation that the man keeps looking at me
take advantage of the day so elegantly framed
of the students are at their computers, solitary,
but when I turn, I see that it is just his head
in the window behind me. It makes me wonder
zoned in on the various things they are there
moving from paper to screen, paper to screen,
if the architect was on to something when they
to focus on. The room on my right boasts an
so engaged in academic rapture that he doesn’t
designed and built this campus.
atmosphere that is in stark contrast to mine
notice me spying on him.
and my neighbors to the left. Behind the glass
of that window is a seemingly rambunctious
of the room when a young student enters
class engaged with an equally rambunctious
talking loudly on his cell phone. He moves
teacher who stands at the whiteboard. The
into the room, fully engaged in conversation
On the walls on either side of the computer
My attention is diverted to the front
"Classical Piano"
M A R T I N M c I L R OY
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
SCOTT REDMOND
Media Bias
“Why not go out and volunteer somewhere?”
to Hawaii with a friend she knew from the
aim it at my stomach and push it in. Maybe
“There is nowhere within walking distance,
world of online.
I could even set the handle against a wall or
and I can’t get places as I don’t drive.”
counter and then push into it. I thought about
“Why not get a temp job?”
devices. I was distraught, finding myself to
the feeling of a knife going through my belly,
“I don’t know where or how to get one of
be a failure as more and more things began to
as well as the feeling of it sliding across my
those, besides I don’t drive so that makes it
pile on my head and the world seemed to be
wrist to draw little lines of blood behind it. It
harder to get somewhere.”
content to finally do me in since I never had
was just one of many ways I thought of ending
the guts to do it myself. Kicked out of school
it all.
understood what I was going through. They
again with the chance to get back in if desired,
were just placating me to get me to stop being
after semesters of our skipping and feeding
have been able to go through with ending
mopey. None of them could ever understand
darkly off one another, all hope seemed lost.
my life; there was something seemingly too
my pain and loneliness. They were just
selfish about it and knowing how much my
people that said stuff to me on Facebook
just the one thought. What if I make a change?
family would hurt put a stop there. Yet it never
after all. Granted I knew many of them in
One simple change, a change to bring on
stopped the visions and ideas in my head.
reality from high school or college; it still felt
the others. What if I change something so
It would be so simple, just take the blade and
creative nonfiction
12
If I’m to be honest, I probably never would
Often times I felt that no one really truly
Once again I was alone, left to my own
A spark. The fire within was ignited with
disconnected.
fundamental it just has to help all other things?
drink something that would poison me. It all
seemed so slow and possibly painful though.
Utah, hoping for a new life and this desire to
left behind with Cosumnes River laid out
Shooting never entered my mind because
get away. Things went south and opposite of
before me. A class taken just to fill general
getting a gun to do the job seemed impossible
what I had thought. I stopped going to work,
education, seemingly fun, to learn about how
and it was bound to be so messy for someone
got myself banned from ever working for
to write and report the news.
to clean-up afterwards. What with the blood
K-Mart again, and lost my residence because
and possible brain matter everywhere. I
we were evicted for no rent month after month.
From learning to doing, I joined the school
couldn’t do that to them, not along with the
Begging my parents for help I came
newspaper. Gone was the darkness from my
pain of my death.
crawling back to Sacramento, back to living
mind. Instead there were people, people that
in my childhood home with no hope. The only
wanted me around and were willing to help
never diagnosed as such. You can tell when
bright light my younger sister, someone in the
me and teach me. People that cared.
you’re in a depression of sorts without
same spot as myself. Like two moths flying to
someone letting you know. Like the pain of
close to an open flame, we got burned.
Images of my brains all over the ground went
those ways I thought to kill myself, it’s just
away, replaced by think paper and ink, a
something you know right away.
and only made it worse as it was us against the
I could fling myself out into traffic or could
I was truly and deeply depressed, though
I had dropped out of college and run off to
Dark and depressed, we fed off each other
A change of school, and scenery. Sac City
One choice, my entire life changed.
No more thoughts of knives or poison.
byline with my name upon it.
world in our minds.
ask me.
alienation. Instead there were amazing people
“Why are you depressed?” People would
“You two should get up and do something
Gone was the loneliness and feelings of
for the day.”
that quickly became my friends, people that I
but I had an entire list to roll through. It just
spend as much of my free time with as possible.
depended on the person and the situation, then
anyways.”
I would know which one to bring out.
thing: the news saved my life.
help?”
I want to say I had no answer for them
“I don’t have a job.”
“Just gonna sit around the house
“Why don’t you see a shrink, get some
“I sit at home all the time.”
“I have no way to get around.”
to friends about this.”
Sadly they were all true and were
“I hate talking to strangers; I’d rather talk
For years it went on, delving deeper and
legitimate things that got to me. People would
deeper into the pit of despair we called home.
offer their suggestions and I would be quick to
Till the day my sister pulled a move from my
shoot them down.
plan book. She found a way to escape, fleeing
I guess in the end you could say just one
R O B E RT PAY N E
Somewhere Over the Heliopause
Did you happen to notice that on August 25,
2012 everyone looked slightly different?
Uh-huh, yep. Had everyone gotten new clothing
or lost a few pounds? We wish. Had everyone
gotten some “work” done, a collective nipping
and tucking?
No, it was more subtle than that. So subtle
indeed, that we did not realize it until three
days ago, more than a year after it happened.
So subtle because it happened 11.3 billion
miles away from here, with here being Earth.
As a member of humankind, you and I
had, for the first time ever, sent a manmade
object into interstellar space. We are now
part of a species that can fling stuff into other
interstellar backyards. In solar system terms,
we are now wearing big boy pants.
This was achieved when the Voyager
I spacecraft crossed over the edge of our
solar system into an interstellar transitory
zone known as the Heliopause. Think of
the Heliopause as the immigration office
for anything wishing to leave our sun’s
jurisdiction. If our solar system is Kansas, then
the Heliopause is populated with Munchkins
and has a wizard.
How did we do this? Apparently, quite
remarkably given that Voyager I was launched in
1977 and was made with advanced technology
of its time that included an 8-track tape player
for data storage and a transmitter using about
JULIAN ELIAS
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
the same wattage as a refrigerator light bulb. It
weren’t yet glimmers in their grandfathers’
it will pass by a dwarf star named AC+793888
Plutonium 238. Okay, that last part is pretty cool,
eyes. So antiquated that when Voyager’s
in the constellation of Camelopardalis.
even by today’s standards.
8-track player needed some tweaking, there
(And so marks the most anticlimactic sentence
How antiquated is this technology?
were no tweakers who knew how to tweak it.
I have ever written.) Voyager’s home planet
Well, the Voyager’s scientific team was long
Susan Dodd, Voyager Project Manager, had to
will surely still be around, but the species
ago moved from its sexy facilities at the Jet
look far and wide and finally found 77-year-old
that made the spacecraft will probably not be,
Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena down the
Lawrence Zottarelli, a retired NASA engineer,
though McDonald’s might be.
street to a non-descript office building next to
to do the work. It would be like going to
a McDonald's. Next to a McDonald's. “Would
Honda and asking for someone to help fix a
through the Heliopause with the knowledge
you like fries with your Plutonium 238?”
buggy whip.
that no solar system can contain you, may your
little 8-track heart revel in the knowledge that
Voyager’s technology is so antiquated that
for some of you, the people who created you
So what’s the next milestone for our
intrepid little spacecraft? Well, in 40,000 years
So here’s to you, Voyager I. As you romp
you’ve redefined your humble creators.
13
creative nonfiction
is powered by a radioactively decaying pellet of
J A K E KO I YOT H
Into the Mist
The mist, it blankets all
with no discrimination.
I step forward and it cloaks me.
Perhaps I do this to lose myself.
But better yet, that if I return,
I do so with the pieces of me
that were missing before.
poetry
14
"Row Away from the Rocks"
J O S H S L OW I C Z E K
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
J A K E KO I YOT H
Pen to Air
I have a coward’s tongue
And oft my hands tremble
So I take my pen to air
Sealing the letters I write in my eyes
In the hopes that if they meet yours
You will read of my love
poetry
15
J O DY A N S E L L
Falling
for DH
Because death chanced by, it sought their breath.
What unfolded but the length of a man reaching
to follow the variegated grey cliffs, all the precipitous
days she’d stayed indoors, dream sotted, having
abandoned the trees, the cold ground, the path
through the wood. What happens in that split
infinity when suspension ends, that transcendent
second when perception shifts and falling begins?
When gravity came he thought of her, of how
he left her in a riddle of silence. It was true,
she never knew what he wanted, nor the gravitas
of her own desires—driven by the impulse to cross
divides, to inhabit a different watershed without
awareness that all waterways belong to the sea.
Unable to navigate the exacting lines of granite,
they had to diverge, to take their hurts elsewhere.
Neither understood a decision could settle so deeply
or resurface, as if a new fissure in faulted rock.
Who knew gravity could be so robust a sideways
glance would be enough weight to tip a person
from secure footing on a firm ledge into a backward
dive? Who reflects on the distance that vibrates
poetry
16
when a rock is dropped? How can love be measured
other than by its consequences? What is it to fall?
J O N AT H A N D E YO U N G
Untitled
It seemed good to burn our Christmas tree
On a Tuesday afternoon in late January
And ask for no one's approval.
I would not put it out for sparrows or other little birds
To shield themselves from winter's deep freeze
As my plumber George suggested.
There had been disagreements about
How to get it properly into the stand,
Or what side should face out,
Or how many ornaments I should have put on,
But my wanting to burn it
Had nothing to do with that.
In the end, it was a splendid tree,
And I always quickly plugged in the white and color lights
When I came home, even deep into January.
I cut the fourteen foot tree in two with a saw,
Dragged each half out the door,
And stacked them on top of each other by the cornfield.
With only one match, its flame touching a single needle,
The entire tree engulfed itself in seconds.
I stared at orange fire-gold flames,
Black smoke, and deep green needles
Against icy cold snow,
And was deeply purged, even of my sins.
When the tree trunk's two halves
Lay dying and smoldering in charcoal black,
I was sad only about the absence of flame,
And not of tree.
poetry
17
"Tree's Light"
BLAIR WELLS
MAI DUONG
The Birds’ Home
They live on a tree nearby my window
They wake earlier than the orange sun
They sing songs for me every dawn.
poetry
18
They remind me, “Wake up, wake up, ma’am.”
I watch them, hear them before I leave my bed.
They seem to know, I love them.
They seem to know if they leave, I will be lost.
They seem to know we are alike; I need to be free.
And like them, I need a safe place to live,
To avoid the Communist’s discrimination and feud
I have flown to freedom, where I write anything without fear
I have flown to freedom and achieve my long dream
They sing in their home and I sing in my new home, too.
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
DIANE BADER
Birth of a
Monarch
milkweed leaves
traversed by
microscopic wriggler
munch, munch, munch
crunch, crunch, crunch
persistent nibbler
body swells
skin stretches, splits
three times
caterpillar attaches
to a leaf
sheds skin once more
hangs upside down
ten day metamorphosis
until
jay-shaped crysalis
wears crown of gold
ebonizes
becomes transparent
dawn arrives
shiny black legs
crawl out of crysalis
tiny folded wings shudder
life into them
four wings unfurl,
lengthen, spread, dry
dazzling in the sun
19
poetry
as huge body pumps
DIANE BADER
Persimmons
(A Conundrum)
persimmons ripen
in the stillness of autumn
that time which is the threshold
between two worlds—
the world of the living
and the world of those gone before—
it is a time of reflection
a time to invoke ancestors
whose DNA has been passed
down to us
perhaps we wish to thank them
or to curse them
never mind, we can't change it
but we can search for the strengths
that buoy us up, that teach us
how to live to the fullest
do persimmons know this, I wonder
do they think about their ancestors
they are attuned to the rhythms
of the seasons
which we shut out
in our rush through life
poetry
20
LISA COWANS
The World
Looks at Me
The world looks at me as if I am ugly
Because my skin is dark.
The world looks at me as if I am dumb
Because I never went to college.
The world looks at me as if I am an angry black woman
Because of all the hurt that I have encountered in my life.
Now,
I have something to tell the world.
I am a beautiful black woman
With my beautiful black skin;
I am in college now,
And I am no dummy by far.
I say to the world:
No,
I am not an angry black woman.
I just see things as they are
Not as they seem,
So I say to the world
Take a good look at me,
And you just might like what you see.
poetry
21
PAT S O B E R A N I S
Gratitude
You raised me to be
You gave me your genes:
like you:
my wide nose and crooked smile,
polite, helpful, caring—
the inflections of my soft voice,
a good person.
the comforting touch of my small hands.
You were so young;
You gave me life, my life,
a blond beauty, abandoned.
and I am grateful.
I was your baby doll, your joy,
I love you and miss you
your mistake.
more than you will ever know.
You taught me how
to make Grandpa Dean’s spaghetti sauce,
to sew like you and Grandma Vivian,
to decorate on a budget.
You championed me,
designed and sewed my dreams:
our song-girl outfits,
my satin prom dresses.
You stood by me, even joined me once,
when my explorations
of the counterculture
mystified you.
You ingrained in me
a workingman’s sense of fairness,
a politics of everyday people
rooted in the Great Depression.
You were there for me
poetry
22
when I had no one else:
packed for my move when you were 60,
drove 200 miles to visit me when you were 74.
"Fine Art Dog"
S C OT T R E D M O N D
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
MARINA HUTCHINS
Lesson Learned
One statement becomes an offense,
One’s desire to recompense.
Many words spoken in error,
Of regret, I am the bearer.
Loving FORGIVENESS is my prayer.
A lesson learned, I’ve paid the cost,
A bridge is burned, one asset lost.
23
poetry
Persuaded by a trap; a snare,
YA S S M I N A M O N T E S
Out of the
Frying Pan,
into the
Flame
Awareness slowly flows through
Sweeping the fog from my head
I am in a hospital, in a hospital
Bed, and I cannot move, speak, see
I hear voices all around
I hear them speaking
Around me, about me
As if I am not here
One says I may recover
From the coma, but
I will never get better
I am forever confined
In this solitary place
Of my body’s creation
With no walls, no doors,
No windows, just a shell
Of bone, muscle, flesh
poetry
24
JENNIFER O’NEILL PICKERING
First Harvest
Before the skies pepper with fowl
the first hard freeze she climbs the knoll
booted feet the muddy road
complaint of knees
basket slung on flannelled arm
the farmwoman’s charm bracelet
Fog cobwebs the orchard
noon sun brooms away
surveys a family’s labor
a daughter’s inheritance
She chooses Mirabelles, Bartlett, Anjous, Bosc
for their fragrance: honey and spice
imperfect skins conceal pale sweet flesh
chooses for color: lutescent coppery, sumac red,
those blushed by summer’s constant gaze
for their song of curves
for how they fill an empty hand.
poetry
25
VS CHOCHEZI
Blank Page
A thought jumps in
The intelligent writer
Triumphantly headed
Listens as the caller
For the blank page
Leaves a message
The writer rejoices
Call me back, it’s important!
A knock on
The rebellious writer
The door interrupts
Sits at the computer
The right thing to do
Email is open
Would be to
Ignore the intruder
Urgent message
Is the top line
But the civil, socially
The writer is sucked in
Well-adjusted individual
Dutifully answers
50 minutes later
Returning, religious
The pamphlet is filed
Pamphlet in hand
The email is answered
The writer heads back toward
The phone call is returned
The goal whistling happily
The thought is gone
The page is blank.
Nature calls
And is addressed
Thought still intact
Yet fading
The writer heads toward
The blank page again
The phone rings
poetry
26
"6125"
G E R RY “ G O S ” S I M P S O N
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
DIANA SAXON
Do the Dead Speak?
Do the dead speak?
They who are sleeping on the hill;
Do they yet have words for those who dare to live?
Do they whisper regrets into the dreamer's deaf ear?
Do they speak of poetry: of green valleys and walks in the Elysian Fields?
Do they touch the poet's shoulder at midnight and possess the silver pen?
Do they bellow their rage by quaking the ground beneath our feet?
So are the mysteries of those in the grave.
Or perhaps the dead can only speak through what they leave behind
For those still yet living to find.
27
poetry
Do they make mischief: leaving footprints upon dusty tile floors?
"Stallion"
M A R T I N M C I L R OY
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
S TA A J A B U
By the Numbers
In the beginning cells divided and multiplied,
By the numbers we declare a person educated
and a species became by the numbers
when they have studied a number of years,
completed a number of courses, written a number
We by the numbers educate our prescribed
of publications, and display a number of letters
number of children teaching them the
after their name not by evaluating their intelligence
importance of numbers as soon as they can
By the numbers students pursue careers, instead
say two-years old then turn them over to
of vocations, callings, truths, passions or beliefs
a school system that disburses funds
seeking the highest pay with the least sweat
by headcounts and tax bases not faces,
mustn’t sweat, that is a big no-no in this
not races, not places in need of more
no sweat man, no sweat boss, no sweat
because of poverty or language barriers
society where sweating is only allowed
in fitness centers.
How many students in overcrowded
classrooms can sit and listen after
By the numbers we are losing our young to
breakfasting on sugar/chocolate
consumer oriented happy happy happy
marshmallow non foods while
buy buy buy advertising which will teach them
watching cartoons that make them want to
the number of things to possess if
run, shout, scream jump
they want to be considered a success
hit somebody or tear something up?
regardless of the consequence, regardless
how many can become creative, pursue
of the price, the highest being not a number,
knowledge, invent, imagine, revolutionize
but their soul.
theorize, philosophize in this antiquated school
system where bore, bored and boring have become
the standard script spit from the lips of children
as young as five and how do they survive teachers
whose sole purpose is to count heads then
count the ducats in their digit on pay day
whether they teach anyone anything or not?
poetry
30
DIANA SAXON
Prologue
It is the color of limpid blue water
flowing away from the mountain caps.
The cry of a deer in the black forest
wounded by the hunter's gun.
The taste of rusty nails
trapped in my throat.
It feels like an icy dull knife
wielding into my skin.
The empty longing for a visitor who
never arrives,
I am its hostage
succumbing to the fog.
The air is so thin,
I cannot breathe;
Gasping, struggling to hold onto the
flame of life.
Oxygen.
Let it ignite!
poetry
31
K I M B E R LY W H I T E
Letter to
the Boatman
When you carried me over,
stripped of the trappings
that held me together
(or so I lived to believe),
you did not stare
at the nudity of my soul.
The fare you extracted
was a mere moment of memory
of the new warmth of spring.
I watched it scatter
across your face,
play in your hooded eyes
like a young bird in a bath
before it was corralled,
contained
and filed away
to be sipped like wine
at your secret hearth
in those moments of night
that are not night, not day
when there is nobody waiting
at the dock.
There is nothing about me
that sets me apart
from the thousands
you carry every day,
32
naked and terrified
poetry
of the unknown in the next world
and I know you discard
separate memories of single faces,
know the faces we wear.
S TA N Z U M B I E L
Regret
Incoming storm—empty dining room—
stone fireplace to the ceiling—blazing
fire—waxy wooden floor reflecting
flames—shadows cast into the
vacant, silent corners—
We should have danced.
We should have risen
from our table, waiter
watching without movement
from the wall,
and danced.
We could have danced to the wind
or
danced to the fire
or
the near silence from the kitchen.
We could have danced to
music in our heads.
We could have danced to fleeing
the storm or turning
to face the wind.
We could have danced
around empty tables and in front
of windows that looked
out on the sea turning
green and dark with
accumulating rain.
We could have danced
loose and uncollected on the beach
below the bluff.
The wind was picking
up, and it was cold.
We should have stayed
by the fire
—dancing.
33
poetry
to laughter and shells lying
"Blue Butterfly"
APPRIA NEGRETE
»»»
PA I N T I N G
B O B S TA N L E Y
Tag Line
Soup is good food
The hungry man is a cliché now:
and soon as we’re home
brownhaired dad in his plaid shirt
wash, trim, slice, and roast
comes in from an overcast sky, it must be fall as the
these nearly-too-soft-with-summer
screen door bangs shut and two
Great Central Valley jumbos in midday oven,
kids trundle behind, and a big dog
and once onions and garlic simmer,
too, everything movement and smiles, wide-eyed boy, girl
we chop and throw them into the pot,
keeping up as they sweep by the kitchen counter where mom
the old red one that used to be pretty,
ladles, yes, soup, steaming the red pot
because we’re hungry,
(red best color) kids getting their bowls first
and our recipe is to stay hungry.
and the dad – he pauses to peck blushed cheek
of the mom, focus in on that
On day of rest we choose to work:
before the camera cuts to the can
cutting and blending this sacramental meal
the name of the brand
taking the slow way
the famous tag line that just fits
to make our own soup,
the warmth and the soup and the kids who—pull back—
in this announcement for our lives,
turn unfocused at just the right moment
focusing on what we choose:
dog’s tail wagging blurs behind
the soup
distinctive script
that will not last long,
cliché working, each of us living our own
our own message,
edge of the demographic:
our own tag line:
older now, still hungry man
we’ll make it
ready for bowls of a soup
in our own sweet time.
as afternoon turns to evening.
But for us it’s Saturday, August hot,
and we go for tomatoes at the very end
of farmers’ market, when Joe bundles
big bags of them, three dollar bag, so they don’t ride
back to Dixon with the truck. We lug bags to the car,
35
poetry
plastic bag-handles sharp on loaded hands
"Tulip's Last Hoorah"
JENNIFER O’NEILL PICKERING
DAVID POTERAS
cignificant
the room is cloudy
poetry
36
with that soft grey haze that
glides through the room ever so tranquilly.
it burns so good.
so bittersweet it is.
but im dying, im living.
im addicted.
i must stop or it will stop me.
this will be the death of me,
literally.
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
J O N AT H A N D E YO U N G
Laziness
The mind may move,
Or even the heart,
But not my body
From this comfortable leather chair.
The coffee is gone from the white ceramic mug,
The newspaper read.
The Beatles play on a soundtrack
Reminding me of how
My wife's beautiful voice sang Beatles' tunes
In our courting days in Chicago.
I would rather sit here
Watching workmen drag scaffolding,
Than rise to face anyone at all.
Not even hunger for a freshly baked black currant scone
Can rouse these bones from their less than poised
But nestled position in this smooth warm chair.
Now I know how stone statues must feel,
And how comfortable they must be
In their fixed positions and I find
My own position becoming even more fixed
On this strange Tuesday morning in late February
When even my pen seems tired,
And gently stretch my legs.
37
poetry
But somehow I find the courage to lean forward
JOSH SLOWICZEK
They Don’t Have Roses in Heaven
I
fiction
38
t was just another sunny day in southern California.
he was a hell-raiser, a drop out, a forgotten child who travelled
There was a stillness in the air that allowed an almost
from correctional facility to halfway house and back again. Finally,
unbearable heat to cascade over the trees and the mountains,
before the age of twenty-one, he graduated to full-blown prison
overwhelming little Fallbrook Valley. Dim flies hung
for grand theft. After serving his time he came back to town and
motionless in the air while dogs took shelter in the shadows of trees
mellowed out for a while, marrying his high school sweetheart,
and awnings. It was too hot for anyone to move about, the kind of
Shelly, who lived in Rick’s Trailer Park & Storage just on the edge
weather that kept people in their air conditioned houses or sheltered
of town. Soon after, Daniel moved in with her and came to enjoy
wooden porches, drinking lemonade and pressing the gossip of
a few brief years of a woman’s love and steady employment. But
the town among one another. Terrance Beckard would have loved
nothing ever really lasts, and, due to complications, Shelly died
nothing more than to be one of those people, sheltered from the heat
shortly after giving birth to Terrance. Daniel would come to say it
and the uncertainty, from those dark things with teeth.
was the only five minutes of his life where he felt he had a family.
Unfortunately, there was no chance of immediate relief as he
It took about a year for Daniel to lose sight of things, and having
sat outside of the Fallbrook Greyhound station on a concrete bench,
already know the trails leading into that dark forest of drugs and
wedged between a trashcan and a dying Manzanita. The tree might
desperation, he took residence in that place where the mind should
have been frail, but the trashcan was in bloom with a wretched
not linger.
smell of slow-cooked rotten food. It was like a piercing headache
that came and went. He kept his eyes clenched shut, trying to ignore
better than others. None could argue he didn’t work like a dog day
the heat, the smell, and the sweat that rolled down his face and
and night to keep food in his son’s stomach and a roof over his
onto his dark blue shirt. He only needed to suffer twenty or thirty
head. He labored the worst of jobs at the lowest of pay for his right
minutes more before that blue and chrome bus pulled up and took
to raise a son and drink constantly, a life in the land of the free. It
him north, up the 101 and into the horizon. The thought of freedom
was no surprise to find Daniel at the bar at any night of the week,
echoed in his head as he counted the countless things he could do,
bleary eyed and spouting the talents and qualities he never truly
pictured a life finally worth living. His sweaty hand was clenched;
had. Usually, by the end of the night, his brain would be so soaked
there would be no letting go. So, he crossed his arms and let his
in whiskey that he became impossible to understand. There were
imagination take him farther and farther away from the sorry excuse
those who claimed his lifestyle was because he was slow in the
for a town where he had lived his entire life.
head. Others said it was because he dropped out of high school.
Either way, the general agreement was that he was a sinner, and if
A sharp chime echoed over the intercom as the display next to
Daniel wasn’t around to be much of a father, but he was still
the ticket booth changed, informing him that the 3:30 bus would
only he’d turn to Jesus his life would take a turn for the better.
be ten minutes late. Letting out a sigh, the young man bowed his
head and cupped his hands together in his lap, looking at his fingers
matter. Whenever they crossed paths Daniel would fly into a rage
intently as if every last bit of hope he could scrounge and steal rested
and chastise the man loudly.
in the palm of his hands. Ten minutes wasn’t that bad, but knowing
luck ten minutes would become twenty, twenty would become thirty,
he’d snarl. “Where was your Jesus when that sweet woman drew
and so on and so forth. Beckard Boys have no luck. That was the
her last breath?”
motto of the family and a punch line used by the rest of the town.
Terrance may have been only sixteen, but the amount of times he
nothing ever went well for the Beckard Boys. They were usually
had heard that mantra snickered and whispered behind his back was
widowed or abandoned by their wives, and left with children that
just as numerous as leaves in the fall. Usually, they were statements
they rarely cared for. Yet, they would stick it out in Fallbrook,
made about his father, but blood will always be blood.
mentally exhausted and emotionally crippled. This amused the
good Christian folk of Fallbrook. Those Beckard Boys, with their
Castles had bards. Courts had jesters. Silverado had the town
This did not sit well with Daniel, or the local minister for that
“What kind of caring god steals a young mother’s life, Tom?”
There would never be an answer. For five generations
drunk, and Fallbrook, California had Daniel Beckard. That was
cursing and intoxication, their lack of decency and faith, were all
just the way things went. He was the kind of man who was always
an affirmation to the town that God was out there and was always
hard pressed for money, luck, and sympathy. In his younger years
watching. That was all they needed to know, and they could pass
judgment well enough on their own. However, an all-seeing deity
was the last thing on Daniel Beckard’s mind as he poured some Jack
into his coffee and sat down at the small, wobbly kitchen table with
his son.
“I need you to stay home today Terrance. I need you to stay here
until I get back.”
“Why?”
“I just need you to stay home until I get back” he said, pausing
to take a healthy gulp of his coffee. “And I need you to pack a small
bag full of clothes. We’re going on a trip up to the mountains when
I get back.”
“What about school?”
“You’ll have to finish your education on the road,” said Daniel.
“It will be rough, but you’re a smart kid. You’ll manage.”
Daniel touched his son on the shoulder and stood up, slowing
making his way to the door.
“I’m off to work. I’ll be back after I finish up Ms.
Willowmauker’s house. I’ll tell her you say hi.”
“Dad?”
The father stopped and turned around to face his only son.
“Why are you wearing grandpa’s lucky watch?”
Daniel smiled, looking at the dull gold watch on his write and
then at his son. He took another gulp from his mug, giving that
casual shrug that had caught the eye of his wife so many years
before.
“It just seemed like a good day to wear it,” he said, opening the
door. “Promise me you’ll stay in the house till I get back. We’ll be
leaving in a rush.”
“Yeah.”
"Garden's Light"
Daniel stepped out into the day and closed the door behind him.
BLAIR WELLS
Terrance listened to his father’s work boots clopping along the
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
sidewalk outside as he stared dully at the empty bottle of Jameson
small knick knacks that cluttered the nightstand, the dusty window
standing in the middle of the kitchen table like an empty and
sill. Broken toys and polished pieces of glass faintly reflected the
flowerless vase. He was old enough to understand the implications
intensity of the sun coming in through his window, flashing beacons
of the demand, having learned not to ask questions about his
of the fractured childhood he was about to leave behind.
father’s business from a very young age. By sheer repetition,
Terrance had become oblivious to the sound or sight of his father
couple houses on the other side of town. It was grueling in the
stumbling in drunk at four in the morning, smelling of alcohol and
heat. At twelve dollars an hour he was the cheapest non-immigrant
cheap perfume. He no longer saw the bloodstains in the shirts, or on
laborer in the town, and certain good, god fearing folk found that
the white kitchen floor, or crusted down the cracked bathroom sink.
because he was lighter skinned than all of the other workers, he
He no longer stared at the loaded forty-caliber that could often be
must have been the man for the job. Their excuse was that they
found lying next to his father’s keys and wallet on the kitchen table
wanted to keep the work going to residents of the town, but the fact
in the morning. Daniel Beckard worked in several fields in order
of the matter was that if another white man came and offered to cut
to make ends meet, a modern day renaissance man without need of
lawn, he’d quickly replace Daniel as the local landscaper.
pen or paper. In the towns surrounding Fallbrook Valley the Mongol
motorcycle clubs were always in need of a heavy hand. Yet, none of
putted down Eucalyptus lane and pulled up in front of a bright red
this bothered Terrance as he got up from the teeter-tottering kitchen
mailbox that bore the numbers 2789, the Willowmauker residence.
table, making his way down the dimly lit hall and into his small and
He dropped into neutral and jerked the rusty old e-brake up with
cluttered bedroom.
a grunt. The smoke from his cigarette looked pearly white and
“Only clothes,” he mumbled.
beautiful in the sunlight that beamed through his windshield. It
He stared around at all of the posters on the walls and the
curled upwards in a dance that had no order or form, falling into
Daniel spent the rest of the morning doing yard work for a
An hour or so after lunch, Daniel’s beat up red Ford Pickup
39
fiction
fiction
40
itself and slowly rolling out the window up into the sky, up and into
nothing. He enjoyed those last few seconds of silence before getting
on your mind you ruffian?”
out of the cab and working his lawnmower down from the back of
Daniel shook his head.
his truck. Ms. Frances Willowmauker would come out when she
“Nothing to worry about, but I’m afraid I’m going to be leaving
was good and ready. She was an elderly lady, widowed decades ago,
soon Ms.Willowmauker. I only have time to cut your lawn today.”
who had taken to growing roses and napping out in her backyard.
He kept fond memories of running around her lawn as a child, and
Beckard?”
riding his rusty red Schwinn cruiser up to her steps for a sandwich
or free lemonade on a hot day. She was a strong woman and a good
to do for Terrance.”
person, someone who asked for nothing and gave only happiness.
Frances looked at him and gave a big toothy smile.
“Oh, I guess it’s alright just this once. You will stay for a
Frances was in the backyard with her roses when she heard the
“Language Danny,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. “What’s
“What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into Danny
“No, no trouble. Not today,” he paused. “Just some things I need
roar of the lawnmower out front. She sat, motionless for a minute,
sandwich and some lemonade though, won’t you Danny?”
trying to tune out the sound of the smoky motor that had jolted her
from her nap. Smiling, she looked around at all of her roses. How
Ms. Willowmauker.”
she loved them, how she loved them all. There were dozens upon
dozens of bushy green plants and stalks and vines, all offering up
old enough as it is, calling me Ms. Willowmauker. My name is
balls of vibrant color as a reward for a little love and a lot of water.
Frances, How can such a scruffy looking man have such nerve?
She had found the simplest of joys being able to stare for hours at
I remember when I could shut you up with one point of my finger.”
a time at a pure white Carolinae in bloom, or smell the burgundy
She chuckled, turning away and wobbling towards the front door.
dipped Synstakae. Happiness was to delicately snip a blood red
“Get yourself back to work, I’ll bring you out a sandwich when
Chinansis at the stem and carry it around with her all day. For her,
you’re done.”
roses were a painting of life, hundreds of beautiful instances and
images coming and going with the seasons, each being unique, each
sitting on the porch enjoying a sandwich and iced lemonade in the
being special in its own way. No matter how different a rose was
shade. To strangers it was an odd sight indeed, two figures, opposite
from the rest, it was never ugly.
in every way, a little old lady and a rowdy looking man, sharing a
meal and laughing.
Slowly and stiffly she picked herself up off the chair and
“Sure I will. You know I can never turn down your sandwiches,
“You need to cut that shit out. As if you don’t make me feel
It took thirty minutes, and soon after Daniel found himself
wobbled her way along the gravel path to the front of sun-bleached
“Are you sure you’re doing alright Danny?”
house. Frances looked somewhat comical as she pulled a large
“I’m fine Frances. You don’t have to worry about me.”
straw sun hat down firmly on her scraggly white hair and adjusted
“Oh I know,” she sighed. “But your mother would kill me if I
a fluffy and ill fitted blue summer dress. As she rounded the corner
didn’t check up on you from time to time. She wouldn’t have it any
and came to look upon Daniel Beckard mowing her front lawn, she
other way you know.”
knew something was different. Daniel looked calm. Usually, he was
Daniel shrugged.
hung over or battling tooth and nail for his sobriety, but today he
“I know. I’m sure she’d be happy. I’ve got to get going though.”
seemed at ease, a peace that was almost disturbing when it came
He cleared his throat and she nodded slowly. Painfully, she
from someone with such a distant face. Daniel stopped the engine
stood up to kiss Daniel on the top of his head.
as he saw Frances standing by the gate.
“Take care of yourself Danny.”
Without saying another word Daniel stood up and left. Ms.
“I see you’re still around Danny,” she said with a chuckle.
“Did somebody write down the wrong name at the police station
Willowmauker was already inside before the truck roared to
this morning?”
life. Slowly, she made her way through a house cluttered with
Daniel laughed.
memories and walked out into her back yard carrying a glass of
“Look who’s talking you babushka. I had expected those
iced lemonade. She smiled and looked around at all of her beautiful
horrible relatives of yours to have put you in a home already.”
roses. How she loved them, how she loved them all.
“Nonsense!” Frances said, slapping Daniel on the arm with a
Daniel was smoking a cigarette in his truck again. He was
frail and bony hand. “They haven’t got me yet. I’m here for the
waiting on the far end of the parking lot with his eyes closed,
long haul with no rush to leave.” She chuckled and pulled a red rose
windows down, and enjoying what little silence he could. After a
from the front pocket of her bright blue dress.
minute or two he opened his eyes. From his glove box he pulled
“Too many clouds up there, not enough roses.”
out a flask of Wild Turkey and took several large gulps, letting
out a gargle from the back of his throat as the stinging liquid fell
“So you tell me,” he said with a grin. “I’ve heard their
barbeques are pretty shitty too.”
down into his stomach. His eyes wandered to his wrist and the dull
She slapped him on the arm again.
golden watch that hadn’t been working since he was a child. His
father, Tom Beckard, called it his lucky watch, and said it was the
only thing that got him through Vietnam alive. Not that it did any
stone once again.
good afterwards. Like most men who fought, when he returned
Tom found himself socially disconnected and alone, nothing but
come back.”
an empty shell that had once shown promise. In his remaining time
after the war Tom Beckard managed to father a child and then die of
climbing it himself. He made his way down the dusty back road,
alcohol poisoning one summer’s night in 1985. Luck, if there was
tripping and stumbling from the panic his father had instilled in
such a thing, came few and far between for the Beckard Boys.
him. He ran all the way to the bus station, a full ten blocks away. He
ran until he couldn’t run anymore, and finally, Terrance collapsed
“Now go,” he said, pointing over the fence. “Run and never
Terrified and crying Terrance flung the backpack over before
emerging from what few memories of his father he had. He would
on a cement bench at the front of the station, wedged between a
not do the same to Terrance. He would not leave him in the shadow
garbage bin and a dying Manzanita.
of his own crippled state. The chain had to be broken. There was
no doubt about this in Daniel’s mind as he looked at the empty
father’s wishes, slowly opened the bag he was given. Inside was
black backpack in the passenger seat and the loaded forty caliber
a tumbled mess of stacked bills. Hundreds, all of them, crisp and
revolver in his lap. Taking one final gulp from the nearly empty
shiny as if they had just been printed or had spent most of their days
bottle, Daniel stuffed the revolver down the front of his pants and
tightly packed one on top of the other. They were all wore white
got out of the car.
bands holding them together that loudly proclaimed the total worth
of ten thousand dollars. Then, something caught Terrance’s eye.
Terrance was lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling when
Exhausted and worn he looked around, and then, against his
he heard the screeching brakes of his father’s truck out front. He
One stack did not have a white band covering the face of Benjamin
ran into the kitchen just as Daniel’s bulky frame burst through the
Franklin; rather it was covered by a dull golden watch, the band
front door. Without saying a word to his son he walked over to the
tightly stretched around the money. It was his grandfather’s watch,
kitchen cabinet and pulled out an envelope that had been folded
it was his father’s watch, and now it was his. He stared blankly,
and creased many times over and again. He turned to his son and
reaching into the bag to pull the watch off from around the bills and
roughly shoved the envelope and a heavy black bag into his
hold in his hands, the last heirloom of a forgotten family.
son’s hands.
“Dad,” said Terrance shakily. “What’s going on? Why is the—?
Beckard, age thirty-nine, died of a self inflicted gunshot wound to
“Terrance, I don’t have time to explain. Did you pack a bag
the head at 4:05pm after a thirty minute stand-off with police who
The newspaper would later claim that the bank robber, Daniel
of clothes?”
were outside of his residence. He was found sitting on the couch,
“Yes dad, but-”
a gun in one hand and a picture of his long-dead wife in the other.
“No questions Terrance,” snapped Daniel. “Grab your clothes.
After a thorough inspection of the residence no traces of the money
You take this bag and the envelope and go out the back door. You
or the son he had claimed to be holding hostage could be found.
make your way to the greyhound station. There’s a 3:30 bus that
Daniel Beckard’s memory was spit on and disgraced by almost
goes up the 101. You get on it. I’ll meet you there or find you down
everyone in the town. He was buried a broke and friendless man,
the line.”
honored by none, understood by few.
“Dad, I—”
“No Terrance,” yelled Daniel. “You have to go now”
dark and tinted shelter of a Greyhound bus. Buildings and towers
“Dad, I don’t want to go. What’s going on?” sobbed Terrance.
hovered above him as people rushed by on the sidewalks. Cars
“I’m not explaining Terrance. You go. You get on the bus, and
screeched and honked in busy intersections, and bright store-fronts
Three weeks later, a wide-eyed young man emerged from the
you never come back. Do you understand me?”
beckoned him inside their cool and air conditioned rooms. It had
been a long journey of random stops and searching, of questions
And with that Daniel guided his son towards the back of the
house, gripping Terrance’s shoulder tightly. He kicked open the
and little sleep, but finally he had come to find himself in the heart
back door and pushed Terrance out into the blazing sunlight.
of Seattle. Shouldering his bags and wiping his face off with a faded
“Don’t open that bag until you are on the bus,” Daniel said,
blue t-shirt he slowly made his way down the street. From behind
pointing to the backpack. “And never let anyone else touch it. Don’t
a tall glass tower the sun emerged, glinting and reflecting off a dull
wait for me. Do you understand Terrance?”
gold watch on his wrist that, ever so quietly, started to tick.
“Yes, but wh—”
“I’ve always loved you. But now it’s time for you to go and find
a better life. You get on that bus and you don’t stop moving.”
Terrance squeezed his father with all of his might.
“I love you dad.”
41
fiction
Daniel exhaled slowly, blowing out a large cloud of smoke and
After a second Daniel let go of his son, and his face turned to
DIVA2DIVAS
Bouncing Back
Just like the hardened basketball
Searching for employment—not successful
Double dribbled in the net
Preparing to wed—ready for freedom
Dreams shattered—position? varsity forward
Expectations about life and the real world—fear
Honor fallen, small town—where? high school Pittsburg, CA
Questions who to ask—God?
Virtue lost—when? junior year 1990
Hello… you there listening?
Rumors started and confirmed—what? Pregnant
bouncing back
bouncing back
Youth advisor in local church—helping teen girls
First love, promise ring—engagement
Listening and sharing—testimony
Fear, the unknown—mother to be
Accepting new roles—newly married
Future life plan—altered forever
Commitment, responsibility and new goals—family oriented
Preparation—baby shower
Reflection, basketball possible scholarship—never know
Delivery, pain, joy and tears—Summer time
bouncing back
bouncing back
Values never forgotten—costly mishap
Wedding coming soon—Fall
Embarrassment and shame…
Planning to dance across stage in celebration—senior 1991
BOUNCING BACK
Graduation approaching—applications considered
College bound—not yet
Bummed out—depression
bouncing back
Reputation restored—straight A’s
Announcements printed and mailed
Along with—birth announcements to family
Accomplishment despite choices - faith
Glamour pictures taken—cap and gown
bouncing back
Teething, immunizations—baby boy
Diaper’s and baby formula—comes first
Child care—expensive gotta have it
Welfare and W.I.C.—public assistance
Reality—seventeen years of age
bouncing back
Friendships drifted—no fun
Senior activities—over rated
Graduation Day—received diploma
Sucking pacifier too young to realize—mama’s victory
bouncing back
"The Absurd"
J O S H S L OW I C Z E K
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
43
bounching back
Responsibility shared—with? baby daddy
GINNY McREYNOLDS
Unexpected Speed and Velocity
bounging back
44
Mary Grace and I are standing in the middle of
partnership. But in the rest of my life I was
turned sixty to mark the transition to my next
her street, at least forty feet apart. She grips a
bored. Truthfully, I had kind of fallen into a
decade. I started winning my age group in the
tiny, striped rubber super ball in her right hand.
teaching career in the first place because that’s
fun runs I’d been doing miserably in for years.
It’s a thing of beauty, this new toy she won as
what people in my graduate program did.
I took a photography class and then figured out
a prize fished out of the Grab Bag in her sixth
And I’d only gone to grad school because my
how to use Instagram to enhance and post the
grade class, an honor awarded her because she
college roommate was going and because I
shots I’ve taken on long, lolling walks along
got 100 percent on her math test. She winds up
wasn’t brave enough to go out into the world
the river. I got married to my partner of a dozen
like an MLB star and the orb leaves her hand
to be a newspaper reporter. Luckily, teaching
years when it became legal in California last
with such speed I move quickly to my right to
English and journalism at a community college
summer. And, I decided to go back to school
keep it from hitting me. It curves past me to the
made a reputable calling, and the security
and study writing again—this time really study,
left, almost magically, and hits the rear bumper
and respectability of it kept me from having
meaning try, learn, fail, improve, grow, try
of my car, parked in front of her house. The ball
to dream up something big, scary, and more
again—in a way I might have done forty years
stops for a millisecond on impact, then changes
compelling to shoot for. But I discovered that,
ago if I’d had more self-awareness and less
course and bounces back with a force much
after nearly thirty years of trying to inspire
skepticism about my own skills. These events
greater than that of its original arc. There is
nineteen-year-olds, the refuge of a safe job
happened quietly, really, and over the course
some kind of physics principle at work here that
exacerbated the tedium. Unfortunately for my
of a couple of years. I saw their connection
neither MG nor I understand—or really care
pocketbook, I was still at least five years short
to me, but not necessarily to each other. Then
to—but we both look at each other with wide
of being able to relax financially. So, I moved
it occurred to me that, somehow, I had found
eyes as the ball goes over her head and doesn’t
to another college and became an administrator,
a secret door and opened it, and the massive
land again until nearly the end of the block.
but I find myself thinking now about what I
expansiveness of the next part of my life was
might do when this part of my career comes to
all there in front of me, inviting me onto a new
homework and she is copying this week’s
an end.
arc, not really headed back in the direction I’d
spelling words, I think about that ball and how
Like most people, the planning and
come, but to a much richer, more vibrant place.
we are each a little like it—Mary Grace on her
dreaming I’ve done over the years has been
Who knew there was another bounce—and that
way to something and me headed someplace not
about relationships, working, and moving
it held this much possibility?
yet named. Just like the ball rushed past me with
from one house to another. It’s not that I never
promise and energy, MG is speeding forward,
thought of the time after working—god knows
great undertakings I’m enjoying these days,
new things every day, no map, no plan, the
a huge part of my income has gone directly to
and showing my listener the “Countdown
simple life of a twelve-year-old. Here I sit, fifty
that cause—but whenever I heard people talk
to Retirement” clock on my cell phone, he
years older than she, on a different path. And a
about retirement, they always seemed to be
said, “Where will you retire?” I wasn’t even
bit like that little striped ball struck my bumper
glad to get to sit on their porches and watch the
sure I’d heard him correctly since I have no
and then took off in its own self-propelled
world go by. That didn’t sound awful to me,
plans to live somewhere new, but I realized
direction, I reached my own stopping/turning
but it didn’t inspire me to buy new cushions
that’s his fantasy of what happens in the next
point a couple of years ago. There wasn’t one
for my porch chairs. Then, in a disconnected
iteration—an apartment in Paris, a condo
day or one moment that I remember the shift,
series of events, things started evolving in my
in Hawaii, a beach house on Cape Cod. I
but I recall a gradual sense of the ending of one
life in a different way. I know that visualizing
laughed to myself because I realized then
part of my life and the beginning of another.
the future doesn’t have anything to do with
that everyone’s second bounce is entirely
physics, but the wallop of picturing a life filled
their own and we are all probably planning
chosen largely by default, imagining finishing
with golf and naps and volunteering seems to
carefully for it on some unconscious level all
my career, entering retirement, wondering
have awakened my creativity and has thrown
the years we’re trudging to work and home
what I might do to fill my time and my soul
me onto this trajectory that feels like the one
again. I like it, though, that I didn’t know back
following so many years of working. After
MG and I witnessed with the super ball.
then that all of this existed at this end. I like it
decades of serial monogamy and generally
I wrote a novel during National Novel
that there are so many possibilities ahead and I
entering relationships for all the wrong reasons,
Writing Month. It was sappy and amateurish,
like it mostly that I’m still completely capable
I was finally in a strong, healthy, interesting
but I wrote it. I quit drinking in the year I
of being surprised by them.
Later, when we are working on her
I was on my own route, living a life I had
As I was gushing recently about all of the
"4087"
G E R RY “ G O S ” S I M P S O N
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
DAN BERGET
Cycle
Euphoria, heart racing. This is how it always starts. If successful, nights are
spent not sleeping, but waiting. Nervous jitters and a one-track mind. The
excitement never fades, but lingers within, pounding away. Messages are sent,
conversations are had, smiles are shared. Connection established. The flittering
of buttons, of laughs, of plans. We get coffee. Then a meal. The night goes on,
was once promising falters and fades. Days pass. The conversations are shorter.
The questions are fewer. The stories shared don't mean as much. There's more
silence between the words, more waiting on the other end. This has happened
before and now it's happening again. It goes on and on, a cycle, unable to be
broken out of. But I bounce back. Time goes on, life goes on. New people
come, old people go. Friendships are made. I bounce back—because I always
do. Because I need to.
45
bounching back
neither wants it to end. But then something happens. There's a divide. What
NAREMAN RASHID
A Nightmare or
A Dream Come True?
Finally I took the first step toward a career; I waited nineteen years
for it to happen. Last year, during the spring semester, I was finally
enrolled in classes at Cosumnes River College. Unfortunately, things
went wrong at the very start of the semester. I began receiving serious,
gruesome pain on the right side of my body. I wondered what was
going on and why now. I thought it was my bad luck or a message
telling me to quit and go back to my old boring life as a housewife. It
felt like a shocking nightmare.
My doctor told me I was experiencing a herniated disc in my neck and
lower back. It was not easy especially when I was taking a keyboarding
class that required very good posture, speed, and flexibility. But I did it
with all the encouragement I gathered from the people surrounding me,
allowing me to become very determined to reach my objective.
I think sickness and treatment come from deep inside us; no matter
how many doctors we see or medications we take, the best remedy
comes from within. To be strong when we make a decision and keep
our heads up to achieve our goals is what heals our pain. Everyone has
distractions surrounding them, but to be brave and pull one’s self out of
the nonsense is, personally, what I call turning a nightmare into a dream
come true.
bounging back
46
LORRAINE DOLL
Huckleberry Hill,
June 1987
You could mistake the Barbie-sized trailer for a cozy getaway
if you don't look outside. There's not much left: the fireplace,
rock walls, the tight, steep driveway, and ash. My grandmother
holds court here at the couch/table/bed, writing, supporting
peace, engaging as always. She's the magnet and core of past
and future memories.
The Father arrives to bless her absent house; afterwards
we sing This land is our land, this land is your land, from
California… Sadness and hope jostle within my heart
as I admire my grandmother. I learn she's not materially
sentimental, actually somewhat detached. Approaching eighty,
she's known loss.
The rebuild embraces Japanese sparseness. She's delighted to
sleep on her tatami mat on the floor, meditate in her luxurious
sunken tub, and live this near-to-the-end next chapter.
bounching back
47
ALEXIS BACCUS
Stagnate
The ashtray was overfilled with cig butts and
His stomach bloated as he walked. Jerry
over the sun. Jerry squinted as his eyes
joint roaches, the room with smoke. Jerry was
breathed through his mouth as he gave only a
adjusted, his vision full of sparks, probably
in his bed, blanket drawn up over his head like
fleeting thought to how much he smoked. His
from staring at a screen all day, he thought.
a hood.
legs were heavy on the pavement even as his
blood heated, as if he could feel his veins on
He picks up his pace as he passed the house
“You should take a walk. Stretch your legs.
fire. If it weren't for drones from cars on the
with decoys of ducks decorating the fence.
Get some fresh air.”
road, he was sure he'd hear his bones creaking
He'd been wondering if the gunshots he heard
from the effort.
late at night from the river were real or just
in his mind, shaking his head. Jerry nearly
It took Jerry some time to get dressed; the
tripped as he climbed up to the river bank.
result was only a change into jeans and
“You work so hard—you put everything into
sweatshirt, but he listened to music, pet
your work. I know you love just as hard,
his grey and constantly purring cat, looked
but it's the work that you really live for…
“I love everything you do, of course. The
outside and sussed out that there wouldn't be
sometimes it feels like I'm the only one
paintings, I mean.” She would laugh; her teeth
as many out on the street on a weekday. The
equipped to take care of you.”
wouldn't have to be perfect. Brown doe-eyes,
like a seal, or his old dog. Was that weird to
cat sighed at the last melodic slow song.
The canal on the way was filled with mud
think that was cute? “They're so surreal but…
“The same reason I love you is the same
and rank of sewage; ducks still swam in the
heavy. Not realistic but—well, I don't know
reason it's so hard to live with you; you're
browning green mess. The leaves were all
enough art terms to say it.” Right, she had her
such an artist. All that moody passion and
orange on the trees and crunched under foot,
own thing going on… music or writing.
sensitivity—such a chore to manage, isn't it?”
a chill blowing away the clouds and passing
He made it. With the laughs in the distance,
"Tower Bridge"
M A R T I N M c I L R OY
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
the people on their bikes yelling at each other
in conversation, the old men going out to their
boats, the people all exercising shamelessly,
the teenage girls gossiping behind him,
the grandmothers and granddaughters on
walks, the baby carriages—he was alone on
the river's beach. The trees sank their roots
through to the soft sand. Moss covered the
roots. The ground glittered.
“Look at all of this color. Not that I know
anything about painting, but—” Jerry closed
his eyes and tried not to think of all the blank
canvases in his room. Maybe next time he'd
bring his sketchbook. Maybe. He passed a
blonde girl on his way back to the bank, as he
tried to find his way back through the cover of
branches and vines broken from a storm, like a
dark fantasy forest.
She could be blonde. No, she'd dye her hair all
the time, never deciding on a color.
EMCEE
Methamphetamine
How many times have you begged for your
actually wanted him to do it for me so I could
hated myself. It has been six years and I have
life? I lost count after forty. I have traveled too
get it over with.
almost bounced back to my old self before
far to get here—Asia, Europe, and now what
I met Paul. Occasionally, I have nightmares
they call Land of the Free, America—only to be
escaped. Why I did not leave sooner or how I
about Paul; I have this weird fear about driving
turned into a human punching bag.
left is another story for another rainy day. I had
on the highway, and I have anxiety, but I love
to go through one-on-one counseling for one
myself more than ever. I learned that everyone
off my feet. His demeanor was as smooth as
year where I was staying because I suffered
goes through a dark time in their life, but there
silk, and I was so in love, or so I thought. He
from anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, and I
will always be light at the end of the tunnel.
I was only seventeen when Paul swept me
After a year and a half of torture, I finally
was the definition of perfection, and his smile
made my knees weak. As I was blinded by
infatuation, I allowed myself to be swallowed
into his world of Methamphetamine. Of
course I never touched the drug myself, but
I watched as he and his friends indulged this
horrid drug every single day. Three months
into the relationship, I finally met the devil
himself. Paul picked me up from work one
day, and I knew his withdrawal was affecting
him greatly. He asked me for money, I had
none. He asked me for valuables, I had none.
We were in his father’s cargo van when it first
happened; he punched me, so hard where my
glasses flew off my face. This was the first
time he hit me, but definitely not the last. The
abuse started to increase day by day. His abuse
strategies became more bizarre. I am sure you
have played tag at least once in your lifetime
right? Paul’s game of tag was like a one way
street. You can only go one way. He would
chase after me in his car with the full intention
of running me over. The highway is awesome
is it not? It allows you get to your destination
faster. Paul’s favorite place was the highway.
He knew not many people would pay attention
to what is happening next to them, as they were
too focused on driving instead. He would drive
and punch me over and over again until he was
satisfied. Thus, I hated the highway for a very
long time. The abuse elevated, as [butcher]
knives became involved and dragging me down
the stairs by my hair became a favorite. My
life took a turn when I was sent to Juvenile
Detention Center, then eventually ended up
homeless with him. Each day I lived in sorrow
and darkness, and I wanted to kill myself; I
"ILX Dragon"
A F TO N K E R N
»»»
D R AW I N G
ZAIREEN AIYUB
Mom
On an early August morning, everyone is sleeping after
the blissful Sunday we had. The month of Ramadan is
big in Islam, especially the moon night. The clock ticks
4:42am. “Crap!” my dad yells. He makes his way to my
mom, so she can go to dialysis. As he puts his hands on my
mother’s forehead, he realizes she is cold. He runs to my
room. “Zaireen, go see why your mom isn’t waking up,” he
mumbles. I wake up quickly and make my way to my mother,
not knowing a thing that is going on. “Mom… ma, wake up.”
There is no answer. I put my hand in my mother’s hand and
god is she cold. She doesn’t wake up. I try and try. I hold her,
massage her head, nothing. As I dial 911, a lady picks up, and
all I say is “My mom isn’t waking up. She isn’t breathing.
PLEASE HELP.” At 5:00am sirens are all around my house,
and the lady on the phone is trying to calm my dad and me,
telling us not to panic. I do everything I can, CPR, heart
pumping, everything. The firemen make their way in. They
check and pronounce that she is no more. My aunt enters my
house, yelling and tears running down her cheeks. “Sammi
cannot just leave us like this. She was just fine a few hours
ago.” The morning of August fifth will never get out of my
mind. My mother’s dream was for her daughter to reach high
peaks, to be a well-educated child of hers, to have the relaxed,
luxurious lifestyle that my parents didn’t have. She wanted me
to work hard and make my life meaningful. I will make my
mom’s death my motivation, and I will do whatever it takes to
fulfill the dream my mother had for me.
bounging back
50
REID THOMPSON
Bouncing Back
Starting the highly regarded most difficult sport, golf,
is hard enough, but as a sophomore and on varsity,
even harder. I was an above-average baseball player,
but after getting cut early sophomore year, I felt like
the butt of bread that no one wants. I was spit on,
scrutinized, name-called; the worst part was the bulk
of the insults that came from obnoxious freshman
that miraculously made the team. I had no other
options, the book club or golf. Joining the team was
easy but fitting in another story. I felt like Smalls
from The Sandlot, the new kid on the block that was
thrown into a pack of wolves. But I bounced back,
practicing like a boxer trying to make weight. I spent
every waking hour at the golf course from sun up
to sun down, hour after hour after hour. By the time
season hit, like a whiff of chloroform I was ready.
I miraculously made the varsity team; I felt like the
1980 US hockey team defeating the Soviets. I was
thrilled. It was only afterward that I rose up against
all odds and became the MVP my junior and senior
year. I bounced back from being cut and made the
best of my situation. Looking back, it was one of the
greatest decisions I've ever made.
bounching back
51
Quotes
I N S P I R AT I O N S O N B O U N C I N G B A C K
The man who complains about the way the ball bounces is likely the
one who dropped it. —Lou Holtz
Inside of a ring or out, ain’t nothing wrong with going down. It’s
staying down that’s wrong.
—Muhammad Ali
Oh, boy! You mean I can have my bounce back? Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!
—Tigger
I always laugh when people ask me about rebounding techniques.
I've got a technique. It's called just go get the damn ball.
—Charles Barkley
"It is not the strongest
of the species that survive,
nor the most intelligent,
but the one most responsive to change."
—Charles Darwin
So go ahead. Fall down. The world looks different from the ground.
—Oprah Winfrey
Don't lose your confidence if you slip
Be grateful for a pleasant trip
And pick yourself up, dust yourself off
Start all over again”
—Frank Sinatra
"Muscat Corniche Sea Tower"
SAMUEL INIGUEZ
»»»
P H OTO G R A P H Y
53
quotes
Fall seven times, stand up eight.
—Japanese proverb
Artist
Bios
Zaireen Aiyub is a current CRC
VS Chochezi, EdD has had
student with plans to transfer to UC Davis as
a Biology major. Her mother’s dream was for
her to succeed in life and have an ongoing
career. Zaireen will be the first person in her
family to graduate fro m college.
poems published in Speak, Write, Dream
an anthology of contributions from ZICA
members; Drum Voices Revue, a publication
from Southern Illinois University, Sierra
College’s literary journal and Sacramento
Poetry Center’s Poetry Now publication. She
and her mother Staajabu share spoken word as
Straight Out Scribes.
Jody Ansell has been published in
Susurrus, Poetry Now, Poetry Depth Quarterly,
the Sacramento Bee, and the Sacramento
Anthology. She recently returned to Sacramento
after several years on the east coast.
Alexis Baccus was born in Santa
Monica and raised in Sacramento. She started
writing at thirteen. Her other interests include
art, comic books, drawing, local music, and
anything morbid or surreal. She aspires to find
something to do with her life and hopes it will
have something to do with writing.
Diane Bader has written prose and
poetry throughout her life. She is the family
genealogist and has written three books about
her family. She has been part of a poetry
writing circle at the SPC for four years. She
has also sung with the CRC Gospel Choir for
twelve years.
Phoebe Basilio is another name on
bios
54
the list of people burdened by the plethora of
options found almost exclusively in first-world
countries. While she attempts to figure out
what to do with the rest of her life, she attends
various Los Rios colleges and plans to transfer
and tentatively major in linguistics.
Dan Berget has lived in Sacramento his
entire life. He's currently working on his first
novel, mentored by Christian Kiefer, author of
The Infinite Tides. In the spring he'll be attending
Sacramento State as an English major.
Diva2Divas is currently a CRC
student aspiring to be an RN. She is a proud
supporting wife and mother of six gifted
children. Her hobbies include reading all types
of literature, listening to music and traveling.
She believes do not be a dejected individual—
Keep PUSHING it’ll work eventually!!
A life-long learner, Lorraine Doll
is currently teaching Court Reporting to
adults at CAJ Career & Education Center
in Sacramento.
Mai Duong is a member of the Champa
people, an indigenous people in Vietnam. She
came to the USA in 2009 and has attended
CRC since 2010 when she was fifty-two.
Writing is her hobby but creating poems in
English is not easy for her. She has tried to
achieve her dream: Knowing how to write
poems in English. She says, “I almost did it.”
Lisa Cowans is a strong and determined
individual. She graduated high school in 1980
with a GPA of 2.0. College was not in her
plans at that time and she went straight on to
become a nursing assistant until she became
ill in 2009, which led her to attend college for
the first time in 2010. Even though she did not
score well on the assessment, Lisa has been
working hard to attain her degree in social
work. She now has a GPA of 3.5 and hopes
to be ready for the social work program in
the fall of 2015. She started from the bottom
and is now rising to the top, a true example of
bouncing back.
Julian Elias became interested in and
Kristine David is a Cosumnes River
Humnah Farooqui is nineteen and
from Karachi, Pakistan. She is going to
college to be trained in media arts. She hopes
to one day be a journalist and a visual artist.
She writes, draws, and reads for leisure, and
she’s betting on her hobbies actually morphing
into career paths.
College student who majors in Theater. She
has always had a passion for writing and is
enjoying the writing process at the college
level. She is an actress and musician but plans
to keep writing for the rest of her life.
Jonathan De Young’s work has been
published in Central Penn Parent and the
Christian Science Monitor. He is the author
of Any Day is Father’s Day, a collection of
narrative nonfiction, and the texts Writing
Made Simple and iGrammar. He is Professor
of English at Harrisburg Area Community
College in Pennsylvania.
involved with photography almost thirty years
ago. Since he moved to California in 2008, he
has been amazed by the natural beauty here,
and he enjoys taking photos that capture the
unique wonders of the West Coast.
Emcee is not only a student at Cosumnes
River College, but she is also a single mother.
Her goal is to become a Social Worker. She
has lived in three different continents in
the world and her hobbies include baking,
traveling, sleeping and most of all, spending
time with her child.
Zach Hannigan is a twenty-one-yearold journalism student at Cosumnes River
College. He has obtained an AA degree in
that study and will eventually continue on to
a four-year university. However, he will take
a five year hiatus to blow stuff up, otherwise
known as the Marine Corp.
Marina Hutchins is a thirty-one-yearold woman, born and raised in Sacramento.
She is married and has one daughter. Mrs.
Hutchins is autistic and has overcome many
life struggles. She spends her Saturday
afternoons feeding the hungry and aspires to
become an astrophysicist.
Samuel Iniguez is currently enrolled
at University of Washington Bothell in the
MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics. He
has received an MA in English from San
Francisco State University. He taught English
at the University of Nizwa in Oman last year
and taught from 2004-2010 at Cosumnes
River College. He has written/directed a play,
Sandia, and a short film, Mujer Cosmica.
He is currently on work on two novels and
will be releasing a poetry book, Signature of
Revolution, and hip hop CD, Every Color of
Shoes, later this year.
Afton Kern has been drawing since she
was very young. She has a four-page feature
in Imagine FX vol. 75, a sci-fi and fantasy art
magazine sold worldwide. Recently, Afton
was selected to show art at IlluXcon alongside
legendary fantasy artists such as Roger Dean,
Boris Vallejo, Michael Whelan, and Ian Miller.
She sold one of her pieces to John A. Davis,
creator of the Jimmy Neutron series. Afton is
expected to return to the 2014 IlluXcon show.
Jake Koiyoth is constantly teetering
Tamara Lipanovich is a mother and
grandmother. She holds a Masters Degree in
Special Education from CSUS and is currently
pursuing an AS in Equine Studies (along with
any other classes that seem interesting) at
CRC. A former ministry leader and teacher,
she quit her jobs to become stay-at-home
caretaker for her disabled husband as he
battled a mysterious disease called Conversion
Disorder. In the midst of her struggles, out of
frustration, she began journaling. Many of her
writings reflect these struggles.
Z AC H H A N N I G A N
Martin McIlroy is a Principal
Engineering Geologist and Civil Engineer
who works throughout California on public
works engineering projects. He received
his BS in Geology from the University of
California at Davis and has been practicing
geology for seventeen years. His career has
taken him to remote areas of California like
the towns of Happy Camp, Weitchpec and
Kettenpom, and to the north slope of Alaska.
During Martin’s professional travels (and
not so professional travels), he likes to take
photographs of bridges he has worked on, of
natural landscapes, and of interesting people
and places. He lives in Sacramento, plays
beer league ice hockey (much to his wife’s
dismay), and has a cat named Mr. Right.
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P H OTO G R A P H Y
Ginny McReynolds is a longtime
writer whose essays have been published in
both The Sacramento Bee and Sacramento
News and Review. She taught English,
journalism, and communications at
Sacramento City College for twenty-two
years and is currently Dean of Humanities and
Social Science at Cosumnes River College.
She is also a first-year student in the Master of
Fine Arts Program in Creative Nonfiction at
Goucher College in Towson, Maryland.
Yassmina Montes is a student at
Cosumnes River College, majoring in English
Literature. She is writing a memoir, and much
of her writing is related to her life after facing
a disease that brought her blindness as well as
a unique point of view. You can read more of
her writing at yassieslife.wordpress.com.
55
artist bios
between being a Music or English major. He
loves to write fiction and poetry. He is also
currently a part of the Chamber Singers, and he
recently appeared in the musical A New Brain.
Appria Negrete is a "pre-med" student
Diana Saxon lives in Sacramento,
with two daughters. Her hobbies include
sleeping in text books and paying bills.
California and attended American River
College’s 2013 Writer’s Colloquium.
When not toiling in the world of political
fundraising, she spends her time with her
rabbit that is fond of destroying laptop cords
or fretting about lengthy English assignments.
She is nearing the completion of her first
collection of poetry.
Robert Payne is a Senior Health Care
Analyst working in Rancho Cordova. He
lives with his wife and two sons on acreage
in Sacramento County and draws writing
inspiration from his family and current
events, especially as it relates to astronomy
and staring at the nighttime sky.
Jennifer O’Neill Pickering
is an artist, writer, and teacher. She has
written “The Improbable Cat Lover,” a story
published by Harlequin. Her poem, “I Am
the Creek,” is included in the Sacramento
sculpture, Open Circle. She is the editor of
Sable & Quill: The visual art and writing of
writers who are also artists.
Gerry “GOS” Simpson is a selftaught Visual Artist/Photographer whose
work communicates positive images of
his community and the people, places and
interesting things around him… GOS” creates
vibrant scenarios with the aide of his brushes
and the lens of his camera… His main focus
is to keep it simple so that the story can be
easily told…
Josh Slowiczek is currently studying
David Poteras is a full-time,
first-year student at Cosumnes River College
and enjoys writing and drawing in his spare
time. When he's not writing or drawing, you'd
most likely find him working under the hood
of his car. He hopes to transfer to a four-year
university within the next couple of years and
graduate with a bachelor's of science degree
in civil engineering.
Nareman Rashid was born in the
Palestinian town of Aseera. She was the
second woman in her family to earn a degree
in computer science. When she was twentyone, she got married and moved to the US
to pursue the American dream. She has four
children and loves cooking and volunteering.
Scott Redmond is officially now a
artist bios
56
CRC graduate with an AA in Journalism,
preparing to transfer to California State
University, Sacramento for the fall semester.
While at CRC, Scott honed his love of
writing by writing for the school paper, The
Connection, many times ending this current
semester as the Editor-in-Chief.
journalism at Cosumnes River College. He
hopes to one day be an investigative and
conflict journalist though his first passion
was for writing short stories. He would like
to dedicate “They Don’t Have Roses in
Heaven” to his parents, for all of their love
and support.
Pat Soberanis is a poet and nonfiction
writer now based in the East Bay. She
holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the
University of San Francisco, and credits
Heather Hutcheson's creative writing class at
Cosumnes River College and the Hart Senior
Center poets for inspiring her to write again
Staajabu is originally from Camden,
New Jersey. Since 1991 she and daughter
VS Chochezi have co-authored six books
of poetry and produced two CD Poetry
compilations as the mother/daughter poetry
team “Straight Out Scribes.” Staajabu has
never had writer’s block and will write on
any topic. She has written health articles for
an online medical website, been a staff writer
for the United States Air Force Reserve’s
Newspaper and Sacramento’s Because
People Matter. She has written short stories,
biographical pieces, science fiction short
stories, and essays. Her poems have been
published in numerous anthologies and
publications.
Poet Laureate of Sacramento from 2009
to 2012, Bob Stanley has published
two chapbooks, edited two anthologies, and
recorded an album of original songs. President
of Sacramento Poetry Center, Bob lives in
Sacramento with his wife, Joyce. His newest
collection, Miracle Shine, was released by CW
Books in 2013.
Reid Thompson is currently attending
Cosumnes River College, and he is a member
of the Folsom Lake College Golf team. Reid
is undecided in his major, but he is interested
in a sports career. Currently, he delivers pizza
two nights a week, but he spends his summers
working at Camp Barnabas.
Blair Wells is a Los Angeles-based
photographer, whose journey with a camera
began by using “disposables” to articulate
his experience living in Central Los Angeles.
His passion for documentary photography,
to visually tell a story—the struggles and
successes of everyday people—remains the
single most compelling subject of his work.
Kimberly White’s poetry has appeared
in numerous journals and anthologies. She
is the author of four chapbooks, Penelope, A
Reachable Tibet, The Daily Diaries of Death,
and Letters To A Dead Man; two novels:
Bandy’s Restola, and Hotel Tarantula. Find
poetry and collage art on her website, www.
purplecouchworks.com.
Stan Zumbiel taught English in middle
and high school for thirty-five years in the San
Juan Unified School District and has had a
hand in raising four children. In January 2008
he received his MFA in Writing from Vermont
College of Fine Arts. He continues to write in
Fair Oaks where he lives with Lynn, his wife
of twenty-eight years.
"Cosmic Butterfly"
APPRIA NEGRETE
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PA I N T I N G