Fall 2013 - Del Mar College

SIREN
THE
Fall 2013
W
h
A
elcome to this edition of The Siren.
The efforts of the contributors are
most greatly appreciated as there
would be no magazine in the absence of their efforts. As a student
publication, the magazine encourages future contributors to
use the outlet for sharing insightful analysis, reflective poetry,
inspiring artwork and photography, or a fictitious narrative, with
the entire Del Mar campus.
The folks at the publication department hope that as a reader,
you appreciate the blood, sweat and tears that went into making the Fall 2013 issue of The Siren possible.
Beatriz Alvarado
Page Designer and Editor-in-Chief
K
S
Contributing
This literary issue in particular was made possible with the help
of Mr. Muilenburg, the Foghorn staff, Del Mar College creative
writing classes, and aspiring photographers with much talent to
share.
N
Writers
&
Photographers
Cody Bahn
Crystal Chavez
Devin Moreno
John-Phillip Willis
Juan Palomo
Lia Schuermann
Michael Diamante
Miranda Hulse
Raphael Resendez
Raul Alonzo
Rey Castillo
Ricardo Prado
Samantha Leitzelar
Tera Elwell
Tori Carroll-Metz
Yvette King
In
Essays
pg. 8
Revolution in Print
by Raul Alonzo
The Legacy of the Chicano Press Association
pg. 16 The People’s Filibuster:
Grassroots Resistance from the Capitol to Corpus
by Raul Alonzo
Photo Essays
pg. 4
Beauty & the Beast
by Crystal Chavez
by Cody Bahn
& Tera Elwell
pg. 12 Neighboorhood Boxing
pg. 26 Portraits
by Michael Diamante
Featured Poetry
Featured Short Stories
pg. 20
pg. 30
PG 4
Beauty & the Beast
T
by Crystal Chavez
here are a few main loves in my life listening to music, spending time with my
brothers and taking photos. Within the past
two years a rambunctious pitbull made
it to that list. For years I was just like the
majority of people who were against them
and believed everything negative I heard about pitbulls
on TV. So the day my brother brought home a pitbull
puppy I was not thrilled. After a few days I noticed how
observant he was, which drew me into teaching him
little tricks. Before I knew it, he was fully trained and
stuck in my heart. How could I have been so wrong
about these adorable four-legged guys? He has become
such a big part of my life that anyone who knows me,
knows that I own a pitbull. The two things that I always
hear are, “You don’t look ghetto,” and “You are a girl.”
Who says you have to be ghetto to own a pitbull? And
why do you have to be a guy to want one? Pitbulls have
been a part of American society for years. Electronics
company RCA used a pitbull in its logo showing the classic
pitbull head tilts. Classic television had Petey the pitbull as
one of the beloved characters “In the Little Rascals.” It has
not been a boys-only club; celebrities such as Rachael Ray
and Jessica Alba have owned pitbulls.
Khierra Johnson
and Red
K
hierra Johnson
is an adorable
10-year-old girl
I have met. You
can find her in her
front yard with her
pitbull, Red. Khierra
grew up with Red
as part of the family.
Khierra loves to join
her father, Marcus
Johnson, to take Red
for walks. Marcus
says, “If Khiera is
playing with him in
the front yard, people
stop and point as if he
is a dangerous dog.”
PG 5
Maria Chavez
and Chumlee
C
humlee, a two-year-old
pitbull, has worked his
way into the heart of Maria
Chavez. Chumlee was a gift
to Maria’s kids, but after a little
bit of resistance he became a
gift to her too. Chumlee loves
to be scratched under his chin
every time Maria comes home
from work. He also loves staring
out the window while watching
people pass by. Maria says,
“When people first come to the
house they get scared when he
is standing looking outside the
window looking at them, but after
they get to know him they realize
he is just an overgrown baby.”
PG 6
Sydney Allen &
Forrest
Being a
female pitbull
owner has
opened my
eyes to see that
there are a lot of
females that have
fallen in love just
like me. You can go
to the beach and at
times find Sydney Allen
with her pitbull, Forrest.
Sydney got Forrest after
her other pitbull passed
away. She was fortunate
enough to get Forrest from a
new litter of the same parents.
Sydney says, “People do
give negative response toward
pitbulls, but I think since mine has
been so nice to people they have
learned that they are not all vicious
killers.”
PG 7
Jenny Espino &
Justice Batman Hammertime Timberlake
If you find yourself at the
duck pond on Rodd Field you
might see Justice the pitbull
dressed up as a bumblebee.
Jenny Espino has owned Justice
for five years. Besides feeding
the ducks she likes to read and
cuddle with Justice. Jenny says,
“My family actually had a lot
of resistance to the idea of me
bringing home a pitbull once
I moved back to Corpus from
North Texas. I came home for
Easter that year, and everyone
fell in love with him. He’s been
part of the family since. He has
his own stocking at Christmas
and anytime I show up at family
gatherings without him, they
immediately ask why I didn’t
bring him with me.”
I
Re
vo
lut
in io
Pr n
int
PG 8
the legacy of
The Chicano Press Association
n observance of Hispanic Heritage
Month, which runs from Sept. 15
through Oct. 15, Del Mar professor
of political science Renato Ramirez
shed light on a part of Latino history that remained underground
throughout its most active years.
Titled “Lost Episodes in Chicano
Activism,” the presentation looked at
the various publications of the Chicano
Press Association, a network of underground newspapers put out by various
activist groups including the MexicanAmerican Youth Organization (MAYO),
La Raza Unidad Party and the Brown
Berets.
Ramirez gave the Del Mar College
Foghorn a first-hand look at the publications, many worn, yellowed and delicate
from the decades that have passed
since their initial run. Most date from
the 1960s through the 1970s, one of
the most active periods of the Chicano
Movement, and were collected over the
years by Renato’s brother, Adolfo, who
was part of the faculty of the Colegio
Jacinto Trevino, a MAYO-organized
project that sought to create the first
Chicano university in South Texas. The
Colegio was covered extensively in the
presentation, as well.
The newspapers include La Raza
from Los Angeles, Sol de Aztlan from
Lansing, Michigan, and Ya Mero, Papel
Chicano, and El Deguello from McAllen,
Houston and San Antonio, respectively.
Also included are newsletters from the
Mexican-American Youth Organization
and the Brown Berets.
The broader Chicano Press Association, which had been established in
1969, was a network of up to 22 member papers across the country at its
height. In a CPA insert found in El Deguello, papers from Wisconsin, Illinois,
Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado
are also included, as well as publications from smaller Texas towns, such as
Uvalde.
The CPA mission statement detailed
By Raul
Alonzo
PG 9
to common goals for the network,
such as “[improving] the news media
in the Spanish-speaking community,”
and for the “existing social order to
dissolve.” The papers detailed other
similarities.
Spread across many of the papers
one of the first aspects one might
pick up on is the use of folk art to
relate the information carried inside
to people across the social strata.
There are several reproduced images of prints originally produced
by the Taller de Grafica Popular, the
radical printmaking collective and
lesser-known contemporary of the
great Mexican muralist movement
that emerged after the Revolution
in 1910. Many of the prints feature
iconic figures of Mexican history,
such as Benito Juarez, Valentin Gomez Farias and, of course, Emiliano
Zapata.
Coupled with various cartoons that
suggest a Mayan and Aztec-influenced
aesthetic, the use of such imagery
suggests the intent to accentuate the
newspaper’s ambition to mass appeal.
The prints of the TGP and others, after
all, were originally produced with the
intent of engaging the mass population
in post-revolutionary ideals through the
use of folk appeal.
In a similar vein, there is also a strong
sentiment of Latin American unity found
in many of the publications. Images and
figures of the Sandanista Revolution of
Nicaragua and the Cuban Revolution
are featured, standing in the tradition of
Latino unity against imperialism that has
origins in revolutionary movement of Simon Bolivar that severed ties between
Latin America and the Spanish monarchy and continues to this day through
the various “pink tide” governments
found in Bolivia, Ecuador, Venezuela
and others.
Along with the folk-inspired aesthetic
there runs a distinct DIY look to several
of the papers. Those familiar with the
visual look of zines of punk and DIY
culture might notice many elements
found in such spreads as the one
in La Raza, looking at the issue of
police brutality. Clippings depicting
policemen in militant poses lead
into images of the sprawling limbs of activists who
have been felled by
the batons of law
enforcement, with
a police shield
clipping and the
phrase “to protect
and to serve” sarcastically overlaid
on the spread.
Police violence
continues to be a
theme throughout
several of the papers.
One of the more radical
publications, the Brown Beretproduced La Causa, put out an
article detailing a “barrio and block
defense system against police killings.”
“We can say Ya Basta! As many
there is a strong
sentiment of Latin
American unity found
in many of the
publications.
PG 10
times as we
want, but this
policy will not
change,” the
article stated,
referring to
what the writer
perceived as a
“shoot first, ask
questions later”
policy when dealing with Chicano
communities.
One of the
MAYO newsletters also included
the story of Victor
Manuel Nava, a
14-year-old shot
and killed by a
police officer in
Brownsville after
attempting to
flee. The article
detailed the outrage that was sparked in the community, and the subsequent calls
for accountability.
Other themes addressed
throughout the papers include poverty, electoral
politics, the actions of
Cesar Chavez and
the United Farm
Workers union,
working conditions, activism
and forming coalitions with other
existing social
movements at the
time to focus on specific issues.
‘We can say
Ya Basta! As many times
as we want, but this policy
will not change’
A Lost Identity
A theme that Ramirez focused on
in his presentation was the concept
of “historicity,” a concept he defined
as being one’s actuality to a par-
ticular point in history. He stressed that
this can be applied to the understanding
of one’s ethnicity and its contribution or
place at that point.
The papers serve a dual role when
applied to this idea. In their heyday,
they were a form of agitation as well as
one aspect of a broader movement to
define the Chicano identity in a society
long dominated by Eurocentric “normality.” Today, they serve as a relic by
which those who have come to inherit
the gains of such a movement can be
reminded of the necessity of continuing such a process. As Ramirez noted
in the lecture, “Chicano” is a term of
identification that is rarely used anymore, with many opting to go for “Latino,” “Mexican-American” or “Hispanic.”
The term, at the time, was one that was
developed by the more militant youth
wing of the broader movement and was
looked down upon by many in the older
generation.
These days, the struggle between
Chicanismo and assimilation is one that
anyone born into la raza must deal with.
In a wider context, Chicanismo can be
seen as a form of nationalism, perhaps
ethnocentrism. Numerous historical
examples exist on the role nationalism
serves within revolutionary movements.
Looking to Latin America one can
see numerous examples. The Cuban
Revolution was a nationalist uprising
against a U.S.-backed dictatorship that
only called itself “communist” after the
Bautista regime was overthrown. Even
today, though the country has come to
be predominantly state capitalist, the
necessity of nationalistic imagery is an
example that can be found from statesponsored monuments all the way to
street graffiti of revolutionary martyrs.
The Mexican Revolution saw a flourishing of this sort of nationalism, which
is probably why many of the papers
drew on the aesthetic example of some
of that revolution’s most notable artists. The cultural renaissance that grew
alongside, and then continued the aims
of, the revolution can be seen as some
of the earliest examples of Chicanismo
with the emphasis on art that reflects indigenous and proletarian life in Mexico.
The Movement Today
The papers, themselves, shed light
on the level of activism that Chicanos
engaged in at the time, the issues that
concerned the community and the
ideology that shaped many of the perspectives. The legacies of underground
publications in recent years have found
new legs in the digital realm through
independent media outlets found online.
PG 11
Sites like Cuentame, Dignidad Rebelde,
Latino Rebels and Presente.org speak
to the new movements of the Chicano
community, like the DREAMers and
Librotraficante organizers.
As the history of the Chicano movement is often “lost” to those who have
come to inherit its victories, so go the
movements of today. Marginalized between the faces of those making progress in the electoral field, such as San
Antonio Mayor Julian Castro and his
congressman brother, Joaquin, and the
idea of a “post-racial” America, reside
the movements that engage communities and carry on the legacy of those
that made the original movement.
One can find the Ernesto Galarzas,
Cesar Chavezes and Dolores Huertas of today still organizing alongside
exploited workers in such organizations
as the Workers Defense Project or the
Coalition of Immokalee Workers.
The pushback against the axing of
ethnic studies courses in Arizona and
against the writing out of MexicanAmericans from Texas history books
has demonstrated the desire of this
new generation to recapture their lost
history. The walkouts and marches
that occurred in this period echoed
those that struck against the segregated school systems in Edcouch-Elsa,
Kingsville and Crystal City.
What is interesting is that many of
the issues that were found in the papers of the Chicano Press Association
remain issues throughout not just the
Chicano community, but society as
a whole. As long as these problems
continue to persist within the community, the necessity of a movement and
a counter-cultural media to check those
institutions that maintain the status quo
remains.
As such, to remember this “lost”
history, while new strides into history
are constantly being made, remains a
necessity.
boxing
PG 12
Neighborhood
by Tera Elwell
and Cody Bahn
For over 15 years, the Gollihar Neighborhood Center has been keeping kids off the streets and out of gangs by
teaching them how to box.
The center was founded by coach Isreal “Rat” Garcia over 15 years ago and to this day has held a steady enrollment
of young men and women.
The center, located at 3333 Gollihar Dr., receives limited funding from the United Way, but for most expenses it is up
to the center to raise funds. The center also allows people to sponsor boxers by sending a $65 donation that covers a
student’s entrance fee.
Top Left: John Montelongo
Top Right: Keynen Lindsuy
Bottom Right: Coach Richard Rodriguez
PG 13
Top Left: Bo Garcia
Bottom Left: Bo and Juan Garcia
Top Right: Ashley Maranjo
Bottom Right: (Left to right) Bernard Boone, John
Montelongo, Justin ‘Half Pint’ Ortiz
PG 14
Above: Justin “Half Pint” Ortiz
Bellow: Jacob Ramos
PG 15
Above: Bernard Boone
Bellow: John Montelongo
PG 16
A
People's
The
filibuster:
Grassroots Resistance
from the Capitol to Corpus
Christi
By Raul Alonzo
midst a statewide outcry that saw
lines of support drawn on either
side of the issue, Gov. Rick Perry
signed House Bill 2 into law on July
18, introducing new regulations to
abortion procedures.
Under the premise that the bill was intended to
provide for the safety of the woman undergoing the
procedure, critics claim that the bill would only make
it more difficult for women to gain access to their
providers and puts nearly all of the state’s abortionproviding medical facilities at risk of closure.
The bill itself restricts abortions at 20 weeks postfertilization and requires physicians performing or
inducing the abortion to have admitting privileges at a
hospital that is located not farther than 30 miles from
the location of where the abortion is performed.
The story garnered national attention after an 11hour filibuster by state Sen. Wendy Davis, a Democrat was capped off by a “people’s filibuster” of the
hundreds of activists packing the gallery and rotunda
using their voices to successfully delay the vote on
PG 17
had been shushing the whole time were encouraging
people to get loud,” Fryman said. “It was awesome.”
With scores of activists screaming at the top of their
lungs, voting on the bill was unable to complete until
12:03 a.m., effectively killing the bill as the session
legally ended at midnight. For many who had been
following the happenings closely through Twitter and
livestream coverage, news of the bill’s failure would
not be learned of until the following morning as Lt.
Gov. David Dewhurst admitted the bill was dead at 3
a.m. He placed the blame on the bill’s failure on an
“unruly mob using Occupy Wall Street tactics.”
According to Feyh, the groups that comprised the
“unruly mob” for that night have largely pursued separate avenues of organizing now that the bill has been
signed into law following Perry’s calling of a second
special session after the failure of the first.
“After that, most groups went their own ways, and
it has been a task to try and keep the different groups
in dialogue with each other. For our part, we’ve tried
to remain non-sectarian as different tendencies
the law past midnight, killing the bill at the last minute.
The New York Times was one of the largest major
media outlets to pick up on the story, and the “people’s filibuster” was one of the events that it examined
in particular, detailing the various groups that had a
hand in pushing the occupiers to civil disobedience.
According to the article, members of GetEqual Texas,
the International Socialist Organization (ISO) and
the local Occupy Austin chapter were responsible for
helping to “goad the crowd to a level of civil disobedience not seen in the Texas Capitol in decades.”
According to Katie Feyh, an activist involved with
the ISO and Feminists United, the organizing that
led up to that night had long been in the works. After
attending Planned Parenthood volunteer training,
Feyh and others received updates on the hearings or
actions Planned Parenthood was involved in.
“Our involvement grew as we began to meet other
feminists and reconnect with activists from other organizations and groups, like Occupy and GetEqual. We
attempted to organize together, coordinate actions
together, reach out
to others together,
all with varying success,” Feyh said. “We
achieved our greatest
level of coordination
the night of the People’s Filibuster, where
radicals held back on
civil disobedience until it was clear that the
vote was going down
(so as not to give the
cops a reason to clear
the Senate chamber), and moderates
started raising hell
when it was clear that
Wendy Davis’ filibuster had faltered.”
As Denton ISO
Courtesy of Erika Galindo
The local National Day of Action rally held earlier this year was put together by a grassroots coalition
member, Kels Fryof feminists and allies for women alike, about 100 people came out.
man, recalled, the
mood at that point
had been a shift from that seen earlier in the day.
within the movement have grown apart (with Planned
“[The atmosphere was] at first really defeated.
Parenthood, NARAL, and the Democrats on one
Democrats were telling people to hush or to do this
side, RiseUp and Occupy on the other, and ISO and
or that and then when people really took off, and they GetEqual in between),” Feyh said.
couldn’t quiet them anymore, the same people who
“What’s next depends on who you are. If you’re
PG 18
come together to demonstrate the end of complacency with Texas’ bigots
who have decided that it
is their duty to police what
women do with their bodies,” organizer Erika Galindo
said. “This bill is an attack
on poor women of color
and their families and one
that will affect thousands
across Texas. These past
rallies and demonstrations
across Texas have simply
been a manifestation of the
sentiment that enough is
enough.”
Following up the demonCourtesy of Erika Galindo
stration was a public forum
Jade Garcia was part of the local National Day of Action rally earlier this year to help begin a
held in the Bay Hall of Texas
new movement for reproductive justice.
A&M-Corpus Christi on July
23 with speakers including
involved with the Democrats and the mainstream
A&M
professors
Isabel
Araiza
and Michael Ramirez
organizations like Planned Parenthood and NARAL,
as well as local activist Jenny Espino.
the court fight and upcoming elections are the focus
Ramirez covered the history of movements for
of attention. They’re cheering Wendy Davis and regreproductive
rights that led up to Roe v. Wade, docuistering voters. For other activists, what’s next comes
menting such figures of the movement as Gerri Sanin seeing who is up for fighting outside the electoral
arena and organizing with them to fight. Some of that toro, whose death by self-induced abortion became a
rallying point for abortion rights activists as well as the
fight may entail clinic defense. Some may involve
Clergy Consultation, a network of ministers and rabpanels and other educational events just so we can
bis
set up to assist women seeking abortion.
get our heads around what the political landscape
In her part of the forum, Araiza covered the leglooks like. Some may involve marches and other
islation
itself, delving into the background of the bill
actions to attract new people and pressure lawmakas well as the research that the bill is based on. By
ers. It’s a disorienting time right now for those of us
focusing on the premise of the bill, that “substantial
who aren’t looking for an electoral solution, since the
medical evidence recogniz[ed] that an unborn child
momentum is so very much gone in that direction.”
is capable of experiencing pain by no later than 20
Local efforts at organizing around the issue went
weeks after fertilization,” Araiza cited findings in the
under way over the summer.
Journal of the American Medical Association and from
A demonstration on the corner of SPID and Stathe American Congress of Obstetricians and Gyneples, organized by Corpus Christi Walk for Choice,
cologists to dispute the research cited in the bill.
drew around 100 participants who elicited support
She described how the only medical evidence that
from commuters who honked their horns in endorsethe
bill cited was an article written in 1995.
ment. The event was a part of a “National Day of Ac“We are crossing a dangerous threshold when we
tion to Defend Abortion Rights” on July 15, a call that
was endorsed by a range of activists, academics and are enacting bills that are not based on facts,” Araiza
said.
organizations including feminist icons Alice Walker,
“Politicians are searching for ‘research’ no matter
Judith Butler and Eve Ensler. The event saw similar
how
flawed, how incorrect, or how controversial to
demonstrations, rallies and marches occur throughvalidate their ideology, rather than base their ideoloout the country.
gies on facts. There is no ‘substantial medical evi“It was encouraging to see feminists in Corpus
PG 19
dence.’ Politicians use largely refuted work to justify
way for the current Republican-led attacks on abortion rights,” Espino said. “Today, the notion that aborlimiting women’s access to health care; to privilege a
fetus over the woman’s right to make decisions about tion is something that should be apologized for, rather
her health, her life.”
than fought for, is considered a given among the
In her section of the forum, Espino, a local activist
pro-choice mainstream.”
Grassroots efforts have manifested themselves in
involved in the International Socialist Organization
the form of rallies, marches, forums and speak-outs
and Walk for Choice, pushed for a more confrontational strategy in terms of forwarding the pushback
throughout the state. Also, in the wake of the passage, Sen. Davis has entertained notions of running
against the legislation.
Citing lessons from the Women’s Liberation Move- for governor.
ment, which helped bring about Roe v. Wade, Espino
With these events continuing to unfold, the decompared the strategies of the old movement with the bate around HB2 continues on both a grassroots
and legislative level. According to Feyh, the passage
new.
of the bill has laid the foundations for a revitalized
Citing Marlene Gerber Fried in the article “10 Reasons to Rethink Reproductive Choice” Espino read:
movement that goes beyond the ballot box by casting
many Texas residents into situations detrimental to
“Pro-choice politics were framed defensively by
what was considered winnable rather than by a posi- their personal health and well-being.
tive vision of reproductive freedom. Instead of Roe
“If nothing else, [the passage of the bill] means that
tens of thousands of people, not just women, will be
v. Wade being the first step to full reproductive freedom, control for women, defending it became the end without basic reproductive health care. They will go
without cancer screenings, diabetes screenings and
goal.”
According to Espino, the revitalization of grassroots treatment, contraception and a whole range of other
services that were provided by the 37 clinics that will
organizing in the wake of the passage of the bill is
now close (leaving 5),” Feyh said. “Trans people will
the sort of direction the movement needs to head in,
rather than focusing on electoral politics.
go without access to health care. Women will turn
“The legislative and ideological concessions made to unsafe abortions, either self-abortions or through
unlicensed or unsafe providers, and they will risk their
by certain political parties and unchallenged by any
health and lives in doing so.”
national movement during the Clinton years opened
For Feyh, and many others in the “unruly mob” that
halted the first attempt to
pass the bill, the fight is only
just beginning.
“It also means that
without a fight we will never
get our rights back. While
the Democrats performed
admirably in the first special session, they only did
so because we were there
and watching,” Feyh said.
“We cannot count on them,
either in principle or in practice, to fight and win reproductive justice in Texas. We
have seen what a fightback
looks like, and we need so
Courtesy of Erika Galindo
much more of it.”
The local National Day of Action rally was held on the corner of S. Padre Island Dr. and S.
Staples St. in wake of the anti-abortion legislation being pushed in Texas.
Po
et
ry
PG 21
Buddy’s Place
by Miranda Hulse
Sits at the edge of city limits,
On county road 624.
Where dirt road begins
and asphalt ends.
With a glass of Jack curled
in my calloused hand
I sit at the far corner of the bar
while Camel smoke fills the air.
Little bunnies with stuffed chests
prance about the pool tables.
one girl looks like Debra and I crunch
a mouthful of shelled peanuts in my mouth.
I light up another Camel,
pull back another swig, the wet ring
dissolves into the wood where
my deep breath is lost in this repetition.
Another little bunny, Jill
bounces her way over, “Another, Bill?”
nodding to my empty glass where Jack used to be
and where Jill leans in and I taste her neck.
But Debra is my everything
except she’s with another man
and got pregnant and I got laid
off when the refinery went bust.
Now she’s leaving me and so
Jill. She goes to the pool table.
When I grip my glass, and drink
the burn makes me feel alive.
PG 22
The Snail Garden
by Yvette King
Holes polka dot every green leaf.
I saw a snail, swirl shelled and patient.
I plucked it from a Eucalyptus tree.
It left a trail upon a velvet leaf.
I hold it in my sweaty palm. It burns
And flinches back into its shell afraid.
I lick my wrist, and find it saltless, safe,
And place it gently on a pulsing vein.
Its eyes atop antenna grow and bloom,
And like a blind man’s cane, they wag and taste
My scent. Its belly leaves a glisten slick.
For this is who I grow my garden lawn.
To be the Alpha, You
must Swallow the Other
by Lia Schuermann
Below lavender mountains akin to Mt. Olympus
lies woods of timber and pine, where wild wolves hold sway,
these deciduous trees endeavor to conceal
the presence of two wolves: one dark, one light.
Battle-scarred with pieces of fur, hide, sinew gone,
ripped by fang and by claw, they clash every night.
With fur the color of stars, the wolf hesitates,
shimmers ‘neath the moon as a shade of rotting flesh leaps
upwind, hidden within the moon’s shadow, onto its rival.
Wolven teeth rip into light, fair hide, swallows
up the meat inside. Snow body lunges at the dark, presses
opal-colored back into timberwood bark, shreds
sinful skin and pelt. The meaty slivers, the bark splinters,
fall into its silver mouth. Shadowy gold eyes glow
with lusting hunger, thrusts itself forward, releases
daylight’s hold. Alabaster canines in sooted mouth bite
into pale, scarred chest, chews into its bloody prize.
A pallid yelp fills the air, pastel yellow eyes widen,
blaze like a daisy field. Scabs and bleeding wounds cover
soft, tundra fur, waiting to see if it will be fed, given strength.
Worn from every evening’s battles, but luminescence charges
again and again to witness the next sunrise and daybreak.
PG 23
Star
Scream
by Juan Palomo
You are the star stuff.
That special existence
that brings the meaning of life
into perspective.
A star is alive
for life. A star sees where life fits
in, it sees where life is needed.
A star makes itself known
through its verve.
It sends forth roiling
chords, which illuminate
all within range
of its vitality,
And fights to survive,
encourage survival, and sees
the amorous retaliation
it lives for knowing
everything that happens
is an account, composed
of contrasts from each
animate and inanimate creation.
The star roars
its knowledge and experiences
an edict for the macrocosm
within the domain
of the resonating cacophony.
The gravity of its call,
a tractor beam
to some,
until the right
proximity is achieved. When is it
that a star is content with its adventure?
The
Migration
by Tori Carroll-Metz
The blue bears approach
and assemble where the Toolik rapids break.
They watch the honored salmon jump
and pass the experienced stares.
They fly regardless of parish,
refusing to acknowledge the unknown,
unconcerned of the beings waiting to possess
their free-lancing spirits.
The river creeps and falls—
rapids follow the ancient charted routes.
It murmurs of a dance that never ends.
Blossoms fall as the water darkens
in a final snapping embrace.
PG 24
Sleep of Love
by John-Phillip Willis
Laying in an open meadow
with grass as full and green
as its natural state.
I lay there looking at
the starry night;
the wind blowing at my hair.
Oh how great it is
to feel free and relaxed.
I read of this feeling
that makes me feel invincible;
this feeling that flows
to the inside of my
inspiring mind: the moon
full of light, although blind;
she sways in the night sky,
she cannot feel this feeling.
Perfect as a natural satellite
has made her alone.
I wish upon the stars I see shining
on me: the night so full and beautiful;
mother earth has taken over me,
I have become one with all of nature.
I’ve never seen the sea so enormous,
the earth so bright; so short my rest,
I have become another child.
I sleep to see this feeling I desire.
Time
is Gone
by Rey Castillo
I feel so old time is gone.
The smoky gray hair that touches
my very soul. I remember my father
how I love him ever so.
Time is old. Old like Egyptian pyramids that sit so still.
Standing in the sunlight with no sense of fear.
A bug full of life lands by my window.
A breeze filled with spring rushes through my face.
I am gone like the bug that has been blown away.
Heaven a beautiful place, I wonder what it will be like.
Streets full with gold oh so shiny gold.
I am old my time is near what a beautiful life
that is oh so dear. Concrete as hard as the dullest rock,
here stands my name of a soul so brave.
Like the man who slayed his enemy,
his strong deep enemy who cringed his soul.
The summer nights of lost time,
the sadness of remembering my youth,
the dark days and the hard days,
my slightly colored comb that
my father had given me
the bristles that felt like my first haircut—
oh how I miss these days,
these beautiful days.
My heart pounds like a bully,
punching his prey.
The time is gone but I am still here.
I will never forget the days of my prime,
my father’s comb, his dull comb.
PG 25
A Mason’s Morning
by Raphael Resendez
A Man gets out of the Silverado, swipes his card
and punches the diesel button until it turns green.
His son reads a chemistry book in the passenger seat
feeling the shackles bend as two tons of Chicago brick
pull down on the truck bed. Graded sand and wheelbarrows
along with scaffolds pile up creating a shadow
of the Eiffel Tower on the murky concrete; cloaked with petrol.
The man’s son becomes short of breath and begins to read
faster trying to escape the congesting threshold of life.
The air reeks of unleaded gas and diesel, down the block
hos and skanks sit on the intersection forgetting to clock
out as the moon sets. You can hear young children crying out
“mom I want to be an astronaut” but are rudely pulled down
by their mommies wearing Air Jordans and gold chains
around their necks. Backlashed by a firm hand the future
of society travels back down a phylogenetic tree
turning potential DNA into a primitive monkey, that works
with a hat on his head and a name tag on his chest.
The fuel-pump clunks “bang bang bang” the man hangs
the green nozzle, steps into the truck and winks at his son.
At the Art Walk
by Samantha Leitzelar
Paintings and vendors, clustered
people glimpse the air full of crawfish
and shrimp, jams, and ice creams.
At K-Space, the vases seem aged with veins
of blues, greens, and purples. Colors root
deep in the cracks. But, this is all an optical illusion—
the crackled glass seals the exterior, an invisible mechanism.
PG 26
Portraits
by Michael Diamante
i began my journey with photography without thinking
that it in itself was a form of art. we take it for granted
because everyone has access to a camera. whether it a
cellphone, disposable camera or point and shoot it is
very close to our grasp because technology is getting
cheaper and better as we go. i got a camera so i can take
reference photos of whatever i needed to draw. my favorite subject to draw is people. i found that no mater how
good i drew the likeness of a person it would never fully
capture or imitate how beautiful the person was. i began
taking portraits of people around me. it was more challenging than i thought, which quickly opened my eyes to
photography as an art form. i believe in this day and age
of technology, photography is a new way of painting, illustrating, and expressing one’s idea. a good photo isn’t just
consisted of amazing technical skill but rather a great
moment in a still frame.
PG 27
Jessica
Dobbs
Portrait
session
Savannah Gonzales Portrait session
PG 28
Kate Kainer Portrait session
PG 29
Jessica Dobbs Portrait session
Ashlee
Molone
Portrait
session
PG 30
Never Sit on that Toilet
Seat
by Raphael Resendez
“H
ere’s to the wind that
blows through the
trees-es. That lifts
up girls’ skirts way
up past their kneeses and shows us
the spot that teases,
pleases and brings us diseases.
Oh Jesus!!” recited Chuck.
We all slammed our shot glasses on the table and then brought
the foul smell of ethanol to our
lips. I was looking up at the ceiling hoping that the blue shooter
rolling down the glass would taste
like Listerine. In an instant I found
out that Taaka was the devil’s water; I began to choke on the fumes
as they withdrew from my mouth.
I bat an eyelid and roared - my
thoughts ran wild. In suspense
I noticed everyone in the room
staring at me. “Wow, that whiskey
is good guys.” After defending my
character everyone’s attention
went back to getting completely
inebriated as if they had only
stopped to see me fail.
Our dorm had four bedrooms,
a living area, and a really large
kitchen with a bar that girls liked
get up on to dance. I never paid
much attention since school and
making my parents proud is all I
need in life. The living area was
miscellaneous when it came to
decoration. There were posters
ranging from naked girls to my
chemistry-themed quotes. My
room was the furthest back in the
hall since I was the last one to
call dibs on a room (I didn’t mind
because it was quieter for me).
Chuck’s room was next to mine
and every other night I would hear
pounding on the walls while soft
country music played. After his
room it was Joe’s, who was technically one of my better friends in
the dorm. He never had anything
bad to say and didn’t ask me for
help on any of his schoolwork.
The next room, which was right by
the living room, was Blake’s. He
was best friends with Chuck and
never passed up an opportunity to
get drunk ... or do something stupid. He was also the one to blame
for all the oil stains on the parking
lot, but there was one thing they
all had in common, it was that
they all loved to drink - and if I
wanted to share a common interest with them, then so would I.
After I had swallowed what was
left of my pride Chuck grabbed
the Wild Turkey and began pouring the next round. “This time I’m
pouring doubles, ladies.” The
ladies were all outside smoking
cigarettes and gossiping about
which guys they wanted to sleep
with. I only had one goal in mind
and that was to get as trashed as
possible so that I could begin to
build immunity to drinking liquor. It
would be like making anti venom
that would last me the next four
years.
The next shot went down
smoother and I believe it was because my taste buds had become
accustomed to it. I noticed myself
getting rowdy when I asked one of
the girls if I could do a body shot
off her. I had seen it on TV when
the “Girls Gone Wild” commercials
would come on. I was also just
the right kind of drunk to make
the girls look more attractive.
Chuck, in acceptance, ran to his
room to get his bottle of Juarez,
then to the fridge for a lime. The
girl placed the lime in her mouth
and laid down on the bar top. One
of her friends counted down in
German - drei, zwei, eins, null. I
shot out faster than a bull on Buck
Days and plunged my lips in her
belly. The tequila tasted like monkey ass, so I went for the lime. I
couldn’t help but to forget about
PG 31
puking when my lips touched hers.
The kiss was supposed to end at
that moment but for some reason
we couldn’t stop. The tequila began to wear off and our lips unlocked. I asked her what her name
was and she said, “You’ll have to
be my drinking buddy the rest of
the night and I’ll tell you.” I didn’t
appreciate her games so I set her
aside for the same reason I set
every other college girl aside. I
definitely had game but these girls
weren’t playing by the rules.
It was about 11 o’clock when
we all decided to hit the club. Half
of the group jumped into Chuck’s
truck while the other half jumped
into Blake’s. I had offered to ride
in mine but no one saw thrill in
riding to the club in a Prius. As I
was jumping into Blake’s truck I
slipped on the viscous black oil
and landed right on my os-coxis.
I laid there for a minute, took
a deep breath, then found the
strength to get back up.
When we arrived neon lights
flashed everywhere and the biggest one said Neon Nights. If
there were such thing as a Ronald
McDonald jungle gym for adults,
this was it.
When we walked inside, the
night changed in tempo. So far I
thought I knew what drinking was
but it all changed when we were
greeted by a little person. He
sported an Afro with neon glasses
that were larger than most of his
body. The little man took $20 from
Blake and gave him a little bag
filled with Batman pills. The transaction took seconds and before I
knew it the little person vanished
in the crowd. I felt scared and
didn’t know what to tell Blake
when he was to offer me a pill. I
quickly told him I needed to use
the restroom and removed myself
from the situation.
On my way to the restroom I
saw what I never knew existed.
Women danced in cages, people
danced like they had no bones
and the bartenders were spitting
fire - for a moment I thought I had
taken one of the pills and this
alone was the trip. When I walked
into the restroom I was greeted
by a black man in a tuxedo with
Jordan basketball shoes. He said,
“The restroom is $1 for the urinal
and $2 for the stall. And if you’re
going to use the stall never sit on
the toilet.”
“What’s wrong with the toilet?”
“Why’s a brotha always gotta
be aksed questioned?... is called
bacterium.”
Under
my breath
I mumbled
“bacteria
not bacterium” and
handed him my $2. When I walked
up to the stall the door was broken and the floor was as slippery
as an ice skating ring. I managed
to keep my balance atop all the
urine but every once in a while my
foot would slip and I would miss.
Somehow I managed to leave the
restroom without becoming infected by some sort of pathogen.
When I walked out of the restroom Blake and the posse were
dancing like inflatables at a car
lot. They all danced like maniacs
and didn’t bother having a coherent conversation. I wondered how
“If you’re going to
use the stall never sit
on the toilet.”
all of my colleagues managed to
call themselves scholars, when all
they strived for were Friday nights
to get stupid.
The morphologically gifted
bouncers were the only intelligible
people in the club and when it
came time to close down the bar
they would herd the psychotic
college students out like inbred
cattle. When we walked out the
temperature got substantially
colder, about 270 kelvin to be
exact. My comrades where in thin
muscle shirts and tank tops, the
cold wrapped around them like
water in a condenser tube and in
that moment the reaction process
reached equilibrium.
PG 32
A Ghostly Reminder
by Devin Moreno
I
t was about six
minutes till dusk
and had it not
been for the failing sunlight, Jack,
the oldest of the
Wilkins children, would not
have noticed the plagued
look the cherry trees were
taking on. The golden rays
gleamed through the rifts in
the clouds, highlighting the
dripping sap that had smothered the cherry trees. The
blood oozed out in a momentously paced movement.
Orange and black sullied the
natural red color of the sap
unveiling the disease that
had plagued the tree.
As the sun hastened to retreat from the darkness of the
moon, the shadow of the barn
grew ever bigger. When the last
of the golden light disappeared, the
air instantly dropped in temperature
and developed an unsettling feeling.
None of the animals stirred. None of
the insects chirped. With the sun and
its exultant appearance gone, there
was little to nothing that would arouse
a feeling of joy on the farm.
Tired from a full day’s work around
the farm, Jack stumbled around the
front of the decrepit, red barn.
Jack closed his eyes as waves
of nostalgic images passed through
him. He gripped the door of the barn,
hand clenching the cool iron bar and
screaming for the images to go away.
A baby’s gentle hand. His playful laugh. The endless stacks of hay
waiting to be climbed. The energy
behind every movement and the
happiness of his baby brother that
followed channeled into him, easing
him at first then causing more pain
from the reminder that those happy
moments would no longer be.
As Jack stumbled into the barn,
he heard the loud slurred yell of his
mother beckoning him back home to
eat. He took one look at the warm,
yellow glow of his house and then
proceeded to continue into the barn.
He couldn’t stand being around his
mother. Ever since the death of his
baby brother Billy, his family had disintegrated. His father killed him-
self, unable to deal with the tragic
loss of his favorite son. His mother
had slipped from a hardworking
woman into a useless drunk and
since then, Jack had pretty much
been on his own. He worked all
shifts and areas of the farm, provided the meals for his mom and
‘He gripped the
door of the barn,
hand clenching the
cool iron bar and
screaming for the
images to go away.’
himself, and kept all of the animals
functioning.
Everything about the barn was
the same spatially, but much of the
mood had changed. The tools that
had been kept sharp and always
ready to cut were now stained red
with rust. Tall stacks of hay that
would be played on by a young
PG 33
boy now smelled rather tart instead
of fresh. The tan straws of hay that littered the floor were speckled with red
‘The wooden beams
that acted as supports
were splintered and
on the verge of a collapse. There was no
laugher. There was no
Billy.’
as were many of the dried up insects.
The wooden beams that acted as
supports were splintered and on the
verge of a collapse. There was no
laugher. There was no Billy.
Jack thought about that fateful
event, seven months to the day. It
was a typical afternoon. He was
helping his dad in the pasture, his
mom was getting dinner fixed, and
his brother was playing with his paper
airplanes by the barn. The barn
had been strictly off limits and had
been chained shut because there
were some dangling ropes from the
wooden beams that his dad had
been working on. Jack thought for a
moment that it would be a good idea
to move his brother from the barn
and closer in sight, but his dad had
chained the barn pretty tight…
It wasn’t until his mother beckoned
them inside from the back door that
he and his father realized Billy was no
longer playing with paper airplanes.
Immediately, Jack thought of the barn
and ran over there thinking that there
was no way Billy had gotten inside.
He quickly dismissed the thought
and rounded the corner
to the barn from
the pasture.
Jack slowed as he neared
the corner and shook his head.
His father caught up to him
and rushed inside. Jack waited,
walking slower than ever as
time seemed to progress infinitely more sluggish. When the
screams of his father echoed
from the barn, Jack dropped to
his knees. He didn’t want to see
what happened. He couldn’t. He
already knew.
That day they found his little
brother Billy hanging from the
dangling ropes. Somehow, Billy
had managed to climb the hay
stacks like he always did and this
time, unfortunately, grabbed a
hold of the ropes. The rope got
caught around his neck and never
came off. And no matter how hard
Jack tried, even if he tore down
the barn and rearranged the farm,
Billy would always be in the back
of his mind. He could convince
his mom to get back on her feet
and together they could escape
the sorrow that bound them to the
farm, but there would always be
Billy in the back of their minds as
a ghostly reminder.
PG 34
Lucky Star
“Y
ou’re not cold?”
She turned and
made her way
back toward the
bed. The complexion of the
moon gleamed between the drapes
and radiated off her polished skin.
She looked up at me with her dark
eyes as I placed my hand on her
face. “Everything’s cold but you’re
so hot,” I replied. She sighed heavily while turning to walk toward the
dresser and looked into the mirror.
“How was your day?” She said;
“It was the same as usual, being
stuck in traffic of people as always.
More and more new souls come in
every day. Some folks don’t even
know how long they have been
there. They just float around waiting for the cleansing.” She grabbed
Jack from the dresser and filled her
glass half full. She drank the devil
juice and after finishing her serving she laid the glass to rest on the
dresser leaving her red mark on
the lips. She smiled quietly, “Quite
the contradiction huh?”
When we discovered each
other for the first time I remember
you mentioned the universe and
your infatuation with the glittering
blackness as we strolled down the
scene. “Let’s draw something,”
you said smiling while looking up.
“Stars make me feel lucky.” That
night ended with a swift embrace
and a kiss. While I drove home
the passenger seat spoke to me
and silence was your replacement.
I wondered why they made you
feel lucky and I went to bed that
night thinking about the next time I
was going to see you. Our second
meeting was at the art museum
which is something I never cared
for, but you insisted it was something I ought to do in order to “open
the mind.” And open it you did as
you as filled my head with profound images, and your vocabulary
was art within itself. I remember
this particular painting, which to
this day stays clawed into my head
and I feed it every time I think of
you.
“My brain hasn’t been producing enough lately and I apologize
for not attending our nocturnal
conferences. Over-the-counter
melatonin doesn’t work for me
anymore, I should see a doctor.” I
waited for an acceptance but heard
no reply. I turned around and she
stood there staring at me and we
looked at each other for the longest time. Her smile fell asleep, “I
understand, as least you still have
the ability to sleep. I always remain
awake waiting for my time to gain
admission. You should see a doctor because it hurts me to see you
this way. It also disturbs me because this is the only way we can
see each other and it’s like staring
through a box of glass with no entrance while I wait for you to make
one.” After hearing this I walked
toward the rocking chair, which
carried my coat and I reached inside the left chest pocket to pull out
a joint. I put it to my lips, lit it and
took a lengthy drag. “You smoking
that will have you slipping into a
dream within this dream.” I let out
the smoke in an artful fashion and
started thinking about that painting
again. I decided to sit in the chair
to establish myself in a comfortable setting to be alone with my
thoughts. I felt her gaze slither-
by Raphael Resendez
ing over me. “This is the longest
session we’ve ever had isn’t it?”
I opened my eyes and asked her
again, “Isn’t it?”
Your death was premature. I
remember receiving the phone call
from your parents while I was in
the kitchen making your favorite
dish. You were on your way back
from visiting family up north and I
had a surprise waiting. During your
visit up there I planned on surprising you with my proposal upon
your return. The glittering stone
matched the glittering blackness;
the glittering blackness which held
your lucky star. Unfortunately it decided to rain in Texas on your way
back that night.
“Yes it is the longest we’ve ever
had,” she said as she walked toward the other corner of the room
with her back facing me. I was
waiting for her to say something
else but she just stood and the silence told me how we were doing.
Now the room was starting to get
cold as it was slowly crawling beneath our feet. “I can feel it now,”
I said as I put down the roach and
got up to put my coat on. “It’s your
fault. I don’t like when it’s cold,
you should just wake up already.” I
chuckled sadly and replied, “That’s
a little harsh don’t you agree?” She
turned around. She was looking at
me with bleeding mascara oozing down her face. I went toward
her to wipe away the sadness,
which could be heard even in the
real world. She brushed me away
quickly, “Don’t!” I grabbed her
understandably, “Please, I’m sorry
OK? I know we have been distant
lately and I have been working
hard to get sleep but I can’t! Ev-
PG 35
ery time it rains it keeps me awake and all I can do is cry as my thoughts are being
raped by constant thunder. I’ve been thinking about it and it would be easier
if I made my way to you instead.” She looked at me with confusion
and I could feel it stuck on me as I made my way to the closet. I
reached up top for it. I grabbed the black compartment and
brought it to the bed. I opened it and looked inside as it laid
in its red velvet cradle.
I brought it up to show to her and the cold steel injected
a rush into my tactile receptors and it passed throughout my body. I was bathing in the fountain of crazed
joy until I felt a slap. She cried, “Why the hell? You’re
insane! This is not the answer to our dilemma! If you
do this they will not let us be with each other, do
you understand?” She took it away from me and
threw it out the balcony as if it made a difference.
I laughed hysterically, “You realize it will be in the
same spot when this is over?” And since when
was it a sin to spend time with your loved one
in everlasting life!” She looked me down with
compassionate anger, “Sweetie not like this! You
know this foolish act cannot be committed, purgatory forbids it. You should just move forward so
you can be happy.”
I felt her words sting the back of my
throat, along with my neck and down
as they entered into my spine.
I stood frozen as I was trying
to process her words to make sure
I heard correctly even though I know
I did but it still didn’t make sense to
me. This
dream was
turning into
a nightmare.
“How dare
you,” my eyes
were starting to
get wet. She held
her arms out at me
and replied, “If this is what it’s coming down
to then you should. You deserve to be happy
and I would never want it end like this. Forget
about me, I know you can find love somewhere
else. “It’s time to wake up Charles.” She slowly
came up to me and held my face with her soft hands. “If you truly love me you’ll do this for
me. I’ll be OK trust me.” The words I wanted to hear her say was “join me in death.” As I waited
for those words the air grew thick choking me with its grasp as I turned away. This would be our
last meeting. The dreams would stop and we both knew it. When I turned to look at her it was as if I was
looking at her for the first time but from a distance across an old black bridge. Her dark hair was alive
while the wind carried it with its finger tips as it brushed against her lips. She was looking at me but
didn’t say the words. She glided toward me with her arms out. I backed away, “Why am I still in this
dream? Go away!” I closed my eyes waiting to wake up. The star had finally burned out.
“I went
towards her to
wipe away the
sadness which
could be heard
even in the real
world.”
PG 36
Lasagna
S
he is like the first, small
light, in the midst of the
black, fresh night. It
keeps its strong beat like
that of her heart. She
smiles like an alabaster
pillar of Roman times. Her words
brighten like the first beams of sunlight that reach out behind lavender
mountains. This warm and surreal
glamour attaches to her every cell.
She is unafraid and unashamed,
though being so puts her in much
danger. This girl walks with swagger of men in the 1920s, out onto
thenight club floor with zoot suits
and fedoras. When she walks, she
wears a transparent gown or nothing at all. Then she meets a boy.
She laughs and it tastes like
freshly spread honey on morning
toast. She sits next to a boy with
a crew-cut and unbuttoned polo,
red like a glaring traffic light with no
stripes or bordering colors. They
sit in a morning algebra class, one
he says he’ll drop soon. The class
is just too early. He asks about
her hair, silver threads as if it were
bestowed upon her by the moon.
She smiles, a small white candle
illuminating the dark prison of the
classroom. He says that they’ll see
a movie on the weekend, not a
question, but a statement of fact.
She says that they don’t have to go
out for dinner; she’s a good cook.
Her half of the bedroom holds
white wicker-bound furniture, each
twine is carefully laid and constructed, put together with so much
effort and care. Its snow-colored
paint, when she found it in a yard
matches her, seemingly effortlessly.
She sets her books for the semester upon the dresser, Speak, College Algebra, again, and Introduc-
by Lia Schuermann
tion to Speech. Having put away
her clothing and knick knacks, she
keeps her art tucked away in the
shadows underneath her bed. The
boy prefers bare walls. She turns
in his direction with a childish grin
like colorful bubbles blown from a
ring-shaped toy. He says that they
should have some spaghetti for
lunch.
He holds her by her shoulders
tightly, and says that she no longer
has to work. She can go to school.
He will handle everything. She will
only have to cook and clean along
with her schoolwork because he
will not have the time. A frown
dawns upon her face, but she
smiles back like the flickering of
a dying light bulb. His fire, small
like a lighter sparks, rises over her
own, white and candle-like. As she
breathes in the heavy warmth of
his embrace, he jokes that she
could start the cooking part
now.
Her dyed platinum hair that
once matched her so well
that it seemed natural is fading. Her awkward dark brown
roots show through like mud upon
a pure white mare. Her once clear,
bright turquoise eyes are dull like
dust-covered, blue-green marbles.
She walks through the door, her
winter jacket drags across the
ground, barely hanging onto the
top of her shoulder bag. “I’m back,”
she says with little buoyancy. The
boy holds much vibrancy, sitting on
the couch in the small living room
of his apartment. He turns, glaring,
and already what glow she has left,
darkens. “Where have you been,”
he says. She stutters as if she cannot bear his voice and holds herself
like a crumbling stone wall from
PG 37
a military assault. “With another
guy,” he says, not a question, but
a fact. She shakes her head like a
bobble-head doll, trying to regain
higher ground. He stands over
her. His glow is a fire, too hot to be
near too long. She flinches, trying
desperately not to go out. He was
finally going to hit her. She knew
it. Maybe now she should leave.
Maybe now it would be too much.
He turned from her, telling her to
hurry up and start cooking, spitting
it out like the words were too kind
a mercy to give her. He was a fire
that siphons her, and like a fire, he
consumes everything around him.
Only the tips of her hair are
still silver. Some people on campus compliment her on the style
of it, but she only half-mutters a
response, her mind dwells only
on going back and forth between
places, the cooking, the cleaning,
and the boy. She twists the strands
between her fingers as if wondering
how she had gotten the color in the
first place. She stands at the bus
stop. She already costs him gas
when getting groceries. She could
at least take the bus to school and
back. Her grades are suffering; she
might lose her grants, her scholarships, everything that had once
been so important to her. However,
she finds that these thoughts no
longer bother her. She only thinks
about the boy. Would he want fried
chicken or lasagna for dinner?
She steps in, pushing the door as
if it takes all of her to do it. Inside
the coals burn, and new and old
complaints inflame. “Where have
you been? Why haven’t you gotten a job? I have to do everything.
You’re worthless, stupid …” The
scalding fire rekindles. Long before,
when she seemed to overflow like
a broken faucet in a kitchen, she
would try to overpower it. “You said
I didn’t have to work.” I wouldn’t
do things to hurt you. Or placate it.
The bus is late. I know you’re just
hungry. Let me make you something to nice to eat. Now, instead,
she took each burn, numb to the
degree of each blow.
She walks into the kitchen and
slowly taking each step, breathless.
She can hardly stand, even though
she’s untouched. There’s no purple
or red. He isn’t that bad. He’s never
hit her. She pleads with herself still
as if he were pounding on the dining table. If she just did better, was
on time, got a job… and cooked
something. He always acted much
better after she made him something.
She bends slowly, lifting a large,
dark pan. She cooks the wide and
lengthy noodles until they are al
dente. She cooks the ground beef
with salt, pepper, spices, and some
new ones to make it special. She
makes the sauce from scratch with
tomato paste, tomato sauce, and
fresh tomatoes that she bought just
yesterday. She fixes it all together
as the television plays some innocuous show. There is laughter in
the foreground where the boy sits,
while is left in the back like spare
keys to a car. She sits on the floor
of the kitchen, her legs bent up,
supporting the side of her face.
As she waits for the food to finish baking, she twists the strands
of hair between her fingers, trying
to remember. To remember times
before the boy. Who was she then?
Who is she now? The timer rings
loudly and she lifts her face abruptly, startled. The boy yells, “what
was that?” She stands up forcefully
like a four-legged creature trying to
stand on two.
She puts on mitts to shield her
from the heat of the oven. She
takes it out and the smell of the
cooked tomatoes, cheese, and
meat is wonderful. Its scent is
reminiscent of her own; the wonder and joy long ago. She brings
the dish with her, mitts on, to the
living room. A smile that smells
like freshly-cut yellow roses in the
spring graces her face. She twirls
into the room with happiness no so
long gone. She says, “Look! Look
what I have made for you,” with a
girlish laugh and genuine grin.
He doesn’t even look away. She
pleads insignificantly, look. He once
seemed so beautiful. The arch of
his brow, the way he smelled of
cheap soap and shampoo, and the
sound of his voice, rich as butter
over freshly made pancakes. But
To remember
times before the
boy. Who was
she then? Who is
she now?
she had been mistaken, for he
seemed like the forest fires that
are nigh impossible to stop as they
turn everything beautiful to ash. He
smelled like that smoke, tasted like
that gray ash, felt like that burning
as if she were the bark that burned
away. He glances her way as if
she was hardly noticeable, a small,
unlikable piece of furniture.
“Why did you make that, stupid?
I didn’t tell you to make something,
did I?”
Excuses and thoughts about
shame begin to slowly rise to her
mind, but before the thoughts
are fully formed, she rises and
transcends like the holiness that
emerges to mark angels as so,
making themselves known to
mortals below. The lasagna flies
hard, as if it is a baseball thrown
by a professional pitcher, into the
television, breaking it in two with
the crackling of electricity. He turns
from the television, bringing his full
attention to her with a loud expletive that is muffled by the door closing behind her.
PG 38
Legend of
Diablo Valley
by R i c a r d o P r a d o
“T
he first thing
you should do
when a horse
dies is dismount.” That’s
something my
father use to tell me growing up.
He always had that type of advice,
good advice none the less. The
only problem is how that advice
can help me right now.
Me and my brother Willie are
running this stagecoach as fast as
we can, while Danny and his two
other Texas Rangers escort us to
Fort Stockton. The problem right
now is that every outlaw gang from
Tucson to Austin, Mexico to Texas,
is chasing our ass to get this crate
of gold. What doesn’t help is that
Willie is shot, two of our six horses
are bleeding out and won’t make
it through the day, and we are running low on ammunition.
I reach for the light brown burlap
bag on the floor of the wagon as
Willie takes the reins of the horses.
I pull out several rounds and begin
to reload my rifle as Danny and his
Texas Rangers fire at the enormous throng of outlaws. There
must be over a hundred outlaws
chasing us to get their hands
on this gold. It seems our decoy
stagecoach we sent out earlier
didn’t fool these outlaws as none of
them followed it.
I reach into the burlap bag again
and pull out a few sticks of dynamite. I light one and watch as the
amber fire consumes the fuse.
It gets closer to the base of the
red stick as I time the throw. One
one-thousand, two one-thousand,
I count softly to myself. I pull back
my arm as far as it can go, three
one-thousand, and throw it with all
my might.
The dynamite stick tumbles
through the scorching heated air
of this lonely Texas valley known
only as Diablo Valley. The stick
lands just a few feet in front of one
of the outlaws. The outlaw tries to
break his gallop but is too late. The
ground rumbles and shakes as the
dynamite explodes with bright red
and orange at the base. The outlaw and his horse fall to the ground
hard, tripping a couple of more
outlaws along the way.
I hand Willie a stick of dynamite
as I shoot my rifle. I turn to Willie
and tell him to light the stick as I
continue to fire at the outlaws. Willie places the stick in his mouth as
he struggles to light it while holding
the reins. The crate of gold comes
loose. I move to the back of the
wagon to secure the crate. Willie finally lights the stick and outstretches his arm to hand me the
dynamite. I reach for the stick. It
is just inches away from my hand.
The wagon hits a large bump and
Willie drops the stick.
I watch as the bright red stick
moves in slow motion toward the
floor of the wagon. It slowly spins,
as a young ballerina would learning her first La Second Turn, slowly
spinning to understand the move.
It feels as if time itself is pushing
against me as I desperately move,
franticly trying to grab the dynamite
stick as it hits the floor and slides
back and forth on the wagon. The
flame reaches the end of the fuse
as I finally get a hold of it. A loud
and enormous explosion throws
debris and dirt high into the sky.
This whole thing started a
couple of days ago. Me and Willie were at the saloon drinking and
playing cards. Willie wanted to
make enough money to go upstairs
PG 39
and spend time with that young,
beautiful, Mexican senorita that
had been staring at him all night.
He kept trying to get me to go upstairs too and have my pick of any
lady I wanted, but I wasn’t interested in that. I wanted to get out of
this damn corrupt town and head
out west to California. I wasn’t going to leave my brother behind but
I know he wanted to have his fun.
Don’t get me wrong, these women
were beautiful but my focus was
making enough money playing
cards to get me and my brother out
West.
Me and Willie are opposites
sometimes, that’s what my father
use to say and it’s true. I served
my time in the Army and got out.
Willie, on the other hand, had to
get kicked out. I am always getting his ass out of trouble since we
were kids, and here again at the
saloon is no different.
Willie finally sits down at the
poker table with me. His eyes
are fixed on that young Mexican
senorita. The table is made of
an old wood and the green felt is
coming apart in certain spots. The
saloon is filled with a thick gray
cigar smoke, foot-thumping vibrant
music, and beautiful dancing girls
dressed in red and white flirting
with all the men. There are five
people playing poker at my table
and the dealer. Me and my brother
Willie, Johnny the saloon owner,
Butch the blacksmith, and a man
named Carlito.
Carlito is a member of Santiago
de la Paz’s outlaw gang. A gang
notorious in these parts for being
ruthless and without mercy. They
have been rumored to kill people
and leave them to die in Diablo’s
Valley, a very dangerous and
treacherous trail to an Army post
call Fort Stockton. Carlito’s face
is as a stone polished with the
running river, smooth, and without emotion. The man has a true
poker face. His clothes are dusty
from the Wild West trails his gang
must travel. He also wears a bandana around his neck, black as
pit, full of dust and dirt. He is definitely a gamblers man. He has a
six-shooter by his side, loaded and
ready for anything unexpected. He
watches Willie as he places his
money on the table and sits down
to join the game.
The dealer shuffles the cards
and places them into two smaller
decks. His hands grip the ends of
both decks and begin to curl them
as he shuffles them into one deck.
The cards make a thumping noise
as each one hits the next card in
the deck. The dealer does this a
couple of times before he slides
the shuffled deck toward Carlito.
Carlito takes the deck and divides
it into three smaller stacks in front
of the dealer. The dealer stacks
the three decks back on top of one
an,other not in the same order, and
begins to pass out the cards. He
moves in a continuous motion from
his left to his right and back again.
Carlito’s face is as a
stone polished with
the running river,
smooth, and without
emotion.
He has done this many times and it
has become second nature to him.
The cards are dealt, five cards
each, five players in all. The dealer
turns the first three cards over for
the flop. The flop is five of hearts,
ten of spades, and an ace of diamonds. We each make our bets,
and the turn card is placed down.
It is a four of hearts. Nothing I can
use for my cards so I fold. This was
not a bad first deal for the game.
Carlito won with a pair of aces, but
the game would only last about an
hour before all hell broke loose.
The game got down to me and
my brother Willie, Butch the black-
PG 40
smith, and Carlito. Johnny the
saloon owner had to leave to take
care of a problem upstairs with
one of the men not wanting to pay
the girl for her companionship. We
could hear a little bit of the commotion upstairs but chose to ignore it.
The game was getting intense now
and the blinds were higher. So far
Carlito has been winning a lot of
the rounds but Butch wasn’t going
to go down without a fight.
The cards are dealt, five cards
each, four players in all. The dealer
turns the first cards over for the
flop. The flop is jack of spades,
queen of clubs and six of diamonds. The men all look at their
cards. Butch bets high, me and
Willie call, and Carlito twirls a coin
between his fingers as he thinks
about his move. The dealer turns
to Carlito and tells him it is his
move to call or fold. Carlito looks
over at Butch. He pushes a stack
of coins he has on the table to the
center pile. “Raise” is all he says.
The dealer turns to Butch to call
or fold. Butch calls; Me and Willie do as well. The dealer places
the turn card down. It is a queen
of diamonds. Butch gives a smirk
as if he knows he is going to win
this hand. Butch pushes all his
coins to the center of the table
and declares that he is “all in.” Me
and Willie look over our cards and
coins. I fold this round while Willie
places all his coins in and declares
“all in” as well. The dealer shifts to
Carlito to see if he will stay in this
round or fold.
Butch gets arrogant and begins
to taunt Carlito to make a decision. Carlito just stares at Butch
with that stone cold poker face and
for the first time opens his mouth
to talk other than raise, fold, or
call. “Butch, you don’t really want
to embarrass yourself here in front
of all these people do ya?” Butch’s
face becomes full of rage at the
comment Carlito made. “I’m not
the one who will be embarrassed
this round,” Butch says. The dealer
asks Carlito if he will go all in and
continue the game or if he will fold.
Carlito pushes all his coins to the
center of the table and says, “I’m
all in, but let’s make this round a
little more interesting.”
Butch puts one hand on his
cards on the table, while his other
hand holds on to the pistol he has
been hiding this whole time under
the table. Butch slowly pulls the
hammer back of his pistol, loading one round into the chamber.
“I don’t think I will lose this round
Carlito,” Butch says. Carlito says
“Then let’s make it interesting.”
Carlito pulls out his pistol and places it on the table with the coins.
“I’ll bet you my newest pistol Butch
for abit of information.” Butch’s
hand begins to slowly shake from
holding the pistol so long. “What
kind of information Carlito?”, Butch
says.
Carlito pulls out a gold coin from
his pocket and places it on the
table. It is a Mexican gold coin,
worn from the sides but still a solid
gold coin. “Rumor has it that there
will be a transport to Fort Stockton
tomorrow, and that it will be carrying the largest amount of Mexican
gold ever transported through Texas.” Butch’s hand is still shaking as
he stares at Carlito. Butch finally
replies. “I don’t know what you are
talking about Carlito.” Carlito finally
shows a bit of emotion with an evil
smirk. “Now Butch, I also heard a
rumor that you put on new horseshoes for the three Texas Rangers
who came into town this morning,
and that you overheard them talking about the gold transport scheduled for tomorrow. Is that true?”
Butch sits in his chair speechless.
Me and my brother Willie are
stunned at the conversation and
intensity that this game has now
become. Leave it to Willie to put
his foot where his mouth is. Willie
pulls out his pistol and places it on
the table in the center with Carlito’s
pistol. Carlito and Butch turn their
heads to Willie. Willie smiles and
says, “I just want to finish the game
so I can go upstairs with that beautiful Mexican senorita.” The two
men laugh and continue the game.
The game got down to Butch,
Carlito and Willie. The flop cards
and the turn card are on the table.
Jack of spades, queen of clubs, six
of diamonds, and queen of diamonds. The only card that remains
is the river. The dealer places
the last card down. It is a ten of
spades. Butch grins from ear to
ear.
Butch places his cards down. He
has a straight. A six of diamonds
from the dealer, seven of hearts,
eight of clubs, nine of hearts,
and the river card, ten of spades.
Butch laughs with excitement and
reaches with one hand to the center of the table while still holding
the pistol under the table. “I beat
you this time Carlito.”
Carlito slams down Butch’s hand
as he reaches the coins in the
center. “I haven’t even showed you
my cards yet.” Butch retracts his
hand as Carlito flips his cards over.
Carlito has a Five of Diamonds, a
Three of clubs, a Queen of Hearts,
the dealer’s Queen of Clubs, and
Queen of Diamonds. Carlito looks
right into Butch’s eyes and says,
“Three of a kind Butch, you lose!”
Butch’s face is red with anger and
frustration that he just lost again.
Butch yells across the table “You
cheated Carlito!”
No one really notices Willie as
PG 41
he places his cards down. He has
a royal flush. The ten of spades
and jack of spades from the dealer,
a queen of spades, king of spades,
and ace of spades. Everyone is
focused on the argument erupting
between Carlito and Butch. The
dealer declares Willie the winner
and moves away from the table.
Willie begins to collect only the
coins and not the pistols.
Butch argues with Carlito that
he is a cheat and slowly pulls the
hammer all the way back into the
as if he were born with the weapon
already attached to his hand.
Watching him gunfight is like
watching a beautiful woman dance.
It is mesmerizing to see his skill
and accuracy with the pistol. He
hides behind a turned over table as
he reloads his pistol. Me and Willie
are hiding by the side of the bar
with Johnny the saloon owner and
the beautiful Mexican senorita that
Willie liked so much.
Johnny stands up to try to negotiate with the two men but Butch
is in such a rage that he
shoots Johnny dead.
The Mexican senorita
looks at Willie and crawls
to the back of the bar
to hide even more. Me
and Willie make sure our
pistols are loaded and
stand up to fight our way
out. As we stand up, the
dust has already settled
and there are eight dead
bodies on the floor of
the now empty saloon. Chairs and
tables are turned over and broken.
Cards and coins lay scattered
across the floor, broken liquor
bottles litter the floor behind the
bar, and the only living souls in the
saloon are Me and Willie, and this
young beautiful Mexican senorita.
Everyone else has either left or
been shot and killed.
As me, Willie and the Mexican
senorita walk towards the doors of
the saloon, the local sheriff and his
two deputies walk in, guns drawn.
Talk about being in the wrong
place at the wrong time. We were
definitely up a shit creek without
a paddle. We try explaining to the
sheriff and his deputies that it was
Butch the blacksmith and Carlito
who were fighting. But of all the
bodies laying on the floor, none
of them were Carlito and neither
Hearing the clicking
noise, Carlito knows that
Butch is about to fire his
pistol.
locking position of his pistol. The
pistol makes a clicking noise as
the hammer is locked into place.
Hearing the clicking noise, Carlito
knows that Butch is about to fire
his pistol. Carlito stands up from
the table, breaks the front leg of
the table and pushes down on
it. The table seesaws up, hitting
Butch in the chin as he squeezes
the trigger. The coins and Carlito’s
pistol come crashing to the floor as
Butch’s pistol goes off. The round
goes through the table and barely
misses Carlito’s leg. Carlito kicks
the table toward Butch, hitting him
and knocking him to the ground.
Me and Willie are on the floor
picking up his coins and trying not
to get shot as Butch and Carlito
go ape shit in the saloon. The two
men shoot up the saloon. Carlito is
a master with his pistol. It seems
the sheriff or his deputies spoke
Spanish to understand what the
Mexican senorita was telling them
about us being innocent. The sheriff let the Mexican senorita go but
put me and Willie into handcuffs
and took us to the jail.
No matter how much kicking and
screaming we did, the sheriff and
his deputies did not believe that
Carlito, a man wanted throughout
the Southwest, was in that saloon
playing cards. They took us to
the jail and placed us into the cell
together. A few moments later one
of the three Texas Rangers walked
in to talk to the sheriff. I stood up
and tried to get the sheriff’s attention again to tell them about what
we heard but the sheriff would not
listen. The sheriff and his deputies walk the Texas Ranger to the
door as he is about to leave. I yell
out to the men, “I know about the
gold you are transporting tomorrow.” The Texas Ranger stops
dead in his tracks. The sheriff and
his men try to ignore us. “They are
just drunk and out of their minds
Ranger,” the sherriff says. “Don’t
worry about the lies of a couple of
murderers and their false stories.
They will see a judge on Monday
morning and be hung with a noose
by noon.”
The Texas Ranger walks back
toward the cells and pulls up a
chair and sits down in front of the
cell holding me and Willie. “Tell me
what you know,” the Ranger says.
“Don’t believe their horse crap Ran
…” The sheriff is cut off by a single
finger being held up by the Ranger
for him to wait. The Texas Ranger
hears our side of the story and
calls to the sheriff to go and find
this Mexican senorita and bring
her to the jail to verify their story.
The sheriff tells the Texas Ranger,
“None of us speak Spanish Rang-
PG 42
er. How are we going to verify her
story?” The sheriff seems more annoyed than anything else that his
men have to go and find this young
girl but they do it none the less.
A few hours later, nearing midnight, the sheriff’s deputies walk in
with the Mexican senorita in tow.
She is frightened and trembling
with them. The Texas Ranger places a blanket over her and asks her
in perfect Spanish if what Me and
Willie were saying was true. The
young girl nods and the Ranger
goes on for a bit before it is broken
by the Mexican senorita bringing
all of us food, including the sheriff
and his men.
The sheriff makes a makeshift
table out of the desk and benches.
Everyone is hungry with the stress
of the day that has gone by. The
Mexican senorita gives us our food
through the cell bars. We are face
deep in the food when the Texas
Ranger walks back in with his two
other Rangers carrying all sorts of
weapons and a very large crate
with a large lock
on the front. Willie talks with his
mouth full, “hnnis thaaat hmme
gold?” The Ranger looks at him
for a second, ”oh
you mean is this
the gold?, Yes
it is. $2,000,000
dollars’ worth of gold, and you boys
are going to help us take it to Fort
Stockton.” Willie spits out the food
that was in his mouth in shock.
“What do you mean WE are
going to help you take it to Fort
Stockton? What’s in it for us?” I
tell the Ranger. The Texas Ranger
turns toward the Sherriff. The sheriff hands the Texas Ranger the cell
keys. “We will release you with all
charges dropped and 200 dollars
for your trouble” the Ranger says.
“Make it 400 each” I say, “and 400
for the senorita too” Willie adds.
“Done,” says the Texas Ranger. He
releases us from the cell and we
start to load our pistols, shotguns,
and I sharpen my knife. Willie is a
little preoccupied with the Mexican
senorita out back.
The Texas Ranger walks over
toward me and introduces himself.
He says his name is Danny, and
I think I liked it in the jail cell
better. At least we had the bars
between us and the zoo animals.
gives her some water to drink. The
Texas Ranger walks toward the
sheriff and his men. “Leave the two
men in the cell until I get back but
you and your deputies don’t leave.
I am going to get the other Rangers and we will be back within the
hour. The Texas Ranger leaves the
jail.
The sheriff sits at his desk and
watches Me and Willie. Willie hugs
the Mexican senorita through the
cell bars and asks her to bring us
some food. He uses a gesture with
his fingers into his mouth and she
understands. She leaves the jail to
look for something to feed the men
with. There is an awkward silence
between the sheriff, his deputies
and us. Willie turns to me and
says, “I think I liked it in the jail cell
better. At least we had the bars between us and the zoo animals,” referring to the deputies. The silence
I tell him my name. We talk for a
few minutes about where we are
headed and the possibility of every
outlaw gang getting wind of Carlito’s information about the gold. The
Ranger says, “We have to leave in
now, where is your brother?” I tell
the Ranger that he is out back with
the Mexican senorita. The Ranger
and I walk to the back of the jail
where a tiny office is. Willie peaks
his head out from under a blanket
that has been put over the Mexican
senorita and him. Willie just smiles
at the Texas Ranger. “Alright Willie,
we will leave in 20 minutes, hurry
up!” Willie throws the blanket back
over his head and says “Yes Sir!”
in a hyper tone.
Twenty minutes later Willie and
the Mexican senorita emerge from
the back office of the jail as the
deputies, Ranger and I finish loading the stagecoach with the gold,
weapons, ammunition, and everything else we would need for the
dangerous journey.
Dawn is bleeding through the
dark night sky over the horizon.
Me and Willie climb aboard the
stagecoach as the Mexican senorita makes sure all of Willie things
are in his bag before she hands it
to him. They smile at each other
and he gives her a kiss goodbye.
I crack the reins of the six-horse
stagecoach while the three Texas
Rangers and the sheriff and his
deputies ride alongside us on
horseback. The sheriff and his
deputies only escort us to the edge
of town. We are on our own from
here to Fort Stockton.
As the sun comes up into the
morning sky, we head through the
landscape of Texas. It is a beautiful and breathtaking sight but that
is soon disturbed by the sounds of
gunshots and yelling.
PG 43
Fifteen different outlaw gangs,
including Santiago de la Paz’s outlaw gang, chase after us, over 100
men in all. Carlito leads the way
firing his pistol and riding at full
speed at the same time. The Texas
Rangers fire back but there must
be at least 150 men or so. We run
into the deadliest of valleys, Diablo’s Valley. This valley is known
for people disappearing and bad
shit happening. Not a good place
to be in at all. Willie fires his rifle
and pistol as I race the stagecoach
as fast as I can. I hear Willie give a
load groan and starts to curse. Willie is shot, along with two of our six
horses which are bleeding out and
won’t make it through the day, and
we are running low on ammunition.
“The first thing you should do
when a horse dies is dismount.”
That’s something my father use to
tell me growing up. He always had
that type of advice, good advice
none the less. The only problem is
how that advice can help me right
now.
Directly ahead of us is an old
Spanish Mission. I yell to Willie to
steer us into its direction so we can
regroup with the Texas Rangers,
who are riding beside us. Willie
puts a stick of dynamite into his
mouth to light it as I continue to fire
at the outlaws. I have thrown one
stick already and it took out a couple of outlaws. Now Willie is trying
to light the next one. I notice that
the gold crate has come loose. I
move to the end of the wagon and
re-secure it. Willie finally lights the
stick of dynamite and outstretches
his arm. I reach out to get the stick
but my hand is just inches away.
As I reach farther, our wagon hits a
bump and Willie drops the stick.
Everything seems to move in
slow motion as I reach for the stick
of dynamite. I finally get my hand
on it but the fire has reached the
end of the fuse. As I toss it out the
back of the wagon, it clips the gold
crate and goes off.
The explosion throws
dirt and debris high
into the sky. I look
at the back of the
wagon, the crate is
still onboard and yell
to Willie to pull into
the Spanish Mission.
Willie drives the
stagecoach into the
mission as the Texas
Rangers follow close behind. The
stagecoach is badly damaged from
the dynamite blast. We unload the
crate of gold and turn the wagon
onto its side to block the entrance
of the Spanish Mission. The Texas
Rangers reload their rifles and
begin fortifying the walls of the mission.
The large valley is filled with
horses, dirt and smoke. Over 100
outlaws wait for us to make our
next move. Danny comes over to
check on me and Willie. Another
Ranger and I are tending to Willie’s
wounds. Danny wants to help put
the crate of gold into the mission
for the meantime. Danny and I
walk over to the crate behind Willie. I grab one end of the crate as
Danny gets the other. An old rusted
lock hangs on the front of the crate
with the words “Silverado Railroad
Company” printed on the front
and sides. As we move the crate
toward the door of the mission,
Danny stops dead in his tracks.
He keeps looking down toward the
handle he is carrying. Danny’s face
turns white like the first sheet of
snow on a cold winter’s night.
He remains speechless. I can
feel the crate getting lighter. Danny
and I place the crate on an old
dried up fountain in front of the
mission door. Danny begins to
curse up a storm as I come to look
Everything seems to move
in slow motion as I reach
for the stick of dynamite.
what it was that he saw on his side
of the crate. Danny storms off, still
cursing up a storm as he reloads
his pistol. As I get to his side of the
crate, all the warm blood that is in
me suddenly leaves my body, leaving me cold and in shock. Willie
and the Texas Ranger helping him
with his wounds turn their heads
to see what I am looking at. Danny
and his other Texas Ranger guard
the walls of the mission, cursing
every word in the book.
I fall to my knees and begin to
laugh. A sad, uninvited laugh, one
like I have never laughed before,
masking my true feelings behind
the laughter. I reach out with one
hand to the part of the crate that is
broken. Wood shards are protruding out of a small crack, but it is
not the wooden shards that I am
laughing at.
I reach out my hand as sand
pours out of the crate. It runs
through my hands as if it is water
gently pouring through it. I laugh
because the Silverado Railroad
Company knew what we were
going to be getting into. The gold
must have been transported another way. We were expendable.
We were decoys this whole time.
Call for
Submissions
Spring 2014
Photography
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Short Stories
Essays
email: editor@delmar.edu