- Student Webs

#120
W
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Wordeater
Joliet Junior College
1215 Houbolt Road
Joliet, IL 60431
www.wordeater.org
Wordeater exists as a forum of creative expression for the Joliet Junior College
community, including students, alumni, faculty, and staff. It celebrates the
diversity of ideas, beliefs, values, language, media, and people of its community.
It seeks to promote artistic, personal, and political expression, democratic
values, and social justice, including fairness and equal opportunity, rights, and
access. Wordeater rejects censorship and attempts to reflect the artistry and
lives of its community, while embracing JJC’s Core Values of respect, integrity,
collaboration, humor and well-being, innovation, and quality.
Wordeater #120 Editorial Board:
Enjolique Bender
Maria Mick
Amber Walker
Alyssa Hughey
Lucas Sifuentes
Graphic Design & Layout - Maria Mick
Graphic Design - Lucas Sifuentes
Faculty Advisor - Adam Heidenreich, Assistant Professor of English
Email - wordeater@jjc.edu
Facebook Group - Wordeater
Blog - www.jjcwordeater.blogspot.com
If you are interested in becoming a member of the student editorial board for
issue #121 or e-zine, or in future work as a Graphic Designer or a Production
Assistant, please send a letter of interest to wordeater@jjc.edu.
Printed by
In-Print Graphics
4201 West 166th St.
Oak Forest, IL60452
708-369-1010
Cover Art:
Shadowed Woman
Sarah Klausler
Colored Pencil & Charcoal
See & hear the multimedia Spring ‘09 E-Zine
www.WORDEATER.org
Submission Guidelines
All written work must be word-processed in Word (.doc) or Rich Text
Format (.rtf) and submitted through wordeater@jjc.edu.
All multimedia must be submitted in appropriate formats either through
wordeater@jjc.edu or CD/DVD to Adam Heidenreich (C-1059).
All work must be original and unpublished. Artists retain all rights to
their own work and may publish it in other media.
Submissions may include a brief “About the Artist” biography (50
words or less), a digital photo, and a link to a web page for promotional
purposes. This content will be included if the work is chosen for the
e-zine.
Please include a separate cover letter with your name, address, email,
phone number, and titles of the wok you submit. Please identify
yourself as a current student, alumni, or a present or former faculty
or staff member. Works will be judged anonymously by the student
editorial board. There is no limit on the number of submissions, but it
is suggested artists submit only a representative collection.
Except for original artwork, submissions will not be returned.
Editorial changes may be made for readability and presentation.
All work must be submitted through wordeater@jjc.edu or sent to
Adam Heidenreich, Assistant Professor of English, Wordeater Advisor
(C-1059), in appropriate digital format (CD or DVD) or with instructions
for scanning or digital photography.
WordEater #120 & SPRING 2009
E-Zine Awards
Poetry
Tim Hecker
Alyssa Hughey
Maria Mick
Lucas Sifuentes
Satisfaction
Two Bachelors
One and One Makes ONE
Ghost Dinosaurs
Prose
Enjolique Bender
Carol A. McCorkle
To Remember
Under the Catalpa Tree
Visual Arts
Maria Mick
Nana Prempeh
Sarah Saballa
Lucas Sifuentes
Peeking Sun
One Minute to Ecstasy, Seconds to Love
Tree of Passion
Pipe Organ
Jurors
Laura K. Basso, Assistant Professor
English/World Languages Department
John Griffis, Professor
Natural Sciences Department
The Wordeater Spring 2009 E-Zine is at www.wordeater.org.
Back Cover Art:
Movie Projector in Room
Kevin McCann
Prisma Marker
44
sam bull
Alyssa Hughey
Lucas Sifuentes
Maria Mick
Enjolique Bender
Alyssa Hughey
Maria Mick
Carol A. McCorkle
Sarah Saballa
Irving Gamboa
Maria Mick
Lucas Sifuentes
Maxine Perez
G.J. Pupkiewalski
Jesus Reyes
Tim Hecker
Maryam Hamed
Jesus Reyes
Rennie Tomala
Maria Mick
Rosa Villagomez
Diane Chamberlain
Lucas Sifuentes
Kayla H. Trujillo
G.J. Pupkiewalski
Maria Mick
Blair Stiles
Lucas Sifuentes
Nicole Novielli
G.J. Pupkiewalski
Dana Rybarski
Reinhardt Awender
sam bull
Sarah Klausler
Irving Gamboa
Lucas Sifuentes
Diane Chamberlain
Danielle Shirtino
Tim Hecker
Stephanie Griparis
mad rush
Untitled
Calix Meus Inebriams
Laundry-O-Mat
To Remember
Two Bachelors
Little White Schoolhouse
Under the Catalpa Tree
Tree of Passion
Death
Monkey Bars
Ghost Dinosaurs
Cell
Alchemy
Waiting for the Fish
A Watched World
Islam
Life
A Moment of Memory
One and One Makes ONE
Estar Sin Ti
Wave
Silence in the Mystery Ship
Parking Space
Untitled
Reflected Sun
Creepers
Close the Windows!
Alive
Untitled
Untitled
Return
my body, my mind
Untitled
Gallop at the Pace of the Horse
Florescent Yarn from Hell
Frozen Spring
Crush
The Road I Ask For
Fence
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1
mad rush
sam bull
I want to write
I know the words
I lack the rhymes
They are all mine
I lack the time to write
so I’ll just tell you
my pain & love (knowing who, saying nothing)
my joy & sorrow (writing, but its wildness)
my weakness & strength (boundless energy, without endurance)
my tears & fears (where there’s no one to be found)
this mad rush cascades through my mind
faster than I have time to even find
a pen, a paper, anything
this is my gift
this is my curse
so many ideas
so the little time slows me down naught
I can’t even write down or draw
fast enough to keep pace
damn
I lost it.
Fence
Stephanie Griparis
Photograph
2
43
THE ROAD I ASK FOR
Tim Hecker
All of my life I’ve searched for what would bring me happiness,
traveling many roads,
fast and slow.
Most of the roads I chose were easier, softer, less bumps,
but the destinations were unsatisfying, empty.
I always turned back and chose another--again the easiest road to travel.
I thought they were shortcuts,
but instead they swung wide of what I wanted.
Not in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the rewards
that would be mine if I took the long,
sometimes difficult way around.
I ask for no other road-sign in life other
than a smile on my face (I can honestly mean) and
a clear eye and a mind that can, at last, touch reality.
For myself, I am now an optimist--there is no reason to be anything else.
Untitled
Alyssa Hughey
Photograph
42
3
Calix Meus Inebriams
Lucas Sifuentes
Ask me about wonder.
Ask me about the glow in the dark Slurpee machine.
The drip drip gurgle up of mechanical syrup
Pure sugary sugary slop
Lovely ooze to slurp up
The Transcendent convenient store
With an atomic snack counter
Bright pink cigarettes that blow
Filthy orange smoke rings
The burning Clementine flavored smog
Roller hot dogs that wiggle around
Fluorescent meat dancing under
The clean bright bulbs
Ask me about wonder.
Ask me about the untold tales of the bottomless trash bin.
The giant green dragon that belches
Up free clothes and gently chewed bagels
Harboring secret treasures in dim alleys
A multiplex of hidden Styrofoam caves
Lying beneath a thin veneer of greasy paper
Crushed foggy glass
Cheap worn out sneakers
Moldy hunks of disintegrating plywood
Exuberance manifested in the back of Chinese buffet
Bubbling beneath the slowly falling rain
Awaiting their second cycle of life
Ask me about wonder while the gods are at leisure
And man has made a playground of digital bureaucracies
An intangible land of synthetic joys that echo the divine
Ask me about wonder while we can still summon god from a machine
And watch a plastic bag blow in the wind as if it were a dove.
4
Crush
Danielle Shirtino
His breathing was jagged. He was scared. Obviously he was scared, but
he would never let me know that, because he knew I was scared, too. Here
we were. Best friends. Silent and terrified. I slowly turned my head to the right
and let my lips rest on his arm. Not a kiss, just a slight shift of movement. His
forearm was under my head, in a cradled position, while his right arm supported
his weight; he only rested his hips and chest ever so slightly. His head, however,
lay on my right shoulder and I could feel his rough, unshaven cheek against my
neck. I slowly let all my senses take in the moment, a moment I was so sure
would never happen. Closing my eyes, my lashes grazed his arm and a slight
tremor went through his body, which was so close to mine I felt goose-bumps
on my own skin. He took a deep breath in and let it out; it was warm on my neck
when he whispered, “What are you thinking?” My response was instantaneous
and true, as if this were any other moment.
“You smell good,” I confessed to his arm. His lips smiled against my neck
and he let a little more weight rest on me, as he began to relax. My eyes were
still closed as he whispered into my ear and I noticed for the first time that my
breathing was uneven, also.
“It’s ok, Izzy. Please, be calm, just relax.” I felt his hips and pelvis move into
mine, an action which I knew was slowly becoming involuntary. I kept my eyes
closed as the slow realization hit me. Of course, it ended up this way. Of course,
it was Justin laying on top of me, breathing reassurance in my ear, calming all
my nerves during one of the most significant moments of my life. He had been
my best friend and calming subconscious for as long as I could remember; why
would I have ever expected anything different? He was here, with me now, and
he was not planning on leaving. I hadn’t realized I was crying until his lips formed
the words, “I love you, Izz,” against my cheek.
And then it was over and I was suddenly afraid to let him move away. It felt
like we were laying there together for an eternity and then, so suddenly, it was
over. The once in a lifetime moment was gone, vanishing with the growing sound
of sirens. As I slowly turned my head back towards him, Justin let out a sigh of
relief and carefully let more of his weight collapse onto me, our cheeks resting
together, our chests rising and falling as one. I let my tears fall and stared at
the metal side of his jeep pushing down on our form, the cause of our trapped
position, our unsteady breathing and my epiphany of feelings.
41
Maria Mick
Photograph
Laundry-O-Mat
Frozen Spring
Diane Chamberlain
Macro Photograph
5
40
To Remember
Enjolique Bender
“What do you want from me?”
I bit my lip and focused my attention on the ceiling, trying desperately not to blink. I knew with
the first blink would come a spill that would give myself away. My eyes burned behind the small sea of
tears that had risen halfway up my irises. My shoulders quivered and my legs shook below me.
I turned away when I couldn’t take the burning anymore. Prolonging the inevitable did little more
than double the amount of tears that came streaming down my cheeks. I picked up a sweatshirt from
his dirty laundry pile and dried my face. Immediately, I regretted it. My stomach churned and my heart
skipped a beat. It smelled like her.
Maybe I imagined it. His sweatshirts always smelled like me. I wore them to his football games,
or when we went for walks in the chilly morning air. I wore them to bed when I was too exhausted to put
my clothes back on. I wore them on cool summer nights, after the sun had settled behind the horizon,
and we were still laying in the hammock talking about everything and nothing for hours into the night.
Maybe at that moment my own smell had become foreign to me. I don’t know.
A cool spring breeze blew through his bedroom window and turned my tears to ice. I
shuddered.
“What do you want from me?”
His voice startled me, as if for a moment I had forgotten he was there.
What do I want from you? I want the life you promised me. I want the All-American story, where
the football player and the cheerleader are high school sweethearts, go to college together and then
get married and have beautiful children and a dog and a white house with a picket fence. I want our
story to end with “and they lived happily ever after”. I want the last two and a half years that we spent
together to mean more to you than one night with someone else.
I want you to remember. I need you to remember.
Remember the first time you took me out, when you interrupted me telling you I wouldn’t kiss on
the first date by wrapping your arms around me and pressing your lips to mine? You always said when
I gave in and kissed you back it was the best moment of your life, and you knew then and there that it
had always been and always would be me.
Remember when your brother was in that terrible accident? He was in a coma and it wasn’t clear
whether or not he was going to make it, and you called me crying in the middle of the night and asked
me to come to the hospital...and I did come, as fast as I could. I came back every day to hold your hand
until the day he woke up. Remember how completely elated we were at graduation? It marked the end of our childhood
and the beginning of a time when we would be taken seriously both as individuals and as a couple. We
thought it meant no curfews, but later found out that as long as you’re living with your parents, they get
to set the rules. We didn’t mind too much, though. We had each other and summer and the promise of
a future together and that was enough for us.
Remember when we snuck out at midnight, drove down to the lake and went for a swim in the
moonlight? You wanted to skinny dip, but I was too shy. We stayed too long and when we realized it
was 4 a.m. our hearts raced all the way home. My mom didn’t notice when I snuck back in, but yours
did and you were grounded for two weeks. You just smiled and said it was worth it.
What do I want from you? I want you to remember.
Remember the first time you told me you loved me, sitting on your front porch swing, with fireflies
and crickets setting the mood? Tears welled up in my eyes and I kissed you and said it was about time
6
Florescent Yarn From Hell
Lucas Sifuentes
Fluorescent yarn oozed into my mind
Tangling thoughts
And tying sailor knots around memories
Such violent colors,
Sewn from the tips of mischievous highlighters
That destructive whimsical string
Florescent yarn from hell
Shooting from my eyes came the blue and yellow
While the pink and green came out my nose
Malevolent string twisting around my limbs
Slowly squeezes out my pewter soul
Followed by the sound of an empty body
Collapsing.
39
Gallop at the Pace of the Horse
Irving Gamboa
Gallop at the pace of the horse.
When the willows glisten in the distant murals
The perfume of mold is like a young woman.
Across the lakes an eclipsed sun dances.
The virgin moon sits upright in her purple
throne.
Sharp edges made of extinct feathers,
And lion’s claws across the table:
Ants crawl beneath the glass river.
From above,
We marvel at the dead below,
All our lives, we wonder in fear.
The last fish in the ocean is made of sulfur.
38
you told me so, with a wide smile and a soft laugh. You pulled your grandpa’s ring out of your pocket
and rested it on my chest, clasping it on a chain around my neck. He had given you his blessing to
give it to me, because he thought we were made for one another. The ring had protected his father
during the war, and protected him when he came to America from Ireland to escape the potato famine,
and he told you if you loved me, he thought you should give it to me so I would be protected as well. I
leaned into your embrace and I had never felt safer than at that moment, with you beside me and that
ring around my neck.
Remember my birthday, when you surprised me with the cutest puppy I had ever seen? You told
me that you thought maybe I should call him Cricket, because that had been my dad’s nickname for
me when I was little and you knew how much I cherished the memory of my him.
Remember when I told you the story of my father passing away? I relived it as I told you, and
perhaps really came to terms with it for the first time as I laid there in your arms, sobbing, describing
how in his last breaths I tried to breathe with him...short, shallow breaths until my lungs hurt...because
somehow I thought that as long as I inhaled with him and exhaled with him, he would continue on
forever. Remember how you cried with me and asked if I thought he would have liked you? He really
would have...he would have loved you. Until now, at least. Now that you’ve broken my heart, I probably
would have had to stop him from beating you to a pulp.
Why couldn’t you remember any of that? Why couldn’t you remember me when you were with
her? Did I ever even cross your mind?
He reached out to hold my hand, and for the first time throughout our entire relationship, I pulled
away. I had to make myself. Despite my broken heart, I didn’t want to, but I pulled away.
What did I want? Him. Us. I wanted everything we had been through together to mean something.
I wanted all that we had endured to make our relationship stronger than anything some random girl
with a pretty face and a nice body could break. I wanted him to feel that all of our time spent together playing, crying, laughing, fighting, loving - was worth more than one night with someone else.
I was at odds with myself. How could something he had done make me feel so hollow inside, so
worthless, so utterly expendable, and still want his touch? A part of me knew better. My mind screamed
for me to just leave, while my broken heart weakly choked out a whisper for me to stay. I was crying
freely now, unable to stop myself. I remembered it all...why couldn’t he? My heart pushed me to fall
into his arms, like every time I had cried in the past two and a half years. My mind scolded me for
considering it when he was the one who had made me cry.
Both of them were silenced when he came and wrapped his arms around me, and I surrendered,
giving myself over to him and letting him lead, instead of allowing the battle between my heart and mind
to ensue.
I stood in his arms for a moment, and tried to identify the feelings that surfaced inside me. It wasn’t
comfort or contentment. I wasn’t overwhelmed with a sense of safeness. It wasn’t repulsion or loathing,
either. It certainly wasn’t the sensation of being in love. In disbelief, I made my realization.
I felt nothing.
For the first time throughout our relationship, there was no calm that swept over me as he pressed
against me. I felt no reassurance in the strength of his arms. The embrace felt empty, as though I were
being held by the shell of a man I used to know.
“What do you want from me?” He asked me again, one last time.
The words that escaped my lips next did so without any prior thought or contemplation. They
came from unexpected strength driven by a feeling of nothingness. They were whispered without my
consent. They were compelled by memories...the ones I remembered and he didn’t...
“I don’t want anything from you,” I said. “Not anymore.”
7
Two Bachelors
Alyssa Hughey
two bachelors sat
on a late Sunday morning
in their dimly lit living room
light held back by blinds
dusty, quiet, yellowed
like each one’s chair in which they
sat
comfortably
quiet
yellowed.
One was the son of the other
the older with much more lost
a wife, a job, a life,
while the son took care of his mother.
The tv blared loudly
on the other side of the room
filling the empty space
with noise
as the kitchen sink filled
with dishes.
Zombies moved through the room
breaking windows,
smashing chairs,
on their black-and-white
television screen.
Only their eyes moved
following the bodies of the living dead.
Much is to be said of
zombies, thought the one.
I need another beer,
said the father of the son,
as they sat
comfortably
quietly
yellowed.
8
my body, my mind
sam bull
My body is in one of those states
My mind is wide awake,
my mulses torn, my fibers ache
my brain buzzes as it makes
baking, broiling, foaming, frothing
this poem pops out the grey-matter oven
a cake of many layers, but only one color
this poem
Untitled
Sarah Klausler
Graphite
37
Return
Reinhardt Awender
We each get out of the pool without saying anything,
towel off in the heat of the sunlight. She drops her towel and
goes inside in her bathing suit. I follow. When I enter, she is
standing at the kitchen counter, fixing a sandwich I think. I stop
in my tracks, my still-damp swimming shorts cooling rapidly in
the air conditioning. She always did look her best after a day
in the sun and water. I stare, absorbed in the curve of her neck,
the wisps of dark hair there. The pit between her shoulders and
her collarbone. She is long in the torso and my gaze lingers
along her brownly tanned stomach, which ordinarily is perfect
and flat, but is now beginning to betray the fainstest swell
that is surely the reason behind her unannounced return. She
has goosebumps from the cool inside air. There is a flash of
blueness above her shoulders and I glance up to meet her gaze.
She breaks eye contact and attends to her sandwich. It has
been awhile. And I should be asking many questions, obvious
ones and others less so. She bends a tan, smooth leg and
scratches the back of her calf with the top of her foot.
When I get close to her I can smell chlorine, sun, tanning
lotion. Finally abandoning the sandwich, she links her hands
around the back of my neck, forearms on my shoulders. I swing
an arm around her waist and setlle my hand at the curve of the
small of her back. Burying my head in the crook of her neck,
I might feel a cool tear drop on the side of mine. I pull her
tightly in to myself, my lips touching where her neck is almost
her shoulder.
Schoolhouse
Maria Mick
Photograph
Little White Schoolhouse
Maria Mick
The little white schoolhouse sits there empty and lonely. The
desks beg to be sat in and written upon by attentive young
children eager to learn. The chalkboard sighs shadows of lessons
long past. There is a dark circular spot on the corner of Mistress’s
desk where the now decomposed apple that was placed there by
her adolescent enamored pupil has given itself back to the earth.
I close my eyes so I can become enveloped by the aura of the
sounds of the past. The chalk screeches across the board. I imagine
that the English lesson is on the left side and arithmetic on the right.
The children are chattering behind Mistress’s back as she writes on
the board. This one little schoolhouse room is filled with life and
love of learning, filled with children of all ages craving knowledge
and Mistress zealous to nurture the future.
I open my eyes. The dark mahogany desks are hollow. The
chalkboard no longer shows visible signs of ever being written on.
Dust covers the room like a blanket of a time lost. The emptiness is
overwhelming. The little white schoolhouse exposes its loneliness to
me. It offers visions of wanting to be restored to its original intent.
And all I can say is “I’m Sorry.”
36
9
Under the Catalpa Tree
10
Dana Rybarski
Digital Art
We sat in the shade of the catalpa tree sipping sweet tea and talking about nothing in
particular. Each of us seemed to get lost in thought for a few moments and without anyone
bringing attention to it I think we all became focused on a small worm. It was little more than
an inch long and about as big around as a tine on a fork. Out of nowhere it was moving like
in a steady upward motion repeatedly forming a flat line then a horseshoe. It was about a
third of the way up from the ground to the leaf line of the tree. Apparently it had fallen from
the tree, or maybe it repelled down as it was climbing back up via an almost invisible thread.
Every once in a while the breeze would stir causing it to spin and sway to a point where it
looked as though it would surely be wrenched from it’s invisible lifeline. And so began one
lazy August afternoon in the quiet town of Big Sandy, Tennessee.
Each summer the kids and I would spend a few weeks at my parent’s home located
just on the outskirts of town. Big Sandy had a modest population of 470. It was the kind
of town where everyone knows everyone. My dad owned a power equipment business on
the main highway and it was visible from the back of their home. The kids loved going to
what they referred to as GP’s Toy Shop. They called my dad GP (for Grand Pa) and they so
enjoyed visiting him at work. He’d let each one choose a tractor in the showroom and that
would be their ‘chair’ while they visited. GP was a hard working man and he loved spending
time with his family. He looked forward to the time when business got quiet during the early
to mid-afternoon hours and that’s when we would move to the front stoop. The front porch
or stoop is the heart of homes and businesses alike in the south. It was just beyond the
front stoop where the huge catalpa tree stood and we welcomed its shade on that particular
afternoon. We sat in the shade of that tree for hours listening to the soft rustle of the leaves
as the breeze stirred.
There was an occasional car that would go by and someone would give a light beep,
beep of the car horn. A motorcycle passed one way and then back a short time later. The
sound of shifting gears as trucks came and went. Gravel trucks down one side road, logging
trucks down another. All that passed would give a wave and nearly every time one of the
kids would ask, “Who was that?” They were still too young understand that gesture of
friendliness for the sake of being friendly. And in many cases, I suspect, respect. My dad
was a very well respected man in those parts. He was an honest man with integrity and
good character. So even though some passers by did not actually know my dad, they knew
of him, and that was just as good.
The kids were playing with squirt guns and that occasional spray of water was welcome.
I couldn’t tell you what my mom and dad and I talked about, but I remember how good it
was to be outside on such a beautiful afternoon. It was probably about this time that we
first noticed the worm. My mom or my dad said that it smelled like rain. I sniffed. There
was a mixture of oil and cigarettes and gasoline and fresh cut grass and peonies in the
air. I inhaled, but could not smell the rain at first. Then, I closed my eyes to the immediate
surroundings and breathed in deeply and slowly. It was there. A far off wind was blowing in
a strong hint of fresh earth, vegetation and a swirling stream. Yes, it was the smell of rain.
Not like it was raining, but like something was coming.
Untitled
Carol A. McCorkle
35
“…shoot me first”
G.J. Pupkiewalski
I am the hand of hate of fear of doom of death
I am the hand which executes orders with no hesitation
I am the hand which eliminates the opposition
But how am I to take away a child’s breath?
An example must be made
An order of utter submission
Choose one for the public execution
Draw one forth with a pistol in my hand
My hand trembles my body shivers
My knees give in
I curse the orders given
- and tears pour as slivers
Cornered and entrenched in fear
A gentle young woman
Arose with the courage of uncommon
“Shoot me first” - I awoke clear
34
We turned the radio on and, sure enough, there were storms in the forecast. A short
time later we could see above the trees to the north that there was a dark line in the sky. It
was pretty far off and we still had bright sunshine all around us. Our conversation continued
and we watched as the breeze picked up. The flies began to get a little aggressive also.
Occasionally the breeze would whip through the trees and you could hear the rustle of
leaves coming and then going down the highway. It was like a giant ghost was walking
down the middle of the road holding both hands out and running them along the trees much
like one takes a stick to a fence as they walk along. And this worm continued its diligent trek
upward.
This worm became our topic of conversation. My mom and I pondered what its mission
in life might be. My dad informed us that it ate the leaves of the tree and that the worm was
good fish bait. I rather doubted that at the end of its journey, with its belly full, that the desire
of the worm was to sacrifice itself on a hook to lure someone’s dinner.
The kids showed much less interest in the worm. They had moved on to their bubbles.
They had single wands and mega wands and wands that had many multi-shaped holes and
dishes to accommodate them all. Bubbles soon took over. In an instant they went from
lazily swirling through the air to blowing away and bursting quickly. The rain was closer.
While we were fixated on the worm and its task of making it up to the feast that awaited it,
the line of dark clouds had really advanced. It had cooled off a bit, making a perfect day
even better. The worm had only about a foot left to go.
Suddenly the breeze became almost chilly. In fact it turned from a breeze to a wind.
My mom and I gathered up the kids toys and my dad grabbed the chairs and put them inside
the shop.
We looked toward the dark line of clouds. There wasn’t much light sky left. A summer
storm was coming in. Fast. The wind whipped and we knew a tornado was not out of the
question. They come up fast in that area. My mom was already shepherding the kids
toward the house. I was right behind and my dad was turning the key in the lock of the
shop.
Once more that catalpa worm caught our eye. In the scope of everything, the size of
the tree, the expanse of yard, the threat of dark clouds, the whipping of the wind, that goofy
worm managed to capture our attention! Amidst all this we witnessed it fall to the ground
from a sudden gust of wind. And the poor thing was not beaten. It began again to slowly
work its way toward the catalpa tree. Why is beyond me. The approaching storm could
have brought with it a tornado that would take out the tree. Even if it survived, it may just
end up as fish bait, which is the common fate of the species. And here we were, all focused
on this thing that was not much bigger than the tooth of a comb!
My dad turned and walked back toward this tiny creature. He stooped down and
picked it up. Then he set it square in the middle of a large leaf on a branch near the trunk
of the tree. The kids clapped. My mom and I let out an ‘awwww’, and we all headed toward
the safety of the house.
Later we told my sister the story of the worm and we laughed at how something as
foolish as a worm kept us so occupied with its progress. My sister didn’t seem to think it was
at all foolish. Very seriously she looked at my dad and said, “That was really a nice thing you
did, Dad.” He simply replied, “It seemed a shame that he went through all that work, just to
get knocked down. I thought he could use a little help.”
11
Alive
Nicole Novielli
Tree of Passion
Sarah Saballa
Mixed Media
12
…Have you ever forgotten you were alive? Have you
ever leaned out of a haze between your eyes, while you
were observing something going on? Sometimes when
you’re looking out of a window at school during the amber
afternoon, your soul begins to sway, or lean back into the
cushions of the cloud. Your eyes glaze over, and soft music
brushes up against the side of your face, gently touching
your ears. You’re not a physical entity now. You’re not even
anything at all, just an observer who remarks, “My, what an
interesting story…” and then only to realize, as the things
fly by, that it is You. Your life is right before your eyes, and
slowly comprehension spreads her fingers over your temples
and your heart, and you understand, “Oh, this is me. I am
real. I am alive.” And then that soft, beautiful piano music
falls away to the clammer of young voices, old footsteps and
that golden afternoon sun spanning the trees and the river.
You are awake now. And then your soul stops swaying to
the harmony and snugs itself back into your heart strings.
Everything is in place again, this sharp-edged world that sits
right in front of that beautiful orb in the big blue. This sharp
world that blocks your life, your real dream… and have you
ever forgotten you were alive?
33
Death
Irving Gamboa
Under a tree;
A madman approaches,
I welcome myself.
Close the Windows!
Lucas Sifuentes
Digital Art
32
Snow falls through branches,
We admire behind glass,
A deer barely shakes.
A distant fire,
Rain and wind leaves them cold,
I rise with the smoke.
13
Monkey Bars
Maria Mick
Photograph
14
things that have been crept upon are left alone. In hindsight, this is a brilliant strategy. No one notices
us parked outside of their estates marveling at the arched entranceways with our dilated pupils.
On this particular night, it is always the best cover, we had been granted a foggy atmosphere that
coupled nicely with our foggy minds. The street became magical. The snow glittered with anticipation
as Hutch took us to our destination. It was like the snow knew we’d find something we’d fall in love with.
It was excited for us. And so we did stumble upon something amazing.
As we followed the street, we came to a subdivision. This subdivision seemed like every plot
had been bought by an independent owner and they had commenced to build their dream house in
that very subdivision. Different colors, materials, all multiple levels, brick, cobblestone, glossy veneers,
stained glass and eclectic foliage all gave the homes mutually exclusive exteriors. Every single house
managed miraculously to have absolutely nothing in common with the other besides their sheer
enormity.
It was the first house on the left. Ironclad gates barred a stranger’s entrance as it encased a large
yard and a glorious abode. Brown, obtuse brick encased its inhabitants we will become vehemently
jealous of. Two stories, an off-axis black roof housing them…it was that entranceway that enticed
us. We perched in Hutch outside the house for five minutes. Our eyes were engorged by enormity
and the mystique of the site. The entranceway protruded from the house towards the street. It had a
vaulted ceiling, the arch coming to a point that lined up in between the windows upstairs. It gave the
odd impression that gargoyles on a clandestine mission that needed an impending hide away inhabited
it. Or like a beast was living there, hiding from the world--a house run by ghouls. A house beckoning
our eyes. To see into the house was difficult, the glass was tinted and texturized with a faint, convex
diamond pattern and the dark windowpanes were crossing one-another, as if the owners of the house
only wanted their guests to know what was inside.
Holly and I left the house the way we found it, regal, foreboding, intriguing, mystifying, and
continued our journey in the subdivision. We did our best to try to not compare the other houses to our
newfound obsession--we failed. None of the other houses held our attention so wistfully and consumed
us with thoughts of what we wanted our dream homes to look like. I want to restore an ancient Victorian
mansion and have a built-in darkroom, a sanctuary for my friends and artists and my house will be
littered with various types of foliage, Holly wants to live in a house resting in a tree with no spiders.
When we got back to my house we discussed music for a few hours as we had stumble upon
a channel that was playing Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon tour…then a concert by The Doors.
Sometimes when I listen to music, I imagine myself there, experiencing it as if it were live. Like
imaginary creeping, it’s a trifle sordid, but it enables me to discover new things about an artist or a
song. Suddenly the message of the song becomes clearer and I feel like I have a connection with the
artist. It’s through creeping, that I connect with the core of something. The core makes it tick, the core
breathes life into it, discovering the core sets me inside the experience. I am connected.
I learn a lot by creeping. Not only about myself but my environment. It opens up my senses.
Some things you really have to live to understand, but to reiterate the experience to someone you care
about, or even those people who might enjoy it is a blessing. I live for the experience. The thrill of
stumbling onto something unforeseen enables me to better discover who I am because it forces me to
act in ways I have yet to. Pink Floyd is about the experience. The Doors are about the emotion, what
you feel along the ride. Holly is about the emotion, the connection she feels in situations heightens her
memories and reactions.
When you observe something foreign, it becomes a part of you. And you attain knowledge of who
you are. It’s human to investigate, but it’s surreal to creep.
31
Creepers
Blair Stiles
I’ve never been a storyteller. I’ve only lived those stories and allowed my friends to reiterate our
adventures to a willing listener. I would interject and submit missing information, but I’d never tell the
majority of the story. Yet, I’d always be the catalyst. I’m choosing to be greedy now. I want this story to
be the one I reveal, the one I document and share to the willing reader. Rarely am I called anything but
loquacious, but my tendency to verbally fuse too many words in too long of a time frame make my story
telling skills less of a Bob Dylan like prowess and more of a stumbling neophyte folklore fanatic. Maybe
one day I’ll be able to form a story with my voice to an audience that can help me control my speech,
but for now, writing will have to suffice them as it frees my mouth and lets my mind do the talking.
Like that primordial first crawl, the words slithered on their stomach across my tongue, “I want to
show you something I’ve been dying to see,” What to do tonight? We had been sitting in my car, who
will furthermore only be referenced as “Hutch”, smoking the majority of our per diems when it occurred
to us that we had absolutely nothing to do. Winter had just begun to mar the atmosphere, so it was
far too cold to do anything outdoors. Holly and I are creatures not indigenous to the indoors, therefore
going back inside to wallow in the basement under blankets watching TLC was not yet an option: it was
too early.
Holly was the first one to become an adult. I’ve long stood as the child of the group: flippant, playful
and loud. Yet I am the oldest and the most independent—I live on my own with my parents residing in
South Carolina and Missouri. My trek into adulthood came as a jarring year in South Carolina. Holly’s
came in the form of raising her niece when she was still in high school. She’s had the most impact on
me out of all my friends. Her guidance has enabled me to become more confident, more self-aware
and begin to cease my analytical tendencies. Certain qualities (pragmatic, charming and intrepid) in
her, I desperately aspire to have.
As it would play out tonight, my suggestion became one of our defining moments together. I
wanted to take the foggiest, most foreign street in town and see where it led us. This particular street
had called to me several times due to its unrelenting mysticism. Lining the sidewalk were tall black
light posts running parallel to each other. Each lit atop with amber speckled glass camouflaging its
florescent bulb. The kind of light post you would expect to adorn the cobblestone roads of early New
York City. Quaint, familiar and inviting. The houses behind the posts were not anything too special.
They in no way preceded what we would come to find.
I guided Hutch along at a moseying pace. There is no need to hurry when you are creepin’. After
all, Holly and I are master creepers. She’s the most observant human I have ever met, and I’m the
nosiest. Together, we make an amazing pair. I want to know everything and she finds the answers
I need through her vision. We’ve creeped on neighborhoods before. Both of us have an enormous
appetite for adventure and both of us will never be subjected to boredom without a fight. We find solace
in what is foreign. Getting lost among historic Joliet, mingling with the mansions who receive the stares
of strangers with a smile: it’s like they know we adore them.
We like to find things. Discover things. Creep on them to know them. To creep is to observe in
almost a vulgar way. The intent is to stare, analyze, deconstruct, reconstruct, leave it the same way
you found it. Being inherently nosey, I find myself intrigued by the slightest of things. When I creep
on something, I want to devour its mystery and discover its idiosyncrasies. To put it simply: I want to
know everything there is to know about it, before it knows about me. Leverage—what I want. Most
30
Ghost Dinosaurs
Lucas Sifuentes
There’s never been such a thing as
A ghost dinosaur,
You’d think they’d be haunting people by now
Or at least places
Like a phantom tyrannosaurs rex
Howling madly in the Bad Lands
Searching for his misplaced bones
Or even a misty triceratops
That moans and lumbers
Around the suburbs
Swallowing up puppies and cats
But they don’t
Because
There’s never been such a thing as
A ghost dinosaur.
15
CELL
Maxine Perez
I hate the feeling of its presence, how it lingers in the dark
with pretentiousness.
IT, does not care who you are, what you do, if you live by a code, or have divine right.
IT, strikes, attacks, raids, consumes, and if planned
strategically correct, IT can conquer.
IT, has no pity, or remorse
For IT does not yield, submit, succumb, relent or relax
IT, does what it was bred to do: corrupt, sicken,
DESTROY
IT, can attack fast with a blink of an eye, or slowly- without
its everlasting care.
Though however it may attack, in the end It has gotten the best
of you, BUT
It did not beat you, at least this time around.
Though, It seems as if IT has had the last laugh, because it
knows that it will always be the shadow of my
Doubt no matter how long time runs away with me.
Maria Mick
Photograph
Reflected Sun
16
29
Untitled
G.J. Pupkiewalski
Someone once said that
“If I said to you
That God is a man
Of
Honor
I would lie…”
Well I say “Your shit’s all tarded and you talk like a fag”
But if the god ain’t got no honor none
And the devil is a trixy liar too
What’s a girl to do
But put on her Sunday’s best and hope that it doesn’t rain
And that Maks the Terrible will halt his vicious anti-american german-shepherds
Because today is the sale of a lifetime in participating shopping outlets
(while supplies last)
And while the god and the devil are mad at each other
And little Tommy and others
In very desperate need for attention
Turn to drugs and alcohol for pain relief and other unhealthy ego pleasures
Alchemy
G.J. Pupkiewalski
Explosion - Implosion
The micro - the macro
The most divine alchemy
Frees the masters from this dimension
From time from space from woe
- free to fly in divinity
Of the most divine
Explosion - Implosion
Slaves become kings
Whores become queens
The breath of the universe
Is free to all willing
Yet, only the masters seek it
In the proper mindset
And will need eons of counseling and guidance
And some major karma cleansing
Meanwhile
How many more holy men and women shall we kill
28
And who is to get custody after the god and the devil break up?
17
Parking Space
Kayla H. Trujillo
Parking space, Parking Space!
I glance around saddened by the sight,
Of no streak of light
Touching any spot of ground
That could be called a parking space.
Yet still determination lingers on my face,
As still I search for a place.
Again I am disappointed and again I search again,
Believing that somehow in this search I shall win,
A space so that my class is not so distant.
However, I could find no such spotAnd should have not been so resistant
To the fact and acknowledge things the way
They were, and long before that…
And thus end my seeking stay.
Ah Yes! It was this I thought to myself as I pulled out of the lot,
Next to Building J.
Waiting for the Fish
Jesus Reyes
Photograph
18
27
A Watched World
Tim Hecker
Silence in the Mystery Ship
Lucas Sifuentes
The Mystery Ship bounced amiably down the unfinished
road quietly whistling to itself an old Herb Alpert tune; inside
its comfortably upholstered control room the Captain made
the radio whirr with his long plump fingers turning the knob
in search of pleasant music, while the Navigator fumbled
around with cheap matches trying unsuccessfully to light his
crooked cigarette. With a mash of overlapping and expanding
reverberations the radio mocked the Captain’s inability to cause
nothing but commercials and news reports to explode from the
speakers, so with his dignity in question the Captain quickly
turned the radio off, plucked the tiny knob from the console
and threw it out his window. The Captain could tell that his
actions had upset his companion, causing the skin that covered
the Navigator’s forehead to wrinkle up and fold over itself
in a moment of curiosity. “My friend the art of broadcasting
has taken a turn for the worst,” the Captain announced, “and
I will no longer allow its shallow reflections of what was
once a great pastime stinking up the walls of my ship with its
unworthy echoes.” The Navigator let smoke billow forth in a
sign of agreement. “I’m glad you can see my point,” the Captain
responded. “But as far as our currently silent situation goes you
shouldn’t worry, as I’ve already reached a suitable conclusion.”
With that, the Captain opened his mouth and sent out over his
teeth and around his tongue the most beautiful song that the
navigator had ever heard. Then from beneath the cover of his
shaded lenses a few tears began to crawl down the navigator’s
round cheeks only to be lost in his magnificent beard.
Is the permeation of evil throughout society due primarily
to depravity and perversion or to just plain selfishness?
Whichever it is, there is still little or
no goodness
no kindness
no wholesomeness
no thoughtfulness
no gentleness
no humbleness
no niceness
no faithfulness in most people of the world.
We watch:
The deals made behind closed doors,
The whispers uttered behind backs,
The agendas hidden in political posturing,
The media-spin-doctors misinforming the public,
The destruction of the environment,
The abuse of innocent children,
The preoccupation of oneself,
The glory given to the obnoxious.
When the warning-alert system, called guilt, is activated
shattering our inner serenity and peace of mind,
will we act right?
will we get right?
Or will we silence the alarm and complete
the destruction?
We are watched.
We’ve been warned.
26
19
Wave
Estar Sin Ti
Diane Chamberlain
Macro Photograph
Rosa Villagomez
Islam
Maryam Hamed
Photograph
20
Estar sin ti
Es como no encontrarle
Sentido a la vida
Es tener tu corazon triste y vacio
Es sentirte y no tocarte
Es quererte y no tenerte
Es adorarte y no tenerte
Es amarte sin tenerte
Estar sin ti es algo
En lo cual quisiera ir y decirte
Que te amo y te extrano
Y que no puedo vivir sin ti!
25
You are hot to the touch.
Your heat resonates thru my body.
You are my comfort on a cold winter’s night.
Jesus Reyes
Photograpy
Maria Mick
Life
One and One Makes ONE
I am hot because of you.
My heat glows eternal.
I am comforted.
I am the sun.
We are heat.
We live to connect through companionship
to comfort each other.
We are one.
We are pack animals who can choose
to live in solitude,
and yet we yearn for
and seek comfort and attention
from any other animal.
We are never truly without contact.
Never technically alone.
We come from one another.
Live for one another.
And die because of each other.
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21
A Moment of Memory
time he looks into my deadened eyes. And when I close my hand around his, I can still feel the warmth
of hers on the day at this beach.
I had wandered along this beach in my mind a thousand times and I could not escape it. The wind
blowing through my hair, the feel of the sand and the shells beneath my feet, even the temperature of
the tranquil water will not languish from my memory with time. Each may smear from these pages but
nothing will shake them from my memory as much as I may want them to disappear.
Nothing could replace the thoughts of that day in my mind. I remember the feeling of her hand in
mine as she looked into my eyes. I think of her smile and the way it reflected in the clear cool water. I
remember the sound of the birds and the splashing of the water as it flowed down the tiny creeks and
into the shallow pond below. She was showing me the bugs that skimmed along the top of the pond.
That is the last way I remember her.
I don’t remember the next day. I don’t remember dad blocking me in my room so that I couldn’t
see them taking her away. I don’t remember Aunt Loraine coming to stay with me while he took care
of everything at the hospital. I don’t remember him starting immediately to look like her, though I do
remember the fear it brought me. All of this is in my mind, but the last real memory…it’s here.
I burn inside knowing I had not seen her pain as well. The sand beneath my toes is just as it was
that day. I didn’t know it at the time, but she had taken me here to say goodbye and I would be the last
person to see her. We walked the beach until sundown, chasing the birds, finding shells, and letting the
surf just hit our ankles. She took me home. She told me she loved me and she would see me again
soon. I remember not understanding…telling her she was silly and hugging her as I went into my room
and she went to hers.
She was sick, but she still had her good days. A heart as big as hers had to break sometime. To
dad and I, it had broken so soon after I was born I couldn’t remember her another way. Through grade
school when other people had moms who made cookies and helped on cheerleading, I had a mother
who slept all day and was only present on her up days.
I remember once, when I was only about seven. She came into my room early one morning…
and she smiled. I was sitting on the floor with my Barbies. She leaned down and grabbed one, started
playing like it was normal, like she had done it every day of my life. I was too young to be confused or to
ask why. I cling to that memory, but it grows cloudier each day.
Rennie Tomala
Daniel looked into my eyes and he could see I was remembering it all…he knew I was seeing
her.
It had been a year since it happened. One year since she had walked upon this beach yet I can still
remember the smell of the flowers. I can still see everyone coming towards me, and hear their sorrowful
words. I remember my shoes hurt so I sat down and I was sitting so close I could see her face.
She was so white, nothing like she had ever been to me. I could hardly believe it had ever been
her. They tried to make her look peaceful I suppose, maybe even happy, but to me she just looked cold.
Stone cold, without feeling, though I suppose happy had not been a look she had very often. I looked to
the floor. That grey green carpet and all those little pink flower wanna-be dots stared back at me telling
me just what I was thinking: this wasn’t her. And then I remember that one little circle that told me it was
time to move.
Thankfully I saw it before anyone else did. It was one little, wet, dark dot on that grey green carpet
but to me it was a flashing neon warning sign. I couldn’t let anyone see this pain come flowing from my
eyes. If I broke down then so would everyone else. I am the young one. “The one who has lost the most,”
they kept calling me. I felt the smooth wooden arm of the chair as I stood up and looked for an escape.
I remember those doors, not ten feet in front of me that glowed with hope. I remember pushing through
everyone and seeing dad by the door, barely able to acknowledge my existence.
I can still see Daniel standing there when I close my eyes, stepping towards me, thinking he
could help me. I shook my head and slipped out the doors. I didn’t need his love then…I needed hers. I
needed my mother to put her arms around me, hold me close and tell me it would be ok, but it wouldn’t
be.
The cool wind blowing off the lake brings me back to the moment when I threw the doors open,
stepped outside, ducked behind that big prickly bush and let those crystals of pain, anger, and hurt fall
into my hands. I feel Daniel’s hand around my waist and the tears of that day become the mist of the
lake.
I hear his voice in my mind like the breeze flowing through the trees. He tells me he knows I hurt.
He places my hand on his chest and asks if I can feel his heart breaking. He says that it breaks every
22
Daniel’s hand tenses around mine and brings me back to reality. His eyes are at the ground a tear
sitting perilously on the rim of his eyelid.
“I know.” I say simply.
He looks up and I can see the pain in his eyes, as he stares into mine. For, you see, he is
remembering too. He is remembering only a month ago when he lost his as well. I can feel that black
silk dress on me as I walked up to him and looked into his eyes. His eyes that were now so similar to
mine, so flat and empty. They reminded me of her dinner plates, when she was still here. And, just as if
it was my day, there was that little dark spot amongst the pink dots.
His pain is almost greater than mine. Mine was a lifetime of pain and a moment we tried forever to
delay. His was a day of anguish. A lifetime of love that ended in a second. Her choice was not the one
of my mother, the choice to leave us. Hers was to get in that car…to drive to see his band play for the
first time. And the decision was not made by pills but by the other driver, the wet road from the rain, and
a single moment of irresponsibility. A moment that ended a lifetime.
I hear his voice again and his hand is again in mine. I can feel it, it is now cold. He speaks softly, so
I can just hear him over the birds. His voice is the wind. It asks if the pain ever ends. I think of the moss,
the dirt, the grass, for I cannot look him in the eyes. I cannot see him die again as I say no.
And then he stops. I take one more step towards him and I can smell him. His smell. Sweat, mixed
with cologne, mixed with pain. The indescribable, unforgettable smell of pain that I have known for one
long year.
We both turn and I know exactly where we are. I remember the red sun, and the lake water shining
below me. I can still feel the tiny crumbling rocks hear them as they hit the water’s surface. And I hear
those words that made me so calm that day.
“She told me she loved me…that I wouldn’t understand.” I whispered to myself and to him.
His hand tightens around his and he tells me, “The only time there is any relief is when I am with
you.”
I smile, and I know he is right. I nod vaguely. I know he is the only one who seems to understand,
instead of avoiding me like the plague, not knowing what to say. He is the only one who makes the pain
go away, even when we can still see it in each others’ eyes. I step back and I will forever remember
looking into his eyes, feeling for his hand, and taking that step. And then the sun set.
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