Phineas

2017

Phineas

2017

The Literary Magazine of San Bernardino Valley College

Number 48

© 2017 Phineas is produced each spring semester by the Literary Magazine Production class, English Department, San Bernardino Valley College. The contents are the work of students of SBVC, and all rights revert solely to the authors and artists upon publication.

Phineas supports free creative expression, but any opinions or viewpoints expressed in the works in this magazine do not necessarily represent the views of the editors, faculty advisor, English department, college or district.

Contents

Fiction Art

Jonathan Tovar E-Flat* 4 Amanda L. Muñoz Oculus Hound FC Ayo Amadu Switzerland, Not Australia 14 David Mitchell The Life of Gilligan 3 Ruben Escobar Cycle and Restrained 25 Ingrid Melchor Night Terrors 7 Alexis Rascon The Water’s Reflection* 30 Malcolm Armstead Fox and Maiden 8 Matthew Sadergaski The Undeceived King 10 Poetry DeAndrea Brooks Butterfly 13 Roman Duro Civilized 18 Lucinda Crespin Silent Observation 3 Ingrid Melchor Casablanca Mood 20 Alexis Gonzalez I Was Once the Moon 8 Amanda L. Muñoz Iniquitous 22 Jonathan Tovar Perpetuation of Life 9 Matthew Sadergaski Why So Serious? 24 Kimberly Morales 11/1/16 11 Amanda L. Muñoz Satyr Senses 28 Ashley Pacheco After Sonnet 130 ... 11 Ingrid Melchor Fill in the Lines 31 Elizabeth Duran the last bit of grace 12 Roman Duro Dysthymic 32 Devin Mitchell I Said Love 13 Matthew Sadergaski Charcoal Study 34 Lucinda Crespin Roses and Violets 19 Jasmine Barajas Isolation in Heaven* 35 Ayo Amadu Future Past 19 Malcolm Armstead Mystery Samurai 38 Lucinda Crespin In My Dreams 20 Matthew Sadergaski Eazy Duz It 39 Ryann McCurry A Woman’s Recovery 21 Matthew Sadergaski Why They Hatin’ For?* 41 Penicia Sims I’m Afraid 23 Malcolm Armstead Spider Stuff 43 Devin Mitchell The Wanderer 24 Matthew Sadergaski What Happen? 46 Vanessa Ramos Ramirez I Am … 28 Amanda L. Muñoz To Gaze Beyond 48 Devin Mitchell And the World Goes …* 29 Delia Rose Mejia The End 49 Ayo Amadu Fear 32 Matthew Sadergaski Still Life BC Jonathan Tovar Sonnet for D. C—— a 33 Kimberly Morales 1/16/17 33 Jonathan Tovar An Epitaph 34 Ayo Amadu Desolation 35 Ha Ly The Storyteller 36 Award Winners Elizabeth Duran An Empty Vase 38 Elizabeth Duran The Sound of a Wilted Lily 39 Works noted by the * symbol in the contents Ashley Pacheco foresty type words 40 list and by special notations within the Alissa Ramirez 11/11/16 42 magazine have been recognized by faculty Devin Mitchell Taught 43 judges as outstanding pieces in their genre. Devin Mitchell Manifested Illusion 45 See last page of magazine for more Jonathan Tovar Pulcinella’s Favor 44 information on the award winners and the faculty judges. Malcolm Armstead Burning Air 46

Alissa Ramirez Candle 47 Eve Mulhall I Am 48 Ashley Pacheco the apocalypse came …* 50

2 Silent Observation

Lucinda Crespin

Watching the students as they walk by, With each step they head into the future Unseen and unknown. Wherever fate will take them, who will decide? Who, how or why? Some will be successful While others dreams will die. Is it determination that will ultimately decide Why some dreams will blossom While others fade and die? If I had the answer I would post it on a wall, So all students would be successful And dreams would never die, With step by step instructions You could follow till the end Till you graduate and reach the top. But I only have this pen

The Life of Gilligan

David Mitchell 3

Fiction 1st Prize E-Flat

Jonathan Tovar

You think that I am crazy; you must, or else you might not have detained me. Very well; perhaps, for an hour or two, I was—not crazy, per se; shall we say instead that I was “without sanity”? I can see how the evidence against me is damnable—but a murderer? I am no murderer! I have killed no one! My actions might have resulted in a death, but they were enacted without conscious motive to harm. Simply put, she was in the way… I have behaved without reason; yet, is not every instance of unreasonableness, of any presumed fit of madness, nothing more than the awful and disjointed effect of some relevant cause? Are you not able to concede that I might have been influenced into misdeeds? I am not of sound mind, and I have not been well for many years. I suffer from no form of dementia or delusion, only the somber effect of mourning—were it not for which, they would have had no reason to place me in the Willow’s Inn asylum—“to rest for an indeterminate length of time”—and I might not have encountered that cacophonous spur to insanity. My arrival at the inn?—it passed without much ceremony on December 2. The scenery was beautiful: the lawns were vast, peppered upon which thriven acreage were no less than a dozen gorgeous willows, the largest of which obscured the inn itself—an ash-toned reconverted chateau with teal trim. Aria would have loved it… Mr. and Mrs. Wymond, each donning a smile as false as their teeth, met me direct as the taxicab parked at the gate. The weather was chilly and the neighborhood quiet, save for my host’s conversation, which began in soliloquy as soon I stepped out the vehicle to retrieve my luggage from the trunk. I have not known one inquisitive person yet whose company I enjoyed. “We’re most pleased to have you here, Mrs. Drustan—” I corrected her form to “Ms.” “So you’re a bachelorette? Ah, I remember those days,” she whispered, with a chuckle. Mr. Wymond said nothing but, with a smile, he held open the white picket fence with one hand and offered his other to carry my heavier suitcase. “Forgive me,” she continued, without notice of the transfer. “I just assumed you had a husband. The man who called for the reservation—is he not a future husband perhaps?” I dissented as politely as I could. Imagine it—my therapist, my future husband. Were it not so disgusting, it would be laughable. “No? Well, a lovely girl like you is certain not to be alone for long… So tell me, what brings you to stay with us this week?” Rest, I told her, which, of course, incited further questions about my career, et cetera. We three walked, with me between them, with scarce an ear to listen to Mrs. Wymond, up the garden-lined cobblestone walkway to the filigree-bound double doors of the inn. Once inside the inn, the wholesome aromas of cut wood and autumnal spices flooded my lungs. The lobby was furnished with a burning fireplace, an overstuffed mahogany bookcase, and a twin-divans set with ornate trims. On the walls were hung tranquil landscapes of forests and meadows, and a few photographs that might have dated a hundred years. “Have a look around, dear, and get comfortable. Mr. Wymond will take your bags up to your room—the first door on your right in the hall at the top of the stairs. There are four other tenants boarding this week, two of whom are due to arrive soon with their daughter. Oh, do you have any children, Ms. Drustan? No? It is not too late, dear. Ha ha. Anyhow, dinner will be prepared and served in the dining room at six. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

4 Being in no rush to bury myself alone in my room so soon—the deplorable manner by which I had lived for months—with an eye on distraction, I decided to browse about the inn; about the forgotten novels and the dusty encyclopedias in the lobby, about the kitchen and its sugar-dipped pastries and the kitschy décor of hanging pots and colorful pencil-sketches of children with enormous eyes, and about the fruit bowls and the family-style arrangement of the dining room; all was very quaint—a veritable antique dollhouse. The den, however, was rather curious. Communicating with the lobby via a door directly beside the stairwell, it contained two notable objects: a six-foot tall grandfather clock, whose pendulum beat as a metronome; and across from that, a vintage upright burgundy piano. I could not approach it, for the disease that is memory afflicted me then with an ache that froze my very muscles. From not delirium but grief, I almost saw her—my precious Aria—an apparition, seated on the adjacent bench, and I feared even to look at it. Her music, I almost heard… so intricate for a girl so young… I shuddered when a frail hand lay atop my shoulder. “She is our pride at the inn,” said Mrs. Wymond. I had not heard her step. “She was built into the frame of the wall by the house’s original contractor.” When I asked why, she bade me near it, whereupon she invited me to strike a key. I struck Middle C, and the tone seemed to reverberate through the very walls themselves. “You could play a song from here, and hear it anywhere in the house, in any room. Now, is that just not the loveliest invention? And wouldn’t you know—neither Mr. Wymond nor I know how to play it. Ha, ha! But we always welcome our guests to play… You wouldn’t happen to play piano, would you, Ms. Drustan?” Her eyes and her tone held in them less inquiry than persuasion. I am certain that, when you set the reservation, you had informed her of my capability, which I was prepared to deny when the doorbell rang and saved me of a lie. Mrs. Wymond excused herself to greet whom she predicted to be the new guest while I remained where I was, fascinated by the instrument and its bizarre acoustic. Mrs. Wymond’s voice echoed behind me and took me from the trance. “This is Ms. Drustan, another of our guests. Ms. Drustan, meet Mr. and Mrs. Rigatti and their daughter, Laura.” I turned to greet the young family, and was the girl not the resurrection of my own Aria? Startled by her appearance, I stammered some vague word of welcome, and pardoned myself at once, still sensing about me a note in the walls and a ghost of despair as I ascended the stairs and wept in the quiet safety of my room. # At some bleak hour, I had arisen. My appetite had deserted me at dinner, and sleep at night. I wanted food, and found an apple downstairs. As I ate in virtual darkness at the base of the stairs, the heartbeat of the grandfather clock muffled the midnight hour, whose ping upon ping crooned in the silence, lulling me. However, when the echo of the twelfth chime ceased, I arose and continued to listen as a single piano key, which had supported the tune in repeated but suppressed blares, thundered, of its own accord, a monotonous ballad in E-flat of a baritone range, like an alarm of injury. One—two—three— four—on and on;—the same note hit once every other second, for what might have been a minute or an hour. Then it ceased. The disease that is memory afflicted me again. Too frightened to contest the reality or the strange melody, raced for bed and, aided by a pill, knew sleep before I knew resolution.

5

In the morning, as I strolled toward the dining room to meet a pastry-filled breakfast, I heard the little girl ask her mother for permission to play on the “silly” piano, and, permitted, she skipped past me into the den. With her attention on the object, I decided to ask Mrs. Wymond about my experience on the previous night. “Oh, that!” she giggled. “That’s our own little ghostie—plays the piano every night. Poor thing must not have lived long enough to learn to play very much; all she ever hits is one key. I don’t even pay attention to it anymore. It’s done so late, who’s ever awake then to enjoy it?” “You don’t expect me to believe that a ghost plays your piano every night?” “Why, of course I do,” she said, with a wry smile. “What other explanation is there?” I had but one theory: it must be a player piano; however, when Mrs. Wymond assured me that it was not, I must have blanched with distress, for Mrs. Wymond advised me that I ought to seek some fresh air “to put this piano business out of mind.” Accepting her recommendation, I excused myself and departed, but the faint image of Laura at the piano, as she played a soporific rendition of “Ode to Joy,” once again recalled to my mind my own sweet Aria. Having rushed out to the patio, I repelled the instance of grief and phantasmagoria, and proceeded to stroll about the property, whereupon I admired the gardens, breathed in the air of the willows, and felt for a moment recovered from pain. Behind the inn, separated by about fifty feet, stood a barn, beside which Mr. Wymond conversed with a young man who was chopping wood. Upon his seeing me, Mr. Wymond waved me near for an introduction to Samuel, their groundskeeper, who stuck his axe into a hefty chopping block to greet me formerly. “I’m pleased to see you’re well. We worried about you when you didn’t eat much.” I sourced the lag of my trip to defend my weak appetite. He agreed quietly, but I saw doubt in his eyes, that he disbelieved me. “You still seem a bit troubled. Did you sleep well?” Cued, and eager for their perspectives, I inquired about the piano. Both men laughed. “If I hadn’t heard it myself most nights, I might never have believed it.” “So—” I began, tentatively. “You agree with your wife—that it is a ghost.” “I don’t know what it is, Ms. Drustan; I just know what it does.” # I spent the rest of my day in my room, wanting to know what lay in that peculiar piano, and why it played in the unusual and ghostly manner that it did. For the next three nights, like a guard, I watched the piano at midnight, wondering how the “ghostie” operated it. From a brief examination, I found nothing indicative of external operation; some indiscernible mechanism must lie inside—with one way to retrieve its secret. Late in the night, while all persons at the inn were asleep, I crept out to the barn and retrieved the groundskeeper’s axe. In the den, alone with the clock and the piano, I waited. Midnight sounded, and, succeeding the bells, that single note rang loud. The key pressed with each sound—a sound terribly reminiscent of an alarm; and at that, the memories blinded me—the fury of the storm, the nauseous crunch of the accident, and the sight of my daughter’s lifeless body, and the horrendous, maddening refrain: Dun!—Dun!—Dun!—Dun!—Dun! How many I endured, I do not know; but with every strike of the key, I grew manic and confused—and, moreover, delirious. What strength I possessed when I crumbled the base of the piano with the axe and tore its cage, I have never possessed before. The assault of that noise must have woken some latent beast in me. The structure collapsed, and I struck no more, but held the axe for comfort. The piano’s diminuendo was slow—like a natural death. The clatter of the bars was horrid—like a 6 chorus of eighty-eight tortured souls—as though the whole piano were the immortal screams of hellfire. Then, affixed at one side of the baseboard, I found it—a small, black box: the phantom pianist. Its manner of operation was now but faintly discernible; a vague idea of the thing may be ascertained by a perfunctory trace of knowledge about instruments. A metal arm extended from the main gearbox, which contained an intricate system of rigs, springs, bands, pulleys, and other various components, all which rather assumed the processes of the finest order of clockwork, designed to the end of activating one small hammer in the piano, and now lay about me like a disastrous wreck. When once a programmed series of revolutions had commenced, this hammer, reversing its natural manoeuver, struck a lone key upon the board (viz., Eb2)—until the cycle had completed. Furious with the hoax, and deaf to all things outside myself, I threw the axe with a wild thrust toward the doorway. Where it lay, you know—the dear, innocent life!—my intense guilt for which will punish me more than any length of imprisonment. I swear that I had not heard her approach—she had such a gentle step. From this trivial hoax alone had originated the timely haunt of that disconcertion which instigated my demolition of the instrument. Now, sir—please tell me, and do so honestly: do you yet suppose my actions to have been insane and unreasonable—so much as to have given just cause for the police to arrest me? Had I truly caused Laura’s death? Really, for that naïve old couple to have goaded, without concern, so nervous a mind as mine, I ought to suppose them to be demented; and by the undoubtable evidence—so they are! And you, as well—for you had placed me there—placed me in asylum with that wretched phantom piano! It is no more, but it does not stop… I still hear the mechanical song—its melancholy voice sings my guilt without end— Dun!—Dun!—Dun!—Dun!—Dun!

Night Terrors

Ingrid Melchor

7

I Once was the Moon

Alexis Gonzalez

I once was the moon I’ll be there again soon. I once watched over the people, I hence saw the dreams of them. I held my head up every night I lit up the world in darkness As sun waited for them to become conscious.

I once was the moon I can’t wait to be it again soon. When the night was quiet I’d listen to wolves howl I felt peace and calm I’d hear the hooting of the owl.

I could be in many places, All at once. I saw many different faces I knew they and I were different Although we came from the same substance. Now I see the moon as it lights up my room. I feel that he loves me That he encompasses me. I’ll be there again soon, I’ll be that calm and peaceful moon.

Fox and Maiden

Malcolm Armstead

8 Perpetuation of Life (A Villanelle)

Jonathan Tovar

The spider threads her silk around her prey In woods where ivies clothe the fallen trees, While Earth still turns to bear another day.

Beneath the moon, the wolf-pups learn to bay And, as a rabbit from the area flees, The spider threads her silk around her prey.

The rivers churn the soft and bedded clay To carry mountains to the shifting seas, While Earth still turns to bear another day.

Like cities built around this modest lay, Whose populations grow by dense degrees, The spider threads her silk around her prey.

About the tombstone fields where sparrows play, Black storms emerge from redbrick factories— While Earth still turns to bear another day.

But that your flesh has traded pink for grey, Must I yet notice how, with gradual ease, The spider threads her silk around her prey, While Earth still turns to bear another day?

9

The Undeceived King

Matthew Sadergaski

10 11/1/16

Kimberly Morales

Why do I somehow still Feel like I have Lost a planet within My own solar system.

I am my own galaxy.

And if Pluto wanted off, Then I should be more than accepting Of his decision.

Remember, The experts were the ones who stated Pluto was the one who was not enough, Not you.

After Sonnet 130, Shakespeare

Ashley Pacheco

To that girl I haven’t asked out yet. And probably shouldn’t. My lover isn’t exactly like a tiger Certainly not in bed. Her lips aren’t red. If pale is in, she’s out. Her ashy skin And coiled hair aren’t in Vogue this fall I’ve seen galaxies in high-res and Pluto in full color But none such stars in her eyes. Just brown I’ve found better smells in a vape shop And I like listening to Bieber more than her So I’ve seen Beyoncé on Rodeo Drive, but my girl Slouches along with the rest of us on Mt. Vernon You’d think I met a 3 or 4 But really, she’s just better Without metaphor

11

the last bit of grace

Elizabeth Duran

The world I see is blinding me violence and hate surrounding me pluck my eyes and make me deaf then only may my faith be kept I am losing hope for human kind an uphill battle inside my mind crazy... crazy... my sense of fear my inability to empathize is near growing blind to their crying eyes their soulless vessels are no surprise listen... listen... to the sound of quiet a peaceful calm before the riot their screams begin to settle down even whispers are no longer found feel it... feel it... the last bit of grace gone like a smile from every person's face armed to the teeth, and ready for war ready to fight, ready to die once more what is right, does it really matter? bang bang... our minds are shattered battling for a human component what's left of love... I wouldn't know it! no more emotions emitting waves kill or be killed, since there is nothing left to save the humans conquered but our world is lost there is no one left to weigh the cost greed, corruption, deceit, and hate with every deed, we sealed our fate there's nothing left but negative space no plants, nor animals, nor human race.

12 I Said Love

Devin Mitchell

I said love I'm going to war with you I knew someday I'd cross the line Though we made a pact I'll find a reason to attack Leave gunpowder in the sky And watch you fall back

I said love I'm going to war with you Oh, you won't raise that white flag I'll chase into the trenches I'll find you in your fortress Waiting for me to make a mistake And fall into your old trap

I said love I'm going to war with you Though we will both be wounded Casualties of war Behind this bloodied face Was once a peaceful man

Butterfly

DeAndrea Brooks 13

Switzerland, Not Australia

Ayo Amadu

Waking up early had never been a challenge to me. I grabbed my cell phone from under my pillow. It was 5:01am. I switched on the bed lamp and she was still sleeping. I couldn’t help but steal a look at her beautiful face. A string of braid that found its way out of her packed hair was gently resting on her face. As the breeze from the fan hits her face, the braid moved as though it was caressing her face. “Sweetheart, it’s already 5 AM,” I whispered in her ear as I kissed her on the cheek. “Uhm!...okay…,” she mumbled as she turned and covered her head with a pillow. We spent the night prior getting the luggage together for my trip to Switzerland that morning. I had been scheduled to report to the World Health Organization office in Switzerland by the third day. I would spend the next nine months as a humanitarian worker with W.H.O. Working with an international organization had always fascinated me. When I saw the online advertisement that WHO wanted volunteers, I did not hesitate to apply. To my surprise, I was invited to their Washington DC office for an interview within four weeks of applying. Bet had stayed up all night to pack my three suitcases. One suitcase she said contained my clothes for formal occasions, the other two contained shoes, casual clothes and books. Bet laid face down on the bed when I left for the bathroom. She was still in the same position by the time I came out. The time was 5:55am and my flight was for 9:30am. I was wondered if she changed her mind. Our plan was to be at the airport two hours before the flight. Corona to LAX was only 55 miles. Fridays were usually busy days on I-91 freeway. While I was making a sandwich and warm milk, I heard Bet go into the bathroom. She was not the type that spent too much time in the bathroom. She was almost done getting dressed by the time I was through with my breakfast. She came into the kitchen looking astonishingly beautiful, as if she had a professional beauty makeover. “You look gorgeous, sweetheart. I don’t feel like going again,” I said while walked to her and I pulled her on both hands to myself. She smiled and waggled her hands of my grip. “We have to get going,” she said. I couldn’t stop admiring her, an epitome of beauty indeed. At 6.5 feet tall and 22 years old, she always stood out among many. Her elegance and poise was one of the best things she got from her mum, who was one of the most talked about and stylish Caribbean women of the 60s. She would always tell me that “beauty is beyond outer appearance. It is more of what you have inside.” She was right. She was one of the smartest girls I had ever met. She was an all As student and planned to be one of the top executives of Microsoft in the future. “We need to get your luggage into the car,” she said while trying to put on her Nike shoes, which matched her pink gym slacks. She had on a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and a white RL face cap which I bought for her when I went to DC for the W.H.O interview. I dragged two the suitcases while she pulled the third behind me as we made our way to the parking lot downstairs. “Sweetheart,” she bellowed. “Yeah,” I responded as I turned and taken aback by her curvy figure and had a strong desire to squeeze her. “I think you left the car key in the house,” she said sarcastically as walked passed me. “Damn it. I also left my Passport,” I responded anxiously. 14 “That’s not a good sign,” she said, nodding her head and looking at me as would a kindergarten teacher to a five years old. I dragged the suitcases close to the car as fast as I could and ran back up the stairs to grab the car key and my Passport which were on the computer table. Suddenly, a wave of fear ran through my mind. I shrugged it off immediately and thought to myself, perhaps, I was already missing her or I was paranoid at the thought of flying a long distance. “It’s already 6:35,” she yelled while I was running down the stairs. “Forgive my negligence,” I said. Gave her peck on the cheek and took the luggage she was holding from her and carried it to the car. “Whoa! This car is cute,” I said as I opened the trunk with the remote key. She had gone to Enterprise in the afternoon the previous day with my car, a two doors Honda Civic, and returned with the rented a bijou red 2014 Mazda 323. She was always meticulous about colors. The car was stylish, red leather seats with an off-white polished wooden dashboard. We loaded the suitcases into the trunk and she offered to drive because we both know she was better driver. This was always necessary when we needed to beat time. I threw the key to her and went into the passenger’s side while she hopped into the driver’s seat. As she turned on the ignition, she said, “Let’s pray.” “Okay,” I responded. We held hands and said “The Lord’s Prayer”. It took us less than a minute to be done. She engaged the gear and gradually pulled the car to the street and stepped on the gas pedal as soon as she saw the road was clear. “Whoa. Take it easy, Bet. We will still be on time.” She turned to me and smiled. Once she was on the freeway, she doubled the speed and mostly maintained a steady 75 miles per hour until we got to LAX. It was a quick drive to LAX. Her speed and the less than usual traffic on I-91 on that day were the combined factors that enabled us to get to the airport at 7:25 AM. “Good job,” I said with a sigh of relief. “You are welcome,” she whispered as drove on fifteen miles per hour and scouted around for the sign to the Terminal 3 where Virgin Atlantic passengers embarked. “Here we go,” she said with excitement as she signaled left to the terminal 3 parking lot. We were able to get an empty parking space at the second parking space by the lot entrance. She pulled in and immediate unhocked her seat belt. “We gotta go now to check in your luggage, and then we will come back to the car and spend time together before your boarding time,” she said. “Great,” I responded with enthusiasm. We both got out of the car and unloaded the suitcases from the trunk. I handed her one, and I held the other two suitcases, one on each side of me and pulled them along as we both walked towards the passenger departure area. “Sweetheart,” she called with a soft tone. I looked back wondering what it was this time. She held up my Passport and waved it at me. I burst into teasing laughter while I waited for her to get to me. She handed the Passport to me. I placed it in it in my jeans pocket. “I won’t forget it again. It’s secured in my pocket,” I said. We joined the waiting line of about fifty or more passengers all with different kinds of traveling bags awaiting their turns to check-in their luggage. It took about forty minutes before it was our turn. A male attendant in booth 6 shouted “next in line please,” and waved to us to come over. We walked to the booth 6 area and handed him our luggage. He requested for my Passport, and I handed it to him. He printed out six slips of paper, he returned my passport three slips of paper, and tagged my suitcases with other three slips. 15

We came back to the car and spent some time together before my departure. During my two hours stopover in London, I sent several messages to Bet on Whatsapp and Facebook, but never got any response. I had never been so alone in my life. She had been my first and only love and my world was built around her. She was always the one that motivated me and cheered me up even I got to my wits’ end. Once I got back on board the plane heading for Switzerland, I reminisced on the last conversation we had at the LAX parking lot while I was waiting to for boarding time. She held my hands and said, “Switzerland or Australia uhm!.” “Yeah, Switz. or Straylia,” I responded. That was our code to remind us of our desired place to live and raise our kids. She would always beam with smiles whenever I assured her that we would settle in Australia or Switzerland. It had been her childhood dream. She was glad when she found someone like me who readily agreed with her on this issue. “First thing when you get there, send me a post card,” she said slowing, looking at her right nails. “Sure, I will, love,” I said as I held her head against mine and kissed her continually until she almost ran out of breath. “I love you so much Zee,” she would call me by my name when she was in her highest state of emotion. “I will miss you, Bet,” I replied. I checked the time from her phone, it was 8:41 AM. The boarding should have started more than ten minutes earlier when I reminded her it was time. She nodded her head without looking at me. I could see the tears dropping on the steering wheel. I held her head with both hands and lifted it gently, I kissed her on the forehead and carefully led it back to the same position. I started walking to the departure gate as fast I could. I was so occupied with her though while on board awaiting takeoff. As soon as the plane took off, I dozed off. My plane arrived 7:45 AM on Monday morning. It was usually a busy day at the Switzerland Lugano Airport, the Pilot had informed the passengers during his final announcement before landing. After passing through the airport security check, I got all my bags into a cart and quickly went to the first available store I saw at the airport. I got a beautiful post card with the picture of the Luzern’s Chapel Bridge and Water Tower. I would mail it once I was settled in my hotel accommodation later that day. I did not know that may not be necessary once I got on her face book page later that day. I requested a taxi service from the Lugano Airport Cab Services. It took me about twelve minutes to arrive at Hotel Lugano Dante Center where W.H.O had booked a reservation for me. “You are welcome to Lugano Dante,” the hotel attendant greeted as he opened the cab door for me. I couldn’t remember if I responded to his greeting. All I could recall was asking if he could get my luggage to the lobby for me while I use the restroom. I didn’t bother to know his response. I dashed straight to the receptionist’s desk without noticing the magnificent and embellished decors in the hotel lobby. “Hi, my name is Mr. Zeeto A., W.H.O. guest.” The receptionist was lady in her mid-30s. She was dressed in a black suit on a plane white shirt with a red bow tie. She flipped through the guest list and handed me a pen she picked from a square blue jar with the inscription; Welcome to Hotel Lugano. “Sign here sir,’ she said politely. She turned to the computer on her desk and I heard the clicking of the keypad. She looked at me with graceful smile and said, “Third floor room 302. Elevator is to your left. Have a nice stay.” She handed me the electronic keycard. “Thank you,” I replied with a smile.

16 The elevator door opened immediate I pressed the call push button. I was both pressed to use the restroom and to communicate with Bet, It was like the elevator took forever to get to third floor. A soon as the elevator opened on the third floor, my room was directly opposite. I swipe the door with the keycard, without closing the door, I dashed straight to the bathroom to ease myself. It was in the bathroom that I got the shock of my life: Bet was dead. While using the bathroom, I opened my face book page to send her my arrival message but was greeted by comments on her page. “RIP my dear” was posted against her picture by one Janet Ortega. I thought that was an expensive joke. I almost wanted to send a message to Janet Ortega on how that was a bad joke to throw at someone. I started scrolled down and was more outpouring of condolences at Bet’s Facebook page. It seemed like eternity had passed in a moment of time I was looking on her page. I did not understand what was going or what I was really feeling inside. I remember I ran into the room and saw a phone by the bed side. I picked up the phone and called her number, but the phone was not meant to call an international number. I called the operator number 000 I saw on the phone directory sitting by the phone for international phone connect. When the operator told me I was on, I dialed 1-301-474-213I, I could hear my heart pounding so heavily that I thought I was going to pass out. I was wondering what I would say to her when she picked up, but she never did. Bet had died the very day I left LAX on her way back from the airport. Her car skidded off the freeway for speeding. If only I had not praised her for doing 75 mile per hour when she was driving me to the airport… If only I had sent her a text message to tell her to drive with care. If only I... She would still be by me and we would be sharing our dreams and aspirations. I was told that she was yelling my name when the paramedic arrived at the scene of the accident. There tried to resuscitate her at the scene but died after twenty minutes. She was then taken to the hospital in Los Angeles where she was confirmed dead. I stayed awake all night in my hotel room with many thought running through my mind. I prayed so hard that it would be one of those bad dreams. In the morning, I called her mum, she couldn’t talk to me. The mum and I barely talked. She never approved of our relationship. As a single mum, she worked hard to give Bet everything she wanted. Bet dad had died during Iraq war as a Marine when she was two. The mother had moved to Silicon Valley because of Bet’s desire to work with Microsoft. I called the W.H.O. Country Director the next day and explained to him what had happened. He told me it was okay for me to go back. I left Switzerland on Tuesday night and arrived at LAX on Wednesday morning. I headed straight to Los Angeles central Mortuary where her remains was deposited. At the morgue, I told the attendant who I was and requested to see her body. I was led to the cool room where the body was laid but I could not garner up the courage to look at her. I left with deep pain in my heart and regretting that I had left her by herself without even a kiss. Bet’s funeral was on Saturday, two days after my arrival. At the ceremony, I couldn’t hold back my tears when I was asked to make my tribute. I stood by her casket and turned to the audience, I cleared my throat and started, “In life, we come across those we wish we’d never see again. But there are those we wish we never let go, no matter what. Bet was one person we’d wish she never left. She was a great lady with sense of humor and great deal of responsibility. She put others before her, and loved life. Bet and I shared common dreams and were very strong together. She was my love, my friend and confidant. I remember the first day we meant at Los Angeles Trade Fair five years ago. I was searching everywhere at the parking lot for my keys, she saw me frustrated and looking around, she offered her assistance. She eventually helped me to locate the keys under my car. From that moment on, we became inseparable.”

17

I turned and looked in her casket, she laid peacefully, her face still beaming with smile, and a strand of braid still resting on her face, dangling to the rhythm of the breeze from the fan. I kissed her and placed the post card with the picture of the Luzern’s Chapel Bridge and Water Tower on her chest. I whispered to her; “I brought the Switzerland post card as soon as I could.” Her love and memory still live and will continue to live in me and we still share the same dream: “Switzerland and not Australia.”

Civilized

Roman Duro

18 Roses and Violets

Lucinda Crespin

Roses are not always red Violets are not always blue But there are constants in this world One of them was you

As constant as the rising sun As the waves that cross the sea As constant as the love of God And eternity

Future Past

Ayo Amadu

She wakes and finds herself Entangled in the web of pain Where does it hurt? She cannot tell Caught in the crossroad She could not explain how she got there But she knew it is traceable to life experience When she tried to recollect Her memory was crowded with tattered past Ruthlessly brutalized by her father Lies and deceit besieged her path The past seemed too ugly to behold She turned her face away Wish she’d never see it again When she envisioned the future It was blurring She desires to move forward But, how?

19

In My Dreams

Lucinda Crespin

The flags fly at half-mast even in my dreams Tears trickle down my face even as I sleep I awake to wipe watery tears from my weary eyes Remembering your kisses and our long goodbyes I lay lamenting in the dark – all laughter lost in grief Your love ever surrounds me like the waves across the deep I searched but could not find you – I searched in my sleep

The flags fly at half-mast even in my dreams Yet, a spark of hope and happiness – life is much more than it seems As I lay lamenting something stirs in me Flying fast like lightning – as an arrow it pierces my heart Hope of heaven and eternity hasten to me through the dark To reach the very soul of me – to bottle all my tears Reminding me infinite eternity – is not counted in years

We say how young or old they were when life comes to an end Yet, years don’t really matter –when eternal life begins Till we are together –my tears a timeless stream The flags will fly at half-mast even in my dreams

Casablanca Mood

Ingrid Melchor

20 A Woman's Recovery

Ryann McCurry

I am woman, Strong and sturdy, My body, Lovely and Fragile, Worthless with Kind to a fault. What I cannot control.

Born to breed, All I have left Bred to smile, Is all I can learn. And nod My mind, My silent acceptance. A cornucopia Unbound But what if I can't By the failures Grow life Of my vessel. Within my own being? What good am I I am woman. As a woman? Kids may not be In the cards for me, Is my maternal purpose moot? But there's more. A choice I once had, Stripped from me. I'm smart, sassy, Am I even still woman? Sound of mind, A true power Where will my power To behold. Then reside? My mind?

21

Iniquitous

Amanda L. Muñoz

22 I’m Afraid

Penicia Sims

I'm afraid of being successful. The higher I go, I find less and less people who look like me. The higher I go, The more I feel I'm somewhere I do not belong. And the only qualifying factor for my “success” Is to have an inspiring story. A battle story of struggle Internally and externally. A drive that would not die One win that erases all my losses. But for those who do not look like me, They are expected to be great They do not have to fight, bleed, or practically die Just wade in the success pool They are either born with into gold Or raised on silver.

I'm afraid of my voice. I do not want to encourage the stereotype. I want to be seen as different. But how can I live in a world that I can only be seen and not heard ? I have to remember that conversing Is like walking on eggshells Sometimes they crumble right under your feet If I speak “proper”, I am considered “White Washed” If I use “slang”, I am considered “uneducated” or “ghetto” Unfortunately, there is no happy medium.

I am afraid of finding true love Every time I give myself to someone, It resulted in my own resuscitation. And one day I discovered, I wasn't giving them what they I thought I was giving them If I am not properly taught how to give love, How can I give away something I do not know about ? I have to start with myself first.

I am afraid for our children They are trained to force down their emotions They are trained to bite the bullet They are trained to wipe their own tears away Stick their chest out and deal with it If they do not, who will be there to pick up their broken pieces ? They will not have anyone to encourage them They are expected to deal with it and move on I'm afraid that they will end up like me.

23

The Wanderer

Devin Mitchell

He is a man of many hearts He whispers: "I love you..." As you turn your back His knife Makes a deep cut.

Why So Serious?

Matthew Sadergaski 24 Cycle and Restrained

Ruben Escobar

I don’t know where I am, I don’t know who I am, and I don’t know what I am. All I know is I can’t move or speak, the only thing I can do is think thoughts within my own mind and look at the sapling that’s in front me. With nothing to do I watch the small sapling turn into a young tree. The tree is just a plain tree I guess; its trunk is brown wood like every other tree, some branches, green leaves, and red flowers. Huh, I somehow know what a tree is, I also have some concept of color as well, that must mean I have experienced them in my past. I’m quite curious how I got into this situation, and quite frankly I’m rather calm about this. I might have lost the ability to feel emotions or maybe I never had them in the first place. Oh I see the tree has grown a little taller during my pondering. Since, the only thing here is myself, the tree and this vast emptiness which I believe is sand in the bottom and blue skies on the top, I’ll just watch the tree. It could be a game to see which will die first: me or the tree. There might be other things behind me, but I wouldn’t know since I can’t turn around. The tree has gotten significantly taller, I can only assume that it’s an adult tree at this point. Its crown has spread as much as it can and the leaves are now full sized and the flowers are fully bloomed. The flowers are quite fascinating; they are dark red with triangular petals; the center of the flowers have either three or four dark blue stems that poke through the center. The leaves are oval and contain a dark green pigment with highlights of silver in their veins. I see at the bottom of the tree some of its roots have poked out of the ground. It reminds me of a serpent that tunnels out of the ground to check its surroundings then burrows back down. Serpent? Odd that I could recall such a creature; based on my recent memory of it, it’s a scaly creature with no legs and apparently, from what I remember, it burrows underground. An uncertain amount of time has passed where it was just me and the tree just looking at each other with nothing changing, then unexpectedly a single leaf fell from the crown. And as time passed so did the leaves. It started with each of them falling one at a time then in pairs, then by threes. Finally they all started falling by the dozens to the point where I could count the leaves that remain on the tree and impossible to count the decaying leaves on the ground. For some reason, I was solely focused on the last three leaves that remained and I take it as a sign that the tree is dying, and for some reason I’m feeling saddened by the fact. One by one they each fall and then I finally noticed that the flowers also shared the same emotion as I as the once opened fully bloomed petals that pointed the skies have closed and point to the ground as they also start to decay. Finally, the last sign I needed to confirm that the tree was indeed dying was its trunk’s color has gone from a powerful brown and has turned into a deathly black. All that remained of the majestic tree was its decaying husk that I was now forced to stare at instead. I watch on as the husk crumples a little at time, the mere image brings me great sadness. To think that previously I questioned my ability to have emotions and now I wish I couldn’t. Now my entire being is filled with nothing but dread as the only other living thing has died and myself being declared the winner of my own petty competition. Oh how I wish it was I who had lost. I’d prefer death than to hold this feeling that has overcome me. Then it finally happens, the lifeless husk finally topples over bringing up its shriveled roots up with it. Now I stare at the dead roots that plopped in front of me. I 25 wonder if they were just as magnificent as the tree they maintained. But, now that its dead, they just decays along with the rest of the tree. I watch the fallen dead body of wood decay into dust and add on to the endless sand around us; then after an agonizing eternity the entire tree has been reduced to nothing, but dust. Now there is nothing for me observe anymore; however, I doubt that I’m close to death. I haven’t felt any changes in me ever since this ordeal started. Maybe this prison that I’m in is giving me some sort of immortality considering that I outlived a tree and something in the back of my head tells me that it isn’t something I would be able to do normally. As I was thinking, I see a small stem with a single leaf has sprouted where the tree was. As it grew, I gave it little thought and just cast it off as a replacement of the first tree, but as it grew to full size, I’ve come to realize that it was the exact same tree from before. It had the same red flowers with the blue stems, it had the same oval leaves with the silver veins, and even the roots that resemble serpents are present as well. The mere sight brings me happiness as my only companion in this entire dilemma has returned. In a state of bliss, I continually watch the tree somewhat hoping that it knows that I’m staring at it, and it is somehow taking in all the emotions I feel for it, but the hopefulness is gone once I see a single leaf fall to the ground once more. Then I am reminded of what’s to come; the tree is going to die again. Why!? Why does the tree have to die again. This isn’t fair; the tree already died once why does it have to die again? Why do I have to be alone again? Wait, even if it dies, it’ll come back again, like last time. So, even if it does hurt that I will see the tree fall once more, at least it will come back. And like clockwork the tree died, decayed, and sprouted back up, and then it happened again and again. Each time the tree fell, I was full of sadness. When the tree regrew, I was full of joy. This happened so many times that I lost count. Like clockwork the tree dies, decays, and grows back over and over and over. Before I got sad when the tree died, before I got happy when the tree grew back, and this went on for way too long, and now every time I see that tree only one thing goes through my mind. Fuck that tree! It wasn’t long that I figured out that I and the tree are cursed. The tree is cursed with resurrection while I’m cursed with immortality and immobility and the worst part is that I have to stare at this stupid tree live and die over and over again. I hate the fact that the tree is able to be outside and is free to grow and die, while I’m stuck within some unknown force that holds me back. I don’t know when it started, but at some point, I became filled with nothing but rage, and everything the tree did just added to it. Every time the tree died, I got angrier; every time it withered into dust, I got angrier, and every time it grew back, I got angrier. I’m fucking sick of this shit, I’m done with being stuck in this stupid prison. I swear I will get out of here. I swear I will reach freedom! With every ounce of my being, I concentrate it into getting out. What is this tingling I’m feeling? I think I’m feeling the rest of my body. Okay fingers, toes, I can slightly move them, now gaining some control of my mostly petrified body. I use whatever part I’m able to move to thrash about. I don’t know what has me encased, but it doesn’t matter, fueled by rage, I continue to thrash around gaining more control of my body a little at a time, I stop paying any attention to the tree as I’m too focused on getting free than to be jealous of a dying tree. For a long time, I tirelessly thrash around in my encasement and then I see a crack appear in front of my eyes. After seeing the crack, I thrash more and see more cracks appear. I also feel less restrained than before. As I shudder, it feels like some part of my body has broken free, then it happens again, then all of a sudden I hear the sound of shattering, and I fall forward.

26 “Fuck that hurt!” I let out as I pick myself off the ground, “Huh, I can talk again? Fuck yeah, I can talk again; holy shit that feels good!” I yell out as I do some stretches. I take a look behind me and see the crystal that was holding me. “I don’t remember my hair being this long though,” I say as I see my hair goes past my knees. I also notice that I’m wearing some strange lose plain colored fabric. Then I see the tree. When I escaped, it was full grown. No now just that after seeing it over and over, I can tell that the tree is at its peak right now; it’s at its strongest and will only get weaker as time passes, “So, I can finally touch you,” I tell it as I run my hand down it’s trunk. “I guess you’re tired too,” I say, then proceed to punch the tree with all my might. I punch, and I kick it without skipping a beat and with each blow, the tree slowly breaks apart. It’s a long and tedious process, me beating this strong tree with nothing but my hands and legs, but it’s something I have to do. “Die, just die!” I yell at it as I continue to hurt it, my hands and legs are covered in my own blood. I can feel the cuts with each hit, but I don’t feel any pain. Actually that isn’t right; it’s more of the fact that I’m ignoring the pain. “Just die already, you fucking tree!” I yell at it again, even with the injuries I’ll face once I beat this tree to death, it is still needed of me, this tree depends on it. “Just die you fucking tree, you don’t have to come back to life anymore! I’ll gladly give you the freedom of death! I’ll give you the freedom to rest in peace!” I yell at it once more now crying being unable to hold my tears back any longer. I was never angry at the tree; if anything, I loved the tree. It was my only friend in my prison; we’re friends that had no choice but to suffer together. I never hated the tree. I hated the fact that me and tree had to suffer the loss of freedom, especially our freedom to die with me being stuck with immortality and the tree being stuck with resurrection over and over again. We would just watch each other for who knows how long, but now that I’m free, I could end this stupid curse for the both of us. I’ve finally done it. I beat the tree to death. Out of exhaustion, I drop to my knees next to the fallen tree. “It’s finally over for you; you don’t have to watch me trapped inside of that stupid crystal anymore.” I talk to it as an old friend. “You can just sleep forever and don’t worry about me. Immortality sucks, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going kill myself.” I assure it. “I’ll live the rest of my life in peace, but if I find the ones responsible for this, I’ll promise to beat the shit out of them for the both of us. So, this is good bye, friend,” I tell it for the last time with more tears flowing down my face as I start to walk away. As I pass by its crown, a small branch holding a pair of leaves and a single red flower catches my eye, and I decide to take it with me as a memento. With nothing but the strange clothes I’m wearing, my bloodied hands and legs, and a branch from a dead tree that used to be my only friend, I proceed to go on. Sure there’s nothing but emptiness everywhere I look. I have no idea where I’m going, but at least I’m free now and being able to walk around into nothing is so much better than not being able to move at all. With all that being said, I can only say one thing as I begin my new journey. “Fuck it, at least I’m not trapped in that stupid fucking crystal anymore!” I scream out as loud as I can as I start to sprint in a random direction.

27

I Am...

Vanessa Ramos Ramirez

I am a worker I am expected to smile as though serving others was the highlight of my day I am a worker Giving service to people that are rude and disrespectful Yet I am expected to still give you my 100% customer service I am a worker Not a slave I am a person Not your dust tray I am only human and I am allowed to make mistakes

Satyr Senses

Amanda L. Muñoz

28 Poetry 2nd Prize And the World Goes 'Round

Devin Mitchell

1. An elderly man awakes to cold A/C TV static in the background He rises and plods to a window Watching young couples pass Slowly breathing in and out With assistance of an oxygen mask.

2. A homeless orphan Lives in the folds of darkness Sells body for pennies To strangers So him and his brother can eat.

3. A wife's only Company is her flask. Her husband barely speaks except Over dinner, arguments always Ensue At work co-workers chatter About the bruises, Her drinking.

29

Fiction 2nd Prize The Water’s Reflection

Alexis Rascon

At the tender age of twelve, the boy knew he was an individual apart from other kids his age — or at least something was wrong with him. The way he rose in the morning glow, just as the dew was beginning to reflect the rising fiery sun like small crystals on bright green umbrella tops, as the breeze began to fade softly like a lover's whisper lost in the crowd of a New Year. The way a warm electric energy surged through his feeble body and mind, playing with his consciousness and waving a hello to his forgotten memories and sending a shiver down his spine, the boy unknown of its true origins. The way the grass tickled his feet gently although the wind had other plans in mind, attempting to stop its roots from pursuing the boy any further. The way, when he saw his dim reflection in a muddy puddle staring back at him with the most peculiar look on its face, sometimes congenial, but most times with an ungainly crooked smile, its lips attempting to form words which the boy could never understand fully, and he often touched his own lips during the display; however, could feel no movement. Up until now, he could never fully understand the reasoning behind anything, believing it was simply a natural occurrence everyone else had in their own melancholy lives. It was normal that people could almost communicate with their own reflections...right? Then, on this particular morning, rising just before the sun began its daily pilgrimage to the other side of the sky, his reflection spoke back to him. Hey. You there. Your name’s Ryden. You are me. The boy could not hear his reflection, as he could only read the lips. Only could he imagine what it might have sounded like. Perhaps it imitated his own, or mimicked an old friend's. He tugged up at his scarf as the wind rolled once again, causing his bangs to flutter irritatingly across his eyelashes. He rubbed at them furiously before blinking and staring hard into the murky water at his feet again with ambivalence, anticipating another word from his reflection. After a few minutes of nothing, the boy was about to turn around to leave when he saw movement again of the reflection’s lips. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but...come closer to the water. I have something secret I want to tell you. Without saying a word back, the boy named Ryden crept to the water’s edge. Closer. Ryden obeyed his reflection’s command. I said closer. Finally, Ryden was almost touching the water’s surface with his face. His nose crinkled as he noticed the repugnant swampy musk that littered it, but decided to ignore it. Suddenly, the reflection dispatched its arm straight out, yanking Ryden into the dark water below. For a second, the boy’s world was black, and he felt as if he was floating in space; his mind was as murky as the water he was dragged into. After what felt like an eternity, Ryden came to his senses and realized he was looking into what seemed like a mirror, except the mirror was slightly foggy and...almost like looking from the inside of a fish tank to the outside world. Then, his heart dropped as he put two and two together. In a mercurial change of events, Ryden had ended up on his reflection’s side, and his reflection took his place in the real world. Ryden pounded on the surface, attempting

30 to free himself from the entrapment he was in. Then, his reflection smirked, giving him final words Ryden would have ingrained in his mind for the rest of eternity he would be in his prison. Ryden, you are not the human, you have never been the human. Why do you think you’ve been alone and lost your entire life? You have been the reflection this whole time, you have been on the wrong side of the water. You never belonged in the human world. It was about time you went home, now.

Fill in the Lines

Ingrid Melchor

31

Fear

Ayo Amadu

The weapon that makes a warrior acts like a child It comes like a pinch of thought But spread like wide fire on thatch And with great intensity takes its toll in no time Oh! How it turns a grown up into babe It set his mind to remember his creator Many failed not because of their incapability Many died not because it’s their time But all for fear Oh man! Why fear? It’s a figment of your imagination Give a room in your life It takes residence in your heart Dominates your being Defiles your personality Squeezes you and leave on the ground empty

Dysthymic

Roman Duro

32 Sonnet for D. C——a

Jonathan Tovar

Dear Love:— When Night her mutable hand has laid Upon your sky, has launched her loathsome gloom, That Day his just dominion shall resume Have e’er you doubted? Were your eyes betrayed? When bands of dawn the nights’ cold grasp invade, Have you rejoiced yet felt the creep of doom? Fear nothing: ‘tis a sign of fortune’s bloom; For who has faced the sun to cast no shade? Even Earth, as vast as regal in her spin, Must wear upon her populated back Illumination’s stain, bitter and black; And we are only residents therein. So follow th’ eastern star; nor look behind Except to see our shadows intertwined.

1/16/17

Kimberly Morales

They say if a writer falls in love with you, you’ll never die. I am living proof that this theory is true. Those around me know it is forbidden to speak of you when deep down I am dying to hear the sweet syllables that form your name. Most people have a specific season they achingly dread When the time is near and memories start flooding in. They are reminded by the way orange leaves dance Fiercely with the wind, such in sync, Ultimately trying to avoid hitting the cold concrete below. Or simply mistaking the sun for your arms, The feeling of a constant warm hug that the sun provides on sunny days. For me it is all year round. Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. You are everywhere, and I am still in pieces.

33

An Epitaph

Jonathan Tovar

Here lie the blanchèd bones, the russet gore, And th’ azure veins of Intellect — Slain in the bilious and putrescent war Between discernible truth and spurious lore; By a miracle would it resurrect!

Charcoal Study

Matthew Sadergaski

34

Desolation

Ayo Amadu

Like the leaves of the fig tree in winter Her inhabitants were scattered Their heritage utterly laid waste Their common identity; their primordial bond wrecked Their imagination became tainted As though they have offended the gods They devoured one another with resentment The city of wine and song Became the seat of war and sorrow The wine went on exile The sun ceased to give her smile Their embracing arms battered A communal city became the citadel of chaos The voices of the singers and The mirth of the drums have been stilled The beauty and joy have gotten to eventide Desolation became her companion Oh! City of desolation! Weep for your ruin

Art 2nd Prize Isolation in Heaven

Jasmine Barajas

35

The Storyteller

Ha Ly

I am a storyteller. Not a scribe. I am interested in the weaving of images, forms, and pieces to craft a captivating journey and meaning.

No miming here. But, instead, interpretation and inspiration, the desire to build worlds and characters that lie undiscovered and yet exist in my mind, as a challenge for the adventurous.

We criticize and scrutinize, turn our noses up at fairy tales and fiction, confuse things like nihilism and nonfiction with maturity and realism, ignoring the fact that we live and thrive as a people because of the dreamers, and the “naive” idealists.

Yes, we need the rational thinkers, the mathematicians, scientists, engineers, the doctors and leaders. But while they’re saving lives, making history, who inspires us and gives us reasons to live? What defines us as not just humans but people?

It is the artist, the storyteller and imaginist. It is the untempered passion, raw emotion, wild stories of fantasy, the thrill of adventure that give meaning to our lives and causes — that which marks our culture.

And I am not merely talking about million-dollar paintings in art museums or New York Times best sellers, but the art, stories, and creations that, in one way or another,

36

seek to speak and receive, whether through paint, ink, clay, words or pixels.

For too long a time the confines and pressures of reality have been pinning my hands and spirit down, silencing, devaluing my voice, my stories — for we take for granted what has always been there, the fires and embers that survive in spite of people’s efforts to snuff them out.

I am now shrugging off these paper shackles, stretching beyond this illusive prison, picking up the pen.

I am the storyteller. I understand the capability of art to inspire, to speak and emote, to stir and elicit response. I am suited to work within the realm of fiction and fantasy, uncompromised by the restraints of reality.

I am the storyteller, pen in hand the world my canvas.

37

An Empty Vase

Elizabeth Duran

An empty vase on the counter, reminds you of the beautiful lilies that bloomed one summer... Time quickly passed and the petals began to wilt and fall.. They withered away but their beauty was the greatest gift of all. To have them and appreciate them through their precious moments alive, is a memory so special it cannot be defined. Hold on to the memories of brightened days and fragrant nights, of when the beautiful lilies surrounded you and made everything feel right. The empty vase is just a vase, but the memories are the beauty that once held its place. Fill it with beauty and precious memories once more, for you will always have the vase and the moments you adored.

Mystery Samurai

Malcolm Armstead

38 The Sound of a Wilted Lily

Elizabeth Duran

Beautiful lily you bloom the summer, gazer of stars, I can't help but wonder… Thine petals wilt not ripen steady, thine beauty and fragrance diminish daily. Courageously ye neither fathom nor fear, oh this day, this day I've feared. My chaste agony sheds upon your fragile stem, corolla and sepal both dried out in the end. Thine silence, mine sympathy both break heart my own, lest we close our eyes to what we've known? Winter approached, your icy death followed, what once was mine, now heartbroken sorrows... the memories of yesterday ignite mine conviction, how can a lily so sweet cause such affliction? Alas! a green sprout of hope has begun to make way, a new lily created, oh ye, bittersweet day. With mine ear pressed down upon thine grave, forever the moment of my wilted lily I'll save.

Eazy Duz It

Matthew Sadergaski 39

foresty type words

Ashley Pacheco

My lips will bear no secrets So in their stead fell trees

Absent me bloomed wild roses (All my lies are trees) Absent me burrowed foxes (All my lies are trees)

Your accusations

On the grounds that Wild creatures roam by nature Winds run hot and without measure

Your inhibitions

Fall, leaves innocent Soiled features colder, stranger All for warmth we scrounge, we linger

Here I tell you of sequoias Red and high as a kerchief Waving in gloved hand See her tower, see her brightly! See not the other hand, so slightly! Turn turn turn to the reddened snow Don’t you see All of us Below?

I do not write Of forests often It is in my nature To bear all.

40 Art 1st Prize Why They Hatin’ For?

Matthew Sadergaski

41

11/11/16

Alissa Ramirez

She asked us what we believed in All I could think of was your love She told us to write about what we love All I could think of was you She asked us to write about what we hate All I could think was you I remembered how you would Turn my skin black and blue That beautifully passionate hue I missed you I missed the you that loved you too I missed the taste of your mint flavored paste I missed you dousing me in your cologne From you smothering me With love, with eternal goodness, with desire Oh darling you were love You touched the depths of every fiber of my being If only I was seeing clearer I can still hear you whisper Into my ear Passionate desires You were the death of me

42 Taught

Devin Mitchell

Cuts on his knuckle As a child He learned not to touch Bruises on his cheek He learned not to speak A Black ring around his eye He learned not to see — The signs on the wall He could not read

As a Father, like his own He learned to leave

Spider Stuff

Malcolm Armstead

43

Pulcinella’s Favor

Jonathan Tovar

“Pulcinella! Pulcinella!” through the piazza echoed high. “I, your cousin, Scaramuccia, seek your aide or I shall die! By my innocence, I summon you; by sympathy, reply! Be my savior, Pulcinella!” O’er the noise he hollered, “Fie!”

Out the tavern, then, he toddled, with a fiasca and a shoe. For his counsel I besought him; “Cousin, tell me what to do!” Said the measure of a man, “Before I learn your trouble new, For my valued operation, sure allowances are due…”

Thus, I paid and said, “A singer in the piazza, with her lay, By the name of Usignuola has enamored me today. With her voice to meet in harmony, my lute I set to play, When a man, suppose her husband, like a bull had torn me ‘way!

“I escaped him while he threatened, ah! my lute to rip in two! (Quest’ uccello, per cui vivo, pegl’ uccelli sta di più!) Lend your favor: he would injure not an imbecile as you; As you tamed your wife Rosetta, help me tame the devil, too!”

Said the liquored Pulcinella, “Let us kill the devil!”—“Buon’!”— “Let us kill the woman!”—“No!”—“Then let us feign to kill…”—“Begone!”— “Let us tell your Columbina…”—“Let my life be surely done!”— “Let us blame it on the wine!”—“Mi da ‘l tuo vino!”—“Get your own!”

Forward rushed a heaving brute (behind a chiosco then I hid), Where, to wanton Pulcinella, “Dov’è andato lui?” he said. So requested, so provided; and avowed the Fool, “To bed;” Yet the bull was quick to seize me when the vendor hit my head.

“Arlecchino! Va’, ti prego! Scaramuccia did no wrong; He has acted in my stead, for it is I who lent her song.” “Sì, Signore, è verità! The Fool has wanted her for long; But in fear to play his piccolo, he suffered me along.”

44

With a “Ha!” said Arlecchino, “But a villain would deny To the gift of God the gift of God!”—his ‘Nuola bidding nigh, Then allowed the Fool a kiss to put an inch above her thigh… In the tick of this adoring, yelled Rosetta: “Cosa fai!”

Now attend the wit imprudent in this solitary line, Saving bull and bird, a dandy, and a barrel full of wine: “I have proven how sobriety dulls a brain to rival mine!” T’acclamiamo, Pulcinella! Let us follow your design!

Manifested Illusion

Devin Mitchell

I left my comrade behind With eyes open And torn limbs I watched as he gurgled blood With his last breath

The mist of gun powder In the air He looked at me

As the sun began to set I saw a flash of light in his eyes, Over his tattered helmet —

In reality I was the one dead

45

Burning Air

Malcolm Armstead

Death had become undeniably slow Throughout all of my time I had waited Eventually he’d caught up though; Surprisingly I was simply elated, The noon air had felt like fire With my lungs being burned This was my stop, I was tired But in fact, he had always waited for me, I had learned.

What Happen?

Matthew Sadergaski

46 Candle

Alissa Ramirez

11:43 P.M You were the Start of all this rage Of all this manifested self-hate The end To my Beginning You made me so disengaged You were my greatest sin With those soft seductive eyes You graciously ripped off All of my clothes You were my desire You were my fire The flame that made Mine burn brighter With great intensity I was a pyromaniac Obsessed with your fire You ran your fingers Down my body’s curves Forcing chills Down the small of my back Your calloused hands aroused my body You were like a massive tempest Causing destruction to Everything in its path I was just in the way I was seduced by your lies By the hope In your eyes I was fed by lies You made me hate hope The hope that allowed these memories to survive These memories burned me alive

47

To Gaze Beyond

Amanda L. Muñoz

I Am I flow, I erode, I drown. Eve Mulhall I am underappreciated, I am needed. I am the water, Not the fire. I evaporate under the heat of the sun. Still limitless. I come down hard and heavy I go with the wind. I am everywhere Sometimes sparse, I am near, Sometimes abundant. I am home, I am here.

48 The End

Delia Rose Mejia

49

Poetry 1st Prize the apocalypse came quietly in the night

Ashley Pacheco

if you, like many, were awake to see the eschaton emmanetized at 1:47 AM it was witnessed by the night janitor the cashier selling formula to the young father, cradling a fat baby (silent, hungry, awake) and the 911 operator who took the cables out of her phone when she knew what had finally happened

we watched dawn come over what had been skyscrapers. giant’s bones by morning fog so deep you felt yourself dampen baptized in that cold-mist sun-blue sun-hid morn

was anyone dead? some. the ones hiding guns in cellars didn’t come out after the clambering horror and the din of angels. nor the shareholders or the President, actually.

our currency became survival skills like manners, knit sweaters a little hello to the neighbor who sleeps on your porch hammock now and makes good pie from the wild mulberry trees that aren’t fenced in anymore

50

the internet stayed up we swapped things like new genders pictures of cats and said we were women freely it was quieter all over and we thought: we were afraid so long of death it felt more like an orgasm when it came at last at last.

51

Phineas 2017 Award Winners

Every year, the Phineas student editors select all the written and artistic works in the magazine. From among the accepted work, qualified faculty members select one piece from each of the categories for first prize, and a runner-up receives an honorable mention.

Award Winners Contest Judges

Art Art 1st “Why They Hatin For?” by Matthew Sadergaski Mandi Batalo 2nd “Isolation in Heaven” by Jasmine Barajas Linda Fisher-Butterfield David Rosales Fiction 1st “E-Flat” by Jonathan Tovar Fiction 2nd “The Water’s Reflection” by Alexis Rascon Michael Slusser

Poetry Poetry 1st “the apocalypse came quietly …” by Ashley Pacheco Mary Copeland 2nd “And the World Goes ‘Round” by Devin Mitchell

Phineas 2017

Editors

Ayo Amadu Lucinda Crespin Ashley Pacheco

Faculty Advisor

Joel Lamore

Acknowledgements

The Phineas staff expresses its thanks to the faculty and staff who helped by telling students about the magazine and encouraging students to submit, or who in any other way provided support to this magazine.

We also extend our gratitude to the San Bernardino Community College District Printing Services for all their special efforts on behalf of this publication.

Our greatest debt is of course to the students of Valley College for contributing to this publication by submitting their art, fiction and poetry.

52

Contributors

Ayo Amadu Alexis Gonzalez Ashley Pacheco Malcolm Armstead Ha Ly Alissa Ramirez Jasmine Barajas Ryann McCurry Vanessa Ramos Ramirez DeAndrea Brooks Ingrid Melchor Alexis Rascon Lucinda Crespin Devin Mitchell Delia Rose Mejia Elizabeth Duran Kimberly Morales Matthew Sadergaski Roman Duro Eve Mulhall Penicia Sims Ruben Escobar Amanda L. Muñoz Jonathan Tovar

Still Life

Matthew Sadergaski