2016 Starbursts Magazine
“Alyse” by Zachary Cuellar
graphite drawing
SPECIAL THANKS TO
Dr. Katherine Persson LSC-Kingwood President James Stubbs, Dean, Fire Science, Letters, Arts and Kinesiology Office of Student Life Center for Civic Engagement Kingwood for their support BURSTS 2016 STARMAGAZINE
LoneStar.edu/Kingwood Affirmative Action/EEO College Cover Design by Hunter Landrum
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StarBursts2016_mag_cover.indd 1 3/9/16 11:25 AM BURSTS
2016 STARMAGAZINE
Committee Members Gabrielle Moore Eric Mohn Alexus Golden Barclay Stockett
Faculty Advisors Dr. Darlene Beaman, Chair, English Department Cindy Ross, Associate Professor, English Amy Potter, English Instructor Chelsie Meredith, English Instructor Mari Omori, Professor of Art
— 2 — Table of Contents
“A Lovely Day” by Kathleen Vasquez...... 4 “All” by Taylor Davidson...... 5 “Undying Love” by Pat Wetuski...... 6 “Dead Butterflies” by Briana Bundage ...... 12 “Drowning in Fear” by Barclay Stockett...... 13 “European Enlightenment” by Rebekah Ford...... 14 “If Time and Death” by Marilyn Loyacano ...... 16 “Heart-Shaped Lock” by Kaleena Steakle...... 17 “I Strongly Dislike Poetry” by Chelsea E. McDonald...... 18
Summer 2015 Student Art Show Best in Show: “Obsessed With Art” by Maria Valarino...... 19 First Place—Photography: ‘Strangers” by Avery Simmons...... 20 First Place—2D: “Gray Woman” by Miriam Velez...... 21 Second Place—2D: “Forgotten Silence” by Miki Harbour...... 22 Third Place—2D:“Three Year Self Portrait” by Hailey Holbert. . . . . 23 Honorable Mention—2D: “Coloring Imagination” by Marissa Rodarte. . 24 Honorable Mention—2D: “Power Horses” by Jennifer Mcgregor . . . . . 25 Honorable Mention—2D: “Helpless” by Samantha Imperial...... 26 Honorable Mention—2D: “Students and Boxes” by Samuel D. Feris . . . 27 First Place—3D: “Gigantic Pearl Earring” by Maria Valarino ...... 28 Second Place—3D: “All the Best” by Cynthia Encisco ...... 29 Third Place—3D: “Melting Clock” by Alexa Rudell...... 30
— 3 — Open Call Art Selections “Alyse” by Zachary Cuellar...... 31 “Crosshatching Study” by Wei Jin...... 32 “Still Study of Bottles, Flower, and Skull” by Wei Jin...... 33 “Blues” by Alanis Hernandez...... 34 “Going Places” by Alanis Hernandez...... 35 “Skull and Bones” by David Aguilar...... 36 “Cast Down” by David Aguilar...... 37 “Float On” by Erika Estrada...... 38 “Cancelled” by Amy Medeski...... 39 “The Unveiling” by Sean Bush...... 40 “Immigration” by Dalia Toribio...... 41 “In the Mix” by Elizabeth San Miguel...... 42 “Light of the Living” by Amber Barfield...... 43 “Morning Prayers” by Austin Chandler ...... 44 “Icarus” by Luis Nava ...... 46 “Poetry I Can’t” by Jessy Valladares...... 47 “Reflections on Thoreau” by Heather Monday ...... 48 “Romantic’s Gutter” by Sydney Hvizdos ...... 49 “The Armadillo (mulita) General Don Facundo (a fable for children)” by Alicia Casals ...... 50 “The South Will Rise Again” by Kayla Fowler ...... 52 “Veterans’ Day” by Pat Wetuski...... 54 “What’s Going On?” by Charles Wright...... 55
— 4 — A Lovely Day
The little butterflies of blue Reaching from the sky to kiss you.
Oh how the sweet smiling sun shines! It graces the earth with wide, warm lines.
The cardinal carries a cordial chirping cry, A sweet song streaked across the sky.
The green grass is fresh and new Sparkling with dainty drops of dew.
The wind whispers in the trees Like the melody of roaring, rolling seas.
Crimson apples snuggling between leaves They came from beautiful blossoms blessed by bees
Take a deep breath, we are alive as you can see, Who dare say this day can’t last for all eternity!
—Kathleen Vasquez
— 5 — All
Eyes staring, People glaring, An exotic rare bird I happened to be, A “preppy” white girl they had never seen. I walked with confidence because I chose this. My mother, a negrophobiac, couldn’t understand why, She told me I was the reason she would always cry, I couldn’t help it, I needed change, A minority of practically one to give me a wider range, A range bigger than just one culture. I grew tired of the stuck up rich kids, It’s exhausting never fitting in, You see my views are unique, I needed to be away from the narrow and the bleak, Eisenhower became my home. There I learned to see from others’ perspective, That not all cops are good and not all races are respected, Not just black lives matter but all, We are a society that needs to stand together or else we will fall. I stand for what’s right, not the color of my skin, You can judge me and try to change me but I promise you will never win, I stand on equality for all, Races, genders and sexualities because at the end of the day in the eyes of God, Your sins and my sins are no different at all.
—Taylor Davidson
— 6 — An Undying Love A Short Story by Pat Wetuski
Dr. John Eversole was running out of time to finish his project, but he was nearly ready to start the official testing phase. There was a hard deadline he couldn’t change, and it was rapidly approaching, so the only recourse was to work long hours. “Do want a banana?” The chimp, Syrii, was so old and weak she didn’t even react to her favorite treat. John had raised Syrii from a baby; he often took her home for vacations so she wouldn’t be alone. He hated to see her like this. “I’ve got something special for you.” Syrii hated shots. This time, she was so weak she didn’t try to avoid the needle. He discarded the empty syringe. “You probably would be dead before I can get the government’s permission for animal testing. I worry about finding you dead when I arrive each morning. I would really miss you, and even now, I miss the way you used to greet me when I arrived each morning. Your greeting started my day right. I sure hope this works.” John was certain that tomorrow would be different, but he feared that the injection would kill her. She was so weak. John skipped updating his notes as he wrapped up a day that started at 5:00 AM. He wanted to spend the night with Syrii, and he still had work he wanted to do, but he couldn’t be late tonight. It isn’t every day that you celebrate your 65th wedding anniversary with your one and only love. When he picked Charlene up, he would take her to the oldest and best steakhouse in town. They had celebrated there every year for the last 43 years. He knew what both he and Charlene would order. Last week, she had been diagnosed with brain cancer. While she was a very active 86 and was very healthy up to this point, she was too old for the state to approve the operation to remove the tumor. They said she could start radiation in six months, but the estimate was she would have severe brain damage in two or three. That was his greatest dilemma. If he could finish his project in time, he could cure her, but if he failed, he would miss her final good days. Still there was so much to gain, and he felt he was so close; he wanted to take the risk. He was even willing to risk Syrii with an untested treatment. He walked through the sliding doors of the research hospital. It had been drizzling all day and the sun was breaking through just above the horizon as the last of the clouds blew out. The temperature had dropped to nearly freezing. With the expected crystal clear sky, the temperature would plummet tonight. He was too old to drive on ice. It was a good thing he had the new Lincoln. As he approached the car, the engine had already started, his door slid up and out of the way, and when he was in, the door slid back and he felt the pressure rise slightly and he said, “Home, James.” The car responded, “Yes, Doctor. You are leaving early tonight. Do you have special plans for your anniversary?” “We have reservations at ‘The Cowhand’s Diner’ for 6:00PM.” “Then when we pick up Charlene, I will keep the motor running. It will be cold tonight.” “Thanks, James.” John changed his shirt and put on the vest, coat, and tie that lay in the seat next to him. He had to retie the tie four times to get it right. Like most men, John hated ties. James let Charlene know when they were still 5 minutes away. When John stepped on the front step, the door of his home for the last seventy years, slid silently out of the way. He how it had changed since he had to use a mechanical key to open the door. As he stepped in, she was at the top of the stairs. Her red gown showed that she had gained a few pounds since she was eighteen. Her silver hair was cut short and framed her faced. Her smile still lit up the room. The sight of her still took John’s breath away. He felt a little underdressed in his three piece tailor made suit. She took her time coming down the stairs. She still liked to tease him. He offered her his elbow and she slipped her hand around his arm. She felt his bicep. It was no longer the rock it was when he was twenty. Years of farming in his teens had left him so naturally buff that she loved to feel his muscles
— 7 — move under her fingers. Now, he was a shell of his former self. His hair was totally white; not the black of his youth. She still loved to look at him. His wrinkles reminded her of how he never left her side during an eighteen hour delivery and how he was by her side when her mother died. Those white hairs and wrinkles were honestly earned. As they stepped outside, she pulled her wrap a little tighter, James opened Charlene’s door and John helped her in. As John walked around the car, James closed her door and opened his. When John was in, James pulled out of the drive, and softly played some classical music, as John reached for Charlene’s hand. “John, this is our last anniversary. We’ve had a wonderful life, three kids, four grandkids, and even one great grandchild. Everyone will be here tonight. The back room is decorated and everyone is waiting for us. John, while tonight will be fantastic, what I really want from you is to stop working for my last good days. We have had the ‘for better,’ ‘for richer,’ ‘in health,’ and ‘in good times.’ What I need from you is help with the ‘for worse,’ ‘in sickness,’ and ‘in bad times.’ You can work when I’m gone.” John took a deep breath, “Dear, I am so close. When I finish, not only will I be able cure you, but I will be able to give you the body you had when you were eighteen.” “John, I’m not scared of dying. I’ve lived my life and I’ve loved every minute with you. The only thing I need is for you to help me with the next transition. The only thing I’ve ever feared is losing you. I don’t want to be eighteen. I want to find out what’s next. Will I be part of the Force like in Star Wars, or will I go to heaven like the Christians, or be reincarnated as a butterfly like the Hindus?” “But Dear, I don’t want to lose you either. Please, I am so very close. All these years you have been the center of my life. Since met you as a freshman at State, you have been my first and last thought each day. My life would be empty without you. I promise that I will be there when you need me.” “John,” she said, in a low voice that he recognized and dreaded, “that isn’t the promise I asked for. We’re here now, but don’t think that this is over. I will let you think on it tonight but tomorrow, I want that promise.” She didn’t take his offered arm for the short walk to the back room. A slide show was silently showing key scenes from their lives. She looked at all the loved ones in the room. Only John knew about her tumor. Should she tell everyone tonight? No, this should be a just the celebration of their lives. Tonight was not the time for sadness. She would tell them next week. John grabbed two glasses of champagne and handed one to Charlene. He turned to his family and raised his glass. As he did, everyone stopped to raise their glasses as well. John said, “Thank you all for coming. This family is our greatest accomplishment. Sixty five years ago, I could only dream that Charlene would still be by my side. She has been my strength and truly my better half. The love that she has given me has taken many forms. From her dropping out of school to work two jobs putting me through both college and grad school, to carrying three kids, to nursing me when I had my hips replaced, goodness knows I am a difficult patient that gets fresh with my nurse, there has never been anything that she hasn’t given me. I didn’t realize how lucky I was when she asked a horned-rimmed nerd for directions to the chemistry building. I am so glad I decided to SHOW her the way.” Charlene interrupted, “He didn’t know what I REALLY meant by chemistry, and he never knew that I was only pretending to be lost”. A chuckle filled the room. The family was used to the corny jokes that were their staple. “I had noticed him at the beginning of the semester, but he was so into his books that he didn’t even know that I existed. Now, I know you’re all hungry and there will be time for us to talk to each of you later, so, let’s pray while the food is still hot.” “The dinner was perfect in every way. Hugs and smiles were the order of the day without a single tear of sadness. Thank you, John.” Charlene laid her head on his bony shoulder. John was glad James was driving. Not just because the streets were slick, or that he had had more than a couple of drinks, but mainly because the tears in his eyes clouded his vision. He couldn’t think of anything to say. After all — 8 — these years, she knew what he was thinking anyway. He just pulled her a little tighter to him. They passed the rest of the trip in silence. John slept in because of the wine. When he opened his eyes, the clock read 5:33. He really needed to pee, his back ached, his hip hurt, just the usual. He wondered would the shot help these. Charlene would not be up today before 9, so he had a few hours before he had to make a promise. One he wouldn’t want to keep, but he had never broken one to her, and he wouldn’t start now. Even though he wanted to, he couldn’t stay in bed. He didn’t have time to waste. After quickly dressing, he grabbed a boiled egg, two slices of bread without taking the time to toast them, and two bananas. When John opened the garage door, James started the motor and opened his door. James didn’t wait for a destination but slid smoothly into traffic in the slot the other cars had magically opened for him by the Traffic Central Al, to which all cars were linked. John ate the egg and bread in total silence. James recognized the behavior and played some music that was barely audible. When James opened the door at the back entrance of the hospital, John got out without saying a word. James was puzzled by this. He would file it away in case he saw it again. James parked in the assigned spot. As the entrance door opened, John heard Syrii. She was agitated about something. His paced quickened. When he entered the lab, Syrii rushed over and hugged John’s leg almost knocking him over. This was the greeting that he missed these last few months. She reached up and took the banana without it being offered. “My, you seem to be your old self. I didn’t expect it to work this quickly. You look like you did twenty years ago. The gray is gone and there is a spring in your step. I don’t see any side effects. I did it... I really did it.” Syrii finished her banana and reach for the other one. John handed it to her. “You have your appetite back.” John spent a few minutes calculating the dose sizes and then filled two syringes. He set them in a hard black plastic case and slipped them into his jacket’s breast pocket. “Syrii, do you want to go for a ride?” It was obvious from Syrii’s reaction that she remembered she loved car rides. He really needed to update his notes, but it could wait another day. So he grabbed Syrii’s toys and said. “Let’s go”. John had to put his hand on the security plate; otherwise, the computer wouldn’t open the door while animals were loose within the lab. James started the engine as soon as he saw John leaving the hospital. When James closed the door again he said, “You sure look happy. That was very quick. Who’s your guest?” “This is Syrii. Take us home.” “Yes, doctor.” James checked the hospital records. “I thought Syrii was much older. Are my records in error?” “She was. I found a way to reverse aging. I can’t wait untill give it to Charlene.” John said taping his jacket pocket. “Doctor, it says here your research isn’t even approved for animal trials and you heard what Charlene said, she won’t want it.” A Short Story by Pat Wetuski Pat by Story A Short “No, it isn’t approved and I don’t have time for the red tape. Charlene will change her mind when she sees Syrii.” John led Syrii into the living room and let her have the bag of toys. That would keep her quiet for a while. He started a pot of coffee. He went to the greenhouse to pick some fresh herbs and a single snow white rose. He took three eggs out of the refrigerator, cracked them into a bowl, chopped the herbs, added them and a few other secret spices to the bowl, and then scrambled the eggs. While the eggs were cooking, he cut up some cantaloupe and strawberries. He fixed a tray with a small vase for the rose, a cup of coffee with sweetener and milk, and a plate for the eggs and fruit. He silently carried the tray into the bedroom and let the smell of the fresh coffee gently wake Charlene. Charlene stirred and said with a smile, “Good morning. I’m glad you didn’t go to the office. I take it this means you
An Undying Love Love An Undying are ready to make me that promise.” “First, I have something I want to show you.” Raising his voice, he called, “Syrii.”
— 9 — A look of puzzled concern briefly crossed Charlene’s face. She said to John, “I am glad you brought her home so you won’t be worried about not going to the lab.” When Syrii came bounding in, Charlene continued, “She’s looking really good, just like when I first meet her fifteen years ago. Hi Syrii, come here.” Syrii looked up when she heard her name but would not come any closer to Charlene. “What’s wrong girl, don’t you remember me?” John said, “She’s been through a lot, lately. Yesterday she was nearly dying and then I gave her a shot ... my shot. Now she’s young. I did it. I can cure you and make you young again. It hasn’t been approved, but you can see that it works. Now that it works, I can promise you that I will be here; that I will stop working.” Charlene reached out for his hand and responded very softly, “Thank you, John for that, but I don’t want your shot ... even if it works. There is a natural progression of life. You are born, live, grow old, and die. Can you imagine what it will do if people don’t die? First, the population would explode, and while people could stop having kids, that would leave huge holes in young people’s lives. Without children, they won’t discover the best that is in them. Something like this is unnatural.” She continued, “John, we all have a finite and indeterminate amount of time on this earth. How we choose to spend that time determines who we are. Do we choose to waste our time with drugs, meaningless encounters, or vengeance? Do we choose to spend our time raising our children, putting their needs before ours, building a better society, or do we risk our life to help others or to advance society? That is why we value fire fighters, policemen, soldiers, and astronauts. What you are talking about changes all that. Maybe I should wait 500 years before I do something risky. Will we spend more time on ourselves and less on society? Will we put off what’s really important because there will always be time for it later? Will we become more self-centered? Will we lose who we really are?” John retorted, “Ok, I see your point. Society might not be ready for it. Anyway, I only have a few doses. We can use them, and that won’t throw civilization into turmoil. Besides, it could have lots of benefits. The scientist that has been working on a difficult problem for 50 years could have the time to make that breakthrough. We could pursue different areas of study and benefit from synergies that normally require multiple people, and are fraught with inefficiencies. We could take the time for walks on the beach at sunset. We could take time for all those quality activities we just didn’t have time to do.” “That is my point exactly. Choosing to take that walk on the beach or else working late to advance your research defines who you are. One is not right and the other wrong; but the choice defines who we are. One makes you more loved and the other more respected. Don’t you see that?” She asked. “I just can’t bear to live without you.” “John”, she said firmly, “Do. Not. Give. Me. That. Shot. Promise me. I don’t want it. Promise me”. With resignation in his voice, “Ok, I promise to not give you the shot without your permission, but I will keep your shot ready in case you change your mind.” “I’ll accept that as long as I am still of sound mind’. I don’t what you using my cancer against me. Who knows what I might say, or do at some point? And don’t tell the kids about the shots. I don’t want them pressuring me.” Then with a smile she added, “Soon, the cancer might have me dancing naked in the middle of Main Street.” With a sad smile, “I would like to see you do that. I’ll agree ... no tricks.” He took his shoes off and crawled into bed beside her, placing his hand on her back. As she ate her breakfast, she prattled on about last night and all the fun she had. He loved to listen to her prattle, but his mind was not following it. He was thinking about ways to change her mind. He had to find a way. When they finally got out of bed after a very leisurely and pleasant morning, John asked, “Should we tell the kids what the doctor said?” “Not yet. It’s a beautiful day. The sun has warmed things up and the air is crystal clear. There is no breeze, so it will be perfect. Let’s go for a walk; soon, it will be too cold.” She grabbed her blue sweater and started to put it on.
— 10 — He grabbed a light brown jacket and headed for the door. “Ok.” The sun was warm on their faces. A hawk called from high overhead. John looked up and saw a pair soaring, circling in a thermal. The sky was crystal blue with thin clouds here and there. As they started down the walk John took Charlene’s hand. It was cold. He would help warm it up. Their walk was more of a lazy stroll than the brisk walk they used to share. They headed toward town. In the old days, they could get to town in ten minutes but now, they might not make it that far. They approached a local boutique. Charlene said, “Do you remember when this was the local hang out and you asked me if I wanted a malt? I had just eaten but I said yes anyway.” “I wondered why it took you so long to drink it. I hoped it was because you wanted to spend more time with me.” “It was a little of both. I was glad we were in the back booth. No one else saw you kiss me for the first time.” She continued with a sly grin, “It won’t be the same but why don’t we get a malt at the fast food chain. Maybe, they have a back booth.” She couldn’t finish the shake, and it wasn’t nearly as good as the first malt he bought her. Still, she drank far more than she would have two weeks ago. She wanted to enjoy every last bit of her life. As they were heading home, they swung by the church where they were married. It was never locked. As they stood in the back, the sun shone through the stained glass windows. The one on the far right, they had donated. She thought of the baptisms, weddings, and funerals they attended here. She squeezed John’s hand. He had been thinking of how to broach the subject of the shots but he came back to the moment, and wrapped his arms around her. As they descended the front steps, she said, “Let’s go through the cemetery. Most of our friends are there.” The older stones were worn and hard to read. They were reminded of long lost friends and relatives, and felt again the pain of each sudden unexpected loss or long lingering illness. They stopped by their plot. The stone was already picked out but wouldn’t be put into place until one of them was in residence. John silently prayed that they wouldn’t need the plot and stone for many years. If only she would be reasonable. He could fix this. Cancer didn’t have to win. Charlene said, “It’s getting cold. Let’s go home, Will you have James pick us up?” John hit a button on his phone. James got the GPS co-ordinates from the phone. He would be there in 3 minutes. When they got home, Charlene selected veggie burgers with a spicy guacamole paste, a simple fresh lentil soup, and a lemon sherbet for dessert. The kitchen would have the soup ready in 15 minutes and the other courses would be presented on time. John went to the wine rack and selected his oldest and most precious vintage. Maybe a little wine might help her see reason.
A Short Story by Pat Wetuski Pat by Story A Short After the meal, Charlene smiled and said, “Thank you for a lovely day. I realize how precious each day really is knowing how few are let.” John replied, “I am just checking. No pressure, but if I give you the shot, we could have many more.” “You have my answer. It hasn’t changed.” She got up, kissed him gently on the forehead, letting it linger just a little longer than normal. Then she smiled at him, “I am going to take a shower. If you want to, you can scrub my back.” She didn’t need to say that twice. Later after tucking her in, John said, “I skipped my notes yesterday. I need to finish them before I forget what I did. I’ll do that in the study. I’m not going to the lab.” She smiled, “Thank you John. It means the world to me.” An Undying Love Love An Undying
— 11 — John finished his notes, saved them, and wrote one more. “I am injecting myself with 2.5ml of H-C17-A24. I know I don’t have FDA approval to test this on a human, but I am out of time. I know I am violating all safety protocols and this action is mine and mine alone. No one in the University knows that I am taking this action. So, no one is responsible except me.” He didn’t save it just yet as he stared at the shot was still lying on the table. What he was planning would probably cost him his tenure and his research grants; if it didn’t work, it could cost him his life. That would leave Charlene alone in her time of greatest need; but if it worked, he would be remembered with the greats in medicine and more importantly, he might get to spend many more years with Charlene. Most people work their entire lives and after a few years, no one could see any impact on society. If this worked, his contributions would be remembered. Charlene was right. This could have a profound impact on civilization. All of the major breakthroughs have changed civilization. Most have produced some pain, but in the end who wants to go back to farming from before dawn to evening hoping to have enough food to survive the winter, or who wants to be afraid of the plague? Syrii was looking great. After one day of animal testing, it looked like it worked better than he had dared to dream. After years of research, H-C17-A24 seemed to be what he had been pursuing. He had to come up with a better name. There would be lots of time for that. But just because it worked on Syrii, it didn’t mean it would work on Charlene, him, or even another chimp. If Charlene wasn’t insisting on that promise, he could take more time and do more testing. But what if there was a point of no return ... if he waited too long, if the treatment wouldn’t work or work as well. What if when the cancer affected her mental processes in a way that couldn’t be reversed? Again, he wished for time to test all the “what ifs”. He could wish all he wanted but he had no more time. But, H-C17-A24 might give him the time he wanted. He found a good vein in his arm, scrubbed it for a minute with alcohol, picked up the syringe, and did it. Time for second guessing is over. It’s done. He saved the last note. He thought, I really should have written Charlene a note in case this doesn’t work. I’ll do it now before I lie down. He started, “Dearest Charlene, Just in case of the worst, I wanted to say”. His stomach cramped like never before. It took all his effort but he stood, still holding the pencil and the unfinished note. He stumbled to the couch, dropping the pencil on the way. He couldn’t pick it up. He was surprised by how quickly the drug was affecting him. Was he dying? He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. He lost consciousness. The sun was streaming through the window when he awakened. He was hungry, very hungry, but otherwise he felt great. He stood up. He looked at the note he had started. “That’s my writing but I don’t remember why I started it, why I didn’t finish it, or who Charlene is.” He set it down. There was the kitchen. It looked a little different. He took a drink of water directly from the faucet. He saw his reflection in a stainless steel pan. His dark hair was getting long. He would need a haircut soon. The microwave said it was almost nine. He overslept but he didn’t have anything pressing today. High school graduation was yesterday. He grabbed some cereal from the pantry and yogurt from the refrigerator. He found a spoon in the third drawer he tried. He poured himself a large glass of orange juice. As he was eating, he heard Charlene coming down the hall. He thought, “Who’s that?” As she rounded the corner, she saw how young he looked. John said, “Who are you?” Charlene wept. F
— 12 — Dead Butterflies
Ripped in half like our photographs; Two pieces torn apart. Everything we’d once created Are now shattered pieces of art.
Like nails across a chalkboard, I can feel the scraping inside. As it makes its way to the depths of my stomach, All the butterflies have died.
Now alone I sit in silence, Thinking about how I let things go. But all the pain I feel inside, I could never show.
—Briana Bundage
— 13 — Drowning in Fear
Drowning in fear That soon you’ll be here I hear steps outside my door I can’t take even one more I’m chained to the floor You are number four I keep my eyes on the door My heart drops to the floor I’m sold by the hour Hopeless against their power Drowning in fear Now that you are here Drowning in fear That soon you’ll be here You come on through my oppressor with you My body is weak He jerks me to my feet It takes effort to speak And forces our eyes to meet I’m still bruised and sore Your eyes are brave and sincere From the customer before But that’s just how you appear
Drowning in fear Drowning in fear That soon you’ll be here Now that you are here
I’m living but I’m dead The men talk like I’m not there These thoughts can’t leave my head Money is exchanged and I just stare I scratch tally marks on the ground My oppressor unlocks my chains I was beat when they were found My bloody wrists relieved from pain I realize now you own me Drowning in fear The broken and bruised abductee That soon you’ll be here Drowning in fear Now that you are here
I know where I’ll go To another Hell hole Now you will sell me by the hour And force my submission to your power
We leave in your car And once we’ve traveled far You look at me and say “You have been set free, today.”
No longer in fear Now that you are here
—Barclay Stockett
— 14 — European Enlightenment by Rebekah Ford
The bus was soothingly quiet except for the guides blabbering about Stonehenge history. I was just to the point where my eyes were crossing and vision was blurry when the guide spoke up on the microphone: “Then the ceremonial orgy would take place.” Everyone around my area sat up wide-eyed and looked at each other. My group was quietly snickering, hoping that they were not the only ones that heard such a phrase. I gazed out the window at London’s countryside and thought, What have I gotten myself into. I never would have thought that visiting another country would provide me such a different perspective on other people’s actions and beliefs. The experiences, what I saw, and what I felt all enlightened me on how there is so much more out in the world that I have yet to enjoy or despise. London was the first destination of my European tour. The people were not as friendly as I had hoped, but they weren’t terrible. I had both pleasant and unpleasant experiences during my tour in London. We had boarded the tube, or train, to head back to the hotel when a new crowd entered. There was a group of teenagers who were rambunctious just ahead of me and my art teacher. “Bloody” this and “Bloody” that is what their conversation consisted of. I ignored them because the English accent disturbed me to my core and I started to talk to my teacher. They grew quiet and began sharing looks while others were glancing over their shoulders at us. I could see them smiling mischievously like they were about to do something. Then, at the most quiet moment, one girl began to sing “Jolene” by Dolly Parton and then the group burst into laughter. I fidgeted around while my face turned a bright pink from embarrassment. This situation proved to me that everyone, in every location of the world is the victim of being made fun of. It also proved that I was slowly coming to despise English people. We were at the end of our London trip and headed for the train station. During our time at the train station we decided to go grab some food for the ride. We stopped in a small convenience store where I had the hardest time picking a sandwich. During my struggle people were pushing each other, standing in other people’s way and no one spoke a word to each other. This behaviour was strange for me because I was always used to people saying “Excuse me” or “I’m sorry.” It was almost sad to see people just act like others did not exist. This changed, however, when I was still deciding on my sandwich and a man walked up beside me. He was also pondering which sandwich to choose, based on his concerned expression. He then turned to me and asked “How are you doing today?” His consideration was a complete shock to me. He seemed so sincere and struck up an entire conversation with me. I believe that this one man’s decision to have friendly interaction with me made the unpleasant part of my Europe trip a thing of the past. The second destination of my European trip landed my tour group in France. France is one place that I came to despise and will never visit again in my life. When we got off the train and headed towards the shuttle, there were hordes of homeless people everywhere. It is not that I dislike homeless people; It was the thought that there were so many of them living in such awful conditions that made me feel bad for them. We had just turned the corner when I stopped dead in my tracks. To prevent myself from stepping or rolling my suitcase in a soiled sidewalk I had to stop myself completely, while my friends face smacked into my back from walking so close. During this trip, I quickly came to learn that using public bathrooms in France is not free. Since this was the case the homeless did not have the privilege to use a common restroom. Even the citizens that did have money did not waste change on public restrooms. I would see many men just walk behind a pillar and relieve themselves. These filthy conditions made my skin crawl with tiny goose bumps. The France trip had just begun and I was already wondering how much longer my stay was going to last. This was only the beginning of the dreadful France tour.
— 15 — My whole group had been harassed during the entire France trip. This one woman hobbled over to us on one leg begging for money. It did not take long for one of the officers to hustle over with his baton, pointing it at her, and threatened her with foreign words. She then put her bag for money over her shoulder and revealed her other leg that she had been hiding, in hopes of gaining sympathy from the tourists. After the officer left, the women sitting on the ground had pushed their children out to the tourists. They would run up to us with their hands on their bellies and beg for money, while the other children attempted to steal the belongings in traveler’s pockets. I honestly did not know whether to laugh or be disgusted by their actions. To manipulate children to beg for money was an unthinkable act that would never happen back at home. Overall, France has become one place that I despise to all of its extent. The final destination of my European tour was Italy. I cherished every moment of this particular tour. Italy was like visiting the sweet precious grandma that one gets to see every so often. Italians are some of the nicest people that I have ever met. Everyone that we had the pleasure of interacting with on this trip was considerate. Even though they could not understand us they would smile from ear to ear and wave. The atmosphere and weather was similar to what is was at home but just a tad better. Walking down the road to our next museum site, my group was approached by an elderly woman. She boldly inched closer to our faces and talked gently. Me and my friends had not even the slightest idea of what she was saying, when one of our teachers walked up and mentioned she spoke Italian. My teacher listened to what the elderly woman had to say then translated it back to us. “She says that it really warms her heart to see such young men and women traveling and learning about the world. She also says that she enjoys seeing younger people enjoying the world when she cannot.” This women has never met us in her life, yet she expressed such affection towards us and urged my group to continue traveling the world. What she had to say became very dear to me and has stayed in my thoughts until this day. Another wonderful experience was visiting Capri. The island was compact but beautiful and bustling with islanders. The water was slightly baby blue and shimmered like a jewel in the sunlight. I could see straight down to the bottom as I swam farther out into deeper water. The people here seemed free, like they felt no regret as they showed off their flabby, wrinkled skin in their tight bathing suits. People would welcome us into their shops and show off their wares. Everyone had pleasant looks on their faces and seemed relaxed, and so did I. Italy welcomed my group with open arms from start to finish. This last trip showed me kindness and that there was still hope for enjoyable countries that I have yet experience. The places that I visited proved that I had yet to experience everything in the world. Staying in the same place most of my life had limited my experiences to the different cultures and lifestyles. If I had not chosen to attend this European trip then I would still have limited knowledge of how other countries are today. Not everyone is the same in the way that they act and I am glad that I learned this fact. I can guarantee that the thought of visiting France will never happen to me again. Even though there was some good in London I would say that one visit was enough for me. Italy would have to be the place that I will without a doubt travel to again and enjoy every minute of it. Learning what I loved and despised in each of these destinations will forever rest comfortably in my memories. In case I ever travel again to another country I will most definitely know what to expect about cultural differences, but that I still have more to learn. F
— 16 — If Time and Death
If Time and Death Were people I think they’d be great friends Nature would stand watching As Life and Love held hands As Time moves on, with Death in tow They look upon their past All the friends they left behind And all the journeys they had But Death was only dreaming Tim could have no friend Wibble wobble went the clock and Time started again
—Marilyn Loyacano
— 17 — Heart-shaped Lock
There it sits, She looks at the picture a rusty, old box as she opens her eyes Kept safe and secure And somberly smiles with a heart-shaped lock while she tries not to cry
She stares at the object She pulls out a key held tight in her hand and opens the lock, As her thoughts carry her puts the picture away to a faraway land and looks at the clock
Comfortably they rest “I miss you, my love” in the seats of his car she says out loud As he looks to the sky As she blows him a kiss and points out a star to send to the clouds
He rambles on She turns off the light about space and time as she walks out the door And she thinks to herself and says to herself “How’d he get to be mine?” “Sadness no more”
And there it sits, a rusty, old box Protecting all of her memories with a heart-shaped lock
—Kaleena Steakle
— 18 — I Strongly Dislike Poetry
I really hate this poem, I hope I’ve made this clear, I will never be like Dr. Seuss, nor like Shakespeare. You cannot say I didn’t try to write an average verse, Though all the words that I compose just go from bad to worse. With fingers crossed I continue, denying myself a sneer.
I wish my words could shine so bright, just like a chandelier, But what comes out is dull and gray, it fails to disappear. I want nothing more than to be done with this bloody curse. I really hate this poem.
On I go with lousy words, my frustration sheds a tear, I try my hardest to succeed, but my lines just aren’t sincere. My words are all empty, no lines to rehearse, My sestet is dead, no joy to disperse. At this point in time I could sure use a beer, I really (really) hate this poem!
—Chelsea E. McDonald
— 19 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
— Best in Show — “Obsessed With Art” Drawing Maria Valarino
— 20 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
First Place — Photography “Strangers” Photograph Avery Simmons
— 21 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
First Place — 2D “Gray Woman” Collage Miriam Velez
— 22 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
Second Place — 2D “Forgotten Silence” Drawing Miki Harbour
— 23 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
Third Place — 2D “Three Year Self Portrait” Drawing Hailey Holbert
— 24 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
Honorable Mention — 2D “Coloring Imagination” Pencil Marissa Rodarte
— 25 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
Honorable Mention — 2D “Power Horses” Painting Jennifer Mcgregor
— 26 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
Honorable Mention — 2D “Helpless” Collage Samantha Imperial
— 27 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
Honorable Mention — 2D “Students and Boxes” Drawing Samuel D. Feris
— 28 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
First Place — 3D “Gigantic Pearl Earring” Ceramics Maria Valarino
— 29 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
Second Place — 3D “All the Best” Mixed media Cynthia Encisco
— 30 — Summer 2015 Student Art Show
Third Place — 3D “Melting Clock” Ceramics Alexa Rudell
— 31 — Open Call Selections
“Alyse” Drawing Zachary Cuellar
— 32 — Open Call Selections
“Crosshatching Study” Drawing Wei Jin
— 33 — Open Call Selections
“Still Study of Bottles, Flower, and Skull” Drawing Wei Jin
— 34 — Open Call Selections
“Blues” Photograph Alanis Hernandez
— 35 — Open Call Selections
“Going Places” Photograph Alanis Hernandez
— 36 — Open Call Selections
“Skull and Bones” Drawing David Aguilar
— 37 — Open Call Selections
“Cast Down” Acrylic paint and pen David Aguilar
— 38 — Open Call Selections
“Float On” Mixed media Erika Estrada
— 39 — Open Call Selections
“Cancelled” Painting Amy Medeski
— 40 — Open Call Selections
“The Unveiling” Painting Sean Bush
— 41 — Open Call Selections
“Immigration” Digital art Dalia Toribio
— 42 — In the Mix
In ink we read, “All men are created equal” Are we all created equal?
While we are all in the same mix For some freedom was denied Are we really in the mix?
A deaf ear we gave, And we looked the other way. We pretend we are not in cliques. Are we really in the mix?
Children suffer And we pretend we never knew. All the while people complaining about much less. Can all this really be fix? Are we really in the mix?
—Elizabeth San Miguel
— 43 — Light of the Living
Blooming flowers On a midsummers day Big fluffy clouds Moving swiftly away From History that is written Memories yet to be shared Forming a path To bonding with friends Of a glorious, fruitful beam And hardships we bear Shining a light down below Bringing life to be seen Through all of these times The light has never left From luscious, looming trees Growing bigger and brighter To tall grasses all around Touching the faces it has met From animals in the sea And to those underground The happiness in us all Which we know and love Life is procured Showing positively By the light that we see For what has yet to come Held onto by many It is light that we bleed Grasping its beauty Cherishing it dear It bleeds out through music Facing it with youth And to those who will listen That holds little to no fear Or spoken by words Filled with good teachings and wisdom The light brings a message Not to be forgotten, but remembered For those who love life To live it and let it be treasured
—Amber Barfield
— 44 — Morning Prayers by Austin Chandler
The sun is too bright for my eyes as they dazedly flutter open. I try to gulp back the dust that’s coating the roof of my mouth as I turn on my side and sit up on the sand. An all too familiar sourness courses through my muscles, and my equilibrium spirals into the sand even though my head stops just above my knees. I’m good at drinking, but not good enough, I guess. I fumble through my knapsack and find my phone. 7 am. The sun has risen well above the foothills of West LA behind me and embraces the off-white shoreline, dancing on the sapphire waves. It’s beautiful. “Boker tov, Santa Monica.” Parker’s still asleep to my right, shirtless, his left arm wrapped around Aviagil, also sound asleep on their beach blanket. “Boker tov, Yigal,” says Noya, coming up from behind me with two water bottles. She sits down beside me and hand me one. Yigal. After all these years, it’s still weird to hear my Hebrew name. I started using it in 8th grade, when my family began attending the Orthodox shul. Parker doesn’t use his. His parents are old school and gave him a Yiddish name at his bris: Feival. He hates it. Avigail thinks it’s cute. There was another one of the Bias Chana Yeshiva girls with us last night, though. I don’t know where she went, but I’m glad Noya’s still here. Her family is Sephardic, and it shows in her olive tan skin tone, her love for spicy food, her mischievous smile, her beautiful black hair. “Hey, where’s Zehava?” Noya finishes taking a sip from her bottle. “She went back to ouryeshiva to change before prayers.” “And what about you?” “I’ll get to prayers late. I’ll tell rebbetzin I said pesukei dezimra in my room. She likes me; she’ll let it slide.” She flashes that mischievous smile at me. “And what about you?” “My parents still don’t know I left yeshiva. I don’t think they’d be angry or anything. I just want to do my own thing.” A beat. “I still daven, though.” I show her my tefillin bag, tucked away in my knapsack. “Sometimes, I just…” “You’d just rather have ‘sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll’?” I stick my tongue out at her and make a horns up sign with my hand. She rolls her eyes and lies down on her back. I lie down on my stomach and nestle my nose up to her neck, her hair in my face. Before I was so religious, I didn’t realize how sensual hair was. One day, Noya would be covering her hair, with only her husband allowed to see it and so would my wife. But last night, I’d held her in my arms, and she looked at me with these eyes that, I don’t know, seemed like they’d never end, and she ran her fingers through my hair, even under my yarmulke. It was so nice. So different. Then she kissed me. And we kept kissing for a while. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so guilty if we’d stopped there. We didn’t, you know, do the thing. We ended up doing hamichayah, which really isn’t a bad thing. It’s a mitzvah, in fact. We all did it together, in the ocean, just for fun. I don’t know whose idea it was. And though technically a mitzvah is not to be performed under the influence, what’s worse is that hamichayah is done stark naked. And we did it. At 1 am. Wasted. The sourness churns in my stomach. I get up on to my knees and take a big swig of water, but the sourness pulses through my back and neck. Noya looks at me, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
— 45 — I look back at her. All of her. She’s back in her long skirt and blouse, but I’ve seen all of her. She’s someone’s wife. Not yet, but she will be. And I’ve touched her. “We should probably get going.” The No. 7 bus drops me off at West Pico and La Cienga, only four or five blocks after Noya got off at Bais Chana. We’d sat on opposite ends of the bus and had stopped stealing glances at each other only fifteen minutes after leaving Santa Monica. She didn’t even look my way when she disembarked the bus. Being back in Beverly Hills forced her back under the heavy hand of tzenius, where she belonged. She’d been shomer negiah her whole life, until she met me. Until I tainted her. I spit and start walking north towards Temple Beth Am for morning prayers. Praying doesn’t help. Before, the siddur always helped me feel connected to other Jews, to the Bible, to G-d, but not today. Today, it just makes me feel isolated. The siddur is written almost completely in plural first person. Half the words end with “lanu” or “eynu” or “anu”—us, our, we. “MECHOLLANU, MALKEYNU, KI PASHANU” PARDON US, OUR KING, FOR WE HAVE SINNED. There’s no “me” in siddur. Does G-d not care about the “me” just as much? Also whoever wrote the siddur was convinced the prayers of our people would be much more concerned about ethno-religious extinction rather than whether or not I could keep my pants on. “HAVE PITY ON US LORD, IN YOUR COMPASSION, DO NOT HAND US OVER TO CRUEL OPPRESSORS.” “DO NOT ABANDON US IN THE LAND OF OUR ENEMIES TO BLOT OUT OUR NAME.” “GUARD THE REMNANT OF ISRAEL, AND LET NOT ISRAEL PERISH.” “BE CONCILIATED AND PLACTED TOWARD AN AFFLICTED GENERATION.” None of this makes me feel forgiven. I don’t even know what that last line means. But what really gets me is: “WE DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO, BUT OUR EYES ARE TURNED TO YOU.” I look around the room. Worshippers are looking down into their siddurim, towards the Torah, towards Aron HaKodesh, towards the wall, but absolutely no one is looking at G-d. Because no one knows where G-d is. No one can see Him. No one knows if He’s real. The weed was real. The hangovers were real. Dropping acid at a rave on Shabbos, that was real. The way Noya’s eyes widened when I touched her was real. The tears that start dripping onto my siddur were real too. The halls of Yeshiva Elchonon Chabad are as cold as I remember. I knock on the door with the placard that reads, “Rosh Yeshiva: Rav Ezra Shochet” and don’t wait for him to say come in. He looks up from his books, startled, and then becomes rigid when he realizes who it is. He starts to say my name, but I cut him off. “Rabbi!” I stare him down, but start shaking, suddenly feeling very small because this man is connected to G-d, and I’m not anymore, and G-d knows that I kissed a girl and saw her naked and did drugs and ate in on-kosher restaurants, and for some reason, He won’t forgive me for it. He won’t let me forget it. “Rabbi, I’m—“ He won’t let me breathe.” “I’m so fucked up, Rabbi.” His mouth drops, and he begins to admonish me, but his stern words turn to whispers as my tears turn to sobs, and I can’t stop myself, and I’m still shaking, and Rabbi knows he was right about me, but wishes he hadn’t been, and after a moment, he turns to grab his book of Tehillim from the shelf. F
— 46 — Icarus
Mother birthed me with wax wings Plastic feathers bound by kitestrings My conception was never fated to fly Still I strive to one day overcome the sky To feel the breeze bless my wings Grace the clouds and surpass the kings To see the gates of heaven and beyond I plead to the sky, but it shall not respond I was not destined to embrace such things For mother birthed me with wax wings.
—Luis Nava
— 47 — Poetry I Can’t
I poetry can’t, I poetry cannot I promise I’ve tried, but failed a lot Sonnets, Haikus, free verse, Even said it was an abstract thought.
Rhyming I can’t, rhyming I cannot I swear I’ve tried, but it’s always a foul shot Cat, hat, matt, rat Every time it’s like the whole language I forgot.
I am no Shakespeare, Whitman, nor Frost Please don’t make me try anymore Just trust me, I poetry cannot.
—Jessy Valladares
— 48 — Reflections on Thoreau by Heather Monday
The last two summers I have traveled with my children to South Knoxville, TN, to visit family, and friends, and my husband’s grave. Months of planning and preparation culminate in two weeks away from home, from Houston. We revel in love, laughter, and tears. We play in mountain streams, browse boutiques, and eat and eat and eat in the fellowship of belonging. We pile up memories like strips of sod and play house together in their shelter. Time erodes the walls and softens their edges, but their gentled shape will stay mounded on the landscape of our minds for years to come. Perched on this mound, I consider Thoreau’s two years alone in the woods to live deliberately; to get to the heart of life. Is it because six bodies and souls have been knit together in my womb that I need not look to the woods for meaning or for nature herself? A woman knows that nature is in the rhythm of the moon, in the pressure and pain of creation, in heartbeats that emerge from us and gather around us. A mother knows that meaning will find you in the bickering and laughter, in late nights and early mornings, in laundry and groceries and science projects. I remember the mountain stream full of our joy and the grave watered with our tears. Again, I read Thoreau’s words, “I went to the woods…” and I think, “Isn’t that just like a man.”
— 49 — Romantic’s Gutter
Have Patience with me, pull me slow take your time and let my feelings grow. If you feel compelled to lend me strength, your instincts just might buy “us” length. This place, less likely to inspire than sunder any inkling awe sustained by natural wonder. What you’d call “silence” has a distant drawl of mowers, cars and vacuums that replace it all.
No need for candles, we have traffic lights instead. Yet here I think they sit through green and wait for red. No mythic beasts, mysterious and strange aside from the occasional dog with mange. Our ocean, by a distant delta browned; the finest, in which anybody drowned.
On days I yearn to slip the sleuth, humor me, we’ll seek a greater truth. Take my chariot (300 horses powered) to shine a light with which our knoll is showered.
Stand beside me, watch the murky starlight sputter, Learn to live in a Romantic’s gutter.
—Sydney Hvizdos
— 50 — The Armadillo (mulita) General Don Facundo (a fable for children) by Alicia Casals
Thanks to the help of María, the farmer’s daughter, the armadillo Don Facundo and his family were living safe after the girl put all of them on her farm, close to the river. María’s father, the farmer, wasn’t using any chemical substances because he knew that may damage the health of everybody. The armadillo family was living now in an environment free of chemicals and was helping the farmer by eating the ants that were damaging the farmer’s vegetables. Since they were living on the farm, the lettuce, broccoli, and other plants were growing healthy and free of insects. The farmer and the armadillo family were helping each other, and everybody was happy. One morning, María was on the top of a tree reading a book when two men driving one Motorcycle arrived at the farm. They asked the farmer if they could camp on his land for one night, close to the river. María and her father knew that those visitors had a rifle hidden on the back of the motorcycle, and the mulita family wouldn’t be safe. Even with a law that it wasillegal to hunt mulitas, many people didn’t care about the life of the mulitas and the benefits that they gave to the humans and the environment. The farmer said to them that they could not camp on his land. The two men left the farm. María, who was on the top of a tree, saw the motorcycle drive away from the farm, and saw that they didn’t drive away but went into another piece of land next to the farmer’s land and drove toward the river. María saw how they set up a small tent and removed two long guns from a box. They were wild life hunters. Now the armadillo (mulita) family faced another danger; not the chemical substances, but the old enemies: human hunters. María climbed down from the tree and ran to Don Facundo’s cave. María yelled, “Don Facundo! Don Facundo!” Don Facundo replied, “What happened?” María warned him, “There are two hunters who are camping close to here. I need to move your family again.” Don Facundo said, “I think that you should go back to your home and lock your door. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I will see what I can do to save my family. Please, go home and keep safe.” María went back home, but kept looking through the window. Meanwhile, Don Facundo walked on the mud on the border of the river and made sure that he was leaving very visual footprints. He walked far away from his cave, sometimes in a circle, and back to his place through the grass. Walking on the grass didn’t leave any visual footprints. He did that several times; he walked away from his cave on the mud and back again walking on the grass. He left hundreds of footprints on the mud, facing away from his place, but no single footprint was visible facing back to his place.
— 51 — After several hours, he still was walking on the mud, when suddenly he heard human voices. Immediately, he hid his head and feet under his shell and made a ball with his body. This is the only way that armadillos try to protect themselves against predators. One of the hunters touched him with his rifle and said, “Look, this seems like a mulita here!” The other hunter man said, “Hmmm, looks like it is a rock in the mud… Look!! There are hundreds of mulita footprints over there!! Let’s go and follow them!! Ahhh we will have a big feast tonight!! We will barbecue so many mulitas, and still we will have several to take home!! Ja….ja….ja…! I never saw a place with so many mulitas!! Yahoo!” The two men walked into the mud, following Don Facundo’s footprints. They walked for hours, with the mud up to their knees and in so many circles that when they finished, they were exhausted. One of the men said, “We didn’t see any mulitas, and the night is coming. It seems that rain is coming too. We should go back to the camp.” The other hunter said, “No, let’s keeping looking for them. We should find them in any moment.” They kept walking away from their camp. Suddenly, rain fell with loud thunder and lightning. The rain was so strong that the river started flooding very fast. The two hunters started running away from the river and lost their guns. Because it was night already, they didn’t know where their camp was. They had to spend the whole night beneath the strong rain, walking around, trying to find where their tent was located, in vain. The next morning they saw the place where they put the tent, but it was washed away by flooding, along with all their food. Their motorcycle was under the water and full of mud. They walked to the road with nothing, all wet and full of mud, toward their home, which was very far away from there. One of the hunters said, “ What bad luck!! I will never go back again to that place.” Don Facundo, the armadillo, saved himself and his family, and the armadillos continued to live in peace and harmony on Maria’s farm. F
— 52 — The South Will Rise Again by Kayla Fowler
“I been thinking” Gary said, pushing himself enthusiastically back on the rocking chair and looking proudly over the stacks of newspapers piled high next to him. On the first page of each was the same picture of a frantic crowd of people in a super market, fighting desperately over groceries, and the title above, in big, red font, read: SCRAMBLE FOR SUPPLIES AS UNDEAD PLAGUE COMES TO BETHLEHEM. There was no reply from the man beside him who was gently rocking in a chair of his own, busily sewing a worn- looking hand back onto the wrist it was meant to be attached to. The old wood of the church porch creaked beneath them, and Gary continued. “Those old movies, you know? The zombie ones. They always make us seem like we want to eat brains. Where you think that came from, Dale?” Dale made no comment, nearly finished with the work on his wrist. The leathery skin was mottled with grime and smears of brown blood, just his hairless scalp which was seeping some gray liquid from a lesion produced by rot. Gary remembered fondly an afternoon many years before, when the sun glinted off of it at noon and Dale swiped his sweaty forehead in exhaustion. Gary had been inside with his wife, ignoring something she was saying in favor of taking peeks out of the window to watch Dale, shirtless and mowing the grass of his own yard next door. His wife had been the first one Gary had eaten after he caught the plague - completely by accident of course - and he had long since begun to avoid standing in the sunlight because, according to what he’d read from dermatologists on the Internet, it made the decomposition worse. In his experience, it also drew flies. “Because I don’t eem like brains. It’s the worst part of the meal. I like the toes. They’re crunchy, kinda, like chips.” He paused and laughed then, slapping his leg and dislodging his kneecap. “Cheetoes!” Dale groaned, though whether in response or not Gary couldn’t tell. The smell of mildew and decay was thick inside the church behind him, doubtless stemming from the basin of holy water that had been knocked over into the carpet and left to sit. When the wind blew through the gaps in the old walls, it carried that stench out to the porch and reminded Gary that they still had work to do. He sighed, hiked his kneecap back into place, and stood, hobbling away to collect the shovels from the side of the building. “All this talk about food is making me hungry.” Dale grunted an agreement from behind. The stitching on his wrist would be solid, Gary knew, because his work was always practical over pretty, but it was plain that Dale wouldn’t be able to use it until they managed to find some nails or a staple gun to really hold it in place. “You think the pastor would be up in time for lunch if we brought him back right now?” The process of bringing people back was messy, and Gary wasn’t much for it. Usually, he let Dale take care of that, watching him lean over and slobber into an open wound or the mouth to spread the plague to whoever they deemed fit enough, while he dug the graves for the ones that couldn’t be brought back because of decay. Honestly, most of the people they chose not to bring back they chose for petty reasons. One lady, Gary remembered, they had passed on bringing back from the dead because she’d had terrible breath in life. At the time, Dale had that look on his face like he felt it was ironic, since they both smelled awful by virtue of being undead anyway, but Gary insisted that it was the principle of the thing. He enjoyed that he could call the shots of life and death as he saw fit. There was a typical lack of response from Dale about the pastor as he neatly rolled up the clean, flannel shirt cuff that he could reach with his working hand. He held out the other for Gary to roll up, and he nodded acquiescently. “Naw, nevermind. Anyway, what’s one more day? He spent his life in the church, won’t make a difference if he spends his death here, too. Who we burying next? Mrs. Emmylou? She was already getting on up there in age. Been here longer than anybody. She wouldn’t like to be kept around if she couldn’t feed herself,” he rambled, taking hold of the shovel and dragging it along the ground distractedly while Dale carried his over his shoulder into the building. The pews that used to line the church neatly from front to back were now stacked high against one wall like shelving, filled with the bodies of the older members of the congregation, but only the older ones. Children never
— 53 — came back right, they noticed. Mrs. Emmylou was on the very bottom pew as she was substantially more heavyset than some of the others. Looking at her there, bloated, dehydrated, and riddled with spiderwebs from her wig to her open mouth, Gary whined reluctantly. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to do her - Oh! Oh! I know. Let’s dig up somebody in a casket with all their parts still on. We could use the help. That dramatic gay kid who took all Veterans’ Day those pain killers a couple months back. He should be all there, right?” He snickered. “Maybe the pastor can get us married after. Always wondered what being gay was like. Kinda. Well, anyway, that’s for another time.” The commentary passed over Dale like wind, and he reached his single working hand to pull Mrs. Emmylou from the pew with great effort. Sighing, Gary set his shovel on the floor to help. “You’re right. We made’m dead, we should bring’m back. Even if she did give you the worst handjob I ever saw,” he joked. Dale didn’t react to the ribbing, but Gary slapped his leg thinking of last Sunday when he and Dale stumbled into the church, terrifying all of their neighbors. Mrs. Emmylou had grabbed the candelabra off the altar and brought it down on Dale’s wrist as he lunged at her. Unfortunately, it didn’t do much to help the poor woman. Her body tumbled to the floor as a mass of bouncing meat and cracking bones, and on the side of her neck that had been facing the wall was a long, messy, trench of a wound framed with teeth impressions running from her ear to her rib cage under the torn collar of her dress. “Aw, man,” Gary said, “this ain’t going to work. We got to get a wheelbarrow. There might be one in the shed. Let me go look.” He stopped cold when he turned to the door was faced with a sheepish-looking young man who held up his keys as if to explain. “Uh...hi. I was hoping you could help me. My car broke down up the road a little way, and I was looking for –” His sentence ended abruptly in a cough, and his pleasantness evaporated into disgust with a hand clapping over his nose. Slowly, as he evaluated the church, a dawning horror transformed his features. “I— I,” he stuttered, stepping backward as he looked from Dale to Gary to Mrs. Emmylou, whose underthings were sagging with innards and waste was leaking onto Dale’s boots. Drool spilled from the comer of Gary’s mouth, down his chin, and his vision darkened from the edges inward until it had narrowed to a single point. Overwhelming heat settled around his head and shoulders, and he put one foot forward as the smell of body spray, sweat, and skin trailed in with the wind. The boy began to run, shouting desperately for help, but there was nothing visible for miles but the summer-yellowed woods, the gravel road, and a makeshift cemetery spanning the length of the church lawn. Gary gasped deeply, lurching after him. Dale’s exaggerated wheezing followed behind, and they closed the distance before the boy had even reached the road. Gary slammed into him from behind, forcing him to the ground as he pleaded. When Dale caught up, they ripped at his back with teeth and fists until his struggling stopped. For a while, they focused on eating, but eventually, as the sun was setting through the trees so that the branches were a black, tangled net above them, their sense returned. Dale was dragging two fingers down a gash in the back of the boy’s thigh and bringing them back to his mouth to suck the fat while Gary took advantage of his renewed clarity to remove the shoes and pull the toes from their sockets. “Cheetoes,” he giggled around a mouth of squelching muscle and crunching cartilage, “Not much left of this one to bury. Not enough to come back with either. Let’s see what’s in his wallet.” The boy’s pants had been shredded utterly, and the wallet wasn’t much better. Gary ‘ooh’ed, uselessly pocketing the cash inside as he scrutinized the I.D. card. Because it was so faded from use, only the last name could be made out. “Young, 21, from...” His voice fell to a mumble as he tried to make out the word unsuccessfully. “Aik - Ey - Ich - Anyways, somewhere north.” He flicked the card off into the grass. “Boy was a long way from home. You’d think a young kid like this would be hip to the news we had a plague down here.” As he went through the rest of the wallet, he noncommittally sang a hymn. “Think he was baptized? We can’t bury him here if he wasn’t. Can’t ask the pastor for his opinion neither,” he laughed. Whether in response to Gary or not was unclear, but in his gory, disheveled satisfaction, Dale lowered himself into the shade of the grass and finally spoke. “We have holy water.” F
— 54 — Veterans’ Day
Memorial Day we say All gave some, some gave all Sleeping out in the snow Veterans’ Day we say With one eye still open Let’s all go to the mall No attack before the dawn Was what they are hope’n A great war has ended Three score and ten years past The horrors they still live A whole generation Comet to them late at night Wanted a peace to last Skeletons from the camps Or that desperate fight Those heroes are aging Hundreds a day dying When they came home Let’s see a new movie To crowds cheering Where heroes are flying We never knew Their pain during Pause a moment Just to give thanks Most have gone from this life For those brave men All too few still around Who stood up to tanks For this Veterans’ Day Let us think thoughts profound
To call a live hero Is such a small cost Sacrifice remembered For those we have lost
—Pat Wetuski
— 55 — What’s Going On? by Charles Wright
Another day another dollar moving through the trenches, I can’t tell whether this is a torn home or a war zone. What’s going on? Another day another problem in past to future tenses, all ready to hang me out to dry, but in different forms of lynches. What’s going on? No not everyday is that bad, but it’s not that good either. It all depends on your connection the receiver, and we’ve all been using dial up, letting all of our problems pile up to the point that we try to file but, whats going on? Are you trying to tell me I can’t put my guilt here and my doubt there? I can’t keep a basket full of fears and my disasters in a chair? Nooo stop! My lusts go in that box. When I choose wrong I feel lesser, so I hide all my decisions in a my dresser. What’s going on? The price of a life is going down like gas, social media is a subject in class, teachers and preachers are a thing of the past, and the Government replaced Dr. King and they scream bondage at last! What’s going on? Married couples are asking are these unions over yet (Soviet) like Stalin, Joseph Stalin. Meanwhile, Kanye’s bound to falling in love while the people are just falling. What’s going on? These brother’s can’t see cuz everything’s black, and the people can’t see cuz everything’s black. What’s going on? The brothers’ can’t see because they’re blind-folded. The message couldn’t reach the people cuz they eyes closed it. Isn’t that a shame! You cut off the lights and tripped now I’m the one to blame? Because I’m black? And now you’re like, “ I hope that’s not the message that he’s going on, if so, I’m sure his mind must be going gone”. I hope you see that I just showed you what is going on. Still, the question is still, pose. The perspectives directives have changed but the lecture is still prose. The professors conjectures are skilled pro’s, It’s like they set goals that exceeded there foes. It’s like the ex-cons rose and defeated the pros. What’s going on is more vintage than the music that I wrote this from. To understand the point that I’m moving toward replace the word “on” with “forward”. What’s going forward? When he dropped the bomb the blow was atomic. What’s going forward? What does it look like? If everything left, does it still look right? If the sun doesn’t shine, does it still look light? Understand, the Lord is who I’m moving toward. He’s got the Edge so I’m moving Ford. If He’s the way then I’m the subway, and that explains why people use me more than Sunday. I scream(ice cream) for y’all to get the scoop because your hearts cold. You were expecting Cookies N Cream but the truth is more like Rocky Road, so eat it slow don’t try to swallow hole. What’s going forward? Progress is the only object that can get my eyes wet. I have tears because the process is in such ob-sess. I’m so busy with the project that I’ll probably have to quit my job next, and even if I don’t quit I’ll probably still end up jobless. What’s going forward? The only direction to go in. Especially when you know your path was previously chosen. I’m proud to be black even though my skin wasn’t chosen. There’s got to be a way to make the color gap close-in. I know! I’ll create a permanent lotion. F
— 56 — We hope you enjoyed
2016STAR MAGAZINEBURSTS
LoneStar.edu/Kingwood Affirmative Action/EEO College
— 57 — “Alyse” by Zachary Cuellar
graphite drawing
SPECIAL THANKS TO
Dr. Katherine Persson LSC-Kingwood President James Stubbs, Dean, Fire Science, Letters, Arts and Kinesiology Office of Student Life Center for Civic Engagement Kingwood for their support BURSTS 2016 STARMAGAZINE
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