Scheherazade ISSUE 6 2016
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Scheherazade ISSUE 6 2016 Managing Editor Ivan Garcia Readers Mike Beck, Zachary Diaz, Marc Ferris, Justin Huang, Nicholas McCullough, PJ Schmidt, Stacey Tibayan Faculty Advisors Henry Marchand, Michelle Morneau Special Thanks for the Support of Rosa Arroyo Diane Boynton Michele Brock The Creative Writing Club of MPC The MPC Foundation Scheherazade Issue 6 CONTENTS Cover Photograph: Butterfly by Brandy Auel Creative Nonfiction Ghosts, a Memoir by PJ Schmidt ........................................................... 1 The Sleepover by Tanya Fadem ............................................................ 8 Short Fiction Geologic Time by Leslie Little ............................................................ 13 Mythic by Erika Salazar ........................................................................ 21 Renaissance by Emily Migliazzo........................................................ 40 Stir by Pam Schierer .............................................................................. 43 The Flea by Erik Fetler.......................................................................... 58 The Lonesome Death of Luke Davis by Colton Miller ................ 70 The Strange Chronicles of Francis Conney by J.T. Rethke ........ 83 Waiting by Russell Swartz .................................................................. 94 Wandering by Marc Ferris .................................................................. 99 Novel Excerpts Striver by David Olsen ........................................................................ 103 The Headless Witch by Mark Sumners ......................................... 115 Photography & Graphic Art Breadth4 ........................................................................................................ 127 Breadth12 ..................................................................................................... 128 Fabric Study by Golnoush Pak ......................................................... 129 [Former] Fish Market........................................................................... 130 Far from the Boardwalk by Ruvic Delacruz ............................... 131 Poetry Apples by Rebecca Shiraev ................................................................ 132 At Continent’s Edge by Pam Schierer ............................................ 133 Covering by Jennifer Clymer ............................................................ 135 Dust by Rebecca Shiraev .................................................................... 136 Goodbye by Tanya Fadem .................................................................. 137 Home by Jonlyn Vogt ........................................................................... 138 Hosts Hereby Herald Happy Haunted Halloween by Frederick Mohr ............................................................................... 139 Kama’aina by Jennifer Clymer ........................................................ 141 Kinana by Patricia Merrifield .......................................................... 145 Ode to Nate Mackey by Don May .................................................... 148 Redwood by Rebecca Shiraev ...........................................................150 The Coffin Man by Kanani San Nicolas .........................................152 The River by Haley Walker ................................................................153 When I Write by Pam Schierer ........................................................154 Womb by Patricia Merrifield ............................................................156 “The Coffin Man” by Kanani San Nicolas, “Hosts Hereby Herald…” by Frederick Mohr, “The Flea” by Erik Fetler, “The Strange Chronicles…” by J.T. Rethke, and “Wandering” by Marc Ferris were winners of the Creative Writing Club of MPC’s Halloween Writing Contest. PJ Schmidt Ghosts Back at the beginning, when I was young or new to this world of paramedics occupied by men, by the daring, the caring and by the broken I was in awe. Each time the Plectron radio would produce its’ mechanical set of multiple tones, I’d imagine the worst, which to those on the job were “the best” as far as calls went. I was in school to be a paramedic, or I was about to start my internship, the point being that I had yet to do much more than assist the elderly, run people to their dialysis appointments or transfer a bedridden patient from one place to another. On this slightly overcast but warm day. I’d gone to visit a paramedic, Tom and his partner. I in my civilian attire and they in their uniforms, ready to head out to a call at a moment's notice. They’d wanted a quick lunch and invited me along, so I jumped into the back of the ambulance for the few minutes' ride down the street to pick up some food. It wasn’t a holiday, there were no special events going on and the day had been quiet (which was a word I learned that you never say while on duty or with those on duty). There were very few calls for service and there was no reason to think our ten or so minute jaunt to and from to pick up and bring lunch back to the station would be any different. Of course, it was. 1 Before getting to wherever they’d chosen for lunch, the tones blared from the bulky and burdensome old radios the men wore on their hips. The call was for an MVA (motor vehicle accident), Code 3 (lights, sirens, with all haste). The location was Highway 92, halfway up the hill that separates the Pacific Coast and Half Moon Bay from the inland of San Mateo County. Highway 92 was known for being treacherous when dark, wet or foggy. It wound back and forth with sheer drops to one side into ravines filled with rocks and brush, and the other side steep rock and brush covered hills. While there were trees at the base of the road which met a second highway, the trees were few by the halfway point up Highway 92, and there were even fewer turnouts and passing lanes. The two lane road would be packed during the summer and weekends; beachgoers, families, campers and vans. I’d been on that road in the dark and in the fog; it was a discomfiting drive as a young person. When I was tired, the windows would be rolled down and the radio on high just to stay awake and remain alert. That day though, from the back of the ambulance, I remember the sun shining in mid afternoon and no major events were going on “over the hill,” as it was called. Tom, who I called a friend, was in the front passenger seat. He would be the “technician,” or lead, for whatever would be found once we got to our destination. His job on the way to the call was to get radio updates, work through in his head all the possible scenarios; what 2 additional equipment he’d need, what hospitals were on divert because the ER’s were full, what time frame was acceptable for a critical patient to be taken by ambulance versus landing a helicopter to fly them out. These were just a few of the things he had to consider before we got to where ever we were going. My job was to observe. While we worked for the same company, I wasn’t on duty, I wasn’t in uniform and I wasn’t trained to the extent that Tom and his partner were. No matter, as most of these calls ended up being quite minor; someone with slight back pain, or a lightly strained their neck who wanted to go to the hospital “just in case.” Those were the typical results of this type of call. On the way up the highway we lost the radio signal. At times it would come through momentarily like the desperately needed breeze on a hot summer day, but then it would fade out just as quickly. It took what seemed like an eternity to get to our destination, weaving through cars on the roadway, using the few wider areas with their slender dirt shoulders as our own lane, and finally as we rounded a corner seeing a vehicle on its side blocking both lanes. I don’t recall what Tom or his partner said but I do recall my heart starting to race and putting on my “work persona,” the face that shows no emotion, the voice that will not waver, the reassuring hand that may lead someone to or away from something. The ambulance stopped; the distinctive deep metallic ratcheting of the emergency brake was a sound I could almost taste. Before I knew it 3 one of the crew had thrown open the back doors of the ambulance, grabbed a jump bag, with trauma supplies, and signaled me to come out to assist. Once I exited the back of the ambulance, I came to see why they moved so quickly. I’d seen the car on its side while looking through the small transition area from the back of the ambulance to the front, but what I didn’t see were the people, standing in the roadways, their vehicle doors open. There was pointing and some shouting and I recall the sound of crying somewhere behind me. Tom’s partner went around the car to the driver’s side, against the roadway. I stuck with Tom; we went to the other side, where the undercarriage of the car faced up the hill. Tom looked me in the eyes. I knew what he wanted; he was trying to see if I was “there,” able to function and follow his instructions. The look lasted a fraction of a second, but it was clear and concise, and within the same breath he started yelling instructions. It occurred to me that I was on my first really big accident scene and that I was actually going to be putting my training into use. It didn’t strike me just how odd the scene was as Tom and I quickly knelt on one side of the body in front of us. A body, face down on the black pavement, lying still in the shade of the vehicle. No face visible, just the denim jeans with a bit