New Forum | Spring 2016

New Forum
Spring 2016

New Forum
UCI Undergraduate Creative Writing
Spring 2016, Volume 20, Issue 3
www.newforum.wordpress.com
newforum@uci.edu
Editor-in-Chief
Celyn Matienzo
Associate Editors
Rachael Heinsen
Aya Labanieh
Isis Huang
Monica Shaar
Victoria Gilleland-Hendersen
Special Thanks:
Susan Davis, the Creative Writing Emphasis, the Department of English and
Comparative Literature, Alternative Media, and Justin Standard.
“This publication does not represent the views and/or opinions of the University of California,
Irvine; the University of California, the Regents of University of California, and/or its affiliates.”

Featuring:
Destine Williams
Naomi Huan
Steven Elliot Caedmon Shinder
Cu An Fleshman
David Ngo
Cover photo
courtesy of Jason Lyle
Authors of the featured pieces remain anonymous during the selection process. Only after
selection are names revealed; multiple pieces by individual authors are coincidental.

Orchestra
~ Destine Williams
Gray dawn slips past
Gingham curtains and
The maestro comes,
Crow’s feet ingrained deep
Beside both eyes
She taps her egg against the bowl
And one and two and three and four
On cue
Rain percusses against the windows
A firm, but steady
Pit-pat. Pit-pat.
The scottish fold kitten tips her head
Listening for the
Rattle-rattle
Of dry pellets in her plastic bowl
Coming down like a quick march.
One, two. One, two. One, two.
And Maestro runs russet potatoes
Over the stainless steel grater
For hashbrown patties
Shik! Shik! Shik!
To go with,
Sweet concord grape jelly
Squished between
A golden biscuit
And uh one. And uh two.
And the microwave joins in,
White mug of water turning
While the red numbers count down
From 2:30. It hums
To zero
Ready for a tea bag.
The beat goes on.
Beep! Beep! Beeeeeeeep!
And a damp-haired husband comes in
From the hall.
He too is a part,
Heavy feet thump like a drum.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
He emerges to find the kitchen astir.
Sink running,
Ssssssssshhh!
Dishes clattering.
Clop-clop-clop!
Maple bacon frying,
Ssssssssss!
One, two, three, four.
And click!
Maestro cuts the stove off.
Breakfast done.

White Guy in a Chinese Grocery Store
~Naomi Huan
Wrinkly, with his belly sticking out
pregnant with spaghetti meatballs and rejections,
friendly started the conversation with "nihao" and
gazed into my boob crack for an answer. Held up
a jar of miso and asked for my professional Chinese advice
on this Japanese seasoning.
Because pretty girls have torn his ego
apart, eaten it up. I, not as good-looking
or as blonde as they are, which makes me perfectly
kind. Also,
doable.
He didn't expect someone like me to be cold-blooded.
I would have made things up, really if he was handsome
enough.
But he was not.
Guess he will have to live without the taste of
good miso.

May Matter
~Steven Elliot Caedmon Shinder
Spider crawling on a white wall,
On the third Sunday of May.
If I were close to you I would end you.
But I sit many feet away,
Thus the impulse is not so potent
I see you walking upward toward the painting,
Upon which the sun sets.
Are you aware that it is sand upon which you walk?
That you are a terrestrial octopus walking on water?
An ascendant inhabiting the western sky?
Do you appreciate art as much as I would?
Should I envy your point of view,
What with your miniature size,
And your multitude of eyes?
Is this your attempt at escapism?
How I wish that I could anthropomorphize your kind,
But it seems inevitable that I will crush them again.
And it may not be upon the sand below the crimson clouds,
Nor below white clouds hovering over dead seagulls;
There will be neither horizon nor sunset within sight.
And on Sunday May first next year,
What do I crush into ink on this page?
Spider crawling on my white screen.

Adobe
~Cu An Fleshman
On the night we finish our house, I wear a red bandanna,
you wear a faded baseball cap, both our bodies are more clay
than muscle and bone. Our eyes have cooled to pumice,
and our house dries behind us. Tonight, we baptize
each other in the sand of the backyard, where nothing
grows. Tonight, we swallow ribs of cacti, bandage
our cuts in tarantula silk, and the prairie dogs howl.
You sunbake the snake of my vertebrae, I petroglyph
the shale of your back, and I forget that this night
is the story I tell myself when I need to close my eyes,
and turn nothing at all
into something I can hold in both hands.

When Blessed
~David Dinh Ngo
Whenever my aunt came for a visit during our parents’ divorce, she would
always read our palms. We were young back then so the whimsy of superstition
would engage our little heads every time. It was also just a nice distraction from the
yelling that was being horribly hidden from us.
My sister would always get the same fortune—a lifeline all the way across
the edge of her hand, and the marriage line deeply embedded. She would grow old
with her true love; a perfect life. Today, she tells me her boyfriend of two years is
the perfect guy, but there’s no pizazz. She’s also been attracted to a guy at the gym
who happens to be married with children. I wonder who the true love is.
As for me, this aunt would always say I’d be wealthy due to the “M” on
my own palm. Everybody has an “M” on their palm. Either way, I didn’t care. Your
everyday eight-year- old tends to have a rudimentary concept of money. Or maybe
I was just too spoiled to notice the difference between a lack and a surplus. Today,
I’m $15,000 in debt. I’d still rather not have that fortune come true. Getting rich
off the potential royalty of my genetics? Becoming the automatic successor to my
own circus freak kingdom? Just like that? No hard work or anything, just need to
have an M on the bottom side of my hand to live the good life? That leaves a
disgustingly sour taste on my tongue. My pride—which I begrudgingly value so
highly—wouldn’t allow it.
If this particular fortune was eternally accurate though, everybody who
was born with hands would be rich. We’d all drown in our aristocratic snootiness as
the handless unlucky at the bottom of our established hierarchy would do all the
scut work. The Ungrabbables with their flesh stubs would be too small of a vocal
minority to overthrow the fingered monarchs. The power of opposable thumbs
would be very symbolic. Of course, if one were to lose one or two hands, they’d be
on the same level. But then how would it work if you lost a few fingers?
Anyway, we don’t talk to that aunt anymore. Her fortunes were terrible.
She also chose the cheating father’s side because the substantial 8% of blood that
isn’t water happens to be thicker than water. It’s scientifically proven.

New Forum Staff
Rachael Heinsen Associate Editor
Rachael Heinsen is third year English Major who, in the hopes of one day having a PhD, has
found herself wearing more hats than she is comfortable with. In an effort to find solace, she
reorganizes her books, watches that same episode of Doctor Who, and consumes an outrageous
amount of coffee. Hang out with her long enough and maybe she’ll serenade you or close read
one of your text messages.
Aya Labanieh Associate Edtor
Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the
vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now
vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified and has
vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the
violently vicious and voracious violation of volition! The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta
held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant
and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add
that it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.
Isis Huang Associate Editor
Isis Huang is a fourth-year undergraduate English major pursuing the Creative Writing Emphasis
in poetry, although she also likes to explore the less stylized dialect of prose. She once waited
outside a Hollywood cemetery to watch a movie featuring David Bowie. When her friends
started a game in which each person passed around a notepad and wrote one line that
successively completed a story, she was the one who created the opening scene of a goldfish
inside a sushi restaurant. She will leave the ending to your imagination.
Monica Shaar Associate Editor
Monica Shaar is a fourth-year English major with a Creative Writing emphasis in Fiction. She is
known to sing original songs sporadically to an unwilling audience, better known as her friends
and family. Whether she is cooking, walking down the hallway, or moving furniture, she does not
hesitate to announce it through song. On other occasions, she can be found in the corner of the
library reading a book, typing hectically on her computer keys, or freeloading off her mom’s
Netflix account. When she is out in the real world she is sure to smile and hope anxiously for a
smile back.
Victoria Gilleland-Hendersen Associate Editor
Victoria Marie Gilleland-Hendersen, aka Victoria Rize by all those who do not wish a dreadful
fate for their tongue, is an intrepid space pirate. Captain of the fiercest crew around, she’s known
to melt her enemies with only a look, and I do mean melt quite literally. Before her descent into a
life of crime, she studied Film and Media Studies in her third year at UC Irvine and had a
passionate love affair with creative writing and foreign languages. After realizing this life wasn’t
for her, she stole a spaceship and picked up a few vagabonds and a cat along the way. She is
rumored to have golden teeth and an arm made of platinum. Of course, nobody’s ever seen her,
so they can’t confirm this. Nevertheless, you should watch your back in case she’s in
here tonight.
Celyn Matienzo Editor-In-Chief
Third year English major, wallowing in her biology minor, Celyn is reading and writing away. She
waits patiently for the warm, white light of the summer days. After a year of working hard, she
looks forward to warmth, sleep and reading for her own sake. You'll find her curled up with
some books on the posthuman and cuddled up with her giant Milton anthology. She dreams of
artificial intelligence.