Windward Review Volume 19 (2021): Empathy and Entropy

Empathy and Entropy

WINDWARD REVIEW Vol. 19, 2021

Empathy

and

Entropy

WINDWARD REVIEW

Vol. 19, 2021

Empathy and Entropy

Managing Editor

Dylan Lopez

Co-Managing Editor

Raven Reese

Senior Editor

Zoe Elise Ramos Jmj

Associate Editors

Ellianna Nejat |Sophia Brewer |Nico Montalvo |Chloe Swan-Rybalka

|Cayley Benavides |Mathew Mendoza |Estevan Martinez |Christine

Farrow |Nick Shirley |Cadence Olivarez |Aubrey Arismendez |Charity

McCoy |Renee Hernandez-Garza |Elijah Esquivel |Kristopher Thompson

|Kaylani Phillips|Camille Townsend |Juan Eguia |Danielle Johnson

|Students of ENGL 4385: Studies in Creative Writing: Literary

Publishing, Windward Review, Spring 2021

Art Editor

Sheena Peppler

Social Media Team

Raven Reese | Breanna Gustin | Jay Janca

Assistant Social Media Team

Amanda King | Cheyenne Sanchez | Natalie Williams

Design Team

Dr. Manny Pina | Students of ENGL 3378: Document Design and

Publishing, Spring 2021

Design Leads

Halli Castro | Zoe Elise Ramos Jmj

Faculty Advisor

Dr. Robin Carstensen

Cover Art

Leticia R. Bajuyo “Event Horizon at Peak Shift”, CD/DVD art installation

at SITE Gallery Houston/ Silos at Sawyer Yard, Houston, TX,

Oct. 13 - Dec. 1, 2018; Photography by Nick Sanford; Curated by Dr.

Volker Eisele, Director/Founder of ArtScan

Funding and Support provided

by Texas A&M Univiversity-

Corpus Christi English Department

| Paul and Mary Haas

Endowment

WR is supported by Islander

Creative Writers, the TAMU-CC

creative writing club run by President

Dylan Lopez. Find ICW on

Facebook, Instagram, & Twitter

(@Islander Creative Writers)

Windward Review, journal

and blog: https://www.tamucc.

edu/liberal-arts/windward-review/index.php

Also find us on Facebook, Instagram,

& Twitter (@WindwardReview)

Table of Contents

Letter from the Senior Editor

John Stocks.............................8

Meditation on February Snow

Sergio Godoy...........................9

Glitched Body

Your soft touch on my skin

Out of

Allan Lake...............................11

The Audio Record

Erica Engel..............................12

Functional

Andrena Zawinski.................. 18

Three’s a Crowd

Veins of Coal

Michelle Hartman...................20

Becoming aware

realization

Have a great day?

Becky Busby Palmer..............21

A Mother’s Job

Snakes at Sundown

Love Triangle

Chinyin Oleson......................23

My Day a Misplaced Universe

Belly from Hell

Firecrackers

Cissy Tabor............................26

Magnificent Murmation

ire’ne lara silva......................27

In this dream of blue horses

Macaela Carder......................28

The Ties That Bind

A Whittenberg........................33

Life slips

Jamaican Holiday, 2006

ENDNOTES

Vendela Cavanaugh................34

Unsprung

Floret

Nick Hone................................36

Shadow and Ash

Alan Berecka...........................41

The Hell of It

Ron Wallace............................42

How Not to Be a Housepainter

(For Sioux)

Dragon

Dinosaur

Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton...45

Hanna

Subtropical Herbarium

Theodore Hodges...................47

Red from Shipping and Receiving

Jacob Benavides.....................55

ink

Limb Love

Morning

The Exhibitionist

Jacobus Marthinus Barnard...58

The Aftermath of Childhood

Dear Chamomile,

My First Heartbreak

I am the Rain

Harriet Stratton......................59

An Ear to the Ground

Chad Valdez............................60

Refractions

Nicholas S. Pagano.................69

Celosia

Jane Vincent Taylor................70

Time Off the Path

Some Things I Know About

My Keeper

My Next Door

Leticia R. Bajuyo.....................73

Visual Poetry Using Player Piano Rolls

Longing for Belonging

Cameron Adams.................76

A Paradise’s Memory

Captured by a Student:

The Silhouette Painted by a

Hallway’s Words

Arrie Barnes Porter............77

Ode to a Fat Girl

Jill Ocone............................78

Molly in My Heart

Crystal McKee.....................81

Humanity in Media

Matthew Tavares................84

god’s Current Perspective on Humanity

Pop Quiz

Drive-thru Psychosis

Michelle Eccellente Stevenson....87

What Right Did You Have

Bob May...............................88

It’s Just This Year

Scott D. Vander Ploeg.........98

The Threat of Shelter

Jayne-Marie Linguist.........101

Float

Shawnna

Riot

Devyn Jessogne.................103

Can You Still Believe I’m Sane?

Phantom Illness

Portrait of Your Heart

Katie Higinbotham.............105

Love Letters into the Void

Joseph Tyler Wilson..........108

[Until the wet now January gale]

Pavanne for Jessica

Neil deGrasse Tyson on the Radio

Katherine Hoerth...............110

Beauty As An Invasive Species

Busted Ear Drum

Jimena Burnett..................112

A Triptych Ten Thousand

JE Trask..............................114

Longing for Love

Roleplay: What We Seek What We

Think We Seek

___ by ___

Song – for Jennifer

Danger

Jog from books laptops science

CeAnna Heit.......................119

memory clots

Crystal Garcia.......................124

Transient Lives (Density of Seconds)

Leticia R. Bajuyo..................126

Event Horizon at Peak Shift

Christina Hoag.....................128

The Couch

Mark A. Fisher......................135

all we see or seem

Melody Wang.......................136

Clumsy

fleeting

Minoti Vaishnav...................137

Lasso

Stefan Sencerz.....................140

People on the Beach or Existentialism

in the Art of Walking the Dogs

Hope Meierkort....................148

Of the Earth We Seek

Staring into the Void

Barrio Writers 2021

Raven Reese........................151

Letter from Co-Managing Editor

Ani Eubank...........................150

A Bird

Free and Wild

Austin Martinez...................153

The Window

Julieanne Sandoval.............154

Maybe I’ll Never Know your Name

Emma Ryan LeBlanc...........155

song bird

Ernesto Gonzalez................156

One day

Jacob Claunch.....................157

Why I Write

Take a Smile

Joseph Fulginiti...................158

The Barrio Writers

Julia Fulginiti.......................159

I am The Reader

If I Could Build a World

Mackenzie Childs.................161

Frail Fawns

Leonel Monsivais.................162

My Fairy God Mother

A Voice That Sails The Stormy Sea

Okami

Matthew Gomez..................163

The Memories You Bring Back

Aurora Felicita Salas-Cano....164

My Last Call for Help

Parker

Three in the Morning

Sophie Johnson....................167

Elegy of a Memory

the Real me?

Xander Garcia.......................168

In the wake of my tears

It’s the everyday lessons

Original Song for the Things

They Carried

Contributors’ Notes .................170

Letter from the SENIOR Editor

This 19th volume, Empathy and Entropy 2021, has been ~735 days in the

making. i will let that sink in, mostly for myself. i have written, rewritten, and remixed

this letter multiple times in hopes of publishing in summer 2022, fall 2022, winter

2022, and finally now. In this version, i think of my words as an apology. Please imagine

that we are sitting in the same room and that i am speaking directly to you. Forgive

my misspellings or poorly chosen diction--i have to write this my way. As well, my

words are much less important than the works contained in this volume. But honesty

is all that i love to give and i am grateful for the opportunity to provide honesty to you.

To all contributors and collaborators that have been waiting, you have never

been forgotten. With the amount of time that i have spent reading and contemplating

the works in this volume, i can say that each piece embodies what nothing else can.

Though i have agonized over creating a story around Empathy and Entropy, the pieces

in this volume speak for themselves. There are irreplaceable textures and confluences

of senses and experiences that don’t have a name yet. Though i am a no-one-editor,

each work in here is a world of its own that i haven’t finished exploring and never will.

i have tried for so long to talk to other editors about how much of a difference

it makes when you understand creators, beginners or professionals, as people.

Because there are infinite dimensions in your own work that you don’t even see.

Badness, ugliness, and mistakes somehow become perfect in their material form. This

type of sight takes practice to learn, but at this point, this sight never leaves me. My

only gift is my ability to see these deeper textures. The role of an editor is to share

this sight with readers through the architexture of this journal.

i will say frankly that i wanted to do more to bring materialist influences

into this volume; the contrast of “Empathy and Entropy” is something that i am still

contemplating intensely and mapping out within a humanistic framework. But like everything,

there is a lack of finishment to this creative product of Empathy and Entropy.

Unfinishment seems to be a natural quality of all artforms. Because finality would

entail that a material product is precisely the sum of its parts. When in reality, ink on

paper is so much more than ink on paper;

in fact, it is infinitely more. i will not deny this any longer-- as much as the

concrete world seems to have itself figured out, what is material is infinitely divisible,

and what is supposed by desultory definitions and cultural predicates... do not end

the story of what it perceived in any artform. The materiality of art is so physical and

abrupt in its intentionality that arises both from a skillful command of crafts as well

as an intuition or human ache. This is so much so that the material art becomes immaterial

much more easily (in perception and feeling) than other things of this world.

It cannot be supposed that an artform is not alive enough to have a voice of its own,

nor can it be assumed that an artist knows what they have created in abundance. This

should be freeing.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

My specialty, i hope, is to help creators perceive these infinite textures and

living tissues within their own artforms and others’. But infinity is very hard to work

with when you are an imperfect graduate student editor like myself. This is why the

editorial process of WR is something that myself and my team have been refining

for years. Humanistic editing is the term i started using back in 2019. Back then, my

goal was simple and impassioned: respond to each submission personally, give every

submission your full attention, and assume that you as a reviewer are biased;

in fact, understand yourself as a receptacle of bias; meditate on these considerations

of the “good” and the “bad” in writing for so long that they unwind and

don’t make sense. Then, the “good” and the “bad” in relation to art are seen for what

they are: poles---obstacles---, a cultural dichotomy that prevents the possibility of

seeing the extradimensions or intradimensions to creative activity. You can touch and

feel prejudice as much as you can touch and feel what is material. That is why the

unreal dimensions of art are much more real than the things thought of as good or

bad.

There is a numbness that occurs when the editor does not realize this, there

is a reproduction of the same and more of the same, using more of the same practices

that promote the same. But when “good-bad” terms become non-axiomatic to

your editorial praxis, you don’t have to reinforce cultural expectations that you never

consented to. The editor’s role too is to inspect what they inadvertently consent to by

and through their process.

That is why my style of humanistic editing is never concerned with qualifying

“goodness”. i desire instead to literally make the creative architexture for a space of

creative freedom. Of course this path implies that “freedom” itself is an intrinsic good,

which is a stance that i have to qualify. So, i will note that i am not interested in my

own editorial freedom intrinsically. But my editorial freedom is necessary if i am to

build up a space for creators’ freedom.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Transparency and empathy are everything. That is why i take ownership of

WR’s process-based failures while creating this volume-- it was never in my intention

to take three years to get this journal to print. Make no mistake, i have ruminated

frequently about the feelings and needs of contributors and this has caused me pain.

Because we work with every level of creator/ writer, including some that are publishing

for the first time, which is a daunting experience. And other contributors have

simply been inconvenienced by my lack of tact. Honestly, it hurts me personally to not

have the time to communicate authentically with each contributor, through email or

otherwise. Really, it just burns and i have spent too much time burying myself deeper

into bad feelings in some poetic demise, as i say, drawing pictures of myself along the

way.

As a lead editor, i have clearly made the choice of (in the background) setting

the right foundations/ values for our publication as opposed to setting up for efficiency.

i admit that my emphasis on foundations and intentional work is what has made

production so slow with this volume. But this slowness should not be misconstrued

as a lack of care for you. i believe that you specifically are weaved into our editorial

framework. And you specifically with your patience have assisted us in building up

towards an editing style that is empathetic, nurturing, and socially aware. In fact, the

most painful failures (in embodying this empathetic style) are what we have learned

the most from and used in our building blocks.

We have absolutely not reached our potential yet. i admit that perfection is

my goal--conceptually, with our structure and our ability to reflexively engage with

creators and readers. You might query why “perfection” is my goal. The reason is that

a creative journal is a necessary interlocution, an infinitely dimensioned story where

each contributor is entangled with the existences of other contributors, readers, and

even editors. Some creators do not see the potential in their own work until we provide

this story. Nothing less than the seeking of perfection is a worthy pursuit when

an editor becomes aware of this.

In case no one has told you so yet, every submission that we receive is a

unique lifeform that deserves its own journal or parade of support and adoration. This

much i know. Yet, it is impossible to provide this much to every single person. This is

a tragic thing that i know very well. Still, i have experienced first hand that not-forprofit

creative journals fill a special community need that nothing else does. Thank you

for being an irreplaceable part of our story and growth. With infinite love and infinite

thanks,

Zoe Elise Ramos Jmj

John Stocks

Meditation on February Snow

Still unblessed by the benefice of sleep

I stir, unfurl and sit. Imagining the snow

thickening outside, slowly by degrees, under

a soft, anorthite, yellowing moon.

Night shift workers who sigh as one, across the valley

where the low rumble of a distant train

west bound, through villages, over tors and moors

enables beleaguered Silver Birch and Ash

to shiver off their tremulous white load.

I imagine the empty offices, lights tripped

by foxes, cats, rough sleepers.

The Glen’s in Scotland where at minus twenty-three

half-starved Blue Tits freeze, and tumble from trees.

And I think of my dead father who

sometimes visits me in dreams

as if it is the most natural thing to do,

with words of wisdom, frail as gossamer

that dissipate, like morning mist.

Then, I imagine the underpass, where the lost

battered and bewildered, share their last cider

a rug, a fag, a fix, a slug, a sarnie.

Knowing, someone may disappear tonight

culled by the bitter Siberian wind.

leaving little more than a blanket

a sleeping bag and hope behind.

Trip off the edge of their uncertain world

the fragile, floundering, ship of life.

Windward Review: Vol. 19

8

Sergio Godoy

Glitched Body

It starts by making sense.

I give you sense

and

meaning.

and here you are with all the

meaning and

all the

words that

form you. Look at you.

You have this hair

this eyes

this lips

this ass

You like this toy

that wig

those shoes

You are either

or.

I clothe you, I give you

skin and bones

with my text. I give you

body. I embody you.

Then you stop

making

sense.

Then your clothes don’t fit

you, your skin chokes

you, my words

start killing

you

suffocate.

Will you let me hurt

you?

Will you let my words confuse and

destroy

you?

Divest from the language that created

you.

Don’t let the text confine

you,

be free, unnameable,

untraceable.

STOP

MAKING

SENSE

9

Empathy / Entropy

Your soft touch on my skin

My words are tied to the past

and I

can’t untether myself from them

I can’t I’m not I wish I was I’m

not

free

I am man I am not man I am

body I am not body I am

question I am not an inquiry I

am

me I am not me I am

her I am not her I am

they I am not them I am

and there is no

words.

Sergio Godoy

Caress my tits and

find the words

behind your fingers

as they come inside

me.

That is the only way.

Out of

These systems

there’s chaos.

Let the markets crash to

find the rivers.

Let democracy fail to

walk the forests.

Let your gender vanish to

embrace the mountains

and

once that’s done

let yourself die to

make way for the future.

Windward Review: Vol. 19 10

Allan Lake

The Audio Record

Plane overhead, car on the street,

neighbour at clothesline talks too loud

in, what, Greek? Apartment blocks seem

quiet until we listen. Water running, dripping,

being heated, muffled TV voices, bass notes.

I sit at my desk, a solitary pane from garden,

where birds speak foreign languages that

aren’t taught in school. Clock softly tocks.

Laptop, like me, breathes, vulnerable to viruses

that tell systems to shut the fuck up.

Unlike computers, I have fear but it’s nearly

time for coffee which means an explosion

of sound; I microwave mute muffin as well.

Thinking is dead quiet but I snuffle, sneeze;

it’s pollen season. Rain droplets t-tap

on windows, on leaves, roof, dry earth.

Those beats, syllables born of a bang

on its way everywhere –

silence was unsustainable to something.

11 Empathy / Entropy

Functional

Erica Engel

When they cut her brother down from the tree, his body hit the

ground with the hushed thud of something no longer alive--as if his body was

now a sack of groceries that met the ground after a standard Sunday shopping

trip. Emily had tried not to think about how her grandfather had also

chosen hanging--how did that work? Did the suicidal just go through an arsenal

of potential ways to go and then settle on the one that made them pause?

Made them smile with a contented air and say, “ah, yes, that’s the way.”

In her memory, she was not crying, but like a TV mistakenly set on

mute, she kept trying to hear her voice intermingling with others that night,

but found herself to be soundless and motionless amidst the chaos that

surrounded them. Perhaps she was still hopeful that he was alive, that a last

ditch breath would emerge from his lungs the way it did after he’d dived into

the deep end of the pool one summer and had to be pulled out by the lifeguard.

The breaths never came. He was gone. Her brother was dead.

No one was surprised, no one was relieved, but there was a weight

lifted all the same. His spirit had withdrawn so long ago and now his body had

finally caught up like a badly buffered video. It wasn’t the first attempt--just

the first time he succeeded.

She thought that she had escaped that darkness until she began to

read the articles about genetics and suicide. How could anyone outrun genetics?

The family legacy that had haunted the corners of her mind had always

ignored her, but now, the voices seemed to notice her and to be whispering

to her, well, perhaps, now it was a step above whisper, and it was as if the

voices had become seductive--captivating, tempting, almost inviting.

It had started at the drop off line at Lumi’s school one day during the

fall--it started as anxiety--what if you weren’t around to pick up your daughter?

What would you do?

Then, It would all get worked out, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to

worry about it. Life would go on. Life might even be better for Lumi.

Lumi’s father would have to come back in the picture, and he

would seem to be the more functional parent. Oh the irony. Spite was almost

enough to keep her going, to push back these unwanted cocktail party

conversations with death in her mind, but sometimes, she agreed with them.

Perhaps life would be easier for everyone.

Today was Lumi’s Christmas pageant--she needed to get out of the

car, yet she couldn’t make herself move. That was the stupid depression that

had set up camp in her limbs, and her bones, and her brain.The depression

that was so heavy. She made her way out of the car and into the building

with extremities that felt as if they had been weighed down by every decision


12

she’d put off, every wrong turn that she’d made. The pills in her purse moved

in rhythm with her walk. She found the sound comforting. Now, they were the

sound of freedom.

Lumi was 5. This would be adorable in the way that childhood up to

about eight was adorable. Then, it all became almost standard, not quite as

cute, in line for posturing teenage fare. It would be a shit show too. These

kind of events were exhausting with their play acting, and fake laughs and

promises to volunteer at the next event. She wasn’t even sure if she would be

around for the next event.

The only seat she found readily available was by the mysterious

single father of the school--dark hair that went past his ears, a Nirvana shirt,

wonderful bone structure. She’d never seen him interact with anyone. Now

she would basically have to give the dude a lapdance to find her way to her

seat.

“Excuse me, sorry,” she said as she tried to shimmy past without

touching him. She was surprised at how vapid she sounded. She pushed

the stupid voices away--I’m at a fucking school event--not now. I’m going to

watch my daughter for crying out loud.

“No problem” he said as he scrunched his legs towards him in fetal

position to let her by in the small aisle.

“Late,” she said, not really to him, but in general.

“Time to spare,” he said staring straight ahead.

The cafeteria was loud, the acoustics not designed for actual conversation

and she felt herself becoming overcome with overstimulation. As she

fumbled with her purse, it dawned on her that he may have been saving the

seat for someone--shit. It also occurred to her just how giant her purse was.

What in the fuck was she thinking she was going to be carrying around when

she bought it? Thoughts like this, that seemed so trivial, would get her down,

would dial those stupid voices up again. She took a deep breath and looked

towards this man who was such a mystery. She’d seen all the mom’s checking

him out, trying to talk to him, and he was polite, nice, but never flirty. He had

to have a girlfriend, or a wife, or a secret gay lover somewhere.

He was much better looking up close. She’d always seen him from

a distance--now he was stuck sitting next to her and her giant handbag with

that giant bottle of sleeping pills with a name on the label that wasn’t hers.

She could feel some of the other women’s eyes on her--she was used to the

judgement, but now it was mixed in with awe and confusion. She glanced at

his hand--no wedding ring.

“I’m trying to have a better attitude about all this stuff,” he said gesturing

towards the makeshift stage.

“Oh, I stopped trying that a long time ago,” she said as she took out

her cellphone and pressed the camera icon.

He smiled. “Oh yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

13

Empathy / Entropy

She put her hands up in surrender. “It’s not.”

His voice was deep--nice sounding. He’d sound good on audiobooks.

She found this admirable, as she loved them. She stuck her hand in her purse

and felt for the pills. They were safe. Good. She wanted to hear him talk

again.

“Do you work?” she asked. Damn, that was abrupt. Of course he did.

Everyone worked.

“Sports writer. Most of my events happen later in the day. So I can

come to things like this.”

“Oh.”

“You?”

“What? Do I work? Yes.” She didn’t offer any more information.

“At least you have a good view for pictures,” he said.

Pictures. That’s what she was supposed to be worried about. She

pressed the photo icon again. It switched to selfie mode. Fuck.

“I feel like people here are afraid of me or something,” he said. He

was not fishing. He seemed perplexed. She took the phone out and began to

press it out of habit more than interest.

“You’re a young, single dad who actually looks good in a tee shirt.

You don’t see that too often. Then you have that slightly 90’s broody thing

going.”

“So I should add a pot belly?”

“Probably wouldn’t hurt,” she said. “I mean, that’s if you want to be

part of the humble brag crowd and talk about how quickly kids read or get

potty trained or whatever. I mean, I don’t have time for that.”

“I should have talked to you sooner.”

She felt her cheeks redden.She wanted to look at him, but she

couldn’t. The play, or pageant, or whatever the hell they were calling it now

had started. A fat woman with over highlighted hair had gotten into her picture

window and she was having a hard time getting a photo of Lumi. Without

speaking, mystery dad, who still had no name, took the camera and got a few

photos of the stage and handed the phone back.

What a man.

Lumi was smiling, laughing, clearly enjoying her turn as an ornament

that was missing from the tree. Her voice was adorably off key as she sang

the Christmas song that she’d been rehearsing for weeks. She hoped that the

voices that had found her never found Lumi. She was not meant for them.

What would Lumi remember about her if she was gone? Sometimes, she was

fun, others, she was sad. Is that how she would describe her mommy? As a

sad lady who used to write, and used to be married?


14

After the play was over, the kids were allowed to say hello to their

parents. Lumi was perfection and Emily hugged her close and listened to her

excited squeals and giggles, and ‘did you see me?’ that poured out of her. She

was the kind of child anyone would miss. She was an easy child. Emily knew

that if she waited too long, Lumi would never bounce back. She was still young

enough to shake her stupid suicidal mother from her life.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him hugging and kissing a little

girl who looked nothing like him. She must take after her mother. Off they

went back to class, and she sighed at the thought of making her way back

into the reality where handsome strangers didn’t talk to her, and her daughter

wasn’t taking her breath away with her very existence.

She could hear the pills crash against each other each time her purse

moved, so she made it sway back and forth.

“Coffee?” she heard behind her.

“Yes,” she said with absolutely no hesitation. They began to make

their way to the back of the cafeteria--the lunch ladies were beginning to chat

loudly, throwing their pans around creating clatter and clanging. She could

feel the other mom’s eyes on her--these women who had never really paid her

any mind, now wondering, almost out loud, “her?” Those women who had it

all together in their work out clothes or Chico’s catalog outfits were wondering

how the woman dressed all in black was leaving with mystery daddy.

And even though it had been years since she had been able to actively

feel haughty, and a part of her wanted to grin at them, she knew that all of

this was putting off something inevitable. But, coffee would be nice.

…

Now, she could feel his eyes on her as she fixed her coffee. He, his

name was Sam, had not been shy about observing her. She could sense

amusement, surprise? Yes, she was meticulous--it was in her nature, always,

planning down to the last minute or drop of creamer.

“So what do you do?”

She stopped stirring her coffee. “Like, with my life? I’m a writer. I

wrote a novel a few years back. Some asshole even bought the movie rights.”

He sat back, “no shit.”

“Yeah. It didn’t even sell that well, so, it’ll probably be a shitty movie

too,” she sipped her coffee. “You?”

“Me? I’m a sports writer.”

“Right, you said that. Two writers. I’ve seen how that pans out.”

“What do you mean?”

“My ex is a writer. But, he’s never been published. Me selling the novel,

well, that was the beginning of the end.”

He regarded her now. Almost if he was reappraising a property. “He

15

Empathy / Entropy

left because of ego?”

“Oh no. He’s much more cliched than that. He taught English Lit. He

was older than me. He traded up. I hit 27 and he needed a new model.”

She cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure what to make of his expression

now.

“So, Lumi?” he asked.

“She was about a year old when he left.”

She noticed something, a flash of recognition in his eyes, as if he had

just focused, just seen her. It made her nervous.

“OK. Your turn,” she said.

He cleared his throat, shifted in his chair. “Scarlet’s mom?”

She’d put out of mind that the child’s name was Scarlet. Wow. “That’s

the one.”

“How’d you come up with Lumi? My wife came up with Scarlet.”

“You’re stalling.”

“It’s a weird name.”

“Not as weird as a Gone With the Wind reference.”

He nodded. “But is it short for something?”

“It’s Finnish for snow. I loved that. Fresh snow is beautiful, and luminous,

and that’s what she is.”

“She killed herself.”

She exhaled. That she was not expecting. She was imagining the wife

alive--she drove a BMW--she was a doctor’s wife now. She’d started off new

somewhere else. There was a vague scent of cigarettes and self loathing in

the car. She’d left her old life and never looked back.

“Wow.” She waited as long as she could. “How’d she do it?”

He furrowed his eyebrows. Shit. That was the wrong thing to ask.

Way to go, weirdo.

“She took a bunch of sleeping pills. I woke up and she was gone.”

“No wonder you never talk to anyone,” she said finally.

He laughed. “I guess so,” he said. “I’m a real joy.”

“My brother hung himself,” she said finally. “My grandpa killed himself

too.”

“This is really not how I expected all this to go,” he said.

“That’s weird because this is exactly what I expected.”

He laughed again. She wondered if he laughed often--with Scarlet,

or at work, or with friends, because surely, he was the kind of man who had


16

friends.

“I want to see you again,” he said. “Believe it or not, this is the most

conversation I’ve had in awhile.”

…

That night, as she bathed Lumi, she noticed that the little chorus of

voices that usually whispered soothing ugliness in her ears had quieted down

to let her hear Lumi singing.

“Did you have a good day mama?” Lumi asked.

“Yes, baby. I did.”

She put her baby to bed, stroked her hair, breathed her in as she had

since the day she was born. She was not a perfect woman, or a great mother,

but in these moments, she always wanted to be better. She thought of

Scarlet, waking up to a different world that morning, of how some of this light

that Lumi had would be gone. What had he said? At first, she hadn’t asked

for her mother. It was as if she was waiting for her to come out of hiding in a

perpetual game of hide and seek--then she’d never come back. Those tears

must have been inconsolable.

She found her phone and paced around the house, looked at the

pictures, ran her hands over the counter. She found her purse, put her hand

on the bottle of pills, She pulled them out of her bag and heard them bounce

against each other.

She put down the pills and found his number in her phone.

“Coffee?” she texted.

…

The next day, they’d decided against coffee and instead were sitting

in Sam’s car waiting on their Sonic order. The girls were in school, their last

few days before Christmas break, and Emily felt as if she was going to have

to push back all her plans. Christmas would happen, and even though it was

horrible to think about, she was going to have to make her last appearances.

She could not take Christmas from Lumi.

Now, she sat and watched as Sam tapped on the steering wheel of

his car. His car was littered with newspapers, and scraps of papers with notes,

absolutely no evidence of any sort of female influence, aside from the booster

seat in the back, and the pre programed Disney Sirius XM station on his radio.

She kicked her bag to the side, aching to hear the familiar sound. There they

were, bouncing against each other, the sound of the pills bouncing against

each other almost like a rainstick.

When their food came, she ate almost self consciously, while he

squirted ketchup all over his tots and commenced to pick them out of the carton

with his mouth. He smiled at her. “Sorry, I’m used to eating on the road.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

17

Empathy / Entropy

Andrena Zawinski

Three’s

a Crowd

He slams down a bargain bouquet

on the checkout conveyor belt,

broadcasts it’s the third time

this month she kicked him out,

this urban cowboy sporting

an anchor beard and black stetson

leaning into the woman

in front of him, muttering

he forgot his ring last night.

Fourth deep in line, arms brimming

with a New Year’s resolution in celery,

carrots, kale, Lucky Supermarket’s

“3’s a Crowd” banner flags above heads.

She scans the scandal rag rack for

the latest celebrity downward spirals,

Hollywood’s worst boozers, wives laying

down laws, hoping for a new line to open.

Then those Snickers, nearly forfeiting her

fitness pledge.

He stretches past her for a Coke and

Mentos, pushes nearly spent blooms up

against her produce, asks what she thinks

about jealousy. She announces she is no

Dear Abby of the Checkout, eyes his sad

bouquet, then advises he go for Godivas

and Mum. He flips through Cosmos’ “Ten

Sexy Tips for Bedroom Bliss.”

On the way home, her sister Rosie

phones whining about the her boyfriend,

the latest with the live-aboard

sloop, complaining he was out all night,

star-studded promise ring in the soap

dish, swears his roses won’t fix this one,

not even dancing barefoot onboard

the Bronco’s slick deck, in her arms her

cowboy with a sailboat, then cuts the

connection.

Just then he lets himself into the

apartment, cellophane wrapped

roses in hand, neon clearance tag still

affixed. She plunges them headfirst

down the Insinkerator, petals flying

up against her flushed cheeks, shoves

him out the door, yelling: “The third

and last time this month,” jamming a

chair under the knob.

Digging through her cedar Hope Chest

turned giant junk drawer, she swaddles

herself inside a crazy quilt grandma

made celebrating graduations and

great jobs, all those weddings and

births. Breathing in the long woody

scent fixed in it, she flops onto the bed,

thinking three times really is a charm,

the crack and smack of thorny roses

still spinning inside the disposal drain,

the whir of them a deliriously wild and

final beautiful noise.


18

Veins of Coal

Andrena Zawinski

Once winter settled across bituminous fields of the mine patch in Windber’s Hunky

Hollow, Marta and Stush shivered inside their weatherboarded duplex, at bedtime huddled

into each other like house wrens under eaves. In the morning, wood burning cook

stoves took the chill off. They cautioned their three girls to tread gingerly across newspaper

covered floorboards they could never afford to finish in the company housing,

theirs nothing like bossmen’s Queen Annes up on the hill with wraparound porches,

fireplaces, running water, and indoor bathrooms.

Some afternoons, alive with sun, Marta would schedule laundry by the way the wind

blew in from the colliery, her kids joining in the dance of clothes hanging, handing up

wooden pins and folding themselves inside fresh sheets between the outhouse and the

smokehouse. In the backdrop Eureka Mine No. 40’s coal cars fed the plant in a relentless

banging, screaming whine of blowers cleaning coal.

Everything on tick to grab-all stores, money moved like water through a bucket with

holes, paycheck deductions washing over mine owners until debt ticked off that never

would while barges swelled with profits fueling steel, rail, and electric industries, as

soot and ash clawed Stush’s and the other miners faces down in the dark holes.

Some three-hundred miles southwest in Beckley, West Virginia’s heart of coal country,

Mack liked to tipple and gamble, get rowdy with other miners after a hard day’s work.

But unlike the Windber women, his Katy was more of a church wife; Mack never knew

she was fettered in silence and fear by The Company Store in a system of Esau. Unlike

Old Testament Esau, who relinquished his birthright for food, her body had been traded

in the backroom to company guards. She had simply entered the only mercantile

for a poke of beans, loaf of bread, bottle of milk to feed children, but was led instead

into what became known as The Shoe Room by double-dealing company men.

Mack’s injuries from a cave-in prolonged his inability to work for some time, so Katy

was issued scrip to get necessities from The Company Store—her flesh settling mounting

debt for just the basics. She never dared tell Mack about what went on in The Shoe

Room, fearing he’d kill someone and end up in prison for what store keeps characterized

as just a bit of hanky-panky one day as they handed Katy a gift box of shoes. She

never wore them; instead, she rigged her own from cardboard, newspaper, and twine

or went barefoot—burying those shoes in bedroom closets with her shame.

Katy’s only sister, Hope, orphaned at thirteen, was duped into going into the Appalachian

coalfields as what became known as a comfort wife; and when she got pregnant,

her baby pilfered and bartered for a rifle and a hog. Bossmen not only were

free to use boys in mines to work rock face chipping, cutting, and blasting; they took

girls like her into the fields, took them across floorboards.

Hope never got any shoes to keep her quiet, but was silenced by a gag of grief

and fear, She was last seen dressed in her Sunday eyelet, not walking on the road

to church, but barefoot along the path toward the roses at the coal drifts, all their

petals laced with black dust.

END

19

Empathy / Entropy

Becoming aware

The Pride Parade, an explosion

of colors too festive

for the misery they represent.

I overhear a woman

expounding on her weight

problems and dresses.

The colonial cemetery two streets over

is watched by jaded eyes

in case the Rebels rise in disgust.

Why do we waste so much time

fighting ourselves and others over

parking, clothes, or house decorations?

Life for most of us is the small unpleasantness

rather than the great tragedies;

the little useless longings

rather than the great renunciations,

the dramatic love affairs of history

not the cheap fiction of corporate-owned media.

Michelle Hartman

realization

most people

have the blessing

of seeing our lives

fall apart

so slowly

we barely notice

but some

see that certainty

an event horizon’s

approach

a matter of seconds

a door slam

lick of flame

a gunshot

What are you doing this afternoon?

I am thinking about reforming

the Weather Underground

and storming a golf resort

with aluminum bats


Have a great day?

How do you have a great day

when you are old?

It has to compete

with thousands of days

many astounding in themselves.

And memory, that bastard, who

paints with tainted brush

over flaws;

competing with the present,

its dodgy politics

runaway electronics

and no stage makeup.

Today

will have to shine

like a crazy diamond.

20

A Mother’s Job

Becky Busby Palmer

At 13, my mother walked in on me wrapped in a sleeping bag on the floor of

my room, masturbating. She screamed, cried, and led me to believe I had

just killed Jesus or something.

A year later, I found a book of erotica in her nightstand, sitting on top of a

letter she had written, begging my father to try to be faithful again, to stay

for the sake of us children.

At 17, in the moment I gave birth to my daughter, my father smiled and held

up two wiggling fingers, spoke a curse that she would be just like me. But,

for eighteen years, she was an angel.

At 28, after visiting me in California, my mother begged my father to let

her bring me and my three children home. My military husband had turned

me into a golf widow. I had become a single mother and was miserable, far

from the support system at home. Dad had served in the Air Force as well

and liked my husband, mentioned he would have to sell his hunting lease to

make it work. I stayed in California.

Snakes at Sundown

Asim, a pediatrician, has two teenage kids

afraid to walk to their mailbox.

Last year, “Terrorists”

was keyed across their minivan,

bicycles stolen, gas poured on the lawn,

the grass died in the shape of a cross.

Basma, who lost an eye deployed in Iraq,

teaches her kids about the dangers

of hate. They cannot afford

to move away and Teeta lives in the nursing home

just two blocks away.

Next door, a sign reads, “Build the Wall,”

shaded by a large oak tree.

A flag, “Come and Get It,”

hangs from a netless backboard.

As the sun goes down,

chatter from a barbeque next door

grows louder. Hate

snakes over the fence.

21

Empathy / Entropy

Becky Busby Palmer

Love Triangle

I remember the knock on my door at six in the morning. I

answered in my robe. There was a dead woman in the parking

lot, and the police asked me if I knew her. After my husband

had left for work, she had pulled into his spot. Her door was

open and I could see white legs. At first, I thought they were

bleached because the blood had drained from her body. But she

was a night nurse in white stockings. She lived two buildings

away and had been parking here to avoid her ex. In her home,

her girlfriend had been stabbed to death while taking a shower.

A former Marine, a woman, her jilted lover, had waited below

my window, hid in tall bushes and shot her in the head. Then

this wannabe widow holed up in a hotel room across town.

Police surrounded it and her brother was there, pleading with

her to put down the gun, but she fired one last time into her

own head. They didn’t bother to clean up the blood or smatterings

of brains that speckled my car, parked beside the nurse’s.

Brains—a very distinct smell.


22

Chinyin Oleson

My Day a Misplaced Universe

Because of one tiny screw

My head sat wrong on my shoulders

All day I felt like I had a crick in my neck

While trying to move this way and that

On the way home I retraced the steps I took

Holding my head and looking

Under spotted toadstools

Beneath the robin’s wing

Peeping into rabbit burrows

Scrounging in squirrel nests

No sign of one tiny screw to fix my wobbly head

All I got was dirt in my face

kicked up by a bunny in haste to flee

A tear in my sleeve from a spiky bough

defending its chittering friend

Impish leaves tangling in my hair

Twiggy branches jabbing with pointy elbows

Rough bark slippery

Beneath my feet

Because of one tiny screw

The rest are coming loose

I must get home before my head

Falls off my shoulders

Rolls through the forest and into the field

Gets nabbed by the scarecrow in the corn patch

In exchange for his own straw-stuffed head

Belly from Hell

“This strange thing

must have crept right

out of hell.”

– Charles Simic

The angry moon looks down at this

World of dying trees, boggy lakes, and strange

two-legged beings encroaching on rotting land

that it sends down a rock golem with orders it must

follow to teach the beings that life is a place to have

and not throw away, even cherishing whatever creeps

from dark dank corners dripping slime right

onto clean surfaces where rats build their nests out

of wires, clothes, grass, and the fuzz of

a giant red spotted belly from hell.

23

Empathy / Entropy

Firecrackers

Chinyin Oleson

My parents, older brother, and I used to visit my paternal grandparents

for reunion dinners during Chinese New Year. It was a four-hour drive

from our house. Usually, we stayed for about a week because many of our

relatives lived around the city my grandparents made their home. We would

stay for several days at my grandparents’, a couple days at my oldest aunt’s,

and back to my grandparents’ place.

My grandparents’ house had twelve spacious bedrooms that was occupied

by their eleven children and later, their daughters-in-laws, sons-inlaw,

and grandchildren. Every Chinese New Year, the halls reverberated with

high childish voices, loud talking, the snap of firecrackers from outside, and

New Year programs from the TV; the unity of four generations swirled about

in an alchemy of family relations. In the main hall where the ancestral praying

altar sits, round and square folding tables would be piled high with New Year

treats: thin-skinned mandarin oranges, pomelos as big as my head; clear

compartmentalized plates of sweet pineapple tarts, colorful candy-coated

peanuts, sugared coconut and winter melon strips, roasted watermelon and

pumpkin seeds, melt-in-the-mouth coconut milk cookies, sticky glutinous rice

cake, and more. My grandfather and uncles gathered around these tables to

talk, watch TV, and crack seeds between their teeth.

In the spacious kitchen with ceilings as high as the sky, my mother

and my aunts sat or stood about the giant round table with my grandmother,

taking turns at the ancient gas stove and sink, washing green vegetables,

peeling potatoes, chopping onions, slicing meat, stir-frying garlic, and making

delicate spring roll skins. My cousins and I would chase each other all around

the house, in and out of the many entrances until we fell against our mothers’

sides out of breath from laughter and play.

I was not out of grade school when my grandfather passed away

not long after a stroke. For some reason, we were all at my fourth uncle’s

house. All my father’s brothers were there. I was lounging sleepily on my

father’s lap. Conversation like a roller-coaster rose and fell around me. I

think my grandfather was happy then, when all his sons were by his side.

He was carried out by four of my uncles after he stopped mid-word and

could not go on. He left the hospital only to lay in a fine wooden box his

sons chipped in to buy for him.

I was wearing a lemon-yellow dress with a white Peter Pan collar

and a laced, rounded pocket on the left side of the skirt. It was my

favorite dress. I refused to relinquish it for the navy blue, rough-woven

smock and pants worn traditionally by grandchildren during the funeral.

My mother and grandmother tried to persuade me to change. My stubbornness

reached out and grabbed a hold of the roots of my sudden

rebellion. I sensed sadness in my grandmother. I was being disrespectful,

although I was not happy that my grandfather was dead. In the funeral

procession, I stuck out like a bright, yellow pimple on smooth skin. Bystanders

pointed at me and old ladies clucked their tongues while shaking

their heads.

I had seen my grandfather laying in the box. His face was pale in


24

a powdery-way. Did Grandma powder his face? He looked like my grandfather

and not like my grandfather. My cousins covered their giggles as

they ran around me, breaking into my thoughts and urging me to go play,

but I was content to stand next to my grandfather in a moment of silence.

From what I still have left in my memories, I was a little afraid of him

before. He was quiet and serious and smiled little. Whenever he visited,

he sat upstairs in a chair in front of the TV and smoked, cigarette after

cigarette, not moving until it was time for dinner. I think he spoke maybe

ten words to me when he was alive. Whenever I was told to get him for

dinner, he would just tap the ashes off the last cigarette and stick it into

the ashtray, stand up, and went downstairs to eat.

After my grandfather’s death, my grandparents’ house became

my grandmother’s house. Everyone still went there for Chinese New Year

reunion dinners and long school holidays. I remember the tall, iron four

poster bed that I used to do a little jump to climb into. The iron bars would

shake, making a ringing sound. The biggest room in the house stored a

mountain of bedrolls, blankets, and pillows. It was a room where I used

to play in with my cousins and once was so exhausted that I fell asleep

on one of the bedrolls one of my cousins unrolled for me. I remember the

chickens and ducks in my grandmother’s backyard pecking at seeds and

weeds. I remember the hen that flew at me, fleeing from its fate. I remember

when there was a shortage of beds, laying in my grandmother’s

bed staring at old pictures and wondering when she was going to show

up to sleep and then falling asleep and waking up in the morning to find

her already gone.

I remember when my cousin Hwa Yong and I received a firework

each. One of those long tubes that shot out colored fireballs into the sky.

We were excited as little boys with sticks, not able to wait till night, we

used them as walking sticks in our imaginary adventures and poked at

flying insects, plants, and each other. By the time night came around, the

part that must be lit to make it work had disintegrated. Left with cardboard

tubes, we continued playing with them until the next day when I

whacked the gate too hard that it bent in the middle, leaving us staggering

about giggling madly.

My grandmother passed away when she was ninety-seven years

old. Although, if it was counted in traditional Chinese years, she would

have been one hundred. I think she would have liked to have lived for a

century. My grandmother’s house is now silent and closed. All her children

have grown and moved on with their own families. Only echoes of the

days past remain in the hearts of all who loved her.

25

Empathy / Entropy

Magnificent Murmation

Cissy Tabor

Whoosh!

Hundreds or thousands of starlings

swoop down toward the earth’s horizon

and sweep upward to the clouds

Protection in numbers from predator

falcons, so in unison these black specs

swirl together as One, thick,

dark murmation

Zing!

Hundreds or thousands of protestors

swarm the chaotic scene, dodging flying

bullets and crackling shattered glass

of downtown storefronts

Boldness in numbers, the unified people

clash against uniformed bodies

of helmets and shields

Bricks hurling through the dark night sky,

objects zinging toward the crowd

as hatred filled chants sting the air,

piercing the heart of the white officer,

his pistol empty of one less bullet

The Black mother on the tv news doesn’t

shed a tear, but the break in her heart

finds familiar ground in my aching one,

a whooshing in my chest

A senseless tragedy, her brown eyed

beauty of 20 years

Yet she talks of helping others

My son knew suffering,

but he rose above it

Knowing not a stranger,

nor wayward soul

All were Love to him

His failings, his inadequacies,

his challenges and handicap

Unknown to most,

never self pity or victimhood,

Only laughter, kind smiles and gratitude

for others

My son, my joy, my heartache

Has died

The officer, the deliverer of unspeakable

words, shedding the news of his death

as he walks out my front door,

a burdensome part of his job

Days filled with chaos, turmoil, confusion

My mind in disorder, void of endorphins

My heart holding an anvil of pain

that sears any synapse still firing

in my brain

I search for relief

As the protestors searching for release

But who will seek inward to calm

the entropy?

We the people

We human beings

We are me and you

one and the same

each beautifully unique

And also all are One

Suffering is felt by all

Am I bringing love to myself and others

or do anger, despair and fear

well up in me

aiming for targets?

What energy do I bring to the universe?

The value of a life is revealed

in how well it was lived

Did you love?

My son did

And so, so will I

The flock of starlings create

gigantic kaleidoscope shapes

of chaotic beauty

Each individual winged creature

twisting, turning, spinning

it’s small body

As all birds come together,

moving as One

Whatever it is you want

it begins within.

Only me, only you, only Love

And together

A magnificent murmation


26

ire’ne lara silva

in this dream of blue horses*

there are no roads only undulating land in every direction only

bodies beautiful and blue and lit by the moon only the slight coolness that

night brings after the heat of the day only our sister wind our brother wind

that both blow against us and carry us along

we were not born here but our mothers’ mothers’ mothers called

this land their home the bones of our ancestors do not live in the first few

feet of earth under our hooves but listen close listen close and you can

hear the thundering of their hooves their bones a few feet deeper only a

few feet deeper our mothers’ mothers’ mothers called this their land their

home and the land says oh my long lost long legged children and we the

long lost long legged children whimper mother mother mother to the earth

in this dream of blue horses we are returned to the land of our ancestors

we are wild again but then did we ever lose our wildness we were

only waiting and our children born free do not remember captivity they

would call us feral but we were never truly domesticated we only bided our

time none of us had to remember freedom or our stories or the structure

of our families the knowledge was never taken from us we were only prisoners

to the bit and the bridle and the saddle and the spur but our spirits

were never anything but free and even then we dreamed and we dreamed

and we ran and we ran

in this dream of blue horses in this dream that is our living our

breathing our being we run as one all our bodies all our hooves all our

hearts all our flared nostrils all the stretch and coil of the meat and muscle

of us made one made a river under the light of the rising moon and the

waning sun this was always our land this was always our freedom this was

always our strength we thunder we thunder we thunder

*Inspired by the following article: https://www.livescience.com/9589-surprising-history-america-wild-horses.html

27

Empathy / Entropy

The Ties That Bind

Macaela Carder

Characters: HELEN a woman in her mid-thirties to early forties. NONA,

DECIMA, and MORTA, the three fates. These roles can be played by actors

of any age, they are non-gender specific roles open for interpretation.

Setting: The environment suggests a coffee shop, the stage should

be furnished with only what is necessary to tell the story – minimal furniture

and props. Time: 10AM Today

At Rise: HELEN stands to one side of the stage in an isolated pool of

light by a suggested counter.

HELEN

I want to say something…important, but it just comes out nonsensical. I keep

hearing a calliope playing in the background and the click, click, click, of the

counter. Over and over in my mind until it sweeps away any semblance of

coherence.

[Beat]

The click-clack of pretty math rocks – you know the ones – the turquoise or

aquamarine – rolling them, hoping for a twenty – but end up with a one.

[Beat]

The buzz of the fridge as I stand gazing into its depths – debating between

cucumbers or coffee brownie bliss yogurt. Rather have pizza.

[Beat]

The thump, thump, thump of his heart as I lay on his chest - both of us sweaty

and sticky and satiated, caught in the after. Wondering what he’s thinking.

[Beat]

The motor from the fluffy thing that makes biscuits on my stomach. Curling

up soft and warm and safe.

[Beat]

The sound of the car lock and the anxiety it brings – thinking of that long ago

worry – will I get yelled at as soon as it walks in. Always the crack of eggshells,

shortness of breath, coldness of hands, expecting the disappointment

yet still disappointed.

[Beat]

Dial tone on an old rotary phone, the sound of the wheel making its way back

to zero as I dial my grandpa.

[Beat]

The rain pounding on the roof making a lake of the parking lot watching a

boat – or leaf – drift away down the sewers.

[Beat]

The popping of my ears as the plane gains altitude taking me far away from

here – to new adventures.

[Beat]


28

Clickety-clickety-clack of my keyboard finishing a review that’ll never be

read, two thumbs up or rather what the fuck are you thinking – over, and

over, and over, and over again.

[Beat]

The burble of the tea kettle as I stand staring – waiting for the water to boil

– only to walk away and forget it and have to start all over again…

[Beat]

I’m sorry, what was your question?

Recorded Voice

Do you want cream in your coffee?

Helen

Yes…a little.

[Helen takes the coffee and crosses to Nona, Decima, and

Morta who are seated at a table. Nona is unwinding yarn from a skein, Decima

is knitting a large misshapen scarf, Morta is dismantling the bottom of

Decima’s scarf. A mug of ale is in front of Nona, a cup of tea in front of Decima,

and a glass of wine in front of Morta. All drink heavily throughout.]

Morta

He said he was getting Mucinex, but I bet that motherfucker was buying

more hot wheels.

Helen

My cheeks are rosy – they feel hot. Can you tell if I’ve been smoking? Did I

say that out loud?...Nope. Good.

Morta

Not one week after bankruptcy, that ass hole is spending money again – his

latest money-draining hobby is – get this - collecting hot wheels.

Those toy cars?

Decima

Morta

Yes, those toy cars. He even moved his Star Wars figurines off the mantle

to display them.

Helen

So, in Great Britain when you’re at the grocery store…do they walk down the

left side of the aisle with their baskets or the right side of the aisle?

Ack! What a waste of space.

Nona

Decima

I wouldn’t imagine those toy cars take up all that much space.

I meant the husband.

Nona

29

Empathy / Entropy

Helen

What goes through a person’s mind as they make life altering decisions? Is

it a coherent, reasoned, and logical argument – or is it a sudden enlightenment?

Morta

I can’t, I just can’t anymore…if he hadn’t stopped paying the mortgage, we

never would have had to file. My credit cards were almost paid off – so close.

I should have just taken care of it myself – sold that lousy place.

Helen

If he’s sleeping with other women, he should just let me know, because I’m

not so sure I’m good at sharing. No, you did the right thing, your name wasn’t

even on that mortgage, it wasn’t your responsibility.

Decima

Well, but you lived there with him for a few years…so…

Nona

Oh, be quiet. A real man would have taken care of his finances properly.

This man-child is going to be the ruin of you.

Helen

Once the silver dulls, he won’t find me shiny anymore. Responsibility has

nothing to do with gender!

Morta

He is a man-child. I’m tired of living with his mess…I’m done. I wonder

which is cheaper, a divorce or a hitman?

I know someone who can help

Nona

Decima

Oh, pshaw. What lawyers do you know?!

Wasn’t talking about a lawyer

Nona

(They all stare at Nona)

Helen

I wonder if I was stung by a puffer fish? My lips are tingly…Uhm, what?

Nona

Ja! Back in my village, we had someone who could take care of these things.

You know, whenever there was a husband beating his wife, while the law

couldn’t do anything, Herr Fleece and Frau Lint could. Most reliable team in

the area. You see, they were doing this for fifty years or so, it started with

Frau Lint’s louse of a husband.

Decima

And let me guess, Herr Fleece was passionately in love with Frau Lint. He saw

how that brute of a husband treated her and he just couldn’t bear it anymore.

So late one night, while that drunkard Lint stumbles back from the pub, Herr

Fleece leaps from the shadows and says, “You don’t deserve, her, so now she


30

is mine.” And he plunges a knife into his chest. Lint gurgles and slumps to his

knees. Fleece spits on his crumpling body and races to Frau Lint’s side and

declares his undying love.

[Beat]

Nona

No. Herr Fleece is Frau Lint’s older brother, their father sold her to Lint for

two kegs of ale. Herr Fleece saw the bruises on his sister’s face and planned

his demise--

Decima

--Was it a bloody and vicious ending to his pathetic life?

Nona

…no…actually a well-planned and meticulously slow poisoning. Looked like a natural

death. But, of course, everyone in the village knew the real story and that’s

how the business got started.

Morta

So, hypothetically speaking…what are the prices for a hit?

Helen

I need to apologize to Santa’s reindeer. I only ever left out a carrot for Rudolph.

Nona

Ach, well. Depends. Three chickens and a goat will get you a blow to the back

of the head in the dark of night.

Helen

Flippant tea-totaling nonsensical prat!

Nona

A slow poisoning made to look like a lingering disease usually costs about a

barrel of smoked eels and two pigs.

Helen

If they knew in the 16th century that sperm was responsible for the gender of

the baby…would Henry VIII have kept on blaming his wives for daughters?

Nona

Five cases of apples will get a glockenspiel dropped on your head.

Helen

I remembered to shave my right pit and my left leg – but I forgot the rest.

Nona

And for a cherry strudel, Frau Lint will cut off his balls with a rusty knife.

(Beat. All stare at Nona)

Morta

So, in dollars, how much is a cherry strudel worth?

(All freeze except for Helen who notices the yarn and

knitting for the first time. Throughout the course of the monologue, Helen plays

with the yarn and slowly wraps it around herself)

31

Empathy / Entropy

Helen

How can forces collide to create a hummingbird yet destroy a mountain? Did

they make the coffee I drink? Who even thought up the idea of roasting these

beans, grinding them, and then putting them in water? Was it destined to be

that way? Couldn’t they have just as easily tried that with a peach pit? Does

it matter?

[Beat]

So soft…and itchy. It seems thick and indestructible, but it isn’t. It’s easily destroyed

– by time and by flying monsters and violence. It bleeds fluff and fuzz

from its veins. It can be twisted and turned to create…this, whatever this is?

With missed stitches and holes and loose ends. Can those loose ends be woven

into the tapestry or should they be severed?

[Beat]

Who decides how it looks, is there a pattern or is it chaotically created? Is this

predestined to turn out like this? What prophecy can warn – not everyone

wants to be a scarf…

[Beat]

It suffocates and warms – it binds and holds, always threatening release,

but not giving it. Picked a part one by one – what seemed binding and sure

is ephemeral – fleeting. False?

[Beat]

Things mentioned in passing…are they more real than planned prose? An

accidental, “I love you,” might be the epitome of truth while a rehearsed

verse rings false.

[Beat]

I’m time-bound, knotted into a place not of my choosing. But it’s known

and therefore…safe?

[Beat]

The calliope and the counter. The math rocks of one or twenty. Pizza not

yogurt, Nona. Fuzzy motors. Anxious car locks. Dead dial tones. Boats and

leaves and planes, oh my. Two thumbs up or fuck off, Morta. Forgotten

gurgles destined for repetition. Decima, a heartbeat against my ear?

In all certainty, maybe? I know when you leave…and you will leave – from

holes and knots I’ll bleed fluff and fuzz…Fickle are the ties that bind.

(Blackout)


32

Life slips

like two weeks like five years like coupon clippings

From a thick Sunday pull out

Shiny, vivid

Promising bargains in primary colors

Coupons expire

And expire and expire

A Whittenberg

Jamaican Holiday, 2006

Sister, bring me one of those pink shells

Washed up on a far away beach

Here’s 40 dollars, fix my hair into 1000 braids

Show me some of that black magic that’s been

Melanined out of my immediate family

Dance, my sister

Dance my spirit round your bones

Break the illiterate silence and contorted sterility of

My 21st century over-Americanized ethnicity, Sister.

ENDNOTES

On that gorgeous spring day, the strong sun mocks. It was so close to

her June birthday. Couldn’t she have lasted two more weeks? Who knew she

a timebomb? Who knew she had this hidden defect? I should have been born

clairvoyant.

That day, distant relations ate sloppily. Macaroni salad slid off their

spoons onto their chins.

They made it a party. There was chicken: fried, braised, broiled, roasted

So much damn food.

Anger is my favorite part of the grief process. I do it well.

The hincty lady down the street came by fussing for her pan.

She had left her pan. She had to have her pan. I’d lost a person; she’d

lost a pan.

I gave her her pan, told her where to shove it, slammed the door.

I was old enough to know that pets, flowers, people die, but not mothers

Daddy’s usual husky, tender voice offered no solace. He crumbled like toast.

My brother contacted his therapist.

My sister still walks around with her face.

Daffodils bloomed.

And Otis Reading played on the stereo that Fa Fa Fa Fa sad song.

33

Empathy / Entropy

Vendela

Unsprung

what if our demons were the size of fireflies,

and we treated imperfections like florescent sprigs of holly?

love was divine and we didn’t cry

afraid of the price to pay

for the truest meanings in life

thoughts drip down my pillowcase

stuck in neverland, my wasteland’s no wonderland

reality biting our fingernails and wondering why

i am existing under the burden of shame

finding penniless words from thin air

no one ever thinks to skip on stepping-stones

saying prayers for little black rain clouds

because we won’t be in heaven

when beggars can’t be choosers thanks to rainbows sent from god

in exchange for making him proud

will i rewrite history with more pity

does my honesty sound like self-preaching?

i wonder why my petals don’t sprout

but spend dedicated time fighting efforts to stay alive like the last leaves of fall

energies futile to the point of leaning on empty wishing wells

bound forever to rebirth in spring light

finding yellow painted sunrises over wide horizons

and green blades of grass oblige my vying senses

reminding agony and beauty though they’re endless

the pieces of me aren’t brokenbandages.


Cavanaugh

Floret

what if our demons were the size of fireflies,

and we treated imperfections like florescence sprigs of holly?

we kill moments of kindness so shyly

afraid of the price we pay

for a bite of the good life

thoughts drip down my pillowcase

stuck in neverland, my wasteland’s no wonderland

silence left after inevitable goodbyes

existing under the burden of shame

but still i find words from thin air surviving,

derived from anxious states of mine

homey things make my petals sing like

saying prayers for little black rain clouds

that haven’t reached heaven

because beggars can’t be choosers when rainbows sent from god

are an exchange for making him proud

will i rewrite history with more pity

does my honesty sound like self-preaching?

I never thought narcissism was to despise yourself

dedicated time fighting efforts to stay alive like the last leaves of fall

energies futile to the point of leaning on empty wishing wells

sweet like honey and golden as saplings

yellow painted sunrises blooming over wide horizons make me happy

oblige my vying senses, calming the reckless inner messes

reminding agony and beauty though they’re endless

the pieces of me were never broken, just bandaged.

35

Empathy / Entropy

Nick Hone

Shadow and Ash: A 10 Minute Play

CAST SIZE: 6-7

FATHER

Desperate to keep his family alive in the face of insurmountable odds,

he will do everything he can. His love sustains him, but there is so much

despair. How can he continue?

ELDERLY

A long-term resident of the area, he is as stout and unmoving as the trees

in the forest. He has weathered ages coming and going and plans to endure.

It’s all he can do

CHILD

Disconnected from her world, she stands alone where she should feel

safe. The fear that accompanies this solitude is clear, as is her anger. She

is youth, she is a fighter.

REPORTER

The world she expected is not the one she ended up in. Her curiosity and

dedication have taken her far, but she is tired.

FIREFIGHTER

A soldier in a never-ending war, the weight of the world sits on their

shoulders. They do what they can to bear it, but it has left them numb.

DANCERS

Can be performed with one or two dancers depending on situation.

SETTING: The end of the world. Or the place where memories go when you

don’t think about them. Purgatory. Oregon. California. Too many places

TIME: Now, and the future.

The sound of the burn, a constant and powerful crackling fills the space.

Smoke and fire fill the back of the theatre with a dusky orange glow.

Silhouetted against the glow are five people seated onstage, staggered

and scattered. They are draped in darkness; their features in black. The

sound of a newscaster giving a report on the severity of the fire begins,

after a moment it overlaps with another report on worsening weather

conditions. And then another on the progress of the climate’s descent

into chaos. During this cacophony, a single dancer runs onstage and begin

a slow modern dance. They are running, trying to escape something,

and yet cannot make any progress. What do they fear, and why they can’t

leave? They come to a moment of stillness, and the news reports stop. A

low, almost imperceptible cello begins to play a mournful solo. This continues

underneath the action, swelling and quieting to emphasize loss,

and the motions of the dancers. This cello accompanies it all, the good

and the bad, but must never be the focus until the very end. A beam of

light pierces the smoke, illuminating FIREFIGHTER sitting in his chair.

FIREFIGHTER

There has been something like 100 billion people to have ever lived. 100 billion

souls. How many of them are remembered? There are whole generations

that exist only in darkness now. As shadows of their former selves, you know?

All because their memory has died along with them.

-

FATHER is illuminated. He stands from his chair. As each person speaks, their

column of light fades away and allows the next to erupt.

FATHER

A life lived and then erased. Gone to a place where it can never be retrieved. If

a person’s memory dies, did they ever exist?

-

The dancer exhales, and move quickly, then freeze. Light strikes CHILD, still

seated


CHILD

Where do the untold stories of forgotten souls go?

The dancer pulses, we see REPORTER.

REPORTER

When we lose their memories, are they gone? Or just somewhere else?

-

A final light strikes ELDERLY

ELDERLY

A world all their own, full of shadows. Shadows and ash

-

The dancer melts away, and a new beam of light pierces the smoke, illuminating

FATHER. He stands from his chair. These beams are sustained.

FATHER

I think we lost everything. We barely made it out.

-

Another beam of light lances through the smoke and illuminates ELDERLY,

also standing

ELDERLY

This, my house, this was a wedding gift from my ma to my pa, back a long old

time ago.

-

Another beam illuminates CHILD

CHILD

This is my first trip up here, to see the farm, to see my dad

-

Another beam illuminates REPORTER

REPORTER

When I flew in, you could uh, you couldn’t see the ground.

-

And finally the last light illuminates FIREFIGHTER

FIREFIGHTER

The fires started to die down on the 6th day

ALL

Where do the stories go?

-

The people onstage are all lit, and they seem to know the other are there.

They don’t see each other, but there is a sort of desperate need to communicate.

Their lines begin to almost layer on top of the others. The light begins

to slowly get brighter, and the sound of the fire gets louder

FATHER


ELDERLY


time ago.

REPORTER


CHILD


FIREFIGHTER

The fires started to die down on the 6th day

-

The stage is filled with light and sound. ALL begin speaking simultaneously.

FATHER


ELDERLY


time ago.

37

Empathy / Entropy

REPORTER


CHILD


-

The lights turn the dusky orange of the background, and the stage becomes

painfully bright, almost blinding. The cello becomes frantic. The noise becomes

almost too much to bear. Everyone is obscured, then it all goes black.

There is silence for a moment, then all onstage begin a slow inhale, gaining

volume and power in a crescendo.

FIREFIGHTER and CHILD

Where do the stories go?

-

There is a sharp exhalation of breath, and with it comes light on FATHER, still

standing before his chair

FATHER

I think we lost everything. We barely made it out. Jesus Christ, I could feel

the heat from my bedroom, All we had time to grab was a suitcase of clothes

and the dog and we just ran. No matter how far we drove in any direction, it

was still there. We could have gotten out sooner, it’s-it’s my fault we didn’t.

I told my family to stay cause I heard looters were clearing out evacuated

houses, and that wasn’t going to be my home, you know? Least not if I’ve got

something to say about it. We’ve been through fires before, and the damn

governor orders evacuations every time. Evacuate my ass, I decide where I go.

If I’m going to abandoned everything I’ve worked my whole life for, I’ll decide,

not the government. But I’ve never seen anything like this. I looked outside

and my heart dropped into my shoes. I could barely think. All I could do was

keep my eyes forward and move, cause if I stopped… I didn’t know if I could

move again. It isn’t- It’s not normal. When all you can see is smoke and fire,

your mind empties out. There’s a pit in your chest. It’s primeval, instinctual.

Driving through it felt like hell on earth. And with the whole goddamn state

on fire, there was no way to outrun it. There was nowhere for us to go. We just

had to keep driving. My wife tried to comfort my daughter, but what do you

even say? After about an hour or so I saw this boathouse on a little lake, and

I pulled up to it. I figured if it’s over water, it’ll be harder for the fire to get to

us. And maybe we can wait it out. We can just wait till it’s safe then drive out.

I’m so worried about my family, my daughter. I just don’t know what else to

do. How do you fight something like this? All I can see around us is fire. I can’t

even see the sky. I’m supposed to keep my family safe. What the hell am I

going to tell my daughter? How do I tell her I failed to keep her safe?

-

Behind him, and during his story, the dancers begin a pseudo-pantomime of his

words. Their bodies tell his story in their own language. They are filled with the

same sort of rage and need to survive. They dance to a climax, then FATHER

and his chair crumble into ash.

REPORTER

Words spoken by the voiceless, heard in the ceaseless empty.

-

ELDERLY is seen once more, standing beside his chair

ELDERLY


time ago. She was the only lady contractor in the tri-county area, and she got

told over and over that no one would buy houses made by a woman. So she

builds this place, and boy did she build it. Local fellahs came in the night and

tried to firebomb the house, and- nothing. They barely left a scratch on the

place. Which, let me tell you, was not how they fared once Ma came after em.

I’ve lived here my whole life. I can’t imagine no other place bein home. This

house is a legacy, my Ma’s legacy, her gift to this family that’ll last for generations.

I’ve raised a family here, watched my kids grow up and start their own

families. Watched my grandkids learn to walk on the same floors as my own

children. All in these same rooms. This house is in my blood. It’s a part of me.


So when I hears on the radio that we’ve gotta leave, all pack up and get out of

dodge cause of the fire, I know that ain’t meaning me. This is a house made to

last, I owe it to my kids and grandkids to defend it like my parents did for me.

I’ve had a long life, and I don’t want to see a world where my family don’t live

here. If the good Lord sees fit for this to be my time, so be it. Thie house was

where I was born. Seems like a mighty good place to die too.

-

The dancers perform a more sentimental, familial dance during this. They build a

legacy and vow to defend it, and to love each other forever. They know nothing

of calamities to come.

ELDERLY and his chair collapse into ash.

FIREFIGHTER

How many years have faded away, forgotten by the living? Known only to

dust.

-

CHILD is seen, she is still seated. The dancers stand on either side behind her

CHILD

This is my first trip up here, to see the farm, to see my dad. He- He and

my mom split up when I was really little, so I haven’t, like, actually met him

before this. To me, “Dad” was just a name on a birthday card for most of

my life, not actual family. Its always just been me and my mom. But then I

had this idea, maybe I could come live with him for a summer. You know,

get away from the city, spend time outdoors, and like, get to know him. I remember

thinking “what have I got to lose? Its just a summer, and if it sucks

you can come back home.” I cant get that memory out of my head. Running,

packing my things, coughing and crying from smoke, all I can think is “what

have I got to lose? Its Just a summer” And I know this isn’t my fault, but I

just can’t stop thinking that this was my idea. I decided to come here. And…

as I was getting on the plane to come here my mom took my shoulders and

said “you’re sure you want to do this?’ and the look in her eyes? It was like

she felt something was going to go wrong. And I told her yes. And said I

loved her. And then I walked onto the plane without looking back. And I am

so afraid that I wasted my last chance to see my mom’s face. That I wasted

all my choices, my whole life. And as we try to outrun the fire, I keep picturing

my mom’s eyes. They were really worried. My dad got us to a little house

on the beach with some other people, but no one is saying anything. I’m

only thirteen years old. I really don’t want to go.

-

The dancers perform a complex and restrained exploration of power and loss.

Of blame and guilt and longing for what could be. CHILD dissolves into ash

FIREFIGHTER

Known only to the dust

-

Light is found on REPORTER, fidgeting in their chair

REPORTER

When I flew in, you could uh, you couldn’t see the ground. There was this layer

of smoke over everything, I didn’t even know we had arrived till we dipped

down through that smoke and a whole city just popped into view. Once I

got down there, I had to keep wearing a mask in my car, like an n95 mask,

because the ac system just couldn’t filter out the sheer number of like, the

number of particulates in the air. I drove to a refugee center, just outside of

Portland, I wanted to see how the people displaced by the fire were taking it.

And, It was odd, honestly. The skies were full of smoke, people were sleeping

in their cars and on sleeping bags in a parking lot, but there was still hope.

I uh, I found this set of sisters. They had to be in their mid-seventies or so,

and they had 3 birds and two dogs with them in their sedan where they were

sleeping. Their home, their entire town, had been burned to the ground the

previous week. And yet they were so full of life. They still had hope. I saw that

everywhere I looked. There was despair, anger, fear yes but there was always

hope. Even when we had to move the whole camp because the fires got

closer in the night, they always tried to have hope. Right up to the end. We

39

Empathy / Entropy

couldn’t outrun it. It surrounded us, cutting off all the roads in and out of the

last place we set up camp. We tried to get help from the fire services or like

the national guard but no one could get to us in time. I… I finished my article,

though.. I put every bit of my time here on the page. Then I buried it, hoping

that someone might find it once we-I… I never thought I’d write my own obituary.

But I want these people, me, to live on in words. My words. if we give the

dead a voice to speak with, could we finally hear them? Would we listen?

-

Here, the dancers perform an interpretation of refugees running, building,

tearing down, running again, and resettling. It’s a never-ending, tiring cycle.

But it’s all they can do. Once finished, REPORTER crumbles into ash, the

dancers disappear into the darkness

FIREFIGHTER

If we give the dead a voice to speak with, could we hear them? Would we

listen?

-

Light is found on FIREFIGHTER, the only one left onstage. He knows this,

and it weighs on him. He looks to where the others have been. He is numb

FIREFIGHTER

The fires started to die down on the 6th day. For the first few days we couldn’t

even get helicopters to the center of the burn because the heat was so powerful

the rotors would warp and fail. I didn’t even know a fire could get that

hot. Ive never seen anything as bad as this one. I’ve flown fire rescue for a few

years now, and… its never easy, you know? Your job is to go to the worst spots

of the burn and get people out. But flying over this was like flying over another

planet. There was just nothing left. We had received a distress call from a

little ski lodge bout two days ago, and we was headed there to get the folks

out. When we arrived at the lodge, I had to double check with the dispatcher

that we were in the right spot, because we couldn’t see any buildings. There

were a couple cars and one fire engine, but other than that? Dispatch said it

was the spot, so we fly over again and I finally saw the foundation of a little

boat house on the beach. Scorched as black as the earth around it. We landed

and… like I said its never easy. But this was bad. One of the other guys was

poking around the rubble, and he started to find wedding rings. Half-melted

and burned but they were about the only thing we could find. The fires got

so hot even the bones must have burned away. There were supposed to be

around 20 people there. And we didn’t even find nothing to bury. Nothing but

ash. We still haven’t even found out what their names were. I wonder what it

was like, in their final moments. Who did they think of? What did they regret,

who would they miss? All those fears, those loves, those memories. Lost. All

just turned to ash

-

The dancers perform a complex and restrained exploration of power and loss.

Of blame and guilt and longing for what could be. CHILD dissolves into ash

END OF PLAY


The Hell of It

Alan Berecka

To survive, operators learned early in their careers

to glance back often at the observation board

where the bosses sat and listened in on us

as they checked our keying, waited to hear

policy upheld politely with a smiling voice,

any mistakes or cross words became faults—

red marks that stained and ended careers.

If no boss sat on the board, we could

have some fun, like that night some drunk

called in from a bar saying he lost his quarter

in the phone and asked me to dial his number.

But a few days before Ma Bell had directed

all of her operators to no longer place calls

for folks claiming to have lost change in pay phones.

All we could do was to offer to mail the change

back to the customer, because, truth be told,

it had gotten to where only lost quarters

were going into her payphones, and Ma Bell

couldn’t abide any more damned lies.

Upon hearing my cheerful recitation of

the new policy the drunk screamed,

“Well fuck you, operator!”

and slammed the receiver back

into its cradle. I double-checked to

make sure no one was listening in,

and then, for the hell of it,

I hit the call back button.

Amazingly, the drunk answered. “Yeah?”

“Hey, this is the operator, and I just wanted

to ask you a question, sir?”

“What’s that, operator?”

“Well, I was wondering if you are

naturally witty or if you read a lot?”

The drunk’s rage flared.

He screamed, “Fuck you!” and slammed

the receiver even harder. Well,

it worked once,

so I hit the call back button again.

“What now!” roared the drunk.

“Aw nothing. I just wanted

to compliment you on your wide and

varied vocabulary.”

The drunk started to scream fuck you

but realized he couldn’t or he’d

prove my point,

so he just screamed, “FA, FA, FA… “

as he did his best to rip

the phone off the wall

until the line finally went dead.

A day or two later some man

in a shaken voice he was at a

hospital, told me had to break

some bad news to his wife. Their

child, an accident. Could I please

put him through? I looked back. A

big-haired hard ass sat at the board,

taking notes. I thought about the

odds, one operator in a hundred,

maybe I could dial the number, and

keep my job, but when my eyes met

the boss’s, she shook her head and

mouthed the words, “No, don’t!”

straight at me.

I wish I could say at 22, I was brave,

not worried about the bills I had to

pay; but I only offered to mail the

quarter back, offered to let him speak

to a supervisor who’d charge the call

to his home account.

I wish I could say the hard ass finally

melted, but all I can say is when that

man hung up, exhausted in his frustration,

the click echoed in the pit of

my stomach as my gut went numb,

but, I had saved the richest mother

in the world twenty-five cents and,

the hell of it was, once my fault-free

observation was logged,

I got to keep my job.

41

Empathy / Entropy

How Not to Be a Housepainter

(For Sioux)

I found the photograph in a drawer.

He and dad sitting on a bench

with the spit and whittle boys on Market Square.

Cowboy hats shading their eyes in black and white,

his arms folded across the chest

of his western shirt,

Dad’s right hand lifted to conduct the conversation,

both men laughing.

And fifty years fell like a judge’s gavel.

He pulled off his sweat-stained, Resistol straw hat

and ran his fingers through iron-grey hair,

placed it crown down

beside an open can of dark green paint

and reached under his coveralls into his shirt pocket.

He produced a half-empty pack,

tapped out a Lucky Strike and fired it up.

Ron Wallace

Half a century later,

I still remember working with him that summer,

brushing green onto the window trim.

I still recall the smell of cigarette smoke and fresh paint

and me saying,

“I need a pair of those coveralls.”

He placed the weathered hat back on his head

and poured more white paint into the tray for his roller.

“No you don’t,” he said

through lips clinched to hold the cigarette,

smoke curling up into his eyes.

“You ain’t gonna paint houses and pour concrete

or saw 2x4’s and pound nails in planks

all your life, boy.”

I focused on keeping the trim green

and the boards white.

“Save your money from this summer,

get your ass in school, be somebody.”

I moved from the windows to the wall trim.

“Maybe after next summer.”

He rolled the ivory paint onto the wall next to the trim I’d finished,

dropped the cigarette,

and stepped on the butt with his sharp-toed cowboy boots.


42

“Your daddy and your momma want you in school

this fall.”

I moved up the step ladder to reach the trim below the green shingles.

“I’ve had about all the school shit I can stand.”

He nodded,

kept the white rising up the wall

with the long-handled roller

not acknowledging my manly remark.

Easing down the ladder,

a drop of paint fell on the hair on my shoulders

and bled through to my Bad Company tee shirt.

“Damn it to Hell,” I swore, manly once again.

He lay his roller in the tray,

and said, “Let’s grab a cold drink.”

Zipping the coveralls down, he grabbed another Lucky,

before popping the top on a couple of Cokes.

Handing me one, he blew smoke into Oklahoma sky.

I took a long draft and watched the smoke disappear.

He opened his left hand wide.

“Look at them fingers, boy.

I beat every one of ‘em flat with a goddamn hammer over the years.

You think that was my game plan?”

I looked at the literally flattened fingertips

and swallowed another pull of cold Coke.

“I was gonna ride rodeo,

saddle broncs in Calgary and Cheyenne.

I wasn’t gonna be doing this piddling shit my whole life.

It would just pay my entry fees.”

I didn’t know what to say, just sorta mumbled something about wanting to

play ball.

“Ball players and bronc riders get old, son.

If you don’t get in school pretty soon, you never will.

You’ll look up one day, and you’ll be sixty-eight,

still hammering nails and painting boards,”

he threw another butt on the ground,

“smoking these death sticks

and driving a piece-of-shit Chevy.”

“ I sure don’t plan on doing this forever, Sioux,” I said.

He coughed and spat phlegm.

“Me either.

Turpentine’ll take the paint outta your hair,

but that shirt not coming clean.”

I glanced at the green stain.

“Lotta pretty girls in college,” he grinned.

Get back on the ladder.

We’ve got two more walls to go.”

43

Empathy / Entropy

Ron Wallace

Dragon

Who knew that the dragon was dust

that he would lay every wild warrior low

under a pillow of stone?

We didn’t fear his flames

simply rode our horses hard

into their shadows painted on the morning air.

No one could convince us

what thieves were the setting suns.

And not one among us

believed dusk would steal away our light

while we played games of little consequence,

unaware

somehow

the trophy we desired most

would be Time.

We seemed content to watch days blow by

like plastic Walmart bags

snagging on a barbed wire fence for a moment

before snapping free

and bouncing in a dismal wind

down the highway side,

leaving us

bereft as beggars in their wake.

Dinosaur

The world is, too often, confusing

incomprehensible,

fucked-up and complicated.

It’s not easy being a curved cap bill

in a sea of flat ones, a pair of roundtoed

boots among the square.

Some days,

I dream that I have fallen through the CDs,

through the discarded cassettes

and VCRs

only to land in the midst of Hoyt Axton,

CCR and Three Dog Night,

piled among stacks

of eight track tapes.

I rise

and half expect to find my footprints

pressed into the detritus

of books by Steinbeck

or Whitman’s poetry,

preserved in a museum as evidence

that once we read

turned actual pages,

where Tom Joad, Owen Meany,

and Gus McCrae

sat on shelves

undigitalized.


44

Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton

Hanna

Someone found the body by a cotton gin

near Chapman Ranch. In the fall

cotton balls tumble and clump

like wet snow in the flat Texas roads.

The queen plush sits on a throne

of autumn, wears a bright, plastic

crown. Expect Hanna to make

landfall noon on Saturday –

80-100 mph winds

stroking the face of Gulf waters –

foil pressed onto brushed metal.

They called the Rangers in to assist

with the investigation – the black

bear sleeping in a kiddie pool,

protesters heckling staff

leaving the Chinese consulate,

slate morning dawning on straight line

leather skin makes with a harvested field.

An iron grating leaves a scarlet

silhouette. Dressed up in clothes

left by patrons of their 70 year

laundry business, Chang Wan-Ji

and Han Sho-er become viral

Instagram models. The white

umbrella opens over carmine

cellophane. Storm surges flood

the Art Museum first floor

and parts of downtown. A protester

shot and killed in Austin. A DNA

study showed widespread impact

of African slave trade. The wind

stays in the trees.

45

Empathy / Entropy

Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton

Subtropical Herbarium

Sabal palmettos point wispy eyes at sky

and dream cloud scuds as closing arguments

against the salt-bitten heat

of incarceration. Pluck their

terminal buds, taste them transform

into hearts of palm as you crush

meat between molars: tender harvest

that kills the tree. Because of this

they grow so tall, unfold

vital organs to the secret sun.

The anacahuita, however, sheds

fleshy blooms like an abundant

white sadness lost in seasons’

borders, petals

filling the lawn with their soft flames.

If you pick the olive-shaped fruits

eat them one by one

sweet dizziness enters the tongue

unwraps balance from the surface

of your spine, releases fickle attentions,

melancholia, precariousness,

and emotions

of uncertainty

to roam and ravage the body

until it forgets the limits

of its own definition

until it becomes

some

body

else.

When you find – not yourself –

but the mauve cool

of phanera purpurea, the swelling

in your mind begins to ease, ulcered

walls regain shape, soft lily

flowers press skin and draw

deep violet from flesh

into sparkling plant cells.

These bright butterflies

named alibangbang in the Philippines

leap into heavy summer shadow

where violence as much as joy

languish in each others’ sweltering

thick arms, magenta flashes

dart between the limbs,

draw your troubled

mind out into

the searing

light.


46

Theodore Hodges

Red From Shipping and Receiving

“I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only

as one who has seen its brutality, its stupidity.”

- General Dwight Eisenhower

SERGEANT MICHAEL SANDERSON

5TH RANGER BATTALION, A COMPANY

OMAHA BEACH

(FORCE DISPLACED BY WEATHER CONDITIONS, ORIGINAL LANDING SITE

5 MILES WEST AT POINTE DU HOC)

JUNE 6TH, 1944

“Clear the ramp god damnit! Clear the fucking ramp!” the squid was forced to

scream his abuse over the motor raging and sea water splashing inside the bay.

He wasn’t a squid, not really, but my old man had served in the Marines back

in the Gr- the last war- and called Navy guys that. Shit, what were we even calling this

now? Great War Two? I’ve been at this job, doing the world tour of killing Germans that

is, for two years now. Two years. Yet, I never thought about it. What the hell had I

been doing? More of what you’re about to do, I reminded myself.

None of that really mattered though. Just the stupid kind of stuff that always

ran through your head when the killing was about to start. The North Atlantic was

pissed today, and that stole any real significance to concerns like naming conventions.

Orders had been to wait for the weather to clear before we tried our hand at Normandy.

That was, until the days had started to drag. General Eisenhower apparently admitted

he was getting impatient, and miraculously the met reports showed up an hour later

signifying that we were open for business. The ocean, for its part, begged to differ.

Christ, the Navy LCVP (Landing Craft, Vehicle and Personnel) smelled bad.

Besides the already potent stench of sea water, which I didn’t love, guys were spilling

their guts all over the place. What it accomplished was little more than pushing some

others over the proverbial edge. Well, that, and making sure all our boots had a fresh

coat of breakfast and stomach acid to accompany the sea water soaking in.

Armored walls ran up the sides of the LCVP and over our heads. Ostensibly,

they were supposed to provide cover for inserting forces. I had seen and used a lot of

stuff that the Army liked to put “supposed” around, so I wasn’t holding my breath. As it

were, we would all be finding out how reliable the equipment was. If you managed to

avoid catching an AT round, machine gun fire, or a bomb on the way in, it worked as

advertised. If not, well nobody would be able to file your complaint.

“Sergeant!” Miller, the youngest guy in my squad, said, “I’m… I’m scared!”

“Shit son,” I replied without thinking as usual, “I did North Africa and Italy, and

I’m still inches from shitting my britches.”

A few weak laughs came from that, and another Ranger decided it was a good

time to add his breakfast to the ankle-deep sea water/vomit hybrid sloshing around.

“Weather resistant” was what they had said about our boots. My socks, very much

soaking wet, put the lie to that claim. I started to feel something like growing excitement

as we made our final approach to the beaches. At least all I’d have to do there

is not die. Compared to sitting in the tub of human juices, I was opting for German

machine guns.

Moments like these always reminded me how far from Iowa I was. I wanted

47

Empathy / Entropy

to go home. No, I needed to go home. My boy just turned two last week: another

memory stolen from me. If today went like I thought it would, I might never be there

for one of his birthdays. Had it really been that long? Margaret was pregnant when I

left. Now, James was a big two-year-old, and all I knew of my own son were the bits

of information she sent in letters. Not even a fucking picture.

Margaret wasn’t sounding any happier about me being away either. Terms

like “divorce,” “separation” and “Red from shipping and receiving” were thrown around

a lot. “Red from shipping and receiving” was also twenty years older than my wife.

None of it had stopped her from having a few “moments of indiscretion” with him over

the last two years. God damn, if the Nazis didn’t make punching their ticket easy. All

I had to do was think about “Red from shipping and receiving” whenever I felt any

doubt.

“Here we go!” the squid screamed once more.

The LCVP struck the surface hard enough to knock me down and right into

the soupy fluid below. Our ramp released from its’ housing, hitting the beach with a

wet plop of sand and salt water. But we weren’t on the beach. In fact, we were about

fifty meters from it. Shit, that fucking idiot dropped us on a sandbar, I raged. Today

was going to start with us swimming ashore instead of getting dropped there. How

many would make it through the rough waters? That was anyone’s guess.

Enemy machine gun teams were right on the money though. 8mm rounds

spat from German MG42s and ripped through the densely packed Rangers in front.

Turns out the armor worked pretty good, not one bullet punched through the walls.

They just ricocheted around, shredding bodies with abandon.

“Oh shit, oh fuck, oh god dam-“ the squid was stammering when he realized

his error.

“In the water!” I screamed.

“I can’t swim!” one voice came through the racket.

“I’m hit!” another added.

“It’s swim or die! In the water god damnit!” I said, putting an end to their

complaints in the way only Sergeants could do.

We started tossing ourselves over the side or through the bodies of our formerly

living comrades. I opted to go over the side. A burst of MG42 fire sprayed towards

me for my trouble. Close calls came with the business, but that was closer than I ever

wanted. One of them even skimmed my boot sole as I was going headfirst into the

Atlantic.

Sea water was changing to red, like an algae infested pond, once I flopped

in. My gear was heavy at the best of times. Getting it soaked through didn’t do me any

favors either. Saltwater flowed into my mouth, and even though I knew I shouldn’t, I

inhaled. It tasted just like water impregnated with human blood would taste like: coins

and salt.

Fear managed to get me moving again after the shock settled in. Before I

knew it, I was ripping my gear off with desperate wrenching movements. Ruck sack,

bandolier, weapon, helmet, all of them were thrown off as fast as I could manage.

When I was finally light enough to fight my way to the surface, I did so with frantic

flailing motions.

Most people inhale when they get above the water line. I decided coughing

would be better. It was a god damn miracle that I hadn’t died down there, and I had

enough saltwater to entertain a family of Marlins in my stomach. The coughing and

sputtering continued for a few moments while I took in the scene. In short, it was a

massacre.


48

First off, I was not where I was supposed to be. I didn’t know that because

someone told me, or that I had a map in hand. I knew it because there were tanks

in the water too. Pointe Du Hoc wasn’t supposed to have tanks. At best, I had drifted

to the Omaha side of the beachhead. Worst case, I was in hell itself. The dead bodies

and screaming men floating around tempted me to believe the latter.

In absence of any better idea, I started to swim towards the beach. You

would not believe how many corpses I was forced to push past in that desperate

flight. They were already cold to the touch when I was forced to shove them out of

the way. One of them decided he wasn’t ready to die yet, and started grabbing at me

while shouting for help. That was stupid for a whole truckload of reasons. All I did to

respond was ram a fist into one of his wounds. He squealed in pain from my abuse,

and stopped pleading for me to help him. I continued my recently adopted hobby of

oceanic aerobics without looking back at the man. There was nothing I could do for

him anyway.

If the water wasn’t cold and bloody enough, the beach would certainly do

the trick. Men lay scattered across the expanse, some dead, some dying. Rangers,

1st ID, and 29th ID, boys were huddled up behind tank traps like rats hiding from

a homeowner. I scrambled behind one myself. Machinegun fire was annihilating the

beachhead, and the artillery was starting to make itself known. Officers were trying

to get their Sergeants into the fight, but they were resisting as much as the privates

were. One found me and started his pitch.

“Sergeant!” he pulled me close to scream in my ear, “we have to get off this

beach!”

“Yeah? No shit sir!” I retorted.

“Where is your weapon?”

“Out in the water! Want me to go back for it?”

“No, cut the shit! Get ready to move on my go!”

“Sir?” I asked, grabbing the officer’s shoulder to get his attention since he

had turned away.

“What Sergeant?”

“Where the fuck are we?”

“Omaha, Dog Green! Any more insightful questions, or are you ready to get

back to the war?”

“No sir.”

I knew this man, but I wasn’t sure if he knew me. Lieutenant Milani was his

name. He was a platoon leader in 2nd Battalion’s A Company, and an Italian one at

that. I served in 1st Battalion, so we were hardly well-established friends. Milani also

had gained a reputation for being particularly straight laced on regs. It didn’t win him

any friends amongst his men, but the officer caste loved him. He was right though,

damn it, we needed to get off this beach. Chances of survival dwindled by the millisecond.

God decided to get off the crapper in that moment and give us a tank. It

had somehow managed to struggle out of the water from its landing craft’s premature

deployment. The bulbous green war machine was one of those flamethrower Shermans

that had earned their keep in North Africa. Somehow, the tank had maintained

its monstrous fuel trailer too. We had armor at least. That raised our chances from

nonexistent to grim. It was now or never. Lieutenant Milani opted for now.

“GO!” he yelled, and we went.

There was somewhere near thirty of us before we started pushing up beside

the tank. By the time we reached halfway, we were at twenty. MG fire and artillery

detonations were reaping a bloody toll while we fought our way forward. The results

49

Empathy / Entropy

of their labor lay in bits and pieces scattered across the beach. Some of the pieces even

managed to scream.

Say what you will about the ocean, but at least I didn’t get teeth and entrails

splattered on me while swimming through that. The smell was as you’d expect. If I

wasn’t on a mad dash for my very life, I might have added some vomit or tears to the

mix. Instead, I settled on what “Red from shipping and receiving” was doing to my wife.

Always managed to keep my head in the game, that.

“Blow the wire! Bangalores up!” Milani said when we finally reached our first

stop.

Nobody was there to do it, but I pretty much knew how they worked. Plenty

of the dead had them, so I pilfered corpses to recover what I needed. With one of the

Bangalores in hand, I ripped the pin free. Then a grunt, and I flung the explosive up to

the wire. All I had left to do after that was take cover behind the berm.

BOOM

BOOM BOOM BOOM

At least the explosives worked. We now had a clear path to the rock faces that

would lead us up to the bunkers and trench lines above. I still didn’t have a weapon.

That was rectified in the same way I got the Bangalore. A Thompson .45 automatic

SMG was my killing tool now. Compared to the M1 Garand I had ridden in with, it was

an improvement. What we were about to attempt would be up close. Auto guns were

better for that kind of work.

“Keep moving! Grab ammo and keep moving!” Milani said.

I followed the crazy Italian up to a draw in the rock wall. Apparently, the guys

in 1st and 29th knew about this, so I just fell in and hoped we had the juice for it. Another

MG was set up there, and we made short work of it with smoke grenades and our

small arms. Three guys bought it before we were done, but we had a route up. That

was the best news I heard all day. Second best was one of them had a helmet that fit

me. No, never mind, that was third. The Thompson was second.

“Of course, a miserable bastard like you had to live Sanderson,” Milani said

with a dry chuckle while we waited just under the crest of the draw.

“So, you do know my name?” I said, honestly surprised he did.

“Guys like you, well, us officers hope we don’t get them.”

I laughed, “Shit sir, I’ve been doing this since Africa! You should be honored!”

“Let’s make sure I have plenty of time to reconsider my harsh words,” Milani

muttered, then, “Rangers, 1st, 29th, let’s get this done. You know the drill: grenades,

flamethrowers-wait, do we even have one of those?”

“Yeah, I made it sir,” one of the soldiers farther back said, brandishing the

nozzle of his flamethrower.

“Would have been too much fun without you. Where’s the tank?”

“Sir,” I pointed at the burning carcass of the Sherman well below us, “wouldn’t

count on that.”

“Typical,” Milani grunted, “move out!”

All of us lined up as wide as we could with fresh troops behind. If one of

us went down, the second man would take up our position. There might have been

enough for a covering element, but every second we wasted dicking around trying to

get them emplaced was another one we gave to the German’s to rally. Yet again, now,

or never.

Milani was the first out, and I followed him close behind. Fire erupted from a

nearby trench line as we pushed forward. Four more of our people took the rounds in

stride and rolled limply on the soil to a dead stop. I wanted to get rounds on the Jerries

if I could, but there was no time. Some of the less brave souls in our ad hoc force had


50

decided discretion was the better part of valor and stayed back. A few even chose to

fire their weapons at the Nazis while we ran to the nearest bunker. I swear, people like

that made it a fucking miracle we were winning this war.

“Grenades!” Milani said.

I had a few on my person, and without preamble, lobbed them at the trenches

outside the gargantuan structure. The MG teams were in there, still spitting death

to the guys below, so they needed to be removed from play ASAP. Miraculously, a few

other guys did the same, and we huddled in cover with our hands over our heads.

Chunks of concrete and less savory elements of the human composition

rained down on us with the blast. When it settled, we popped up over the edge of

the trench line. Some of its inhabitants lived in various stages of agony from minor

to severe. We ended their pain with bursts of fire from our rifles and SMGs. One guy

even had a Browning Automatic, and he spent no more than a round or two on those

he killed.

“Flame!” the Lieutenant barked.

The burner was laying in a heap between us and the draw’s crest, so that

option was no longer available. Milani stared for a moment, and his features darkened.

Then he looked at me. We both had sub guns, and that was the best option now that

we were short a fire bug. All I could manage was a tired shrug and a few words.

“Don’t even say it. Might as well get this over with.”

“Hell of an example for the men, Sergeant,” Milani said with a grin.

This was an old game, between officer and sergeant. If all went the way

things were supposed to, he made decisions and I leashed him when necessary. Unfortunately,

that’s not how it shook out most of the time. But for now, we both played

our parts. Two young men trying their best to lighten the tremendous load of battlefield

leadership.

“Sir,” I said, reloading my Thompson, “if they need me to pep them up right

now, we’re right and truly fucked.”

“I’m ashamed to hear such words from a US Army Noncommissioned officer,”

he said while we scaled the wall.

“All that motivation shit is as much for us as them. They know what to do.

Whether or not they do it is on each man’s conscious.”

“Whatever you say, old timer,” the twenty-three-year-old Lieutenant said to

me, a twenty-five-year-old Sergeant.

“Fuck you… sir.”

We were at the bunker’s rear door now. I pulled my Thompson’s magazine

free one last time to make sure I was good to go. That was the second time I checked

since we started talking, but I wanted to be absolutely certain I was going in with

one in the pipe and twenty-nine on backup. Good chance I’d need every single one of

them. Those bunkers looked filled to the brim with krauts.

With a nod from Milani, we tossed grenades in the door. They cooked off

with clouds of dust, spraying from the innards of the concrete eyesore the Nazi’s had

crafted with the help of local slave labor. Voices still were in there though. They didn’t

sound like they were giving up either. I couldn’t blame them. Would I in their shoes?

Of late, both sides had a problem with the whole alive thing. If you had been around

for a bit, it got harder and harder to see the point in saving the miserable bastards.

Nazis that didn’t get the point this deep into the war probably deserved the lead pill.

God damn fanatics rolled around in my mind with the sentiment.

“No time like the present,” I said with look at Milani, and surged forward.

The Nazis did a hell of a job building their fortifications. That was on my mind

as I came in. A T-shape formed the terminus of the entryway, sheltering the inhabi-

51

Empathy / Entropy

tants from the worst of our grenades. No doubt they weren’t happy at the interruption

to their slaughter, but they weren’t dead. If we needed confirmation, an officer inside

began shouting out commands in the mongrel tongue of the people who had made

“Red from shipping and receiving” a possibility.

I was first in, and there was no shortage of targets. Six of them cowered

behind ammo boxes while one still sprayed fire into the poor bastards on the beach.

He got it first. My Thompson chattered like the nickname “Chicago Typewriter” it had

earned in the twenties. The gunner jerked, and red puffs of blood vapor erupted from

his chest. Holding the trigger down, I swept the weapon across the room until the action

locked back empty.

Explosions and gunfire still ravaged the beach below, but nobody was fighting

back in this bunker anymore. Milani was busying himself checking the room for intel

while I reloaded. German cries for salvation always triggered my selective hearing. One

half of my next magazine ensured they didn’t need any more assistance this side of the

grave. War is hell, so they said.

“Holy shit!” Milani yelled as I raked the bodies with .45 auto rounds, “What the

fuck are you doing Sanderson?”

“Sir, I know you’re new to this, but I’m not wasting time on checking pockets

for knives and letters to their sweethearts when we’ve still got a war on.”

“You are way out of line, Sergeant,” he said while grabbing my shirt collar.

“Let go of me,” I warned.

“Or what?”

The Lieutenant earned a headbutt for his efforts. His nose cracked, and blood

ran from it. I had hoped he would get the idea, but he wanted some more by the look

in his eyes. A fist cracked into my jaw, knocking me down. It hurt. Nonexistent lights

danced in my vision when I hit the blood-soaked floor. I managed a grunt while I

rubbed at my jaw. That would bruise for sure.

“Don’t get up, Sanderson,” Milani said to me with a hand raised and his other

firmly on his Thompson’s pistol grip, “Maybe the Germans do this kind of shit, but we

don’t. Gunning down innocent POWs is too far.”

“Innocent? For fuck sakes sir, how long have you been in uniform? A year? Six

months? Isn’t this your first time in actual combat? What do you know about ‘what we

do?’”

“I don’t have time for you to lecture me about the horrors of war, Sergeant.

Just stay here. You’ll get a nice ticket home. Well, probably not home, but a hell of a lot

closer than I’ll be anytime soon.”

“Look, sir,” I stood up, “I’m willing to let this go if you just turn around and we

walk out just like we came in. Make an issue of this, and half the Regiment will have

you on their shit list.”

“Why would you say that?” Milani asked, seeming uninterested.

“If you think I’m the only one who has finished off a job like this… Well, I don’t

know what to tell you.”

Milani was a proud man, and it showed itself in his response, “Spare me,

please. Guys like you always have the same soap box they stand on. ‘Had to be done

sir.’ Get over it.”

Desperate, I changed tact, “I was your age in North Africa, you know that?”

“Why should I care what you have to say?”

“Just listen god damnit!” I shouted, “I was twenty-three when I killed my first

man. We had just finished off a firefight with the Jerries and found a bunch of wounded

in a fighting position that had taken an arty shell. They were fucked up, bad, and we


52

didn’t have enough water to spare. You can’t imagine the heat there sir. A day without

water and you’d be a goner. So, my LT gave us the nod.”

“Bullshit.”

“Turn around, sir,” I said, all gentility in my voice gone, “Do what I say this

time. Just, just, turn around and we’ll leave together.”

“No, I want no part of this, and you will obey my orders, Sergeant. Or have

you decided that listening to a commissioned officer’s orders is only a formality too?”

Milani was stressed. This was his first firefight, and it wasn’t the kind that any

man should have as his first. Hell, I don’t think anyone should ever have to see combat

like that. We were both young, but experience divided us in the same way years would

in the normal world. That’s why Sergeants existed in the first place. Senior riflemen

that advised officers and kept them on the right path.

Situations like this was where he needed a guiding hand, but he was pushing

it away. All for what? Moral superiority? This was war, and good men needed to do

bad things to survive. Someone had failed in teaching him that, and now I was caught

holding the bag.

I let out a sigh, attempting to bury the hatchet one last time, “Fine, we’ll deal

with that later. I’ll go outside to get the men. We’ve still got a shitload more of these

bunkers to clear out.”

“No, Sanderson, you’re done. I am ordering you to stand down, and if you

don’t…” Milani said, and that’s when he made a fatal mistake; he raised his weapon at

me.

Things had been quiet before this for the US Army. Italy was done and

dusted, and Africa was practically ancient history. Problems had arisen with soldiers,

particularly new officers, lacking combat experience training alongside us veterans in

Britain. The problems varied, but the two most potent had been lack of understanding

and lack of situational awareness. Milani displayed both in that moment, as he was

pointing a weapon at me. A weapon, that he had forgotten to reload amidst the carnage

of the trench clearing. He probably didn’t even notice its’ action was snapped

back.

What happened next was something I regret being forced to do. Milani, by

his naivety, stood alongside the Germans as people who would ensure “Red from shipping

and receiving” kept up his activities with my wife. I couldn’t have that. I wouldn’t.

Maybe if we hadn’t been in such a tight spot, I could have talked him out of it. He was

simply scared, after all. But I did not have the time. If I didn’t make a play, I would

never see my family again. Five murder charges just about guaranteed that by either

a prison sentence or a firing squad.

“Nothing personal, sir,” I said while raising my own weapon.

Milani looked surprised that I had resisted his supposed unimpeachable authority,

“What?”

The LT squeezed his trigger first, I’ll never forget that. I let him, just to be

sure he would. His Thompson let out a dry click. When his gaze returned to my own,

his eyes were wide in fear. His mouth started to move like he was trying to say something.

It might have been “please”, but I wasn’t sure. My own weapon silenced his

pleading with a barrage of slugs into his chest. He fell like any German or Italian man

I had killed. It was anticlimactic, considering the circumstances.

Carnage still raged as I approached Milani. Blood poured over from his lips

almost immediately, and I knew I did some serious damage to his internals. Time felt

out of synch in that moment as I drifted over to his body. I had to be sure he wasn’t

going to get back up. Closing my eyes, I reloaded, then ripped off another burst.

When my own weapon announced it was empty, there wasn’t much left of the once

handsome Lieutenant’s skull. Nobody walked away from that.

53

Empathy / Entropy

I had to get home. “Red from shipping and receiving” wouldn’t stop himself,

and Margret was just confused. She missed me terribly, I knew that even if she didn’t

say it anymore. If I could just get there, just survive another day, I could show her.

Of course, I wouldn’t be the same since I had left, but that was okay. We could find a

way to work it out, and I could be the father that James needed. I just needed to get

there to make it happen, and I’d be god damned before some punk Lieutenant like

Milani was going to stop me.

THE NEXT DAY

I was sitting on an ammo crate when the Colonel came over to me, smoking

a cigarette I had traded one of the supply folks for. The last day’s action had been

unreal. Fifteen more men, three of which were French militia, had died by my hands

since I… did what had to be done with Milani. The show had been mine after that,

and I had led the ragtag troopers to something like “glory,” if that even existed in the

organized massacre of war.

“Sergeant Sanderson,” The Colonel said from behind me.

“Sir!” I barked, rising to my feet.

“At ease, son, at ease,” he said with his “I want to be your surrogate daddy”

voice.

I sat down again and said, “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I want to talk about yesterday, on the beach.”

My blood chilled, “Hell of a mess, sir.”

“No doubt,” he said, “what was that Lieutenant that helped get you guys up?”

“Milani, sir.”

“Damn good man, wasn’t he? Always heard he had a good head on his shoulders.”

“Yes, sir,” I lied, “Army will be less without him.”

“Absolutely, but I’ve got some interesting reports from some of the men that

were with you two.”

“What’s that, sir?” I asked, bracing for impact.

“They said you did a damned good job! In fact, I want to give you a silver

star! How does that sound?”

It wasn’t really a question, so I answered the only way I knew how, “Sounds

good to me, sir.”

“I’ll get the paperwork started then. Stay here, Sanderson. Take a rest. You

earned it.”

“Yes, sir,” I said while he wandered away to continue accosting the men who

did the real work with pointless frivolities.

A pent-up exhale of air exploded from me when the Colonel left. There it

was. I killed a man. In cold blood, no less. Now I was about to get the second highest

combat decoration under the Medal of Honor for it. Jesus, what a fucked-up world. In

the last twenty-four hours I hadn’t traveled far from the bunker, but I felt farther from

home than I ever had before. Most of all, I just felt tired.

I couldn’t suppress an ugly laugh while I thought about my son, despite the

tears running from my eyes. I did what “Red from shipping and receiving” would have

done in that moment: anything necessary to get by. Strangely, I felt close to the man

who was having his way with my wife in the same house my son lived in. We had both

crossed a line, of sorts, and both of us had to determine what life would look like after

that in our own way.


54

ink

Jacob Benavides

Limb Love

At eleven, I split open my leg

ripping the hairs and sinews,

writhing in a crimson stain,

young taut flesh on a cold bike peg

striking, like a wooden matchstick,

pulling into unstaunched iron pools,

running readily.

black stitches crossed an angry wound tame,

a wilted match seeking

a lifetime for another flame.

And this isn’t the end.

This flesh will catch forevermore,

I struck it open again, at seventeen, I’m never meant to heal

In a rage, enflamed, irate

(Full disclosure).

gouged with a ballpoint pen,

Closure is a body forever sore.

and it wasn’t on purpose. No

I fell from my own precipice

from a delirious desirous mind,

and violent is the fall

from physical brain to

immaterial heart,

then to that same wound,

same left leg

(at this point it became an art)

a stout flame lit

with a rotten egg shout,

the bleeding stream was hot,

I had to suck it dry,

kiss it closed,

kiss it out.

I turned twenty,

same gash, same wound, same scar

popped back open (I’m used to it).

Instead, I was pushed,

prodded, paraded off the edgeand

I fell far.

The flesh sprung forth and wept,

bleeding the sametasting

the samestriking

a match that wouldn’t catch,

heat without a flame,

but now a different tongue for that same wound.

can’t I bleed into someone else’s mouth?

I’ve already swallowed

choked,

nearly drowned.

Morning

Hear the drip

Dropping drips

Sipping a drip

Scalding my lip

In a fresh drowsy coffee pot pool

In the lonely silver morning’s lull, languid skin.

Slight in sight,

Inhale earthy ground

Grinding ground

Grounded gravel

Grinds out a grin

Cold wood, meet damp delicate feet,

Hot coffee’s singular seismic whisper,

Meet a cold glass, tiny fractals and fissures.

A mighty shatter, a morning’s sound.

I seem to prefer lukewarm tea now.


The Exhibitionist

I love this Tyrant.

A diving lover, a copy editor

A crashed body flayed open

Partially, full twilight sleep eludes,

It’s the same scene, but different attitudes.

The O.R. is an exhibitionist’s heaven.

a brilliant wreck,

They’re the best damn clown surgeon,

a streak on the asphalt,

“Please, come cut me open,”

engulfed oil flames in chromatic stains.

A heavy light, bright sight

but unnerving,

pearly gates of a precious hell.

Medicated masks like specters

Anesthesia like air,

Cotton gauze to pad a fractal heart.

It’s a candied circus tent,

for buttered popcorn exhibition,

a body willingly lent

to a mother’s child,

a teenager’s rebellious leaning,

a lover’s morbid fascination.

Art

At the sake of danger

at the sake of a lark.

Insipid I don’t sleep

I refuse to die,

I refuse mortality.

To a voyeur’s deferred dreams,

syrupy sweet anatomy,

a youthful cavity.

The air thick with sugary scent,

syruped synapses build, build

I want to be emptied out then filled.

A week of motion suspended in a second.

In a hunk of metal, garbage

In a hospital bed, bloody bandage.

I inhale, breathe

I seethe

Fruit for anesthetic teeth.

I have an open wound that never shut

Please, Bite me

Sink into me.

Too much?

Never enough.

No, never enough.

Maybe a stray spark,

firebreather’s revenge

a scorned lover afterdark

And aesthetics are never enough,

The spectral eyes now blur

in the surgical fray, undeterred.

The circus tent was set ablaze,

burnt caramel and roasted peanut

crunchers dissipate. all that remains?


56

A bloodied body on a table.

A cadaver displayed for those clowns’

faces, bent balloon animal frowns.

No, no

No, Novocain

My lungs are soot

ink sacks ripped, dripped open

on buttered parchment (family fun).

In the crash, in the operation

In the hospital, in waking sleep

In the circus hallucination’s sweets.

My heart throbs in my belly,

Amid yesterday’s lukewarm coffee

A brew of awful niceties.

He looms, wretched, in the dirty operating room,

A room of my own doing, a room for me

I spit at him and he spits right back.

Its caught in my fickle breast but I say,

A finger from my heart to my throat,

Pricked in ribboned flesh, was glass.

a menagerie’s bloodied long smashed filament.

Death came at last,

swift, slipped down a throat

washed down with bitter coffee,

jagged toffee, sweet saccharine,

sugar free

beams launched in strange mercy.

Or maybe it’s a shattered ribcage,

glittering in a crimson pool,

peppered bone in bodily barrage.

Death came after all,

after the hurt, love, fun,

unlike a lover undone.

“I am love.”

He responds with sickly death,

sticky breath dripping down,

down

out.

chromatic.

57

Empathy / Entropy

Jacobus Marthinus Barnard

The Aftermath of Childhood

Little stickers on the ceiling, we watch

The stars and moon, so bright, for a midnight

Head bedded to the floor, I raise my palm

Outward, grasping for the falling sky,

Hoping to catch what once was mine

A dream from time so long unseen

I pray, my dream, come back to me.

Dear Chamomile,

You were the bedtime story I was never given as a child.

My First Heartbreak

It’s a rare event, this sweet twist that comes with shedding new

skin and looking at yourself from the outside. A cicada you are

and will always be. To magnify my summer doting and leave

pieces of yourself for me to discover for weeks

I Am The Rain

I will follow you on all your most heartfelt moments, clouding the good

in torrential swafts of black and grey.

Blue will descend, on your homes and on your hearts.

In your weakest moments, I will be there. With a tear stained face,

chest quivering from the touch and knees soaked through to the bone

in cold and wet.

In these puddles of mud, I will wring you out, dirty your skin and enter

the shadows of your smile.

You will sink. Deeper and deeper into my abyss.

In this pavement puddle, you will drown in contempt.

Not because of me, but because of you.

I am the rain. I cannot tell you what to think. You did this to yourself.


58

Harriet Stratton

An Ear to the Ground

From the plane’s window seat, I see all

ten thousand acres of the family ranch,

wing shadow skims the treeless plain,

a gravel road that used to take me home.

At pasture level, a switchgrass whorl

(pronghorn bed) invites me to lie down.

On a clean sheet of sand, I rest

my head, ear to the ground.

Buffalo grass curls, big bluestem flags

above roots that drop deep anchor

against the blows of the wind. I can hear

the grass grow, rootlets pulse and dig;

sands creep, reach an angle of repose,

only to avalanche, grain by grain,

downwind. In the present, sandhills hiss—

a tense monologue of persistent shift.

In past tense, these sandhills whisper —

fill my ear with names that here, I have loved.

When I rise, I hear a swish. It’s as if time itself

sweeps my imprint from the land.

59

Empathy / Entropy

Refractions

Chad Valdez

Eddie went through his rifle and pistol, being sure that they were clean

and the slide slid back smooth. With the old truck loaded up, a relic that his uncle

had left, Eddie drove to his older brother, Asher, across town. Their auntie had

called Eddie in tears early that morning, telling him about a coyote problem they

were having. The two of them grew up on their family ranch on the reservation

and moved away a year ago, separate apartments in different parts of town.

Even after Eddie graduated high school two years ago, the smell of home followed

him, the dirt and the stink of the sheep became even stronger when he

heard his auntie’s voice again. Eddie had hopes of attending community college,

but each year that came to apply, he convinced himself of a reason to wait.

Asher stumbled out of his apartment with sunglasses on, a still buzzed

walk with his rifle case in one hand, and his pistol in the other. A neighbor eyed

him the whole walk down, until Asher turned around and Eddie heard, “What

the fuck are you staring at?” His neighbor slammed his front door as an answer.

Damn it. He thought he could depend on him this one day to be sober. It was

already making out to be a shit day. Asher jumped in and gave him a slow side

smile befitting of a drunk.

“You stink,” Eddie said.

“I texted mom to ask if we could bring Budda along. We gotta stop by

and grab him.”

“Why’d you do that?” Eddie asked.

“Because he’s our little brother and kind of a little bitch. He needs to see

what it’s like out there. Maybe he’ll get his first kill. We were about his age when

we got ours.”

Budda was ten and grew up with a different dad, an actual dad that was

there and hadn’t disappeared as soon as he heard the words, “I’m pregnant”. He

also had what felt like a different mother after her big religious ‘breakthrough’,

while the mom they knew was either absent or high when they were growing

up. They hadn’t been around him much and Eddie had always felt bad about

neglecting his little brother. His first word was “Budda” while trying to pronounce

brother pointing at Eddie. That became his nickname, and he’d been stuck with it

since. Last Eddie saw him was his ‘graduation’ from elementary school to middle

school. Asher said it was too stupid to even attend, telling their mom, “When we

went from elementary school to middle school, we hadn’t seen you in months

because of all your problems.”

Eddie could not relate to his little budda, who grew up in town, in a

nice house, with everything he needed and wanted. He even had an edge over

them in skin, much lighter than his brothers, the result of his white father. While

Budda’s skin was called honey colored, Eddie and Asher were mud. Jealously

darkened around Eddie. He had always been a momma’s boy and it hurt to see

Budda get the attention he had always craved. If he wanted to come, then he’d

be Asher’s problem.

He drove to where Budda lived with their mom and his dad. After a quick

honk, Budda raced out of the door in fancy boots, hiking shorts, and a bright

button up shirt. This fucking kid.

“Hi guys,” Budda yelled while hopping into the backseat. Asher winced

from a hangover headache that made Eddie smile.


60

“Hey little Budda, nice shoes,” Eddie said.

“Thanks, you too.”

Asher stifled a laugh while Eddie wiggled his toe in his torn-up converse.

Their mom came running out in nice jeans and a t-shirt that said, “Carson

Elementary”, Budda’s school. Eddie rolled his eyes at the sight.

“You forgot your water,” she said to Budda, handing it to him and giving

him a kiss on the cheek. “You boys be safe, okay?”

Asher smiled at her and said, “Course, ma.”

“Okay, no speeding. And don’t be out there late.” She walked back to the

house. “Oh, do you boys need waters too?”

Eddie had already started driving away.

The ranch resided on the Navajo reservation, miles from any sort of civilization;

the closest gas station was 50 miles away that was run by an old glonnie,

a Navajo word meaning drunk. The last hour of driving went slow because of the

unkept dirt roads that lead out to their ranch on the rez, common problems while

driving out here. Near the house on the ranch, dried blood stained the wooden

fence that kept in the sheep. The smell of copper was condensed to this area.

They were usually met by their auntie’s dog, begging for scratches and food, but

he was nowhere around.

“That coyote probably went out to the canyon, I can see prints leading

that way,” Asher said while tracking the ground from his passenger seat. Budda’s

confused face in the rearview mirror tried to stay in line with the trail. How many

times had he even been out here?

“Do you know what coyote prints look like, Bud?”

“Kinda like dog prints?” Budda asked.

“Coyote prints are more narrow.”

“Stop here,” Asher said after they drove a few miles away from the

house.

They were in a canyon close to the base of the mountain. They all got

out, gathered their things and surveyed the land. Asher took a swig from a leather-covered

flask that he pulled from his back pocket. Eddie didn’t say anything,

but thought the sight eerily familiar. He reminded him of their uncle drinking from

a flask the same way Asher just did when the three of them would be out here.

The breeze brought the smell of pine and small wisps of red dirt that swirled in

the air around them. He took in a deep breath of the crisp surroundings. Him and

Asher grew up on this land, learning how to survive on it and how to thrive on it.

Budda wrinkled his nose at the smell. Eddie grunted and took out a backpack to

put in all the extra ammo they had, but didn’t need, and gave it to Budda to carry.

“I wonder where that mutt is?” Eddie asked.

“You mean this one?” Asher said with a grin, pointing his lips at their little

brother.

Eddie ignored him, but Budda shrank away from the comment. Jealousy

and spite were stronger brothers than the three of them at times.

“The dog probably went and died somewhere,” Asher told Eddie. “Mean

old bastard. At least there’s no shortage of rez dogs that auntie can choose from

to keep around the house.”

Eddie agreed with him there. All she had to do was leave out some old

food and the dogs would flock to protect their new caregiver and her resources.

“Come on, let’s get going,” he said while patting himself down to be sure

he had everything, his last pat on his pistol.

“Can I carry a gun?” Budda asked while pretending to pat a pistol on his

61

Empathy / Entropy

own hip.

“You ever shot one before?”

“No.”

“Then no,” Asher said to him.

The brothers walked with Asher in the lead and Eddie in the middle, with

Budda last and falling behind. Asher tracked signs of coyotes along the bottom

floor of the canyon. Their uncle had always joked that Asher must be an animal

too, saying he must sniff and lick the ground since the tracks he followed were

damn near nonexistent to Eddie. They headed upwards into the mountain, north

was the trail and the west and east were mirrored images of desolate nature.

Eddie talked to his little brother and tried to teach him what he could. He figured

it’d be better if he knew a little something.

“Walk with your toe down first, then your heel. It’s quieter,” Eddie told

him.

“Like thi—”

“And breathe in through your nose and out your mouth. You’re breathing

too loud and scaring everything away,” Eddie interrupted.

“Okaaay,” Budda said. “Walking’s hard.”

“You should roll up your sleeves too,” Asher chimed in. “You’re too light,

you’re probably reflecting light back to the animals.”

“I’m not even that much lighter,” Budda said more to himself. Eddie

wanted to say something, but just kept walking, breathing in through his nose

and out his mouth. Asher occasionally drank from his flask. Should Eddie say

something to him about it? Conversations with drunks about their drinking never

went well for anyone. Asher paused every few yards, seeming partly unsure as

they went on and becoming a little more unbalanced each time. An owl hooted

somewhere near them making both Eddie and Asher stop walking. It felt as if a

rattlesnake had coiled around Eddie and started squeezing. The trees were clear

and the skies were empty, the owl hid, but he knew it was there.

“What’s wrong?” Budda asked.

“Do you know about owls?” Asher questioned in response.

“I know some funny jokes about them.”

Eddie sighed, feeling sad for his little brother. “Do you know what they

mean in our culture? To our people?” Asher asked in anger.

“No,” Budda said turning away from him.

“Death,” Eddie said. “They mean death.”

“They’re evil?” Budda asked.

“No, just bad omens. But seeing as we’re out here to kill something,

maybe it’s a good sign,” Eddie told him with a reassuring smile that tried to set

his little brother at ease. Asher’s face was stoic, but his constant blinking was a

tell. Eddie told himself that as much as he was telling Budda. They kept pace;

the quiet sounds of nature were interrupted by Budda’s loud breathing when he

would catch up.

“Should I be in the lead tracking?” Eddie asked Asher.

“What, you think I can’t do it?” Asher asked him while stepping over a

bunch of cacti.

“You’re drinking. Probably haven’t stopped for a few days.”

“If you got something to say to me, why don’t you be a man and just

fucking say it?” Asher told him, turning around.

Eddie wanted to tell him off here and now. Budda caught up and stopped

between the two of them, balancing as if he was on an edge. Tell him how he’s


62

throwing his life away down a bottle, just like their uncle who clung to it like a

dying man to water.

Asher moved out of the way and motioned at Eddie to go in front of him.

“You think you’re better than me baby brother? You’re going nowhere just like

me and just like uncle. That’s what they all expect from us right? Another drunk

Navajo with some dead sheep on the rez. How you gonna lead us?”

Eddie stayed rooted to his spot while imagining the rot inside his big brother.

For a moment, the liquor was personified, beckoning him but stayed screwed

up. The whiskey colored skin shined bright. Gold tequila was beside them, fidgeting

with his jacket zipper, eyebrows furrowed downward. He imagined swinging at

Asher. He was stockier than him and would put force in his left hook to his face.

If he hit it right, he’d probably get some teeth out of him. Asher would tackle him

and they would go rolling down the mountain they were walking up, hitting rocks

and cacti along the way and screaming words Budda had probably not heard yet.

Goddamn drunks. He motioned at Asher to keep going and stayed silent.

They ascended halfway up the mountain when Asher told them to stop

and take a break. There were miles and miles of different colored greens of trees

and bushes, but they were a stark contrast to the red and brown dirt that washed

over everything. The swirling of them were like Christmas lights Eddie had seen in

movies. This felt like the Christmas tree he never had.

“Here?” Eddie asked Asher, the tension thick in the crisp air.

Asher didn’t say anything, only nodded his head. There was a moment

of question from Asher as he tried to decide whether to put his bag down or not,

weighing it in his hand. Was this the best spot they could be in?

“Lil Bud, lie on your stomach on that rock and watch for movement. We

might be here awhile so get comfy. And don’t move around too much,” Eddie told

Budda, making the decision himself. Asher set his bag down and dug around in

his pocket and pulled out a coyote caller. A nice surprise from what he was usually

holding onto. He moved backwards into a juniper tree that concealed him. Eddie

laid next to his little brother, setting his rifle on his shoulder and the barrel onto his

backpack for support.

Asher leaned his own rifle against the tree and blew into the coyote caller,

a high-pitched squeal let out into the world around them. The sounds from Eddie’s

childhood flooded in, these same cries outside of their Hogan on the reservation

along with barking dogs and occasional sounds of fighting and yelps. Keeping

watch through the scope of his rifle, the cries echoed through the mountain while

an invisible race of sound flew through the canyon below. They stayed calling until

the sun passed over them in the blue sky above, their eyes constantly searching

beneath them. Why the hell did he let Asher keep tracking? He should have just

taken over the lead and dealt with whatever fit Asher would have thrown. Sure,

he wasn’t the best tracker, but probably damn better than someone that only saw

in blurs. They would need to hurry back to the truck to miss the night. Asher blew

one more time before stopping and waiting.

Budda fidgeted with the dirt and pebbles on the ground. Eddie wanted

to say something to him, maybe ask him about school or friends or anything.

Budda started whistling a tune, a song that their mother loved. “I’ll be There” by

the Jackson 5. Eddie was entranced by it easily. He remembered her playing it in

their tiny kitchen when he was a boy, she danced with him and spun him around,

danced with him and sang with him, danced with him and loved him. He wondered

if Budda took over his role of repeating the lyrics back to her. “I’ll keep holdin’ on

(holdin’ on),” they would sing. Asher appeared between the two of them cutting it

off. He held his hand over Budda’s mouth. He was saying something to Eddie, but

he didn’t register it.

“What the fuck are you letting him whistle for?” he said with a loud whis-

63

Empathy / Entropy

per. “And why the fuck are you whistling?” turning his attention to Budda. Eddie

broke out of his memory and realized what happened. He cursed himself for

being so stupid. He knew better than to let Budda whistle but wandered into

a maze in his own head. Their uncle told them that if they ever wanted a hard

death, to just whistle out on the rez and evil would come running for them.

“Don’t ever whistle out here again,” Asher told Budda before moving

back to his refuge.

“Why can’t I whistle?” Budda asked Eddie, more angry than hurt.

“There’s things out here that don’t like whistling. You’ll attract them.”

“But—”

“Hush, mutt,” Asher said from behind them.

Budda went back to playing with the dirt and pebbles.

After more time had passed, dirt slid down from behind Eddie. He knew

that Asher was standing and would want to move to a different spot. The cool

shade they were experiencing was nice on the skin, but it came at a cost of it

getting too late. It was dangerous to be out on the reservation at night and even

though they argued, they both knew this. Something moved far below them and

Eddie quickly put his hand up that quieted the noise. It must have heard Asher’s

impatience too. He pointed to a hill downward, not taking his eye from the

scope. A flash of light brown sauntered between bushes, its ears perked up and

sniffing. Eddie reached over to Budda and touched his shoulder. He motioned at

Budda to cover his ears.

The boom of Eddie’s .30-.30 cracked the air around them, a ripple

followed by a thud sounded throughout their land. The coyote jumped and ran

back down and around the hill.

“You missed,” Budda said with disappointment in his voice. Eddie smiled

and stood up from his spot, he stretched out and wiped the dirt and pebbles

stuck to his shirt and skin.

“Come on.”

They walked to where the coyote had been, Eddie pointed at the blood

soaked into the dirt. “Can you track that blood?” Budda nodded his head with

awe and walked wherever there was a pool of red, with Eddie and Asher right

behind him. Asher pulled out his flask again and Eddie stopped him, letting Budda

get ahead of them a few yards.

“Hey, come on, I’m serious now, I’m worried about you. You’ve been

sipping at that this whole time.”

“Don’t worry about it, Eds,” Asher said with a slur and a smile, “It’ll keep

me warm tonight.”

“We shouldn’t be out here at night, you know that. Don’t be like uncle,”

Eddie told him.

“We still got time,” Asher said, sounding like he had a mouthful of syrup.

The moon had appeared at some point, the white next to the changing sky,

“But we should get a move on. Hell, maybe you can even lead us back,” he said

with a final wink and moved to keep walking.

Eddie stayed behind Budda, who skipped with excitement at being able

to track something. There was a yelp behind him and he stopped, but there was

nothing there. He had kept close to Budda, letting Asher fall back so they had a

chance to cool off.

“Wait,” Eddie said. “Come here.”

Eddie jogged back and rounded the hill they passed that was thick with

trees. Asher sat on the ground with his back against a tree and held his ankle.

“What happened?” Eddie asked, kneeling beside him.


64

“Just tripped. Twisted my damn ankle,” he said while trying to stand.

“You fucking drunk. I told you this would happen,” Eddie said, stepping

back while his brother tried to stand. He felt something underfoot and moved to

reveal the flask on the ground. He picked it up, ready to yell more, but the cap

stopped him. The lid had the initials ‘J.B.’ scratched into it. John Begay—their uncle.

He unsnapped the leather covering and slid the flask out slowly, like pulling

a splinter from a finger. He hoped that the dreamcatcher that had been on the

side of their uncle’s flask wasn’t there. It was—the colors faded and the outside

beaten and used.

“Did you find this with him?” Eddie asked.

“Drank himself to death in the middle of nowhere. It was thrown against

the rocks.” Asher winced while bracing against the tree, keeping his weight off

his one leg.

Eddie was quiet. He figured that was what happened, but Asher had

never told him he found him, just that he was gone. Budda’s loud breathing was

the only thing connecting them in that moment. They can’t turn out like their

uncle. Angry and drunk. He was worried about his older brother, he was the one

that was supposed to take care of them, but he carried the poison of their family

heritage with him. Eddie threw the flask as hard as he could and it flew through

the zephyr, a metal ding reverberated as it landed on some rocks. Budda tugged

on Eddie’s sleeve. He pointed towards the thicket of trees in the direction of the

thrown flask. Two large yellow eyes feasted on them. The rubbernecking head

of an owl was swiveled around with its body facing the opposite way.

“It’s still here,” Budda said.

“We should go,” Eddie said to break the gawking of the néʼéshjaaʼ. He

grabbed Asher’s arm and put it around his neck. “Keep tracking, Bud,” he told his

little brother. They started walking again, slower, the head of the owl followed

them as they went.

At the bottom of the crevice, Budda turned and stopped. Eddie walked

up behind him and over his shoulder was the coyote whimpering and trying to

kick away from the brothers. Eddie and Asher stood behind Budda who was

rooted to his spot, shaking slightly, tears percolating in its pouch. Asher pulled

out his pistol and stepped towards him. Eddie put his hand on his older brother’s

shoulder—he knew what had to happen, but his body stopped Asher when his

speech couldn’t.

Reliving the past this much should not be happening. The details of his

first kill stuck with him, his uncle being the drunk back then while Asher judged

him and watched over Eddie. The smell of the blood and the cry that was louder

than the gunshot replayed in his head for years. His uncle laughed at him if he

brought it up. Soon Asher did too. Then it was something Eddie laughed at as

well. But the laugh was empty, and when it happened, he pictured the splattered

blood on the dirt.

Asher shrugged his hand off and held out the pistol for Budda’s small

hand to grasp.

“I don’t want to,” Budda pleaded.

“You have to,” Asher said.

Budda took it and was gentle touching it. The memory of Eddie’s uncle

doing the same to Asher and himself continued intruding Eddie’s thoughts. Their

uncle held up the gun for him and flipped the safety off. He told him to do it or

else. Eddie wished he would have just said that it’s okay. It’ll make you stronger.

It’s for the better. Anything to help a child kill a living thing. They had no shadows

anymore, the light around them fading quicker and quicker as the sun descended

below the horizon.

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Empathy / Entropy

“Why don’t you guys like me?” Budda asked through tears.

Eddie thought the question was just in his own head, himself asking that

when he was young and his finger on the trigger. Their uncle laughing in reply,

“Well maybe if you kill the damn thing, you’ll be better.” If he wanted it dead, he

should’ve done it himself.

“You’re our little brother, we love you,” Asher said. “But you gotta man

up. Just kill it and you’ll feel better.”

The crack in the dark air resonated through all of them as the whimpering

stopped. The pistol end smoked until the breeze took away the wisp. Budda

hadn’t even touched the trigger on Asher’s pistol. His bewildered face must have

wondered if he did though. Eddie lowered his arm that held the pistol that just

fired. He holstered it and took away the gun from Budda, shoving the butt against

Asher.

“What the fuck, Eddie, he was supposed to do it?” Asher said.

“Fuck you.”

Asher shoved Eddie down and Budda started to cry. Eddie ran at Asher

and tackled him, knocking him to the ground and hitting him twice in the jaw

before Asher blocked the next one and threw dirt into Eddie’s eyes. Eddie stood

up wincing and was met with a hook to his ear. Eddie fell and Asher advanced at

him, but a kick to his already twisted ankle splayed him in the dirt next to Eddie.

Another kick to Asher’s face quieted him and let Eddie get on top. He pulled him

up by his shirt and hit him again. His knuckle sliced open on a tooth and sent

blood spewing onto Budda’s shirt. Budda pushed Eddie off of Asher. The three

brothers laid in the dirt, breathing in the dust, while an owl hooted above them.

“It’s this way,” Eddie said, sweeping the flashlight around on the ground.

Budda was behind him with Asher in the back, limping and quiet. The sun was

a memory now, the shadows consumed them as they walked in the dark of the

moon. Coyotes howled to break the silence at times, Eddie imagined they found

the one dead in the canyon. Other times he thought they might be calling out to

them, angry, sad, wanting revenge. There are worse things out here though.

“Are you okay?” Budda asked.

“I—” he stopped when he realized that Budda was talking to Asher. Eddie

kept moving forward, not wanting to look back at his big brother. He didn’t

want to argue anymore, he just wanted to go home.

“I’m okay,” Asher said.

“Are you okay, Bud?” Eddie asked Budda.

“Yes… I’m sorry I was scared.”

“You don’t have to be sorry about that,” Eddie said. “We all get scared

sometimes. Just have to learn from it.”

“He’s right, Budda,” Asher said.

Eddie still heard the slur in his speech. He ignored Asher and focused

on getting them back to the truck, but the land seemed to change at night.

The landmarks he remembered as they were tracking the coyote felt switched

around, as if someone had come and turned everything just a little, enough to

get them lost.

“Do you think mom and dad will be mad we’re not back yet?”

Eddie didn’t like when Budda referred to his dad as all of theirs but

thought better not to correct him. “Nah, she knows it might’ve taken all day.

Don’t worry, we’ll get to the truck and I’ll call them and just say you wanted to

spend the night with us and our phones died or something. We won’t get service

until we get closer to town anyway.”

They walked with the quiet deafening them, tense and thick, only the


66

sounds of their steps and the breeze touching the mountain was there with

them. Eddie swept his light across the trees. Was that an owl sitting in the tree?

He decided not to check and hoped that he was just scaring himself. Better to

keep that locked away.

“What is it you’re following to get us back to the truck?” Budda asked

Eddie.

“I’m just trying to remember our way out here right now. Occasionally

I’ll spot some footprints so I know we came from that way.” He didn’t want to

add that sometimes they didn’t match their feet size or shoes, but he figured if

he didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t be true. He wondered if Asher noticed this

too, or if he was still too drunk to see where they were going.

“Hold on,” Asher said to them, farther back than Eddie knew he was.

“We should keep moving,” Eddie told him.

“I know, Eds,” Asher said. “Just for a sec. My ankle.”

“Here,” Eddie said and took Asher’s arm, putting it around his neck. He

carried most of his weight with the stench of alcohol stronger from leaking out

of his pores. They walked with Budda standing next to them, in a line with no

one in lead.

“Do you remember where you found him?” Eddie asked, not even realizing

what came out of his mouth.

“No. Maybe. I’m not sure. It was late at night and I heard gunshots and

went

looking. I was scared.”

Eddie was quiet. He never thought of his big brother being scared. Did

Budda think that too?

“Did he kill himself? I figured he’d die of alcohol poisoning or from being

too big of an asshole.” Eddie asked. Their uncle was still blood and that meant

something, even if he grew to dislike him.

“I checked him over. No blood or anything. But his gun was spent. The

slide was locked back and the clip was empty,” Asher said, his tone quieting as

he went on.

They heard the owl again. Its hoots slipped into the quiet, not intrusive,

almost a whisper. Eddie was scared. That and what Asher told him kept running

through his mind and gave him chills. Why would their uncle shoot off his gun so

much? It didn’t sound like something he would do, he always made every shot

count and never wasted ammo, counting each bullet whenever they returned

from a hike or a hunt.

There was a tree that was burned from lightning that Eddie thought of

as striking on their way in and seeing it again he told his brothers, “I think we’re

on the right track.”

Every sound was amplified here, the canyon bringing them the calls

and the crunches and the creaks. Eddie imagined the moon eyes of the owl

observing them, its head contorted to consider.

“Why shouldn’t we be out here at night?” Budda asked when he was

closer to Eddie.

“So we don’t get lost like this,” Eddie lied.

“That’s it?”

Asher caught up to them, closer to Budda now. “Because of the yee’

na’aldlooshii.”

Eddie’s emotions jumped from fear to anger. “Don’t fucking say it,” he

told him.

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Empathy / Entropy

“We came from that way. We need to round that hill.” Asher said pointing

ahead.

“I got it,” Eddie said.

“What’s that?” Budda asked.

“Nothing, leave it alone. We’re almost back.” Hopefully.

“It’s an evil Navajo person,” Asher told Budda. “A shapeshifting witch.”

Eddie stopped. “What the fuck, Asher?”

“A skinwalker?” Budda asked more to himself. “I thought mom was just

telling me those stories to scare me. Are you just trying to scare me too?”

“Yes,” Eddie said before Asher could reply. “It’s okay, we’re almost back.”

“Try pressing the alarm,” Asher said.

“Key FOB is dead,” Eddie said.

Asher giggled. Budda chuckled too, which made Eddie smile. Eddie

laughed a little, snowballing onto theirs. They started full on belly laughing,

it wasn’t even funny Eddie thought, but it was too late. Their fear, anger, and

fatigue compounded into laughter. The gut hurting, side splitting laughter. They

were still walking while laughing, holding on to each other for support until the

laughter died.

“There,” Budda said, pointing ahead of them, excitement in his voice.

The truck was a ways away and when he shined his light over it, some glare

reflected back. “Come on.” Now Budda was leading them, almost skipping ahead

of Eddie and shining his own flashlight over it.

Then there was a whistle.

They all stopped walking. They knew neither of them did it because it

came from their left. Eddie felt as if it was directed right into his ear, reverberating

off his drum. If he turned, he’d be face to face with it. He pulled out his pistol

and kept it in his hand. They shined their lights on the hill to their left—nothing

there. He motioned Budda to keep going towards the truck. They kept walking,

still sweeping their lights around, waiting for something to jump out at them, for

the owl to answer its question of who. Another whistle, this time from their right.

Asher cocked his gun.

The hundred-yard dash from where they were to the truck felt lengthier

than the entire walk of the day. They were sweating and gasping when they

reached the truck, each of them touching a part of it like it was the safe area in

a game of tag. Eddie unlocked the door and pushed Budda into the backseat

along with his rifle and Asher’s. Asher took the passenger seat, still searching

around them with his light, the barrel of the pistol followed wherever the light

shone. Eddie started the truck, the small stutter that sounded made his heart do

the same, if the truck was dead, so were they. The roar of the engine dashed the

thought, he put it into drive and lurched forward, the tires spinning for a second

before they caught, and they drove off.

“Fuck,” Budda said in the backseat. Eddie and Asher laughed again at

hearing him cuss for the first time in front of them.

“You did good out there, John,” Asher said to their little brother. They

had never called him by his real name before. It surprised Eddie as much as it

must have bewildered Budda. John carried burdens, but Budda was their little

brother.

“I like Budda more,” Budda said.

“Me too.”


68

Nicholas S. Pagano

Celosia

The cock’s comb dries in the sun—

Like a fire burns, the flower becomes

a red brushstroke. Laying in that bright arc,

It can only soak and seep in turn, until

Not even light has room to lay like dew

On any of its petals. Plucked and dried,

Day to dark, where the moonflower comes

With a yellow tongue to mourn the curled stem,

To sing forgiveness in the cool night air.

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Empathy / Entropy

Jane Vincent Taylor

Time Off the Path

We all agreed to step off the path

hike and help each other down

steep leafy banks, slide creek-wise

stealth as bluff creek deer.

We listened to water burp and breathe

over fallen blackjack oak, pinon pine.

Far away we heard a dog we called coyote.

Two ducks were bathtub toys gone free together.

We knew their floating thoughts.

One of us was for the moment just a child.

The one with a brand new walking stick was old.

One of us was ghost disguised

as a small crochet of gnats

delicate and slap-worthy

as summer spirits always are.


70

Jane Vincent Taylor

Some Things I Know About My Keeper

She knows nothing about orchids

and how we live - nodal, sympodial

how we find a way to bud and flower

in a dry pocket of rhizome roots

My new keeper also lives on the lip

and shape of air, moist and steamy

She sleeps and wakes and sleeps

then spends her small energies

moving me from table to desk

to counter top, to ironing board

She’s decided I do best in east light

and company of birds, the ones

she prays to for blue renewal

and scolds for red wing avarice

In the night I hear her dreaming

of her silken self, her orchid days

Few words pass between us

I say anthur cap and sepal, she says

over a pot of fennel tea, wren

rock dove, shantung maple tree

When she sits with her white page

I do my best to scent the room

Labellum, I suggest, but she says no

that word won’t do, won’t work today

My keeper is an old inflorescine

dictionary, a leathery leaf

Together

we help each other breathe.

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Empathy / Entropy

Jane Vincent Taylor

My Next Door

maybe endless love awaits us

Barry Lopez

Sometimes I suspect the neighborhood Facebook app

deliberately stirs up trouble. Someone fears a beat up

truck, or a blue Sedan parked too long on a side street

or a foreign face, or a lost coyote in the park at night.

Today’s report: 40 Robins gathered at the corner

of May and Grand. Are they a gang, feathered swoop,

a band, a February orchestra? Are they a day patrol,

a committee, an ad hoc hoard? Is this a red breast

pop-up shop, a Monday ideation breaking up our

worries? Are they immigrant angels, an artist’s

installation made of beaks and tiny beating hearts?

I applaud this news, this naked wonder on Next Door.

And at my own bronze feeder two wrens so in love

they have no time to be the subject of a post, just

a duo, a couple, and a remembered winter quote.


72

Leticia R. Bajuyo

Visual Poetry Using Player Piano Rolls, 2021

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Empathy / Entropy

“Interdisciplinary artist Leticia R. Bajuyo’s visual poetry uses player piano

rolls. These pieces explore sensory expectations and organic meaning-making

capacities. The materially tangible, spatially disorienting,

poetic, and musical combine into a singular artform.”

- Zoe Ramos, Sr. Ed.


74

Leticia R. Bajuyo

Longing for Belonging

Growing up in a rural midwestern town on the border of Illinois and Kentucky,

I began creating and tinkering long before describing these explorations

as art or a studio practice. After graduating from the University of Notre Dame

with a BFA and from the University of Tennessee Knoxville with an MFA, in 2001,

I became a tenure track professor at Hanover College in Indiana. The creative

problem solving underway in the studio, in my home, and in the classroom was

and is foundational to my approach to my vocation.

While I work with a variety of media and in sizes ranging from miniature

to architectural, Sculpture continues to be my interdisciplinary nexus for collecting

stories about potential, perception, privilege, and pleasure. In my artwork,

compassion and empathy fuel my studio production as I combine disparate objects

and remnants of past yearnings. The objects and stories are dusty trophies

for a forgotten competition that find space in my studio where I reassess

their current silence.

As materials migrate from one role to another role in search of belonging,

these objects are akin to characters who are in search of an author as I create

aesthetic and harmonious visions where everything convincingly fits together

in a unified whole; however, the ease and harmony of the surface contains and

occasionally reveals the reality of struggles, pressures, fears, and disappointment

within. My artworks are crafted to be desirable while being self-reflexively critical

at heart as I reflect on issues of identity and value that emphasize thin line between

desire and discard.

During the summer of 2021, I started a new body of work during a

residency at Fountainhead in Miami, Florida where the environment and community

fostered the first components of this growing series of raw and vulnerable

visual poems. These collages are made from player piano rolls, ink drawings, and

beeswax. While displayed in different manners, each visual poem explores the

tension between art and craft, between desiring and discarding, and between

longing and belonging. Once, these player piano rolls were the desirable mode

for sharing music and singing along with the melody. My visual poems address

the misplaced desire for a sepia-toned yesterday with the impact of cultural capital

and assimilation that tries so hard to fit into today.

These player piano roll visual poems build upon my use of another device

for storing and sharing data – CD/DVDs. When I explore these concepts

with donated discs, the collection becomes a visually displaced consciousness

and collective memory that is woven into a fabric. By designing shiny tunnels and

horns with visible construction methods, my CD/DVD installations foster awareness

of the thin line between desire and discard. Although these discs and player

piano rolls still hold coded information, their use as memory storage devices

have waned; however, their potential to present value and to reflect on change

continues.

For more images of my work and information about upcoming

exhibitions and public lectures, please visit www.leticiabajuyo.com.

Thank you to everyone at Windward Review who continue to support, challenge,

care, and hope! It has been an honor to be a part of this publication and I deeply

appreciate the empathy you extend to your communities as we strive through

the entropy that can cover up and at times overwhelm truth. Thank you for including

me and my artwork.

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Empathy / Entropy

A Paradise’s Memory

Cameron Adams

Shades of goldenrod, lavender, crimson, and rose danced in

the sky over the azure body below. The sky’s snowy pillows were either

invisible or dead. Normally a shame, but today, a beauty. The quartz

beneath was as creamy as milk and finer than salt. The reeds a vibrant

celadon; yet broken at just the right places. I’ve never seen this place

before, but it all seemed too familiar. Almost as if it were the future’s

memory, but it lived only in the present.

Captured by a Student:

The Silhouette Painted by a Hallway’s Words

Apathetically, in a world he stands

bereft and isolated from the rest. Not

charismatic like his peers. Often called

“dysfunctional” and “stupid” and mental” and

“edgy.” He tries a personality that’s

flamboyant, but learns what stupid

gimmick it is quickly. A load of rubbish and a dash of

hocus-pocus lead to a façade considered

idiotic. He fools no one into believing he’s

jubilant as he is just an insignificant

kink in the school’s overtly pompous and

lavish style. There, it is too easy to

masquerade as the classic high school student; a

neurotic and diligent and happy and even

optimistic person. But a body covered in a

pale confetti is not something easily

quieted in the school’s halls. Those scorning

rumors. Why was everyone so

skeptical that the action considered most

taboo actually occurred? What possible

ulterior motive could justify and even

validate this sort of harm? It’s not just on a

whim that someone noticed his nonxanthic

skin. And, in a moment, he was

yanked and all that was left was

zilch.


Arrie Barnes Porter

Ode to A Fat Girl

In your dreams, you are thin,

Like the children starving in Africa.

Ghosts come to sit on your bones,

Sluggish benedictions of missing fingers and

Toes and hands that prop up bone-ful chins.

Amicus Curiae.

In your dreams, you are thin

Like your brothers and sisters,

Not the purveyor of acreage

Wafting around your middle

That cannot be cinched by a corset Oflag.

Thighs whistle

Against ignitable skin,

On legs you open, quickly,

Because he pays attention.

Pagan Maecenas of female bodies.

“You’re pretty for a big girl,”

He whispers.

In your hood, they

Bring black hands to black mouths,

Thro’ their heads back and cackle,

Gathering dark worlds against you.

“Just push back from the table, baby.”

As tho it’ll free you from yo’ nightmares.

You try not eating,

But the hunger grabs your innards

And squeezes.

You swallow

Small white pills,

In brown plastic bottles,

To ease deceit on your way to beautiful.

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Empathy / Entropy

Molly In My Heart

Jill Ocone

It is a frigid, monochrome Saturday in early December 1979

when my father drops me off somewhere around three in the afternoon

at the house of one of my third-grade classmates for her birthday

party. I scamper up the stairs and Molly opens the front door to greet

me with wide eyes.

“Happy Birthday!” I exclaim as I hand her the present I had

carefully wrapped in colorful balloon-patterned paper with a giant red

bow, which she clutches to her chest. I take a few steps into her

house, and the acrid combination of stale cigarette smoke and vinegar

in the air immediately sours my nostrils. I gaze around the dingy and

dark parlor, hoping Molly doesn’t see my wrinkled nose, and do not

notice any balloons, streamers, or the slightest indication it is Molly’s

birthday.

The console television set’s black-and-white screen, the only

source of light in the room, captivates the father. He guzzles from a

beer can then wipes his chin with the bottom of his undershirt and

grunts while flicking his ash onto the carpet without ever acknowledging

my presence.

Before I have a chance to take off my coat, a raspy, female

voice from a face I never catch sight of suddenly squawks from somewhere

down the tunnel-like hallway. “The backyard, Molly! You and

your friend go outside to play.”

“I have to listen to Mommy,” Molly sighs as her trembling hand

grasps mine. She leads me through the unkempt kitchen, past an overflowing

litter box and a trash can whose contents have spilled onto the

floor. The hinges of the back door with the torn screen loudly squeak

as she pushes it open. We walk down three wobbly stairs to the yard

where tiny snowflakes swirl here and there in the crisp air.

The dilapidated swing set is barren of any swings or slides.

Random car parts, empty glass bottles, rusted cans of all types and sizes,

and deflated play balls litter the lot that is surrounded by a broken

and corroded chain-link fence.


78

Molly tears the paper from my gift and the corners of her mouth

turn upward as she glimpses the Hollie Hobbie sticker album and assortment

of scratch-and-sniff stickers I chose for her at the local gift

store earlier that day.

“This is the only present I got to open this year, and I love stickers.

You’re my best friend,” she quietly reveals with her eyes turned

towards the ground.

“You’re my best friend, too,” I softly reply through my unspoken

bewilderment.

She crumples the wrapping paper into a ball and tosses it to

me. We laugh and play catch for a little while then play tag, but all of

my running around doesn’t prevent the blistering chill from seeping

through both my thick coat and my mittens and freezing my bones

to their core. Molly wears only a blue and yellow striped long-sleeve

t-shirt, stained brown corduroys, and torn sneakers with frayed laces

that keep tripping her up when she runs. She crosses her arms tight

and through her chattering teeth she yells, “You’re it!”

All we do is play outside, just Molly and I, for the two-hour duration

of her birthday party that is devoid of snacks, soda, ice cream,

goodie bags filled with favors to take home, and other guests.

As dusk approaches, I pick up a stick and poke a small leaf

through its tip, then I hold it out to Molly and sing “Happy Birthday” to

her. She closes her eyes, makes a wish, and blows the leaf off the stick.

I hear a familiar car horn echo from the street. I hug Molly

goodbye then she darts into her house as I scramble through the cluttered

yard, then the busted gate to my father’s waiting Volkswagen. I

notice as he pulls away that Christmas lights twinkle from every house

on Molly’s street except one.

Hers.

I cannot stop shivering when I get home, so my mother draws

me a warm bath. As the tub fills, she asks about the party. She enrages

when I tell her that Molly and I played outside in her backyard the

entire time.

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Empathy / Entropy

“What kind of people are these!” she explodes as she dials Molly’s

phone number, forcefully circling the rotary with her index finger as

it tick-tick-ticks with each spin.

After thirty rings, she slams the receiver down then forbids me

from ever going to Molly’s house again.

Molly is frequently absent from school for the remainder of

the school year, but when she is there, I no longer notice her tattered

clothes or her stringy hair. Instead, I share my lunch with her, play with

her during recess, and sit next to her whenever I can.

Molly is my friend.

The following September, Molly and I are assigned to different

fourth-grade teachers. We say hello to each other when we pass in the

hallways, but that’s about it.

Like many childhood friendships, ours fades with the passing

of time. Molly ended up dropping out of school during our sophomore

year, and I have no idea where she went, what happened to her, or

where she is now. More than forty years have passed since Molly’s

birthday party, and I’ve been haunted by it ever since.

While our paths went in separate directions decades ago, Molly

has never left my heart.

I’ve prayed a thousand times over for Molly to be okay, to be

loved, and to enjoy a real birthday party with a mountain of presents

and an enormous birthday cake like she so deserves.

I really hope God answered my prayers and that all of her

birthday wishes came true.


80

Humanity in Media

Cold.

Crystal McKee

Limp.

The last breath to be taken on this Earth was trapped within a

throat. Burning lungs expanded in desperation, but the only result was

breathless gasps.

Choking.

Coughing.

The attempt to draw life in was only weakened with each

wheeze while death greeted the body I sometimes wish could have

been mine. I occasionally wonder if my cousin struggled to breathe

the same way I had when I stepped aside to answer the phone. I

wonder if the situations had been reversed- if it had been my frail body

discovered in the wreck- if he would lose the sensations in his legs. If

he would crumble and fall to the ground, landing on his knees just as

I did. If he would desperately cling to fond memories while his consciousness

slowly slipped away to a void unbeknownst to the living.

I had never believed tunnel vision to be as intense as they

say; however, I experienced it at that moment. The questions I asked

myself acted as pollutants to my mind, turning my dread into a fire

that wavered, swelled, and consumed me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t

think, and as I collapsed in the middle of my high school basketball

practice, I felt just as lifeless as he had become. I can’t describe what

I thought at that moment as the shock ran my tear ducts dry. The

world around me felt numb, unfair, and my frustrations only began to

fester and block out the sounds of concern from my peers. Although

81

Empathy / Entropy

the noises of the basketballs bouncing off the uneven, wooden floors

ceased, and my teammates surrounded me, I felt utterly alone.

Empty.

Broken.

Despite being years ago, while I was still a freshman in high

school, the call remains fresh in my memory. My mother was on the

other line, and I could hear her struggle to articulate her words. Her

unsteady breathing mocked my own, but in a shaky voice, she was

able to reveal what had happened. Brandon had been in critical condition

after a head-on collision. I remembered mourning over the other

victim of the casualty; a sweet girl, not much older than my cousin,

who had served as valedictorian for her graduating year. Part of me

expected the same treatment to be given to my family. I was naive to

think that they would understand they were not the only ones in pain;

however, human nature does not always allow us to be forgiven. They

will make no exceptions for a man painted in a villainous light by the

media’s hand.

“A Drug Addict, Under the Influence, Kills Valedictorian in Car Crash.”

The headline appeared on Newsday and had been shared over

various media platforms before he was pronounced dead. My cousin

was never blessed with a comfortable life; being born to a rarely present

father, losing himself to worldly temptations to escape from life’s

burden, plagued with mental illness. None of these serve as excuses

for his previous transgressions, but I was there while he got clean.

Throughout my life, it had been me and my brother who watched his

redemption from a front-row seat, offering our hands as support. Although

I was young, I understood. We were present for the first overdose,

and the last before he agreed to attend NA meetings. We calmed

him from his manic episodes during periods he refused to take his

medications for Bipolar, fearful that they blocked his creativity-- that


82

they added to the depression he bore. However, it was these prescription

medications that the media hugged dearly in order to make false

accusations and sell a story.

His toxicology report cleared him of the blame, but the media

refused to retract their statements. Instead, they clung to his criminal

record from when he was a minor, turning his community against him

and leaving him abandoned at the hours of his death. While he insisted

that his medications limited his abilities, the Brandon that the media

refused to acknowledge had many artistic talents. Even when he

claimed to be at his worst, his penmanship was remarkable, as he had

gotten plenty of practice graffiting on government property. He was

my creative muse, my outlet for art, and the one who taught me the

basics of necessary elements like shading. Brandon had the capability

to make anything a canvas; human skin, a truck, paper, wood, and

the portfolio he put together after becoming a tattoo artist proved he

had worth in the field. Although he was troubled, he inspired me. His

strength to continue despite being dealt an unfair hand in the game of

life was admirable, and I looked up to the man regarded as a criminal.

His funeral was not the first I attended, but his death stripped

me of firsts later in life. My first tattoo that was meant to be designed

by him, my first lessons in drawing techniques, my first apprenticeship,

my first time learning to drive, among various other promises, were

taken to the grave alongside him. With his death also came the end of

my venture into art, as it has been years since I have touched the unfinished

pieces we have never finished. My cousin was gone alongside

my muse.

I still lay, mindlessly scrolling through Pinterest for tattoo inspiration;

however, my skin remains untouched by ink.

... As it may for eternity, while my shoulders seep with the

emotional weight of not being able to live up to my childhood expectations

and artistry promised to me all those years ago.

83

Empathy / Entropy

Matthew Tavares

god’s Current Perspective on Humanity

i need to let this out

i made a mistake

all too similar

all too familiar

all too predictable.

They pretend to know

how this will end.

Perhaps with fire

but most likely water

and nothing will live on,

they say.

Chasing has become sport

for them,

doesn’t matter what

they’re after,

desire is the motivation and

satisfaction is an illusion.

They’ll keep running

even if i were to cut off their feet.

Have i made it too obvious?

Was there something i should’ve left out?

To them, it seems i have

for all their

philosophy, poetry, pornography

it’s like they are

searching for something

i never hid.

That world, those people, my children.

So overcome by what cannot be

maintained, fulfilled

will faithfully

one day

implode.

They understand this as fate

faith is for the weary.

Those paralyzed by fear

to the point where

even the destruction

is discomforting/is comforting

Their existence is not so

simple.

Neither fire

nor water

will be their end

but smoke.


84

Pop Quiz

Matthew Tavares

What is the difference between living for others and living for yourself?

A. loneliness

B. regret

C. nothing

D. everything

What can be understood but never taught?

A. love

B. hope

C. nothing

D. everything

What is remembered but easily forgotten?

A. the sun shines on all of us

B. this will all be over soon

C. nothing

D. everything

What are you?

A. molecules and isotopes

B. a soul

C. nothing

D. everything

What matters?

A. nothing

B. everything

C. nothing

D. all of the above

What is god?

A. comfort

B. fear

C. nothing

D. everything

What is real?

A. this moment

B. this moment

C. this moment

D. this moment

85

Empathy / Entropy

Matthew Tavares

Drive-thru Psychosis

Okay but seriously, don’t you see it too? See what?

That’ll be $12.89.That red-orange light, just there,

dangling over the horizon—how it bends in the same

space that we do. Of course I see it, who cares though?

You had the Sprite, right? Yeah, Sprite. Nah man, this

is big, I can feel something ripping inside my head.

What do you mean, big? Ketchup or mustard? Both please.

Like monumental, like heartbreaking, that light, it

means something. What could it possibly mean? I don’t

know, man, but look how it bends. It’s like a bridge

between us and something. What do you think that light

on the horizon is a bridge to? Here’s your food sir. Probably

oblivion, from the looks of it. What makes you so cert-

Have you ever really thought about oblivion, I mean

can you even? I don’t know and I don’t know how you can

find it in a sunset. It’s in the way that it bends, so much

hope and so empty. And how does that break your heart?

Because man, how can everything, all of this violence

and beauty, end in nothing? Who knows man, but can

you take your food now you’re holding up the line.


86

What Right Did You Have

What right did you have to rip apart the

fabric of our collective conscience?

To wrench neighbor against neighbor.

Trumping this country into a selfish

wasteland

of

rottenness.

Michelle Eccellente Stevenson

What right did you have to snatch this

most sacred office and drive it into anarchy.

Intent on taking it from order to chaos

and hurl it into a

pit

of

inequity.

Where being rich was the sole qualification to gaining access.

Where being closed-minded was a prerequisite to opening the door.

Where being a coward was the foot that kept the door ajar.

What right did you have to disavow and rip us from the

international understanding of a climate that is in crisis?

Stripping protections from that which cannot battle,

so that your affluent sycophants could

hoard

their

millions.

What right did you have to incite and applaud

the disgusting rant of your small-mind?

Wielding and thrusting the loathsome, heavy hand

of the almighty superiority, of race and wealth, erupting into

hate

and

violence.

What right did you have to stab and

plant your vile words that burrowed

under my skin, infesting me with boils that burst

and ooze until the wound is indistinguishable

from

the

flesh.

87

Empathy / Entropy

Bob May

It’s Just This Year

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)

CAM

RON

TIME: The end of 2020

PLACE: The living room of Cam’s small apartment

(AT RISE: CAM (20s) is discovered in the living

room of his tiny apartment. He is pacing

back and forth, checking his watch.

There is a knock on the door. CAM opens the

door and RON (20s) enters carrying

a brown shopping bag,

a Big Lots bag, and a McDonald’s bag.)

RON

I’m sorry, buddy, for being late.

CAM

You were supposed to be here an hour ago.

RON

I couldn’t get away from work. And I needed to do a few things and get some

lunch. I got us some Big Macs and fries.

CAM

Why didn’t you answer my texts? Or my calls?

RON

Velma’s got my phone. Hers ain’t working.

CAM

Damn, dude, I thought you were backing out on me.

RON

You need to chill, man. You’re gonna have a heart attack.

CAM

You’re right. I’m sorry.

RON

Come on, sit down and eat.

CAM

Thanks. I am hungry.

RON

You mean hangry.

CAM

It’s just this year. It’s been tough.

RON

Are you sure you want to do this?

CAM

It’s the only way.

RON

I didn’t ask that.

CAM

My child has to eat.

(RON sits down and begins to take the

food out of the McDonald’s bag and

puts it on the coffee table. CAM sits too.)

(Pause)

(Both men eat during the following.)


RON

Get a job.

CAM

I had a job. This pandemic hasn’t been kind to the restaurant business.

RON

Still no unemployment extension?

CAM

Nope. And your Republicans in Congress won’t pass another stimulus package.

RON

Hey, easy on the Rs.

CAM

I don’t understand how anyone can vote Republican. Unless you’re rich. And

you and me ain’t rich.

RON

You know why I do.

CAM

Yeah, you support smaller government …

RON

That’s right.

CAM

… except you Rs are consistently trying to dictate how we all should conduct

our personal lives - like with abortion.

RON

I got my conservative judges to cover that.

CAM

You got ‘em, all right. Three of ‘em.

RON

Damn straight. Trump said he’d do it and he did.

CAM

And you got to own all the rest of the Trump bullshit, too. The lies. The tweets.

Kids in cages.

RON

All you bleedin’ heart Liberals sound like broken records.

CAM

(laughing)

Boy, “broken records” sure dates your Fox News ass.

(beat)

I don’t even know why we’re friends.

RON

Because I bring you Big Macs.

(beat)

And other goodies.

CAM

What is it?

RON

It’s gold.

CAM

I wish.

RON

Open it and see.

RON (cont’d)

It’s worth more than gold.

(RON hands CAM the Big Lots bag.)

(CAM takes out a four pack of toilet paper from the bag.)

89

Empathy / Entropy

CAM

Thanks, my friend. I’ll think of you when I use it.

RON

Why are you so uptight today?

CAM

Money hassles, COVID worries, and election fatigue.

RON

I thought we agreed not to talk politics.

CAM

We did.

RON

So, why do you keep bringing it up?

CAM

Sorry if the truth hurts.

RON

Cam, stop.

CAM

Sorry, Ron.

RON

Don’t bring it up no more. It just pisses you off.

(beat)

(beat)

CAM

Did you bring your mask?

RON

You know I refuse to wear a flippin’ mask.

CAM

We’re going to rob a bank, and with COVID, we have a golden opportunity not

to stick out as we enter the bank with a mask on. Everyone else in the damn

place will have one on. If you walk in without one on, you’re going to stick out.

RON

Well, don’t worry, they won’t even let me in if I’m not wearing one.

CAM

Then, how the hell are we going to rob the bank?

RON

I don’t wear a mask for the same reason I don’t wear underwear. Things have

to breathe.

CAM

How can you be pro-life and unwilling to wear a mask?

RON

I brought something better than a mask.

(RON pulls a rubber mask of Donald Trump

out of the brown shopping bag.)

CAM

Is that a mask of Donald Trump?

(RON puts the mask on as he speaks.)

RON

Hell yeah. If Patrick Swayze and Keanu Reeves can wear Presidential masks in

Point Break to rob banks, you and me can do the same thing.

(He pulls out another rubber mask.)

Here’s one for you.

(He throws the mask to CAM.)

CAM

Oh thanks, I get to be Joe Biden.

RON

You election stealers need to stick together. Put it on.


CAM

We didn’t steal the election. If we had, why didn’t we steal back the Senate and

why did we lose seats in the House? Donald Trump lost the damn election fair

and square.

RON

He only lost when the illegal votes were counted.

CAM

All votes are legal.

RON

Not the mail-in ones.

CAM

I’m not doing this with you again.

(beat)

And we’re not wearing rubber Presidential masks to rob the Regions Bank.

(RON takes the mask off as he speaks.)

RON

Then, you’ll be robbing the bank by yourself because I refuse to wear a mask.

(beat)

CAM

Do you want a beer?

RON

Yeah, what kind do you got?

CAM

I ain’t got no beer. That’s why we have to rob the fucking bank.

RON

I thought you needed the money to buy food for your baby.

CAM

I was speaking metaphorically.

RON

Well, I don’t speak no foreign languages.

CAM

Please, I can’t do it alone.

RON

No, I got principles.

CAM

I know you do and I’ve always respected that about you.

(beat)

Thanks for the burger. And the toilet paper.

RON

You know, we really are a lot more alike than not.

CAM

Yes, we are, about a lot of things. Like cars.

RON

Chevys are better than Fords.

CAM

Piss on Fords. F - O - R - D … fix or repair daily.

RON

Kansas City Chiefs.

CAM

Super Bowl Champs.

RON

Hell yeah.

(pause as they eat)

(They slap hands in a high five.)

RON (cont’d)

I still don’t like them NFL players kneeling during the National Anthem.

91

Empathy / Entropy

CAM

Black lives matter.

RON

All lives matter.

CAM

Which means black lives matter.

RON

I never said they didn’t.

CAM

Did you bring your gun?

RON

I’m locked and loaded and packing heat.

CAM

Okay, cowboy, let’s go get some money.

RON

Finish your burger.


(beat)

(RON pats his side where the gun is under his shirt.)

(pause)

CAM

I will never understand people’s fascination with firearms.

RON

How else are you gonna rob a bank?

CAM

You know, if we get caught, we will serve more time for armed robbery.

RON

Why do you always think the worse? We ain’t gonna get caught.

CAM

Oh, are you doing it now?

RON

I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna do it. I just said I wasn’t wearing a damn mask.

CAM

Do you really believe that God will protect you from COVID if you don’t wear a

mask?

RON

Okay, Mr. Atheist, don’t you start putting down my religious beliefs again.

CAM

If God will protect you from COVID, why doesn’t he protect you from all things?

RON

He does.

CAM

Then why do you need a gun?

RON

To help you rob the damn bank.

CAM

You can wear a bandana. And look like a real cowboy. Just like Butch Cassidy and

the Sundance Kid.

RON

Those dudes were real men. They didn’t wear masks.

CAM

Come on, if we’re going to do this, we have to leave now.

RON

Where are Elizabeth and the baby?

CAM

At her mother’s.

RON

Her mom’s a Republican, ain’t she?

CAM

Yeah, but she wears a mask.

RON

She probably voted for the socialist Biden, too.

CAM

This country is already socialist.

RON

(smiling)

Here we go again.

CAM

What do you think social security is?

RON

I’ve heard it all before.

CAM

Or Medicare? Even money allocated to fix the damn highways is socialism. For

Christ’s sake, Jesus was a socialist.

RON

(laughing)

You left out the stimulus package. Ain’t it socialism, too?

CAM

Here’s a new one for ya. All us fools in the Red States, like Arkansas, AKA welfare

states, take money from the Blue States that make up most of America’s GDP.

So, you and me are both lousy Socialists.

RON

AKA. GDP. Where did you hear that bullshit?

CAM

MSNBC.

RON

Fake news.

CAM

You sure got all the Trump talking points down.

RON

And you got all the Pelosi talking points down. Come on, Cam, chill.

CAM

Forty-six is greater than forty-five.

RON

Seventy-three million people agree with me.

CAM

There are eighty million on my side.

RON

We ain’t ever gonna get on the same page politically speaking. And it don’t matter.

We’ve always been there for one another when it counts.

(beat)

CAM

Do you remember in high school when we got busted for throwing paint on the

Toad Suck logo in the middle of Front and Oak Streets?

RON

You mean when “I” got busted.

CAM

Exactly my point. You took the fall and let me run.

RON

And I never squealed on you.

93

Empathy / Entropy

CAM

We were best buddies.

RON

We still are.

CAM

I liked you even when you stole my high school girlfriend.

RON

I didn’t steal Linda.

CAM

What do you call it then?

RON

She came-on to me.

CAM

You could have said no.

RON

Would you have said no?

CAM

Probably not.

RON

It don’t matter, it didn’t work out between her and me.

CAM

Good.

RON

What’s your point?

CAM

I don’t got one.

RON

Yes, you do.

CAM

No, I don’t.

RON

Then, why did you pause before you answered?

CAM

I didn’t pause.

RON

Yes, you did.

(pause)

(pause)

(pause)

RON (cont’d)

You’re doing it again.

CAM

I was just thinking about Trump grabbing women by the pussy.

RON

Locker room talk. You and me have said worse.

CAM

You and me ain’t the president.


RON

Trump ain’t the president anymore.

CAM

Did you just concede?

RON

Do you wanna smoke a joint?

CAM

How the heck can you afford to buy weed?

RON

I’m an essential worker.

CAM

I guess being the manager at Big Lots has its perks.

RON

That’s what all of Velma’s family thinks, too.

CAM

You’re a good man to help all those in-laws.

RON

What little reserve I had in the bank is going fast. Feeding all of them costs a

lot.

CAM

Come on, let’s go rob a bank.

RON

You know you can get baby food at the Pentecostal Church food pantry.

CAM

The food pantry don’t pay the rent.

RON

You’re preaching to the choir.

(beat)

(beat)

CAM

Are you just going to hold that thing?

RON

What?

CAM

Light the joint.

RON

Oh, yeah.

(RON lights the joint and takes a hit.)

CAM

You’re just using the mask as an excuse not to rob the bank, aren’t you?

(RON passes the joint to CAM. He speaks as he holds the smoke in his lungs.)

RON

No, it’s my right to choose.

(CAM hits on the joint throughout his next line.)

CAM

Oh, so, you can choose not to wear a mask and kill people, but a woman

doesn’t have the right to choose what she does with her own body.

(CAM passes the joint to RON.)

RON

I guess I walked right into that one.

(RON takes a hit.)

CAM

Yea, choose wasn’t a good word.

RON

Have you applied for SNAP?

95

Empathy / Entropy

CAM

Did you know that Walmart has made billions in this pandemic and most of their

employees are on SNAP?

RON

More MSNBC BS?

CAM

Actually CNN.

RON

They’re worse.

CAM

It’s the same thing with McDonald’s and I’m sure with Big Lots, too.

RON

Pandemics are huge moneymakers for big corporations.

CAM

And banks too. Come on, let’s go rob the Regions.

RON

(Quietly)

Velma tested positive today.

CAM

(Quietly, as though he’s saying “I’m sorry.”)

For COVID?

RON

(Still quietly)

For COVID.

(beat)

(The exchange between the two men builds in volume

and intensity until CAM hits RON.)

CAM

If she’s got it, then you got it, and you just gave it to me.

RON

You should have been wearing your fucking mask.

CAM

And because of you, Becky and the baby will get it.

RON

They ain’t here.

CAM

And now, who knows when I’ll see them next.

RON

Trump got over it in a couple of days.

CAM

That orange fucking moron had top-notch medical doctors giving him million-dollar

treatments that you and me can’t get or afford.

RON

He ain’t a moron. He’s the smartest person to ever be president.

CAM

Sure, just ask him.

RON

He’s done more for this country in four years than Obama did in eight.

CAM

It’s a cult. You’re in a damn cult. When he asks you to drink the Kool-Aid, you

won’t hesitate, will you?

RON

Fuck you, Cam.


CAM

Damn you for bringing that virus into my house.

RON

I don’t have the virus. God will protect me.

CAM

Oh yea, will God protect you from this?

RON

(softly, not angry)

Damn, dude, that hurt. You still got some pop in your punch.

CAM

I’m sorry, buddy. It’s just this goddamn year.

(CAM punches RON in the face.)

(beat)

(pause)

RON

Are we gonna rob the bank?

CAM

Not now, you’ll expose everyone in it.

RON

I’ll wear a damn mask.

CAM

Let’s finish smoking this first.

RON

I love ya, man.

CAM

I love you, too.

(CAM has had the joint this entire time.)

(CAM takes a hit. Beat.)

(As the two men smoke, the LIGHTS fade to black.)

THE END

*For performance rights, please contact the author at bmay@uca.edu.

97

Empathy / Entropy

The Threat of Shelter


Scott D. Vander Ploeg

It has been commonly understood that three necessities must be met for

life to continue: food, water, and shelter. Of the three, shelter has been

misunderstood the most. Water is in fact at odds with shelter, is considered

the universal solvent, and regularly and inexorably damages what structures

we build. Housing is our most expensive cost, uses up precious resources,

and is often an extravagance that serves our egos more than it serves our

humanity. It is a shock to read that we might do well to lessen the degree

to which we make our domiciles the be-all-end-all of our existence. To do so

would mean to embrace less shelter and more new-thought sanity.

In Barbara Kingsolver’s 2018 novel, Unsheltered, the main characters living

in our century inhabit an inherited house that is falling apart. The house

needs more repair than the family can afford, and therefore their shelter is

threatened by entropy, perhaps represents entropy. The novel also relates

the story of another set of characters living in a house on the same location,

but well over 140 years earlier. The house needed repair then, was torn

down and rebuilt.

Willa: ‘I’m just sorry for the mess,’ she told him, but in this place

of flotsam far in excess of her own she was starting to feel a whole

lot less embarrassed. ‘I tried to keep things in categories bet we’re

on deadline, with the house coming down. At the last minute it got

chaotic.’

Christopher: ‘Oh, it’s fine. Chaos gets me out of bed in the morning….’

(451)

Kingsolver would, I believe, be comfortable in crediting entropy for the cause

of the difficulties that Willa Knox and her predecessor, Thatcher Greenwood,

endure in the realm of homeownership. Before launching her career as a

novelist, essayist and poet, Kingsolver studied biology, earning a BA in Science

and a master’s degree in ecology and evolutionary biology. She was

a university science writer and often invests her fiction with issues related

to biological processes, such as the path of migratory monarch butterflies

(Flight Behavior), or the habits of hermit crabs (High Tide in Tucson). In

2007 she published a work of non-fiction, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: a Year

of Food Life, which chronicles her family’s attempt to become locavores,

relying on seasonal food within a hundred mile radius.

In this novel, Thatcher is a public-school teacher in Vineland, New Jersey, an

experimental utopian community that consists of a large portion of missionary

Christian zeal extolled by its leaders, who are unhappy to hear him give

credence to the concepts of natural selection and adaptation as explained by

Charles Darwin. In parallel, Willa is contending with her son’s recent loss of

wife by post-partem depression suicide, the resulting baby, her daughter’s

unsettled life-style, her husband’s professorial popularity among the throng

of coeds he teaches, her father-in-law’s COPD illness, a lack of financial

resources, and the dilapidated house. Orbiting Thatcher are his demanding

wife, his dissatisfied mother-in-law, a troublesome sister-in-law, and unexpectedly

Mary Treat, a neighbor who is a self-taught naturalist conducting

experiments and exchanging letters with other scientists, including Darwin.

Kingsolver is also politically savvy. The book’s title reverberates with the social

problems of 2016, and yet today: economic hardship leading to homelessness,

immigration restriction and the separation of families, the feeling of

being unprotected from the storms of governmental abuse. The restrictive

and oppressive leaders of the utopian community are parallel with the newly

elected Trump administration and its cruel indifferences. In the Greenwood/

Trent narrative, the town leader shoots a political opponent in the head, a

mortal wound; in our previous election era, the country’s leader boasted he

could shoot someone in a crowd on 5th Avenue and not lose any voters, i.e.,

face no consequences for his crimes (23 Jan 2016). Kingsolver is among the

first to use fiction to create a context for interpreting the Trump phenomenon.

Willa’s daughter, Tig, articulates the shelter-entropy problem the family faces:

…I’m saying you prepped for the wrong future. It’s not just you. Everybody

your age is, like, crouching inside this box made out of what

they already believe. You think it’s a fallout shelter or something but

it’s a piece of shit box, Mom. It’s cardboard, drowning in the rain,

going all floppy. And you’re saying, ‘This is all there is, it will hold up

fine. This box will keep me safe!’ (308)

Where is the empathy? It is not obvious. It is not certain. The fact that Darwinian

theories of evolution became accepted by most people as factual suggests

that the authoritarian theocratic principles of denial were shrugged off, like

chains of servitude, and that more humane beliefs replaced them. Willa and

her family struggle through, adapting to their circumstances, finding ways to

live with the chaos of entropy.

The Anglo-Saxons metaphorically posited that life is a sparrow that enjoys

warmth and light for a brief period as it passes through a hall into a room and

then out through another door, into winter again (Venerable Bede, Historica

Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum). In this formulation, the hall is where dinner is

served and the hearth blazes forth warmth and the people gather in community,

while outside the winter is the unknown and lacking in the good fortune

of what is celebrated inside.

It is tempting to catalog literary materials that yield a realization—sometimes

for the characters and sometimes for the readers—that love is a counter to

chaos, that it can encompass and embrace the problematic, threatening,

entropy-driven universe. It is a shock to readers of Joyce’s Ulysses to find

Leopold Bloom returning home after his day-long peregrination through the

dangers of Dublin, like Odysseys returning home from the Trojan Wars, to

confront the imagined probable infidelity of his spouse, Molly, and to accept

the situation without recrimination—to love her in spite of and maybe because

of her dalliance with Blazes Boilin, her devilish representative of hell and damnation

(chaos).

Or consider the outcome of the primal couple in Paradise Lost, who exit Eden

hand-in-hand, alone and together, ready to face the harsh existence separated

from God, forced to endure the exertions of labor, both hers in pain at childbirth

and his in effort and toil in work. It is “the rarer action” that they do not

blame each other for the fall from grace, but learn to celebrate the original

sin as it paves the way for salvation and reunion with their Maker. In many

narratives, life and love win over entropy and chaos.

99

Empathy / Entropy

When Willa learns the house had belonged to Thatcher, she sees the historical

fact as a lifeline, a life-buoy-doughnut sent from the past, because the

fame of his story may yield support in the costs. When she learns instead

that Thatcher’s house was demolished and a new one constructed, she finds

it best to allow it, too, to be razed, the pieces sold off to pay for the demolition.

In preparing to empty the house before it is destroyed, she finds a scrap of

paper that contains a passage from Willa Cather’s, My Àntonia, which her

mother wanted read at her funeral. The excerpt advocates for a perspective

about death that amounts to being “dissolved into something complete

and great.” Willa Knox had forgotten it, even though it was one of the few

things her mother had asked of her. Her daughter, Tig, tries to excuse her

grief-stricken mother by saying she had too many things to keep track of at

the time of the death, but Willa-mom says:

“No.” Willa wiped her face with the back of her hand. “It was here

in this box, with these completely unrelated things that weren’t important

to me, inside other boxes of completely unrelated things. I

had too many things. Just too much goddamn stuff.” (448)

She also finds some drawings that Thatcher made, as part of a debate over

“Darwinism versus Decency” he was forced to participate in. Among the examples

of natural selection is the milk vetch, aka Astragalus iodanthus, the

picture including the caption: “appears to thrive in hostile conditions.”

In the end, Willa and her husband move into an apartment. Her daughter,

Tig, lives in a cottage that was reputedly on site in Vineland back in Thatcher’s

day. It is tiny, a downsizing from past living arrangements. She takes

on the rearing of her brother’s son, and that part of the novel ends with the

baby struggling to learn how to walk. The last section returns to Thatcher

and Trent, as he prepares to leave Vineland in exile, divorced from his wife

and his former family’s interest in societal elevation. He is off on an expedition,

and Trent is planning to winter in the swampy ecosystem in coastal

northern Florida. She suggests he meet her there when he is done with his

travels, implying that they will share in a love that had been brewing all

through the novel.

The tiny-home movement, the idea of downsizing, is becoming a powerful

choice for many. This is what Tig sees as our future if we don’t:

‘Mom. The permafrost is melting. Millions of acres of it.’

Willa tried to see a connection. ‘And I’m just worried about my

house. That’s your point?’

Tig shook her head. ‘It’s so, so scary. It’s going to be fire and rain,

Mom. Storms we can’t deal with, so many people homeless. Not

just homeless, but placeless. Cities go underwater and then what?

You can’t shelter in place anymore when there isn’t a place.’ (409)


Float

I see myself in the painting.

A shadow of indigo and suffering

Staring back at me.

Waves beseige my body.

I can’t

Breathe.

I swim in a sea of pills

That don’t work.

That I won’t take.

Polar opposites

Of my mind

Rock me into a treacherous sleep.

I struggle in the water for days- months,

Not knowing where I am

Or who I’ve become.

I reach the easy white shores

Of a place I’ve never been before.

I am at peace.

Velvet sand squishes in

Between my toes

And I smell the salty air.

The sun emerges from

Hallowed depths of the dark

And gloomy blues behind the clouds.

Warmth

Engulfs my body

And gives me a motherly hug.

Polar opposites

Of my mind

Quell.

I swim in a sea of pills

That work.

That I’ll take.

And this time, I’ll float too.

Jayne-Marie Linguist

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Empathy / Entropy

Jayne-Marie Linguist

Shawnna

So when did you know?

My voice shook like an

Earthquake in California

And tears ran a marathon

Down my face.

1800 miles of static on the other

End of the receiver,

Only to be cut short by a mother

Who doesn’t care enough

To try and understand.

No one cares enough

To try and understand.

But her words bring me

Comfort, and living my life

In the back of the closet

Isn’t as lonely as you’d think

With her,

And girls,

And boys.

I’ve always known.

Riot

my bags

are ready by

the door to say goodbye.

i don’t belong here anymore.

don’t cry.


Can You Still Believe I’m Sane?

-

Six stale, half empty bottles of water,

four bone dry large iced coffee cups,

clumps of hair and dirty pajamas,

stray loose leaf with ink smeared ramblings,

a hot pocket sleeve, and a tube of chapstick.

I make myself ill just looking at it.

How could I bring myself to tell you

that this is who I am on occasion?

That this ugly, vulnerable side I hate

is only sometimes a dormant roommate?

I want you to believe I’m sane, unphased.

I have to show you the tangible proof,

even though it makes my stomach turn,

my back swim in an ice cold sweat,

my fingernails pierce the flesh of my palms.

I’ll close my own eyes and turn away,

not able to bear the horror on your face.

I wish I was able to brush my teeth before

you arrived and moved in immediately.

I deny you of course, making this worse.

Silently, heart slowly beating in my chest,

I shuffle my sweatpant legs toward my door.

Should I have lit a candle?

Devyn Jessogne

Phantom Illness

-

You were on the tip of my tongue.

I tasted you like a droplet of grape medicine,

potent and cloying in your sweet empathy.

You were coating me in healing,

only to trigger my reflux and disappear

as quickly as you had arrived.

Leaving an aftertaste like bitter alcohol

and masked by a bold label

that warned me of consumption.

The side effects are nauseating.

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Empathy / Entropy

Devyn Jessogne

Portrait of Your Heart

-

In a gold frame, gilded with jeweled finery I could never mimic,

a portrait in oils much brighter than I’d ever been before.

So well painted I could hardly recognize my reflection,

could gray eyes shine like the moon, brown hair be warm?

I never look into glass, and see something worth admiration.

To make somebody immortal through art feels misleading.

This singular image captures the image of an ageless angel,

not the reality of crumbling bones and graying roots.

This wasn’t the grotesque rendering of my insecure mind,

but an acrylic rendering of your heart, reflected in my smile.

You painted me, an Italian model bathed in golden sun,

and to see me through your eyes feels a lot like love.


Katie Higinbotham

Love Letters into the Void

To my neighbor who sings—truly—like nobody’s listening,

Sometimes it’s a bit too early. Sometimes I roll over at 7AM and try to pretend it’s

not happening when you step into the shower, right on the other side the wall from

our bed. My partner confirms it’s not a dream, groaning from under the blanket as

you hit your first belt note.

I’ve often tried to figure out what you might be singing. It’s eerily familiar, like the

handful of times I attended teen youth group on Wednesday nights and swayed in

the crowd between the hormonal sweat and my sins to the waves of live Christian

rock.

I guess I just love that you’re happy. Or that you sound happy.

It’s something rare these days—outright, unwarranted happiness. I used to sing

loudly in my apartment, too. I used to practice my arias from voice lessons, sing and

cry after breakups, cling to a guitar in the absence of an arm around my shoulder. I

used to dance, too.

Only your bellowing, cascading and predictable “Whooooaaaa,” sailing between our

thin apartment walls reminds me of these buried selves.

&

To the repairman who fixed my phone for only $20 when everywhere else quoted

$75 just to open it,

That $800 iPhone I had just finished paying off after two years. It doesn’t take much

to see my bank account flash before my eyes, but I got lucky. When the phone hit

the hardwood floor it had made this sound like certain death, like if phones had fragile

human spines. It fell flat on its back and the impact echoed off my ceiling. I kept

looking at my stupid, empty hand, as empty as the fridge, the gas tank.

You said I got lucky this time, that all you had to do was adjust the battery, and I

told you, as I looked you in the eye and handed you the cash plus a meager two

dollars I called a tip, God, thank you. You have no idea—and you smiled. I could see

what it might have looked like even underneath your sterile white KN95. I couldn’t

finish the sentence but you jumped in, yes, I do, we need our phones.

I need to tell you now that I can speak again, what I meant was, you have no idea

how much I need that phone as I gobble up my $1,200 a month lick my fingers

clean, using Facetime as a stand in for the feeling of my mother’s, my father’s, my

sister’s arms because it’s now too dangerous to touch those you love, as I remember

there are those few who are fair and kind, it keeps me from—you have no idea.

&

To my neighbor who slams the door,

It’s every time you leave. It doesn’t matter where you’re going. You leave the same

way every time, feet pounding down the stairs, running. Slam. Maybe I’m simply

105

Empathy / Entropy

triggered because in my world door slamming is a message. I’m not coming back, it

says, We’re done here, it says, I’m too angry to stay in this room but I love you too

much to hit you. A rush of air and a slam. It feels like you’re always leaving. And I’m

always here, still, glancing up from my laptop for a moment to listen to you leave.

Safe travels, again—

&

To whoever-you-are who smashed my car window,

Make it make sense. You didn’t even steal anything. And maybe that’s what’s most

insulting. Is what I have to offer not worth your time?

As long as you’ve broken the glass, as long as it’s down and glittering over the

backseat, as long as the cameras in the park and ride are only decoys, at least take

my phone charger, a blanket, my CD collection, the tactical knife...I appreciate that

you left everything intact, though. Left the passenger registration in its neat little

envelope and everything.

I have a hard time parting with even the things that don’t matter, finding evidence

that my world has been touched by unfamiliar hands. The only evidence you left was

shatter, before, with reasons only the gods of 3AM vandalism know, you took off.

I imagine you running, dressed all in black, of wiry frame, perhaps male, perhaps a

mask, perhaps you’re tired of masks and I wouldn’t even blame you, running into

the black, out of the lamplight and away from the crime scene. And you remind

me of myself, running like that. I never ran from broken glass, only other kinds of

wreckage, littering mildewy bedrooms like confetti.

All my love to you.

&

To my landlord who sends emails whenever a car is parked incorrectly,

If I had a nickel for every time, I’d have at least a dollar, minus the thousands I’ve

already handed to you to keep living here.

P.S. the garbage is overflowing again. That’s your second favorite topic to send

emails on, so I thought I’d let you know.

&

To Amanda Gorman,

Now you’re a stranger to no one and everyone. Watching your hands dance just

beyond the inaugural podium, behind the chest-high bulletproof glass, I feel as if we

talked just yesterday, as if we’ll meet again tomorrow.

Someone else who calls themselves a writer will post on Facebook about your poem,

how it wasn’t really a poem, how it wasn’t literary, or how it was good “for an occasion

poem.” Why nothing is ever good enough, I don’t know. What I do know is that

for five minutes and thirty-two seconds you made all of us bulletproof.

&

To a face I try to blur with flame,

You’re a stranger now, though you didn’t used to be.


With every good wish—you used to sign.

“Wish” used to mean something more romantic, a deep unfulfilled desire. Your wish

was more like shopping online, knowing you can’t afford something, and adding it to

your “wish list” anyway. A hollow virtual gesture, clicking that heart shaped button.

Or worse than that, because we know how it got worse than wishing, like shoplifting.

No, not shoplifting, but staking out a store you plan on robbing. Like approaching the

counter with a toy gun that looks slightly too real to question.

Later, you’ll deny you were ever there and the charges against you will be dropped

due to lack of evidence. But I’ll still be there, burning what I finally understand cannot

be called love letters.

With every good wish—

&

To the hit-and-run driver of a black pickup,

Who knows where you were speeding from, swerving between lanes, and who you

were speeding to as you smashed into the side of my partner’s car on the freeway.

As he spun a hundred and eighty degrees toward the ditch, your wheels spun north,

doubling their speed.

Luckily for you, no one saw your plate. Luckily for him, my partner righted his car and

came to a stop on the shoulder, sitting somehow unscathed in a totaled car and you

have subtracted yourself. Totally gone.

I will be as brief as the moment you collided with a part of my world too valuable

to imagine losing. As brief as the snapping of the driver’s side mirror detaching, the

bending of the frame, the embedding of black paint into red: I hope it was important.

I have to believe it was important, whatever kept you driving.

&

To Amy Winehouse,

Amy Amy Amy. In two years I’ll be the same age as you were when you drank your

last drink, all alone in your Camden Town flat, not the vision of yourself everyone else

saw, the jet black beehive, the landscape of tattoos and the Monroe piercing, thick

wings at the outside corners of your eyes meant to transport you elsewhere, I guess.

The world hollowed you out until you were bones and rotting talent, and I think about

that every time I reach for a drink I don’t need. I hear you growling in my ear the

limited words you left us—black,

black,

black.

Your mother wrote a book about you after you died. She wrote that you were full of

life like a hurricane, raging and raging until you raged yourself out. When I don’t know

what else to do,

I put you on and I rage.

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Empathy / Entropy

Joseph Tyler Wilson

[Until the wet now january gale]

Until the wet now january gale

Extinguished this last known ember

from the previous thousand years

Pavanne for Jessica

In the aftermath

Of an overloaded heroin

Needle

Mere words

Refuse

To Dress up grief

But I think now

Of her beautiful small

Sibilant squeak of a laugh

That she attempts to hold back

Like a contagious cough

Behind her creamy hand

But often couldn’t

And so out it came

Like a floral sunrise following a charcoal night

Like a bleeding rainbow

Sopping up a

Fierce storm

Like a short poem

Written after a loss

So sharp and dear

That mere words

Refuse

To dress up grief


Joseph Tyler Wilson

Neil deGrasse Tyson on the Radio

One

Let me paraphrase

Because I only understand part of what he said

The female interviewer asks him to explain

Light as it relates to the Big Bang Theory

And he says that light is coming to us from the beginning of it all

That the star we see when we look at the star we see isn’t really there

That we are separated by time and distance and

The illusion of knowledge

Two

I look at an old picture of my brother Paul and me

He a bundled infant and I

Perhaps three

Am searching up to the sky with my eyes

There is no contextual architecture for me to imagine

Why or what I am scanning

Three

There is this mixed batch of photographs in my bottom desk drawer

Including one of three smiling girls embracing with entangled arms

Like vacationing lovers on a white sand beach

Catie and two others whose names I can’t recall

A short blonde Brazilian girl with a nose ring

Purple lipstick and a tattoo on her upper thigh

Who as an exchange student once late in the night knocked

On my front door on Manitou Street

Asked me to hold her while she wept

And a Thai girl with big wet moony eyes

Who went through a deep blue period and then

Departed one morning

From my creative writing class and never returned

I bumped into Catie last year on Facebook or she bumped into me

Eventually I mentioned the image of her with her friends that

Resided in my oak desk in the back of my classroom

That I hadn’t really looked at in maybe five years

She couldn’t recall any of it

So I searched through the pile until I found it

Took an iphoto and sent the image off into space

Like the Voyager Golden Record

With stick figures of the human form and the music of Mozart

Toward Catie in Austin

Over two hundred miles and eighteen years away

She texted back “It’s not me and I don’t know either of them”

Four

Tyson says that light

Is speeding toward us from the past

I say the past is speeding toward us

Like jingling sounds from a darkened room

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Empathy / Entropy

Beauty As An Invasive Species

For the feral swans of Houston

Katherine Hoerth

What to do when beauty’s on the loose?

In the chaos of that hurricane,

the flood rushed in and swept the swan away

from the hotel fountain and her mate

with a force like love or lust or nature,

all equally destructive. Mute, with wings

clipped and useless, who would have thought such beauty

could survive the wilds of this city?

Now beauty’s leaving feathers everywhere

scattered like white stars across the darkness

of the night. Now beauty’s turning tawny

with the mud and dust of Houston’s streets.

Now beauty’s found her voice again—she’s hissing.

Now beauty’s learning to defend herself

with a beak that’s more than ornamental.

Now beauty fills her belly and devours

musk grass, water lilies, arrowhead.

Now beauty stretches out her milky wings,

takes up more space within this crowded city.

Now beauty’s brooding in the bayou’s crooks,

displacing spoonbills, cormorants, herons.

Now beauty’s getting ornery, aggressive—

ruining picnics and romantic strolls.

She’s feral, nesting in the city parks;

she’s hatching chicks whose wings were never clipped.

Beauty’s daughters soon take to the sky

and fly above this city with its smog.

Now beauty’s on the loose. She’s blending in

with clouds, migrating as her heart desires.

Oh dear, our world will never be the same.

Hunters of southeast Texas, grab your guns.

It’s open season for these feral swans.

Beauty on her own’s a dangerous thing.


Busted Ear Drum

My eardrum is the eardrum of the nation—

busted open, ruined, and eroded

from an infection made of apathy

anger, or grief that we can’t exorcise

from the body. Mold has settled in.

The air is humid from the standing water

of what we leave unsaid, unheard, undone.

One January morning, pressure built,

rupturing the fragile peace of skin.

It hasn’t healed—not even a scab.

It’s an open wound I tend to every

morning, noon, and night, worry

over, trying to forget about.

I can’t hear the music of the world

anymore, its song of suffering.

Instead, I hear the ringing of tinnitus.

And at first, it felt disorienting—

the muffled soundscape of a world so loud

with grieving mothers shrieking Aleppo

from grief and hunger, shrieking in Reynosa

in the wake of gunshots, shrieking in Port Arthur

as policemen shoot into the night.

But now, that distant humming in my ear,

that almost silence is a sort of comfort.

I can fix it, miss, the surgeon says,

as he pencils in my surgery

where he’ll open up my skull and force

me to hear again this loud, loud world.

I nod, agree, because I know the sound

of change needs billions of open ears

with drums intact that beat and beat and beat

truth into the brain, wake up the heart,

to listen to the chorus of our earth.

Katherine Hoerth

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Empathy / Entropy

A Triptych Ten Thousand

I.

“At every pore with instant fires”

Some ten thousand fires

My body takes on a new radiance

What transpires …

In these flashes of heat ...

Jimena Burnett

dampness/sweat/perspiration ...

forming in the crooks of my ... elbows

at the backs of my knees—down the bony furrow of my back

—down the bony furrow of my life (sweat)

—along the nape of my neck (sweat)

—tracing the arcs across my upper lip (sweat)

all signs ...

these salty beads of (sweat)

all totems … all portents

of decline

Simply the way a feminine body languishes

so I am told,

A hazy narrative of how to be forgotten,

rendered inconsequential/obsolete

a patriarchal interpretation,

Like so many histories of patriarchy,

inaccurate at best,

at odds with

my body’s own grace/beauty/truth/power

at odds

with some 10,000 things about me,

about us

II.

Dear body,

how resolute you are.

I have questions

I want to know:

Why?

Why now? Why this?

Why wasn’t I informed?

If the hue of youth is of morning dew ... what is the color of age?

What is the color/shape/taste/sound/smell/feel

of a woman beset

by ten thousand instant fires?

What is seeping out and away in these fiery sessions?


112

What is being forged/tempered in this crucible of flame?

Once this slow distillation comes to a halt, what and who remains

to emerge, phoenix-like, sybyl-like, from the embers and the ash?

What exactly is it that transpires, these 10,000,

These instant fires?

Who remains to seize the day?

Who will care to notice?

What of pleasure?

Of rough strife?

Finally, dear body, will this incandescence, some ten thousand little fires,

light a way onward for us ever together to cross

the darkling plains that come our way?

III.

On second thought, do everything in increments of 10,000. Build, live

through, put out 10,000 fires. Not just fires, everything. Love. Love

10,000 times. Lay your heart bare, make it vulnerable to 10,000 shocks,

10,000 heartbreaks, curl your body around your lover 10,000 times.

Know that when it rains or when you cry, the drops of rain or tears come

in parcels of 10,000, buy 10,000 umbrellas, handkerchiefs, galoshes. In

the rain, in tears, or in the tub, bathe 10,000 times. Emerge squeaky,

shiny, fresh, wrung-out, clean. If you still are dripping, use 10,000 towels.

Wash 10,000 pairs of socks, the sheets, washrags, 10,000 towels. Hang

all them out to dry under 10,000 suns, flap, flap, flapping in the breeze,

knowing that they are only tethered to this Earth by clothespins and

circumstance.

Clothespins? Circumstance? Gravity?

What is it that tethers you?

Make a pie, but don’t make one or two, just a pumpkin and/or a blueberry,

make 10,000, make every pie on Earth or, if you prefer, make the same

pie 10,000 times, the apocryphal apple everytime. Slice, slice them all,

slice them each into 10,000 slices. Eat 10,000 slices of pie, 10,000 pies,

tasting every fruit, every Eden, every crust, every bit of Earth, every sun,

every drop of dew, every juice.

Then drink. Drink tea with lemon and honey in sips of 10,000. While the

tea leaves steep, unfurling/uncurling, think 10,000 thoughts, then use

your breath, the in and the out of it all, to shoo each thought away.

Shoo, shoo, shoo …. 10,000 times until your mind for a moment rests,

untethered, unspooled, undone.

Then at 9,999 of any old thing, take that next step, then step again, slice

again, bake again, breathe again, break again, bathe/wash again, rain

and taste again, steep, sip, drink again, think again, love again, emerge

again, do it all again. Start over. Begin again.

No one’s keeping count.

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Empathy / Entropy

JE Trask

Longing For Love

Every cindered child longs for love,

No matter our flaws or sins: a death-row inmate

Taking his final walk still longs for love;

Men lost in the desert still search for love’s pathways.

Longing encodes, trenched in our nucleus,

As vital as the reason leaves lean to the sun

Or birds migrate. Without love, existence

Diminishes, life-force decays, weakens.

Though our bodies wither, sick and wracked,

Longing remains, stalwart, immutable;

Even in the cooling body after

Death, the strings of DNA still long.

Every version of me still longed for love;

My need withstood, embedded deeper than pain,

Deeper than loss or emptiness. I took

Energy from this need, it fed and sustained

A broken psyche, gave me a reason to move,

To breathe, passion to remain extant;

I dreamed of a metamorphosing kind of love,

Healing rain to nourish my famished wasteland.


JE Trask

Roleplay: What We Seek

What We Think We Seek

“I want to fling your feet to the ceiling,” says he,

“And dance like salmon leaping up a stream!”

“Or just the lean in a sweetheart’s tuck,” says she.

“The sun must be the sun, must shine with heat

And not care if those below are sweltering;

Let’s spin like twin tornado stars,” says he.

“The moon gives us light when we most struggle to see

And reveals her mirror gift in cool evening;

Steps gentle and exact still move,” says she.

“A volcano does not bow to a snowflake,” says he;

“It cannot be tamed but must erupt in glory!

And all who see it stand in awe, or flee!”

“Ships seek safe harbor when a storm is coming,

But on a temperate day, the white sails gleam,

And skiffs again cut clean through the waves,” says she.

Time seals the moment in resin / the pendulum swings;

A song began – it is already ending;

“How she felt in the lean of our lover’s tuck,” says he;

“How he once lifted my feet to the ceiling!” says she.

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Empathy / Entropy

_____ by _____

JE Trask

Because the poem is raw and unpretentious

it stands in a spotlight and begs to be heard

like I a child by a swimming pool about to dive into the water:

Hey Everybody! Look at me! –

only wanting to share the leaping, rush of air, splash,

how the water ever so gently restrains this body’s descent,

as my mother once reached out her arm to bar her firstborn

from wandering into danger.

Joyfully, there are no origami giraffes here to interpret,

just a fresh pile of laundry warm from tumble drying,

like I once dumped on my bed on a cold day and fell on top of.

This is how we sometimes love,

become a vulnerable, crumpled pile ready to be straightened, folded,

or draped floating in a high, safe place;

if we find ourselves in caring hands

we may later appear to others with straight lines and smooth contours.

If we’re lucky, our older selves will remember

every one of our discoveries deserves to be celebrated.


Song – for Jennifer

Standing in the terminal

waiting for my early morning train,

watching numbers on the monitor,

swallowing two aspirin.

My eyes are bloodshot,

my arm covers my wide yawned teeth

and my skin gets tired tingles

of searching for bedsheets –

businessmen around me –

students and tourists, too –

I’m glancing at the fringes,

daydreaming I see you

come rushing up to grab my hand,

pull me from this hall,

but I know you’re far away

as I fix back on fiery red numerals.

JE Trask

My left hand rests on my suitcase handle

as my right accepts free WI-FI;

we were so good together,

but we were better at goodbye.

The day we met was a different tired;

we stayed up all night talking;

you wore dinosaurs on your shirt,

silver earrings dangling.

I was sure I could topple one more windmill

with my crooked pool cue.

You were sure the Grand Ball was still waiting

and any slippers would do.

We bathed in a pool in a hidden grotto,

we kissed in the frond of a giant fern.

Your skin was soft as orchid petals

and mirrored the flickering candle’s burn.

Pan played a ditty with his flute,

Venus harmonized on her lead guitar.

You gave me a Starburst from your purse

and said let’s have breakfast for dinner.

I still don’t know where we got lost;

we somehow forgot to try;

we were so good together,

but we were better at goodbye.

There’s a fast blur of swamps and farms.

The train is only half-full;

I can stretch out my legs

and my seat is comfortable

but I can’t seem to close my lids on you yet;

I imagine you walk through the carriage door

and lay your head on my lap

and say I don’t want to fight anymore,

but I see you’re far from here

as I study the windowpane

and squeeze my hands together

as if my body is trying to pray.

I don’t know if I can explain

why anyone would choose,

instead of the ache of impending disaster,

the ache of certain doom.

You pulled away you scared me

like I stepped from a roof to nothing but sky

and I wanted to say I need you

but I was better at saying goodbye.

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Empathy / Entropy

JE Trask

Danger

After Leap Before You Look by Auden

What you sensed when you scrambled

up those slippery rocks in Fiji

or when we’re jitterbugging fast

at the edge of control –

at such a dangerous pass

a joy that cannot be found

in any safe place enters us.

I don’t care how we say it

only that it’s raw, candid –

what we’re afraid to mention –

felt so deeply we shake –

there’s no safe path that leads to love.

Jog from books laptops science

deer stare whisper we bled you lived

one day you may stumble on such sharpness


CeAnna Heit

memory clots

you know

wishing my

dissolve into

father spoke I was

father’s love burned

tongue blisterful it kept

remember the trees shade

teeth I was

syllables to give him spine

I was ash

body could

branch when

sky my body my

held on the

growing earthless I

of yellow that hurt the

wishing I had more tender

buckling branging

out & wished for sea end I wish for any

my spine a crush of flowers my

curled

for the sun

turning

other pulse when I first spoke love

spine

broke

turned

my throat bent

toward the skies

replacing oil like

turn the lights off

the dishes right I would

whatever he said

I wish for

crave

escapism

my throat whirs

father cared for cars

blood father says

when you go wash

have believed him

in every memory of him

the truth: chattering

the truth: perhaps we just did not

[mouth do you]

know what to

escape?

do you want to engorge full

fuck the

truth?

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Empathy/ Entropy

Dear family,

I want to see you again very badly. I sometimes think maybe if I don’t

see you, I might lose you or lose the image of you I keep in memory that

chiseled and chipped fragment that follows me. Memory washes in and

out like the tide but never brings back anything small enough to carry. My

hopes to carry you with me like starfish washed up on the beach those red

limbs shivering the tongue too heavy to hold in the shapes it might make

the blood is leaking out of you is water, is flood.

bleeds fresh

a memory

me back to

a house

your throat

is a lie.

to read this

I see father again

where time

the first

feathered

speak

time with

again?

you must know

at the edge

has no edges

like children

crystalline

shimmer will

memories like

of oceans. why

sister let’s

can I never cut

rewrite that

shards of glass

is where memory

hurt curved

ribbons pulling

these seaweed

moment when

you ever

the wash to sand

narrative the shore

a jolt out of


we are in the room we were not in the

whitewalls chattering

room you were

us sisters

close and jarred fingers

in the room crashing split like the groove in

parent’s voices outside ripping imperfect wood, you

I’ll hold you sister keep you didn’t want them to

in distant places sycamored crack in the grey

bind my hands to yours in ash

light

the remains of a word

window

we are in a room

the organ sat

white-eyed, you and I,

waiting & you

flutter, rash, what is that wanted to claim

against the wall pounding wild flowers words

voices & words like ash like they belonged

& me asking you, can you to us lay that river to bed

keep us in? your face the salt-fed womb

washed in green our mama, estuaried, salt-cheeked

our papa, you are unrooted sister limbed inlet

stomata between them brushed salt sun glance


lungs can breath / the ash



a thousand cuts

a thousand cuts

a thousand cuts

feet on the edge of a door

scrunched toward the sun

curled string

ember a tongue

a body / under pleasure

clouds in a car & gone

for fear of springs

do not bleed for fear of springs

for fear of springs

do not swallow glob the speech



heart clogged up

on the tongue

heart clogged up

heart clogged up in

her eyes fell




ember a tongue

ember a tongue

ember a tongue

do not bleed

do not bleed

curled sring

do not bleed

curled sringcurled sring

on the tongue


older sister:

older sister:

“Remember, when we were

small we were in the room

white-walled, unspoken

the walls crashing with voices

voices that rip and curl. You are

scared and I told you I’d hold

you I murmur, bind our hands

under the table lacking words

words coming up ashes.”

“I was with you

white-eyed in the room

and what is that against

the wall? We were thinking

somehow it was from them

that tremor what did it mean?

older sister:

wash each word in green

little sister:

from the window from

the willow can you

“Remember when he used

to call me golden goose?

They were throwing things

between me above me the

red vase on the wall it was not

was you thought at all it was

calm I held up my hands like birds and

white wordless

offerings.”

this poem is for you

muttering shaking is for

snapping of voices is for you catch me

holding branched green words from

the window wall for you I was not in

the room for you I was not

older sister [much

older now]:

I was older than

you I sat at my

computer hunched

formless mom & dad

the familiar hum of

red murmur stream,

you went downstairs

why did you why I

jelly-boned, grey

eyed I was older

I knew


Crystal Garcia

Transient Lives (Density of Seconds)

Is this what a glitch in the matrix feels like?

Time can be so dense.

No wonder we all seem to experience déjà vu.

Hasn’t it all happened before?

It’s March again.

So much happens

in an hour—

even more in 24

and days accumulate

into weeks then months.

A year since last March…

the beginning of a viral era.

Everything is supposed to move

the same way yet it all feels

different now.

Different is okay.

Change is constant anyway.

Most times I simply do not

or how to feel.

That’s “normal” though, right?

know what to do

Normal is futile.

It definitely never meant a damn thing

to anyone who has ever felt different…

Abnormal, weird, or strange.

We are called out whether we like it

or not.

Let’s find out what boxes we don’t fit into.


Why are we putting all these things

into boxes anyway?

We imagine we’ll figure this out together

yet together means we are to be

Too often we break ourselves down

before even trying to build ourselves up.

accepting of each other.

Here we are in the middle

of this uncertainty,

wanting to hold each other yet

it’s not wise to get so close.

An internal conflict that seems universal;

what is the solution when going against

the other side

of YOU?

Wait, can’t we still remember

what comfort felt like?

Yes, we can. The idea of it:

Even the memories

will start to fade

& it’s all so

solidified in our minds,

however not fully tangible

enough for us to grasp.

fleeting.

Nonetheless, we exist.

We are here.

Never meant to only

live in our heads.

We have always worn masks.

Why do we believe

it feels better to hide a part of who we are?

Our greatest battles are within

& we prefer others not get a glimpse.

A gradual descent

into clandestine parts

of ourselves

make us wonder:

Who are we really?

Sometimes life seems

like it’s always falling apart

into chaos and disorder

yet we’ve simply been

standing still.

Our energy has perpetually been bursting

at the seams!

As we wonder,

we usually wander…

adventures are all around.

Our collective energy is powerful:

nurturing vulnerability as it is strength.

We are both fragile and strong.

This duality we are born with

is supposed to guide us

to speak and act with empathy.

125

Time keeps going

even when the world

finally felt like it had

stopped…

…

..

.

..

…

here

we are.

Nothing ever

makes much sense

when you spend so many

seconds overthinking it.

Empathy / Entropy

Leticia R. Bajuyo

Event Horizon at Peak Shift, 2018


Photography: Nick Sanford


The Couch

Christina Hoag

The cell phone blared its overloud, overcheery tune. Desi bolted upright

and bashed her head on the top bunk. She seized the phone and slid the

button to answer, more to silence the ringtone as to reply to the call. It was

getting hard, this clandestine living in the police station.

It was the watch commander. “Desi, you’re up to bat. We got a stiff in

an alley, eleven thousand block behind Santa Monica. Sanitation guys called

it in.”

Desi rubbed her already throbbing skull. “What’s it look like?”

“Male, white, twenties. Likely OD. It’s three blocks from the station.”

“Roger that.”

Desi swung her legs off the thin mattress and checked the time. 5:11

a.m. Shit. She’d forgotten to set the alarm again. She had to be out of the

cot room before day watch started arriving. She made the bed, plumped the

pillow and surveyed the room, making sure she’d left no trace of herself. She

stuffed a backpack containing clean underclothes, T-shirts and sweats under

the bunk, pushing it into the farthest corner, and cracked open the door. The

hallway was clear. She dashed into the women’s locker room.

Twenty-eight minutes later, hair dripping like a leaky faucet down the

gully of her back, she was ducking under the yellow tape that cordoned off

the alley behind an eclectic collection of storefront businesses on Santa Monica

Boulevard — a Mexican taco joint, a Thai massage parlor, a Vietnamese

nail salon and a hipster coffee shop.

“Nimmo, West LA homicide,” she announced to the bluesuit, who jotted

the information on the scene log.

Another patrol officer milled around an abandoned corduroy couch upon

which lay a young man, cold and lifeless.

“Coroner?” Desi said.

“They’re heading over,” the officer said. “The sanitation crew had to continue

their round, but I got their contact info in case you need it. How’s Ray

doing, by the way?”

“Good,” Desi lied, stepping away from the officer to discourage chitchat.

She was asked that almost every day, it seemed.

She couldn’t let it slip that she’d left Ray. Cops being the gossips that

they were, it would be all over the department inside twenty-four hours, and

she’d be persona non grata for leaving a hero, a cop’s cop who’d been shot

in the back by a fleeing drug dealer during a raid. The asshole was still in the

wind while Ray was marooned in a wheelchair.

She sized up the deceased. He boasted a tan and a messy man bun with

what was likely a carefully calibrated stubble over his cheeks. He was better

dressed than the typical street OD — a button-down paisley shirt worn loose

over neat jeans, rolled up sleeves, docksiders with no socks — but this was

Los Angeles’ affluent westside. She ran her eyes over his hands, no rings, but

there was a white band on his wrist indicating he usually wore a watch. At a

glance, there appeared no sign of foul play.

She couldn’t do much until the coroner’s techs arrived. The dead were

their domain. She turned to the patrol officer. “Get a search going for any

hypos and shit. You know the drill.”


128

Over the officer’s shoulder at the far end of the alley, she clocked a familiar

scruffy figure with a balding pate and a curtain of long grey hair floating

around the shoulders of a tattered raincoat. In the invisible world of homeless

street territory, this was his turf. He might have seen something last night.

“Sal!” she called. He caught her gaze and scurried off.

He wouldn’t go far. She strode around her end of the alley onto the

boulevard, sweeping the block with her eyes. In the gap under a bus shelter

wall, she spied a pair of fraying sneakers, the toe of one flapping free from

the sole. She walked up to the structure. Sure enough, Sal was sitting on the

bench. She stood at an angle to block his exit on the two open sides.

“Hey, Sal.”

He answered with a frown.

She caught a noseful of human stink. He obviously hadn’t been to the

rescue mission in a while. She switched to breathing through her mouth as

she patted her jacket pocket for the Vaporub she usually carried for death

scenes and interactions with the homeless, but it was empty. Dammit, the

Vapo must’ve fallen out in the rush of fleeing the house.

“Did you see the guy on the couch in the alley last night?”

He stared at the gutter. A lie was coming. “Nope.”

“Sal, remember how I saved your suitcase when you left it chained to this

very bus shelter and a rook called out the bomb squad? You owe me one.”

He scratched his chin through a thick matted beard. “He was on my

couch.”

“Dead or alive?”

“He was dead when I got there. The sonofabitch died on my couch. And

I didn’t roll him.”

“Was he alone?”

“Far as I could tell.”

“What time was this?”

“Nighttime.”

“Late? Early?”

He shrugged. She wasn’t going to get any more out of him. “All right,

then.” She stepped away.

“Hey, Desi, you ain’t gonna take the couch, are you?” The plaintiveness

in his voice made her pivot. “The lady in the coffee shop said she don’t mind

if I sleep on it. She said I could use it as long as I wanted, and she wouldn’t

call for it to be picked up.”

“Sal, you know the rules. Furniture isn’t allowed in alleys. Sanitation found

the body, so they probably already called bulky waste pickup.”

“Can you do something? I had to fight a couple guys over that couch. I’ll

get that watch for you.”

He’d taken the watch. Of course, he had. “I’ll see what I can do.” She

walked off.

“You’re a cop! You can do what you damn well please!” he yelled. The

words hit her like blows on the back. She felt a pinch of sympathy but quickly

stifled it. If you let it, this job would chew you up and spit you out. She

couldn’t save the world.

When she got back to the dead man, the coroner’s tech assistants were

loading him into their van.

“Hey Desi, I was wondering where you were.” Preeta, the forensic tech,

hooked around an ear a hank of dark hair that had strayed from her ponytail.

129

Empathy / Entropy

“Chasing a potential witness.” She pointed with her chin at the body.

“OD?”

Preeta whipped back the sheet to expose the dead man’s bare feet. Small

bruises bunched around his toes like spoiled grapes. “Third one this week on

the westside. Looks like there’s some bad shit on the street. You might want

to alert your narc guys.”

“Will do.”

She watched Preeta replace the sheet and close the van doors. Another

life wasted by drugs.

“Catch you on the next one, Des.”

She raised a hand in response then gave the all-clear to the patrol officers

so they could resume their watch. A rumble behind her gave her a jolt.

It was the massive, dark blue bulky-waste truck. That was fast. It must’ve

been in the neighborhood. She darted out of its way as it extended its giant

claw to grasp the couch and lifted it, swinging it around to deposit in the rear

bin with a dull thud.

The truck moved off with an engine snort, revealing Sal standing in the

middle of the alley. He glowered at her. There was nothing she could do. He

knew city ordinances better than most people.

She walked back to the station to get started on the report, stopping

in the break room on her way to the detectives’ bureau. She hadn’t eaten

breakfast and her stomach felt like a bottomless pit. She fixed a cup of coffee

and grabbed two strawberry Pop-Tarts then entered the detectives’ area,

greeting several colleagues en route to her cubicle but not hovering to chat.

She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She sat at her desk and powered on the

computer.

Finbar McNab scooted in reverse out of his cubicle on his wheeled chair.

“Early morning jog again?”

“Huh?” What was he talking about?

“The other day. You were in super early with wet hair. You said you’d

been running.”

“Oh. No. Had a callout. OD in an alley.”

He studied her for a second. “Everything all right? You don’t look so hot.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“You’ve been putting in long hours lately, Des.”

“Catching up on paperwork, parole board letters, you know how it is.”

The truth was she stayed in the bureau or break room until the station

emptied so it was safer to occupy the cot room, plus she had no money to go

anywhere even if she had a place to go. Then she had to be up early to avoid

the station’s first wave of arrivals. It must be nice to work a nine-to-five, she

thought suddenly. There was a certain comfort in structured days.

“How’s Ray?” McNab said. “Don’t worry, sooner or later, we’ll get the

asshole who did this.”

“If you don’t mind, I have a report to write.”

McNab threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, just asking.”

He rolled his chair forward and disappeared behind the cubicle wall. Finally.

Desi took a deep breath and pulled up a blank report form, but her

focus was gone.

What people didn’t know was that her four-year-old marriage was faltering

before Ray got shot, thanks to his increasing micromanagement of her

life. She told him she wanted out unless he agreed to go to couples’ counseling,

but he refused. She was pondering her next move when she got the call


130

from his captain to get to the hospital. She wondered whether he’d chased

the dealer, ignoring department protocols, and hurdled a chain-link fence

right into an alley ambush in some sort of ego-driven attempt to prove to her

what a superior being he was.

She’d stayed, of course. She couldn’t very well leave him when he needed

her the most. But since the shooting, he’d spent more time drunk than

sober and found fault with everything she did. She still had her badge, and

he didn’t.

After yet another fight, the cause of which she couldn’t recall now, her

mouth had launched the words like missiles: “I’m leaving.” Ray hadn’t said

a damn thing. He simply rolled out to his garage man-cave, where he kept

a small fridge stocked with beer, and blasted Black Sabbath, which he knew

she hated, as she packed her life into garbage bags.

Desi had no plan for where to go, but the fact that Ray had offered no

resistance made her all the more resolute. He thought she was bluffing. He’d

see.

As she stared at the report, its blanks waiting to be filled in, she realized

she missed her husband — the old him, the one she’d married, not this new

version, but she didn’t know if the old Ray would, or could, ever return. She

pushed the intrusive nostalgia back into its mental box and concentrated on

the report. She powered through and when finished, went to the break room

to reward herself with more coffee and Pop-Tarts.

Lieutenant Migdalia Machado stuck her head out of her door as Desi

walked by. “Desi, gotta minute?”

Desi turned. “Sure.” She trailed her boss into her office. Machado had

probably seen the stiff in the alley on the incident log when she came in and

wanted the rundown.

“Close the door and have a seat.” Shit. Maybe not.

Machado reached under desk and thumped Desi’s backpack on her desk,

the one that she’d shoved under the bunk in the cot room that morning. Desi

slumped as if a vacuum sucked all the air out of her body.

“Is this yours?”

Desi nodded. “I just put it there for safekeeping.”

“Have you been using the cot room as a crashpad?”

“No…well…”

“Save it.” Machado picked up an envelope from her desk and drew out

two long auburn hairs, dangling them in the air. “There’s only one person in

the station with this hair. I found them in one of the bunks and on the floor.

This explains why you were napping in your car in the parking lot the other

evening, why you’ve been here at all hours, why microwave dinners, mac

and cheese boxes, canned soup and Pop-Tarts have appeared in the break

room, with your name on them although all I’ve ever seen you eat is organic

Whole Foodsy stuff.

“Listen, I don’t know what’s going at home and it’s none of my business,

but you know that sleeping in the cot room is strictly against the rules if it’s

not for official police business.”

Desi didn’t have the energy to lie any longer. “I left Ray.” She suddenly

felt as if an anvil had lifted off her chest.

Machado blinked. “I figured as much. I’m sure he’s not easy to be around

these days.” Her tone had softened.

“Are you gonna write me up for this?” Desi had an unblemished record.

Not one complaint, internal or external, in fourteen years on the job.

131

Empathy / Entropy

“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll pretend this never happened if you find

somewhere else to live and you follow up on this for me.” Machado turned to

her computer and started typing.

Desi decided to wait until she finished to ask her not to broadcast her

marital woes.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about you and Ray,” Machado said, not

taking her eyes off the monitor. Was she telepathic?

“I’d appreciate that,” Desi said.

Where was she going to go? Her credit cards were maxed out and her

credit rating had plummeted. She and Ray were down to a single income,

plus Ray’s disability check, but one of his favorite hobbies these days was

ordering useless stuff from Amazon. Boxes piled up at the door practically

daily. Plus, she’d had to take out a loan to retrofit the house for a wheelchair.

She didn’t have any friends outside the department or nearby relatives where

she could crash for a few days. She’d spent the first night on her own in a

West Hollywood motel that cost a hundred bucks for a room with a stained

bedspread and stale pot reek, then decided to move into the station.

She thought it would be relatively easy to live there, for a short while

anyway, since the station was equipped with a cot room, showers, lockers

and a kitchenette. It would give Ray enough time to realize how much he

needed her. He’d come to appreciate her, beg her to come back. Then she’d

have leverage to get him into therapy and rehab. But she hadn’t banked on

how stressful it would be to evade detection, inventing excuses to be at the

station at odd hours, and how people would pick up on the smallest changes

in habit. She was juggling lies like balls, but her hands just weren’t fast

enough to catch them all. It had been five days, and she still hadn’t had as

much as a text from Ray. Her shoulders slumped.

Machado hit enter with a flourish and twisted back to Desi. “The captain

got an email yesterday from Councilman Hounanian’s office, which he passed

on to me, which I just forwarded to you. Report back to me by end of watch.

Close the door on your way out.”

Desi walked back to her desk calling up her email on her phone. When

the westside councilman called the captain, it always meant some bullshit

complaint from his constituents: graffiti, people living in RVs parked at the

curb, loud parties. She skimmed through the forwarded email and rolled her

eyes. This one was bullshittier than usual. No wonder the LT had palmed it

off as part of a deal. She drew a deep breath. She’d handle this then figure

out where she’d sleep that night.

***

Desi looked around the living room at the expectant faces of eight older

residents of the upscale Brentwood neighborhood who had complained to

the councilman that their cats and dogs had been disappearing. An elderly

lady, a cloud of snowy hair framing a birdlike face, gave her a friendly smile,

which she returned.

“Have a seat, Detective.” Sarah Cohen, the host and group organizer,

gestured toward the dining chair pulled around the coffee table for extra

seating. “Can I get you coffee?”

“No thanks. I can’t stay long. I have witnesses to interview on another

case.” A pre-emptive lie. Desi sat in the indicated chair and Sarah perched on

an ottoman next to her.

The elderly woman nudged a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies toward Desi,

who smiled noncommittally. “So, I understand your pets have gone missing,”


132

she prompted, flipping open her notebook. She still couldn’t quite believe

she was investigating this.

Sarah unfolded a square of paper on top of the ziggurat of landscape

photography books in the middle of the table. “This is what’s been going

on.”

It was a map of the neighborhood marked with eight numbers and a

corresponding key listing the pets and dates they were last seen.

“Jim,” Sarah pointed to a bearded man on the couch who looked familiar.

He obediently raised his hand, “and I canvassed the area to see how

many pets had gone missing. As you can see, the disappearances started

four months ago. All expensive breeds.”

Jim leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “There’s a pattern that makes

me think there’s something deliberate about it. It started with cats, then

small dogs, then bigger dogs. It’s not random.”

Desi studied the list to verify what Jim was saying, wondering if he was

Jim Hendrie, the noted movie director. She cast her eyes around the circle.

“Has anyone noticed any strangers hanging around the neighborhood? Any

odd bowls of food or water?”

“There’s a shabby Econoline van that parks on my street at night,” the

elderly lady said.

“That ‘shabby’ van belongs to my son,” said a man, whose too-perfect

hairline belied the presence of implants.

“What time of day did the animals disappear?” Desi asked.

“Mostly night.” Sarah looked around the group for confirmation. Heads

nodded.

“I let my dog out at night in the back yard to do his business, and he

never came back,” said a woman pushing large black-rimmed glasses up her

nose. “Mine’s the Pekinese.”

“No unusual barking?” Heads shook.

“Not to sound alarmist, but what if someone’s engaging in some kind

of animal sacrifice cult?” Jim said. “Like santeria or voudou or something.”

Desi sucked in her lips to keep from bursting out in laughter. Rich people

were too much. “Those types of rituals usually involve hens and goats.”

“We’re completely baffled as to why our neighborhood would be targeted,”

Sarah said. “It’s really quite worrying. What will they try next: home

invasions? We have a lot of elderly residents.”

Desi closed her notepad. “There’s been a cat and dog shortage since

the pandemic. People emptied shelters for pets to keep them company at

home, so animals are getting high prices right now. I’d say that’s the motive.

And once their scheme worked the first time, the thieves came back,

getting better and bolder with each theft.

“They probably chose this neighborhood for the simple reason that it

offers easy access to Sunset Boulevard and the freeway, and it’s all single-family

homes with open yards. I suggest checking Craigslist to see if

any of your pets are being sold online. If you find any you think are yours,

call me.”

Sarah bobbed her head at her neighbors. “Good idea, everyone.”

Desi took out a wad of business cards from her pocket and handed it to

Sarah, who took one and passed it on. “I’ll request patrol to step up neighborhood

checks, especially at night. Keep your pets inside or on a leash.

Don’t let them roam by themselves, even in your yard. Somebody could be

luring the animals with food that contains tranquilizers. Take a couple good

133

Empathy / Entropy

photos of them, too, for identification purposes.”

“Do you want to take a look around the neighborhood?” Jim asked.

“Not necessary. I saw it when I drove in.” Desi stood.

“That’s it?” said the old lady. “No fingerprinting?”

“Nothing to fingerprint, ma’am,” Desi said. “Even though we’ll have extra

patrols, the best leads will come from residents. Stay alert. If you notice

anything unusual, call me.”

Sarah accompanied her to the front door and stepped outside onto

the stoop with her. “Thank you so much for coming, Detective. I know you

must have bigger crimes to handle, but for some people, their animals are

all they’ve got. They’re really bereft.”

“I understand.” Desi’s eyes fixed on a burgundy tufted velvet couch

across the street on the curb. She must’ve missed it on her way in as she

was peering at house numbers. “Get back to me if you find anything.” She

started walking across the street then it hit her. The couch. She and Sal

were exactly the same. Homeless. Transgressors of rules. She turned. “Is

someone throwing out that sofa?”

“That’s Jim Hendrie’s. The Salvation Army’s coming to pick it up.”

He was the film director. “Can you tell Jim to cancel the Salvation Army?”

Desi slid into the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic and took out her phone.

“Hey Fin, I need to borrow you and your pickup truck at lunchtime. I’ll buy

the sandwiches.”

***

A couple hours later, Desi wandered through the book stacks to the

section of the library with the Internet-access computers. She spotted Sal

right away. Having stopped at the drugstore on her way over, she daubed

her nostrils with Vaporub before heading in his direction.

“Sal,” she stage-whispered.

He looked around and pursed his lips in distaste when he saw her before

turning back to the monitor.

“I got a surprise for you. In the alley.”

“What — steel bracelets with a nice little chain? Or a card that says, “Go

directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200’?”

“Just come check it out.”

“If I get up now, I’ll lose my spot for the day.”

“Suit yourself.”

Desi walked out of the library onto Santa Monica Boulevard and past

the station, heading to the coffee shop that backed onto Sal’s alley. She

managed to snare a free latte by “casually” pulling back her jacket to expose

her gold detective shield and then waited in the alcove of the rear door

to the alley.

Several minutes later, Sal turned the corner. She ducked back into the

alcove so he wouldn’t see her then peered around the wall to keep him in

view. She needn’t have worried. He’d spotted the couch and barrelled toward

it like a torpedo. He stopped in front of it and stroked the velvet as if

it would purr, then flopped on it with gusto, hands clasped behind his head.

Desi smiled. She pushed open the coffee shop’s door, walked through

and exited onto the street. Now she had to figure out where she was going

to sleep. As she walked back to the station, her cell phone buzzed in her

pocket. She pulled it out and checked the caller ID. It was Ray.


134

Mark A. Fisher

all we see or seem

cold metal worlds spin in black emptiness

suffering the weak tyranny of time

long past any hope of renewal

by any ancient orphan children lost in space

where does this path lead?

here, only to here

yet the path continues on

but it too leads only to here

to become alloyed with despair

and forgetfulness

out in the desolate vacuum

peering outwards to the end

waiting for this universe to fade

back into the dream

135

Empathy / Entropy

Melody Wang

Clumsy

There’s a leak in the ceiling, lively

drip drop drip going unnoticed, as

no one bothers to look up anymore

Overlapping papers scattered on your cherrywood

desk imitate the slow molasses seeping

through untamed landmarks, silent intruder

incanting this fever spell’s stirring

far from quenches what remains

of wood and words and you

fleeting

further down this meandering path

summoner/shade awaits, lilting

echoes seek refuge in the stillest places

even now, a faint recognition ignites and

you (eager to know what once was hidden)

traverse this road guided by wary intuition

intricate patterns emerge from the earth

while northern lights illuminate the shift,

silently gathering all that once was


136

Minoti Vaishnav

Lasso

Have you seen this show

called Ted Lasso?

Interesting, for to me

it is one of only a few,

scattered art pieces

released

in recent years that

makes me feel loved.

But you

were unmoved?

Yes. I think it’s absurd,

and completely out of sync

with reality.

Not unmoved,

more annoyed.

As a character,

Lasso’s unrealistic.

He’s void

of selfishness,

and focuses his

attentiveness on others.

Absurd!

I’ll never give

credence to the notion that

in any world,

this Texan born male

could thrive so far away

from the Kansas

home he’s made,

and relocate

across the pond,

where he bakes warm, fresh

biscuits for a manipulative blonde.

That’s part of his charm.

Like his name he disarms

you by lassoing you in

with helpfulness instead of harm.

137

Empathy / Entropy

Please.

Are we

supposed to believe

that a man

who puts kindness

before shrewdness

can succeed?

It’s idealistic rhetoric

that cannot be true.

A claim too bold

to hold water.

The world isn’t always

skies of blue.

But aren’t we due

for more positivity

on TV?

Perhaps.

But Lasso’s upliftment

is insane.

He wins people over

without exploitation,

and even eases their pain.

And it’s never explained

how this is possible.

You complain

because you believe you must.

In reality, I bet

you were impressed

that his kindness is what turned the odds

in his favor on his quest.


I complain because in an ideal world,

empathy is something people should have.

But they do not.

And hence, I don’t buy

Lasso’s niceness,

nor do I believe

it is cause for applause.

But can we not make the world

a better place

if we create more heroes with an

affinity for sympathy?

Couldn’t we inspire that quality of

empathy in the hearts

and minds of regular folk,

if we consider that goodness is real

and everything isn’t a

stony-hearted joke?

Or just pessimistic.

Perhaps what you need

is a Lasso in your life.

Maybe

I

could be your Lasso?

You’re being idealistic.

I’m being realistic.

Then let me be the

one to assure you,

that even in a world

that seems like it’s dying,

with so many people

lying to get ahead,

that compassion

is not dead.

Lasso isn’t insane,

as you state,

Instead,

He’s an example of

altruism to elevate.

Well, it is true,

that you are frightfully kind,

and your goodness is often unconfined.

Fine.

Perhaps it takes more than one viewing

to understand whether

a Lasso-like personality is worth pursuing.

Shall we then watch it again?

Together?

I was hoping you would ask.

139

Empathy / Entropy

Stefan Sencerz

PEOPLE ON THE BEACH OR

EXISTENTIALISM IN THE ART OF

WALKING THE DOGS

On a mission

I like it that my dogs have good manners. So, to teach them a lesson, I

try to utilize every natural “barrier” -- an open door to the house, stairs, a door

step, open door to the car, a gutter in the street, a pier, any drop or elevation of the

ground, a set of poles just sticking out from the ground, and even a line I draw in

the sand. Yes, we try to practice everywhere. So, I do not need to worry that they

will bolt out one day and disappear in thin air or, even worse, will get in a fight with

the rattlers in the dunes or will be run over by a car.

This morning I make them sit in front of the open door until they are completely

calm. Only then we step outside. They follow me to my car. And then they

wait some more, in front of the car, before I invite them in.

All of a sudden, I see two young men dashing cross the parking lot. “Mister!

Mister! May we have a word with you?” I glance around yet see no emergency, So,

at first, I try to ignore them. “Wait, doggies! Wait pysie! Wait!” I whisper gently while

these two keep coming at us in full speed shouting off the top of their lungs, “Mister!

Mister! May we have a word with you?”

I invite the dogs in, settle them down on the back seat, lower the windows,

close the door and only then turn towards them, “What can I do for you?”, I ask.

“We just wanted to know whether you go to church?”

“Yes, I do”, I say, “I go there every day”.

“And what is the name of the temple where you worship?” they continue.

And I give this question some thought. The root meaning of the word “temple” (lat.

templum) is “a part that is cut or carved off”. If you join any temple, how easy it is to

be seduced by the stain-glass windows sifting bright light as if from another world,

and by all tall towers pointing up there, to the sky. Perhaps this is why so many

mystics choose to live in the mountains and deserts with no walls surrounding their

spiritual practice. On a clear night, you can hold the Milky Way in the palm of your

hand.

All of this is a flash in my mind. I turn towards them and respond with my

own question. “What’s in the name? How about logos? And what about practice that

turns logos into the living flesh?”

This seems to puzzle them a bit; they slow down start shifting uneasily

on their feet. Finally, one of them mumbles something that sounds like, “what do

you mean?” “It’s way too difficult to explain in words”, I say grabbing a handle to

the car’s door. Then, after a short pause, I glance at them again, and drop casually,

“Well, maybe it could be demonstrated if you had a moment or two. But, sorry, I got

to go”.

“No, no! Please, stay! Show us what you mean”. And since they ask for it, I

begin with “OM!” (or rather “aeoum”, for) I stretch each vowel to the fullest watching

their faces become pale like white paper. I got you, I smirk inside, and turn up the

heat.

“NAMU!” This could easily take another minute, maybe even two, but mid

Windward Review: Vol 19 140

through it I see... one of them starts to twitch, the other one has a blank expression

on his face as if I’m channeling the Satan himself. So, I turn up the heat another

notch.

“DAI!” I dissolve myself in the mantra when one of them bolts, starts running

uneasily glancing back, the other one soon follows him ‘cross the lot.

“BOSA!” I end the mantra for the Great Compassionate One quickly. “Wait

for me”, I tell the dogs, and I take a short stroll to their car.

“Excuse me, gentlemen! May I have a word with you?” I ask.

“Yes! Go ahead!” one of them mumbles uneasily.

So, I ask, “Please, tell me, do you go to church?”

“Yes, we do”, one of them replies.

“And who is your teacher?”, I continue.

“We follow the teachings of Christ?” one of them says and I bow, “Excellent!

An embodiment of logos! A great man!”

“The very best one in every respect” one of them interjects, and I only

smirk for I know I could mess with their heads some more. For example, would Jesus

beat Michael Jordan in the game of basketball without performing miracles? Well,

could he even beat Kobe or LeBron? I doubt it. So, what about that “best in every

respect” stuff. Isn’t it enough that someone is spiritually and morally exemplary? But

this time I let it slide.

“Did not your master teach us to act with love and compassion and not with

arrogance and rudeness”, I ask. They just nod their heads. “So, what would he think

of people who interrupt a busy neighbor on a busy day, ask for the word, and then

run away?”

And they stand there in front of me totally petrified. So, I just nod my head

good bye and turn away to my dogs. The day is sunny, the wind is strong. And we

go on our way.

Jay the chiropractor

seagulls gone . . .

a puppy barks

at the lonely kite

Jay is a chiropractor. Having gotten his diploma and license in Corpus, he

established his practice in B, one of the small communities not too far from here,

maybe an hour inland. Sometimes he comes to Corpus with his two awesome Dobermans,

parks his motor-home on Mustang Island, and unfurls his wings on the

Mexican Gulf. Truly, when the wind is right, there is nothing like kite-boarding in the

ocean. Sure, the waters are choppier than in the bay. So, it’s not for the beginners.

But there is also so much more air and wind. Everything is much more open on the

island.

We meet on a roam. I introduce him to my dogs, he introduces me to an old

lady Maxine and a young pup, Soren. “Soren”, I ask, “as in Soren Kierkegaard?” He

nods, I smile. “You know, I teach philosophy at the university. Not that I know much

about existentialism; but I read a thing or two by the great Dane and a few things

by Sartre and Camus, too”. “Tell me more, please”, he interjects. And now it is upon

me to clear something.

I wish I understood Existentialism better. I tried when I was an undergraduate

student of Philosophy, at the Warsaw University. I read lots of Heidegger,

Gadamer, Shestov and, of course, Kierkegaard with his multiple renditions of the

story of Abraham taking his son to the peak of the mountain just to sacrifice him to

the God. A fascinating story, I thought, but also a homage to insanity. For how could

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Empathy / Entropy

someone who is all-good and all-loving make such a crazy demand. If I were to hear

voices requesting me to literally murder my son, I would hope to have enough sanity

to seek a professional help. This myth seemed to me way too outlandish to really

sink in and shape my world view; I have never connected with it.

I tried to write a paper elucidating some of my insights; following Heidegger

and his work on Hölderlin, I chose poetry as the topic of inquiry. The poets

loved it. A friend of mine, an editor of a well-regarded literally journal, suggested

a few rewrites and encouraged me to submit it for publication. But I had doubts, I

did not feel like I understood what I was doing. Indeed, my philosophy teacher, an

expert on the existentialism and phenomenology, tore my paper apart and gave me

a “gentleman B-”, mostly on the strength of its length and an extensive bibliography.

It looked like I had no ability to speak an Existentialist language and surely not with

those who were fluent in it. If the measure of understanding is how well you can

explain something to others, I failed miserably. But I have seemed to grasp well

enough that existentialism involves the commitment to authenticity and acting on

our choices no matter how difficult it may be. For Abraham, it was his commitment

to obey the Lord’s, no matter what. For me, it is a commitment to reason, no matter

where reason may lead.

I try to explain it to Jay, not in so many words, of course. After all, we are

roaming on the beach. And he asks, “So what would be a counterpart to existentialism?

The theory of Natural Law?” “Not necessarily”, I reply. “Natural Law theories

are about the content of our true beliefs; existentialism is about how we should form

them.

For the classical Natural Law theorists, the whole world is created by God.

And it’s not like God just accidentally sneezed or belched and that’s how we came

into being. Rather, it was an act of purposeful creation in accordance with a divine

plan. Being a Christian, Kierkegaard accepted all of this including an assumption

that, in a sense, the world is created as our home. This does not mean, however,

that our existence as humans is easy and choices that we must make are simple. For

him, ‘Sunday Christianity’ and state religions, for example the Church of Denmark,

obfuscate our existential situation of “fear and tremble”. They pretend that our relation

to the Divine is as easy as, say, our relation to a piece of cheesecake. To truly

flourish, we have to go through deep doubts and tribulations. And having made a

choice, sometimes we must make it over and over again. Only then our relations to

the world and the Divine can become authentic.

Now, great French existentialists such as Sartre and Camus see things differently.

For them, we are not born into the world created by God. Objective values

and norms are not already embroidered into the fabric of the universe. As Sartre

liked to say, ‘existence is prior to essence’, meaning that we are not born with some

definite “nature” that we just need to actualize. Rather, we are thrown into the ‘absurdity’

of the existence and, trying to make sense of it, we have to ‘invent” values,

‘create’ our nature, and then try to live accordingly. Still, there is a common thread

linking all existentialists; they assume freedom as the root of human existence. For

Kierkegaard, it involves a free authentic commitment to God’s plan; for Sartre it

involves inventing a plan to follow.

He nods and it dawns on me. There is a similarity between a Buddhist approach

to awakening and the existentialist insight about the authentic life. According

to some Mahayana masters, we are already perfect; there is nothing missing about

us or about our lives. But we do not know it and this lack of knowledge creates separation

and doubts. And with the separation comes dukkha-suffering. Sometimes,

we suppress this suffering and pretend that everything is all right. But to suppress a

problem is not the same as to dissolve it. The reality always finds a way to reassert

itself.

On the flip side, we can also accept the fact that we do not yet see eye to

eye with the buddhas and masters, we do not know yet that, in a sense, everything


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is perfect. And this acceptance may create a Great Doubt. And a greater our doubt

is, the greater its resolution may be.

I finish my thoughts right when we see them -- a van stuck in the sand and

a person dashing straight at us. And now we make a choice, too. We stop to help a

fellow human being.

Someone fundamentally stuck

this path and that path . . .

the man stuck

deeply in the mud

I saw him a few times before walking with his badly behaving schnauzer.

The cross on his neck seemed a bit too big. There was another one, even bigger,

hanging from the mirror of his car and the Bible prominently displayed behind the

wind shield as well as some religious books spread on the seats. And a smile would

never leave his face. Well, at least it was always there when he thought I was watching.

Now, I am a sucker for a good philosophical discussion; say, how can there

be One God in Three Persons, or do we have free will, and how is freedom possible

if omniscient God already knows what we will do. I tried to talk with him few times

always with the same result of hearing back the same old clichés that there is nothing

to worry except for salvation. Well, I agree that too much worry may kill all the

fun. Still, when I drive on the beach, I am concerned about crab houses, so I do not

drive too close to water. And I worry about the loose sand, too, for getting stuck is

never good.

Now, to be fair, everyone with any sense of adventure gets occasionally

stuck on the beach. It happened to me twice during the last two years; two times too

many. It happened more before but then I gained some experience and eliminated

some of my blunders.

Most of the time you can dig yourself out if you know exactly what to do.

The crucial point is to remove all the sand from underneath the body of your car, so

the wheels rest firmly on the harder bed and no part of the car rests on the sand. It

takes time, sometimes many hours of it. And it takes lots of effort, too. Sometimes

the hole you end up creating is so huge you could bury a tank in it. Still, with patience

and determination, sometimes it is doable and you can drive safely out of the

hole. Nothing else works. In particular, sticking things underneath the wheels is just

plain waste of time.

Another point of preventive safety, park your car behind the second line of

seaweed left on the beach! That’s the line of a high tide. If you are not sure where

it is, park as far away from the sea as you can! Obviously, this guy had no clue; the

tide is rising and his van is stuck close to the water.

There is no time for philosophical discussions, now. So, I just toss a joke at

him, “It looks like it’s God’s doing”. “How do you mean?” he asks, so I drop a casual

joke, “Well, ultimately, is not it the Creator who caused your van to get stuck? Didn’t

you tell me that all is God’s plan?” Shockingly, he thinks I am serious.

“Yes! The Lord acts in a mysterious ways”, he says. “Hopefully, we’ll be able

to dig her out”. This “we” strikes me as a bit presumptuous. So, I smirk and continue,

“Well, if God is really the cause of everything it would follow that if lightning strikes

a tree, and the tree falls and kills a person, God is responsible for this, too. Right?”

“Sure”, he responds without a slightest hesitation. “Things like these are

obviously God’s punishment for our sins. Like, who knows…” he lowers his voice and

for a short while I wonder what may roll out of his tongue. But I decide to side step


the whole thing with a simple “Yeah! Right!” for I have already started to think about

digging out his stupid van that is not only buried in the sand but, on the top of it, it’s

also being slowly covered by the incoming tide.

But he will not shut up. “You know, there are gays around us and what they

do, and that we tolerate this sin, all of this is bound to bring God’s wrath on us all”.

“Yeah, and some folks even smoke pot,” I smirk. “Especially before making

love.”

“Exactly,” he exclaims and takes a swig from a small flask he keeps in a side

pocket of his overalls, does not pass it on to us.

So, just to shut him up, I throw at him – “But what about if someone innocent

loses life, like a new-born or an innocent infant. Isn’t it really but a tragic

accident? Do you really think it’s God’s will, too?”

“Well”, he continues with the same easy smile, “perhaps God allows for

these sorts of things so we can develop our characters”. “Really? So, what if the

volcano eradicates the entire village buried somewhere in a desolated era and there

is no one around to do anything about it and to develop a character? What then?”

“Well, like I said, God acts in a mysterious way,” he keeps digging.

“So, I hope that people working on Wall Street wear hard hats”, I reply and

this finally slows his down.

“Hard hats? How do you mean?” he asks and I start telling him an old story

about a man in Pompeii who somehow sensed that a volcano was going to erupt.

Thus, he decided to go to Rome to see the Pope and stay with the pious ones.

“Wait a moment”, he interrupts, “the Pope is the anti-Christ”.

“Maybe or maybe not”, I say, “but that’s beside the point. The story I’m

telling you happened long time ago, when Saint Peter was still the Pope. The point

is that, out of the fear of lava and brim-stones, that guy put a helmet on his head,

saddled his donkey, and embarked on his long journey. Mid through, the volcano

indeed erupted but it was too far to hurt him. So, he relaxed, seemingly out of danger.

But the lava set the forest on fire and his donkey got spooked and entered into

the full gallop. And, lo and behold, his helmet got caught in the branches and pulled

him off of his saddle, his legs unable to touch the ground, he ended up suffocating

himself while hanging off the high branch. So, some people wonder, maybe if he did

not have a helmet on his head, maybe then he would have survived. So, this is what

I meant when I said that I hope that people working on Wall Street wear hard hats”.

“Hmm”, he shrugs, “who can truly know about such things? God’s plans are

a mystery”. And it suddenly strikes me that, perhaps, a few stray brim-stones would

not be such a bad thing. At least, they would wipe out his cheap easy smile off his

face. And then we just start digging out his van.

The state park rangers

a gloomy day. . .

just two of us digging

in silence

In terms of pure beauty, nothing matches the West shore of the Mustang

Island with its spectacular sights on the JFK bridge and causeway. Still, the place is

a bit too far aside and, depending on the season, it may be too dusty or too muddy,

too. Also, it’s a bit cramped insofar as our roaming needs are concerned; we prefer

to stretch for miles rather than for quarters of a mile. So, usually, we chose to roam

on the East shore, facing the rising sun.

The stretch around the State Park is among our favorites. It’s but a short

drive from home. It is close to numerous nice places where you can grab a bite on a


144

way back, including an independent pizzeria with a salad bar, a sushi restaurant, and

most importantly an excellent coffee shop ran by a very cute and funny barista who

makes the best vegetarian sandwiches in the world. Simply yummy! Most importantly,

it is safe for dogs.

Let me explain. Beaches in Texas are considered public roads; yes, it is the

only place in America where you can drive for miles but a few feet from the ocean.

Not that we do it. It causes damage to the beach and especially crab houses. So, we

usually park away from the ocean and walk. But some people relish in taking a ride

along the shore, sneaking on us and riling up the pups especially when they are off

leash. It is never a good idea when a dog engages into a chase of a moving car or

truck.

The boundary of the Park is marked by wooden poles; not really a sharp divide

but enough of an obstacle to stop the traffic. Once we clear it, no one will sneak

upon us from behind. And I can see the traffic coming at us. So, I can let the Ladies

lose and let them roam free without worrying that something bad may happen to

them.

the dunes meet the ocean . . .

we pause and chant

and move on

This boundary of the Park is where the worlds meet. The land of the dunes

on the West sort of morph into the beach and the Ocean on the East. And the North

and the South are not really separated, either, the poles serving more like an indicator

of the place to rest and meditate than some sharp boundary.

And it’s the place where the forces meet, too. As if the focal point of the

cosmic mandala. Indeed, frequently I feel here a strong presence of the dragons

resting in the dunes. So, we stop, chant sutras and dharanis for them, bow, and ask

them for the right of passage. By now we feel like almost honorary members of the

Dragon Clan and, usually a passage is granted to us and we can roam straight up

North for about 2.5 miles to the jetty.

I remember once, perhaps being too much in a hurry, I forgot to make our

usual offerings and, lo and behold, within minutes the Park Rangers were on our

backs. I did not even realize where they came from. Few days later I skipped the

chant again and again the same story. They caught me with my head in the clouds

and the off-leash Ladies chasing and barking at their track. Total embarrassment!

They wield all the power and could easily evict us from the park. But I only

got some serious tongue lashing that the dogs were so out of control. No doubt,

totally my fault! Though we all know they do not really harm anyone. So, they ultimately

let us go under the condition it will never happen again.

I think of them as our Protective Deities. For they take care of the park

and all sentient beings living here. Sometimes, I see them at the convenience store

standing behind me in line. So, I pay for their coffee and tacos, too, and am gone

before they are even close to the cashier. Then, sooner or later, we pass each other

on the beach, sometimes my head in the clouds again. They just slow down a bit,

roll down the window, wave. “Keep them on leash, Walker!” I hear, “and, by the way,

thanks for the coffee, too”. And they are gone.

Recently, few dragon teeth decayed too far, someone put in a few metal

pipes. The ocean does not like it, I think, nor do I. They sort of stick out like some

sore thumbs. Eventually, there will be gone, too. Perhaps, we’ll have here only wooden

poles again, or maybe no poles at all.

Eventually, I’d like my ashes to be scattered here, too.

Issa’s haiku:


now that I’m old

even the tender Spring days

can make me cry

-- Kobayashi Issa (1763 - 1828)

Author’s renku:

with my granddaughters

we lean over the photos

of Spring dawn

Jay the Chiropractor again

The next time I see them, Maxine has some difficulties climbing up the

steps to their home. I gently guide her up. She says nothing as if the acknowledgment

of my help would be also the admission of her weakness and who would like to

admit something like that. But she looks at me with gratitude, lays at my feet, and

we become friends.

“She is my longest relationship” Jay says, “but her energies these days are

not what they used to be”. These days, when we start a roam, she takes a few steps

trying to follow us. But then, invariably, she falls behind, turns around, and stays by

her home waiting until we return. This all makes me think about the passage of time

and my Ladies, too. They do not have the same energy as they used to have, either.

They are much calmer these days, not so interested in chasing the birds. Anyway,

every time Jay drives back home to B, I do a little chant for all of them, and especially

for the old Lady Maxine. You never know when you’ll have another chance to

hang out with a friend.

Soren is a different story; a young pup with plenty of exuberant energy! He

joins us on every roam, usually running circles around us. I love everything about

him except when he goes into the dunes. I do not want the Ladies to pick up on

this habit. Dunes are the domain of rattlesnakes. It is never a good idea for a dog to

encounter one. I worked hard teaching them to keep clear of the dunes.

When we arrive this morning, Jay is already up stretching his arms in front

of his motor home, his Dobermans roaming around. I am a bit envious, in a good

way, that his dogs never follow moving objects. So, they never have to be on leash.

If my ladies stopped chasing cars, it would save me many headaches.

“Have you already had breakfast?” I ask, he shakes his head and I pull out

a bag full of breakfast tacos, extra ones for his and my dogs. We finish eating, have

some coffee, share a smoke, and I ask, “Have you already seen that castle on the

South border of the park?”

“The castle? What the heck are you talking about, man?”

So, I just say, “Grab leashes for we are going to need them, we’ll be too

close to the Rangers land” and we hit the road.

Mid through the roam he notices, “You seem to have springs in your steps

today”. “Yeah”, I reply, “I’ve been feeling good about my knees recently. So good in

fact, that I seriously cut the intake of my anti-arthritis medication”. “Cut how?” “Well,

I’ve been so pain free I frequently forgot to take my daily dose. So, with time, I just

sanctioned a new norm and now take it only as needed, at average, 60-70% less

than I used to take”. “‘Can be your new vegan life style, too”, he nods his head, “you

do not put inflammatory agents in your body and the body responds. Not bad at all!”

Jay is into a holistic healing; not fanatical about it but he generally prefers not to use

medications, unless necessary.

“You seem to carry your body a bit more straight as well” he says. “And it


146

seems like I have gained a half an inch, too”, I reply. “Pretty weird! I thought people

shrink when they become older”. He chuckles, so I continue, “A funny thing has

happened to my back, too.” “Tell me more”, he says. It looks like I have piqued his

curiosity. So, I tell him the full story.

I have had a slight scoliosis since childhood. On the top of it, due to sports

injuries, I also acquired two deteriorated discs in the lower back. In effect, I sometimes

had periodic back spasms and sometimes had to stay in bed or literally in a

traction for days. No amount of abs crunches, stretching, and hatha yoga seemed to

alleviate problems. So, eventually, I resolved myself to living with pain for the rest of

my days.

But then, shortly after I adopted Sappho, pain went away. Jay smirks and

says, “Let me guess! You have adopted dog and started to walk her on the beach

barefooted?” And now he starts to unfold a story that taps into his expertise as a chiropractic

and goes back tens of thousands of years to our ancestors who obviously

always walked and ran barefooted.

These days, too, many African athletes train for most prestigious races

barefooted and win many serious marathons including at the Olympic games. There

is lots of serious research done on this topic, including taking them to sophisticated

labs and videotaping them using a fast-speed photography. A long story short, a

bare foot touches the ground differently than a foot in a shoe. In particular, our toes

work a bit like a pair of additional “springs” that allow our bodies to absorb shocks

better. And this small action of our toes is transmitted on the action of the rest of our

skeletal systems and bodies allowing our spinal cords to get aligned properly. This is

why, when we walk barefooted, many of our back problems are dissolved.

By now we are where we have been headed, by the sand castle. Whomever

constructed it must have taken a big part of the day (never mind that it is autumn

and days become shorter). The towers protrude at least 5 feet up; the dragon itself

is about 25 feet of length, not counting a coiled tail. At one time there were rays of

light and fire springing out from his eyes. Even now, a few days later, there are still

signs of it. And just like this, Jay and I turn out to be kids, still loving to play in sand

with our dogs. And we start digging again.

a busy day . . .

the sandcastle

under siege


Of the Earth We Seek

Even the roads here reek

of death, faint exchanges

of once-life buried

under the asphalt floor. Slow

to their frequency, hear them.

Cars instead race over the graves

of oak trees

and hurry nowhere, the whispers

of skeleton forests stifled

by cold, ash-blackened

concrete: suburbia’s own invasive

species.

Aching for the death

of this modern society

I envision decayed roots

breaking through their ceiling

of cement, winding around

tires, rotting branches

dragging

cars into the foul abyss created below.

The roads will still reek

of death, this time our own

but found in death is life, traces

of former musings

arranged in underground rows

headed west.

Do not stifle them as we did the groves

of times-past, but instead

learn to listen. Trust me—

the trees told me so.

Hope Meierkort


148

Staring into the Void

Hope Meierkort

She tucks the worn paintbrush behind her ear, prompting a singular

strand of hair to escape the relaxed grip of her ponytail. It hovers

for a moment, lazily hugging the curve of her cheekbone in a childlike

curl. She mindlessly brushes it away with paint-streaked fingers,

unaware that she has now begun to paint herself. Perhaps she will

continue to do so later, upon having realized what a brilliant idea it

is.

Morning sunbeams cascade through her tiny apartment window

and illuminate the corners of her room. She remembers the fraying

paintbrush bristles jutting out from beside her cheek and reaches

up to feel their familiar texture. Much like the taste of chamomile

tea, or the sound of rain boots plodding along the pavement, it fills

her with inspiration; beauty in the mundane, she ardently whispers

to herself. Specks of dust flirt with the light before settling into the

nearby mug of murky paint water propped recklessly on a stack

of books (mystery novels she’ll find herself reading at dusk, to be

precise).

An idea sits in the corner of her eye, pulled from the depths of her

brain but not quite projected into reality. The blank canvas glows a

starkly white - to some, potential; to her, mockery. It laughs, a twinkle

in its eye, telling her she’ll never amount to anything worthwhile.

In a fit of artistic frustration, she flings the mug of paint water over

her nonexistent masterpiece, silencing the pressure of perfection.

The muddy brown mess runs down the stretch of fabric and pools

on the floor at her feet. The idea retreats into the comforting darkness

of her brain, never to see the light again. Along the walls of her

room rest dozens of canvases, each met with the same dismal ending.

Her frustration, painted in a wash of swampy greys, browns,

and greens, is on display for all to see. Another wasted canvas, she

would normally sigh.

Yet there was something about those sunbeams, or perhaps it was

the quaint cup of chamomile, that shifts her perspective that morning.

Her frustration quickly subsides and, in a flurry of excitement,

she hurries around the room piling the rejected works of art into her

arms. She hangs them on the wall in a disorderly fashion, careful to

leave no spaces in which dust or wasted ideas could settle. Arrang-


ing (and then rearranging) her paint water mural, she searches for

meaning in her work. By some chance, she hopes a lack of inspiration

itself could be inspiring, so long as she doesn’t let the moment

slip by.

After hours of thoughtful planning, she takes a deep breath and

steps backward, viewing the wall in its entirety: an anarchic nebula

of earthy tones. Golden brown hues concentrate in the center of

the wall, encircled by diverse splashes of green. Spanning outward,

hints of blue melt at the edges and outline the galaxy-like design in

what looks like a perfect tidal wave.

Before her exists a chaotic mess of lost potential and forced meaning.

Her hopes of creating an unforeseen masterpiece disappear as

she faces the reality now consuming her bedroom wall, but her disappointment

is only momentary. She remains focused on the impossible,

and her eyes wander to a swatch of color moving in the corner

of the mural. Blinking in disbelief, she begins to turn away, confident

that she is simply seeing things. Another sign of movement freezes

her in her place as the colors no longer shy away from being seen.

In a crescendo of wonder, they blend and swirl like shooting stars

meeting for conversation in the night sky. The colors float off the

wall and weave together, wrapping her in a blanket of intimate mystery.

Her eyelids begin to flutter as she is lulled into a deep sleep.

Upon waking, she questions whether or not her experience the night

before had been real. The wall in her bedroom is strikingly bare,

and her canvases rest along the skirting, exactly as they had been

before her spontaneity. But she feels different somehow; all may not

be what it seems. She runs to the hallway mirror, unsure of what to

expect but trusting her instincts nonetheless, and leans toward the

reflective glass. For the first time, she notices the accidental streak

of green paint in her hair and smirks. How ridiculous, she thinks, but

that can’t be it.

Her gaze continues to wander over her facial features before coming

to a focus on the color of her eyes. Previously blue in color, she leans

closer, eliminating the possibility of a trick in lighting. Initially intending

to create a reflection of herself in her work, she instead finds her

art reflected in her own eyes; in her irises swirl a vortex, the colors

in her mural now a galaxy imprinting itself on the eyes of its creator.

Amidst the madness of her world, she created magic.


150

Barrio writers

This section features student work from Barrio Writers Workshop,

August 2-6 2021 ; Antonio E. Garcia Arts and Education Center

Against all odds present during the summer of 2021, fourteen young writers

gathered at the Antonio E. Garcia Arts and Education Center in Corpus Christi, Texas

to craft a collaborative anthology of their developed pieces through that first week of

August. Directed by Professor Robin Johnson of Texas A&M Corpus Christi, the Barrio

Writers Camp connects teenage voices to the power of pen and paper through guest

authors, art projects, and workshops led by writing advisors from the local community.

The program operates as a chapter of the national Barrio Writers organization, founded

by author Sarah Rafael Garcia in Santa Ana, California.

Beyond the pressing global issues that lingered into the beginning of August,

the process of gathering, writing, and publishing literary work is already a difficult feat

achieved by few. My personal journey with writing began in a summer camp when I

was thirteen. After that first day of writing exercises and activities, I didn’t consider

pursuing the literary arts past the week’s end. Writing demanded a level of vulnerability

and critical reflection that was never asked of me before, because young developing

voices are too often dismissed for a perceived lack of maturity or life experience.

Although I harbored so much resentment in contradiction of the latter statement, the

absence of literary language and form discouraged my attempts to refute the idea.

It wasn’t apparent until my return to the Barrio Writers camp as a writing

advisor that the process of writing is a collaborative effort, one that we all must contribute

to from our respective fields of study. The benefit of summer camps such as the

Barrio Writers workshop lies in their ability to bridge the gap between teenage voices

and the larger literary world through exposing young writers to the many possibilities

for creative approach and form. The camp held during the summer of 2021 celebrated

local authors F. Anthony Falcon and Julieta Corpus, allowing young writers to visualize

the journey towards publication that they may choose to pursue. Based on the teachings

of these authors from the Coastal Bend, the young writers crafted artistic retablos

as an exploration of the eulogy, all while employing lessons on form, technique, and

style instructed throughout the week. The Barrio Writers camp finally culminated in

an end-of-session open mic, a first of many for these newly-committed writers. Within

a week, the fourteen teenagers that entered the camp left as published, articulate

writers.

But I know it wasn’t magic, as impressive as the next collection is considering

the time frame it was crafted between. Anyone pursuing an art form resonates with

the struggle each student endured during that week; this is the best part of the creative

process! We are all in the same boat, trying to patch the hole in the bottom with

poetry or paintings or music. The inspiration we share, whether in a literary journal or

between strangers at a summer camp, is the inspiration we will receive back; this spirit

of collaboration is integral to all of the authors featured in this journal, but particularly

for the young writers who rose to a challenge matched by few. Continue your journey

with an arm extended outwards, and you will receive the tools you need to craft

your original, authentic voice, despite the forces that would prefer your silence. Your

resilience and enthusiasm is unmatched in this moment, and it is contagious through

the work you produced and graciously allowed us to publish. Thank you again to Dr.

Johnson and the Barrio Writers camp for providing a missing link to the literary arts

rarely available in our South Texas community; it is an honor to display the talent of

2021 Barrio Writers camp amongst our literary collection.

I hope we meet again with more to share!

Raven Reese, Co-Managing Editor

151

Empathy / Entropy

Ani Eubanks

My name is Ani Eubanks and I’m 13. I moved here from Ohio not

too long ago and I already love it here! I just recently got into writing

poetry, and I enjoy it a lot, but I also love that I can combine

writing poetry with my drawings! I use to not care for poetry at all,

but now I love it!

A Bird

A bird can only fly when his wings aren’t broken, so

when they are he sits and rests. But when they heal he

flies over oceans. He is stronger now.

Free and Wild

I am a horse running free and wild. I run across miles

of endless plains of fields and flowers, when I jump I touch

the stars and when I sleep I look into the endless night and

dream. I am a horse running free and wild.


152

Austin Martinez

Austin Martinez is a 13-year-old boy who loves acting, computer

programming, and writing. He has written a book called “The First

Week of School” and is currently typing it up and trying to get it

published. He has written a poem for you to read.

The Window

Usually, windows are tools

people use to see the outside

world. But this window is

is different, this one

morphs my reality. It morphs

the way I see the world.

Literally and Figuratively.

Literally it morphs the world,

you can’t see out of it properly.

Figuratively it morphs the

world and the way I see it.

It really helps me notice

all the color in the world.

You can see shades of gray

Quadruplicated on every piece

of glass. As you see

the world differently. All the

thoughts in your head.

Or maybe it’s just me

overthinking like always. But

when you really look at it, and

a friend once said. “You

can’t see anything out of that

window.” And you know what I

say to that. He is absolutely

right. You can barely see in front

of you when looking through that

window. But yet somehow

I managed to write a two page

poem about a window that you

can’t see out of. A window

that morphs the world, a window

that morphs reality.

153

Empathy / Entropy

Julieanne Sandoval

Maybe I’ll Never Know

your Name

Wondering where we’ll end up

As the train station starts to fade away

from the sight of our eye

The morning sun hitting through the passing

trees

The image of your reflection replays in my head

Oh, how long for you to sit beside me

But here we are, sitting across one another, neither acknowledging

one another

On a train leading to our dreams

As we watch the sunrise every morning

To different destinations.....

Caught in a daydream, we lock eyes

Started I look away, as do you

Red flush fills your heavenly face

Side eyeing me

Building up the courage to speak to you

I gave you a small smile

Your eyes widen and a shy smile appeared

Sun rays dancing across your multi-colored eyes

Shades of pink and orange fill the air nonchalantly


154

Emma Ryan LeBlanc

I am Emma Ryan LeBlanc, and I live in Rockport, Texas. I love

to read stories so I thought creating them would be a fun idea. I

hope to publish a book of my own in the future.

song bird

their song sweet as honey

it whispers in my ear

they tell me sweet nothings

what I want to hear

they fly away in the night

they’ll be back the next day

my sweet little song bird

don’t fly away

to keep them near me

I hatched a small plan

they wouldn’t be free

but in the palm of my hand

with nowhere to go

but that pretty gold cage

the bird grew sadder

with it’s old age

it’s song turned to cries

something I couldn’t bare to hear

so I let them go free

as I shed a tear

with their song all gone

all used up on me

I let go of my song bird

back to where it used to be

155

Empathy / Entropy

Ernesto Gonzalez

Ernesto Gonzales is a 13-year old who was born on May 20,

2008. He’s been playing baseball since he was 3-years old.

He grew up in Corpus Christi, Texas and wants to become the

greatest baseball player in the world.

One day

One day I was Playing a baseball

game and I was up to bat with

three balls and two strikes. When the

pitcher threw the ball, I swung and

hit a walk off and won the game!


156

Jacob Claunch

I am a 17-year-old person, I have one biological brother, a father

who got married to someone who has two kids, a son and a

daughter. I grew up mainly in Michigan, so I am adapting to life

in Texas. I go to high school at Moody, and I plan to be a math

teacher and a writer in the future.

Why I Write

Who am I? I’m a face with a name so common yet uncommon

that saying it will be somewhat redundant, but I have

a voice that I hope will stand out. When I was growing up, I

was surrounded by smoke, both literally and figuratively. The

smoke that surrounded me guarded me from the negativity

of the world. When I was ten, the smoke disappeared, and I

was bombarded with the reality of the world. With all the bad

in the world, there are very few good places to go to. Over

time I realized that the only good places were the ones that I

create by writing them. I can make elephants fly and eagles

dive deep into the ocean. I can make everyone happy or make

them sad. I can be the greatest hero, or the worst villain. A

shining star or a lightbulb that’s dull. I can create anything

and be anything as long as I write it down. And that is, to put

it simply, why I write.

Take a Smile

Take a moment and think about something. Think about

why you smile. Do you smile because you are happy, or are

you smiling to make others think you are happy? A smile can

come from anyone no matter what is happening, whether it

is from a loving mother or a person who doesn’t care about

who you are. It takes over 20 muscles more to smile then

to frown, but some people smile to hide a frown, to create

a façade that they are happy to keep the peace or to make

others happy. A smile can be cocky or sincere, cunning or

contrive, real or fake. So, please, the next time you see one,

take a smile with a grain of salt.

157

Empathy / Entropy

Joseph Fulginiti

Joseph Fulginiti is a teenager who was born in Florida and has

moved many times. He loves to read, run, and do math.

The Barrio Writers

Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end

You never know what’s going to happen right around the bend

Where one journey ends, another journey starts

We all know it to be true deep down in our hearts

One adventure will go on forever and ever

Will it ever end? No of course not never

You need to be strong; you need to be brave

Here at Barrio Writers, you’ll get what you crave

You can write whatever you want and share it out loud

Don’t be shy, always be proud

Even though speaking out loud can be scary

Sharing your project can make you merry

Now, this is the end of this poem

Get out there, raise your voice and show em!


158

Julia Fulginiti

Julia Fulginiti was born in Pensacola, Florida, and has since then

moved to various states. Her hobbies include reading, drawing,

annoying her family, and playing violin. While she loves the creative

arts (and one day hopes to write her stories), she has recently discovered

a passion for space, and will one day be an astronaut.

I am The Reader

I have lived a thousand lives

In the words that never die

I have felt the burning tears

In the page throughout the years

I am the Reader

I am the proof

I am the pain

I am the truth

I am the sweet uplifting tune

In the night under the moon

I am the song that blooms night

In the joy beneath the light

I am the Reader

I am the life

I am the wish

I am the light

I feel the hate that wants to fight

In the grief that wants to bite

I feel the lies that comes to turn

In the life it shall burn

I am the Reader

I am the fate

I am the grief

I am the hate

I have lived a thousand lives

For I am the Reader

And I will never die.

159

Empathy / Entropy

Julia Fulginiti

If I Could Build a World

If I could build a world,

What would it be?

A place full of wonder,

With dragons and thieves,

Demons and faeries,

A hero or blight.

A place of beauty, so full of light.

Or would it be quiet,

Like a mystery?

An assassin in the night

That no one else sees?

Trickery and lies

Twists and turns

No one knows how this one goes.

Maybe the future is a better place,

Full of science and tech and

Robots and space,

Planets and aliens

Of a whole new race.

What about the past,

Like medieval times.

Swords and armies

Of the conquering kind

A place of chivalry

And knights of lore

All from a time before.

Maybe realistic

The saddest truth

A life buried under the grass

And the agonising grief,

Come soon to pass

Everything full of loss and strain

But most of which will never last.

And finally horror

A scary tale

Of vampires and werewolves,

With sharp teeth and bushy tails.

So pick your favorite world

And polish every piece.

Carefully arrange it

Down to the last leaf.

Add a splash of color,

The writer’s personal touch

Then step back and admire it

Built with all your love.

And when it’s all and done,

Take out a little knife

And cut out the brightest light

For nothing is ever perfect

In any kind of life.


160

Mackenzie Childs

Mackenzie Childs, known as Kenzie to her family and friends is a

teenage, aspiring author and aspiring film director. She spends

most of her free time writing novels, coming up with story ideas,

or scrolling through Pinterest for inspiration. She is currently in

the beginning stages of preparing her soon to be five book novel

series for publication and dreams of her books one day being a

major motion picture film series in theaters and streaming platforms.

Frail Fawns

~

Oh how the frail fawn staggers her stride.

Her weak legs tremble with every step

through thick swamp water,

feeling every hidden vine wrap around her hooves,

feeling every sharp rock cutting her skin.

All around her she feels the heat of a fire.

The sky is glowing brighter every second.

She can’t breathe.

Her lungs ache.

She can’t see.

Her eyes sting.

She can’t smell.

Her nose is filled with ash.

All around the frail fawn,

the world burns.

All she can think is why?

Why is the world burning?

Why is the world unforgiving?

Why is the world so cold, yet it burns with so much hatred?

The frail fawn still continues, despite these questions.

All she knows is to keep going…

Keep being strong…

Keep pushing herself…

and maybe, maybe she’ll escape the fire,

maybe she’ll make it,

maybe she’ll grow into who she’s meant to be,

maybe she’ll accomplish her dreams,

maybe she’ll find herself in the ashes of this burning world.

____

161

Empathy / Entropy

Leonel Monsivais

Leonel Monsivais is a 14 year old boy, and his favorite anime is

Naruto. He loves Sailing. He wants to be a chemical engineer. He

loves music.

My Fairy God Mother

Tennis is life

For thy heart

My fairy god mother,

I miss you.

My heart hurts just like when

My sister left to college.

My fairy god mother, how you made

Me smile of the times I see you.

My fairy god mother, how supportive

You were for me and my sister.

My heart still weeps in sorrow

For you. I miss you, Diana. I love you.

A Voice That Sails

The Stormy Sea

My voice brings love and pain, sometimes it does both and it

hurts my heart. My voice from love is soft like a sail, and my

pain from my voice hurts like a storm in the sea. I wish I could

do better with this voice, but I was created to control both. So

my sail must create peace, and my storm must conceal the pain

from my voice.

Okami

Wolves in the moonlight

Stay bright like a shooting star

Like birds in teh sunlight.


162

Matthew Gomez

My name is Matthew Gomez, but most of my friends call me Matt.

I’m a big fan of drawing, gaming, and writing. I’m just a normal

thirteen-year-old kid who likes to have fun with his friends :)

The Memories You Bring Back

The memories you bring back

The love you gave us all.

The things you did, mean a lot

Even if those memories were hard to recall.

But it wasn’t the gifts that mattered to me

It was you that had me smiling with glee.

Although you’re gone, I feel your presence near

When I feel you with me, I can’t help but shed a tear.

163

Empathy / Entropy

Aurora Felicita Salas-Cano

Aurora Felicita Salas-Cano is a sophomore attending Harold T.

Branch High School along with being a student at Del Mar College

Nursing Program. She is a Girl Scout, a student council member, an

athlete, an artist, and a musician.

My Last Call for Help

In this world everyone gets new beginnings, one starts when another

closes. Each person is different, some beginnings can feel like a ray of

sunshine in a gloomy day, or they can feel like a dark room that suffocates

the air out of you. Change and new beginnings are never always easy.

People tell you to push through because you are strong, and in reality,

it just feels like they are telling you lies. People say it’s okay, ignore the

negative and be yourself. Well, what is me? It is a question I ask myself

every day. My life goes on and I feel like Evan Hansen; I feel like I’m stuck

behind a glass window waving to see if anyone will notice and maybe

wave back. So, hello, I’m Aurora. I’m A lost girl trying to find herself while

being sucked into her second year in the terrifying, crappy, and anxiety

filled blackhole, aka high school. I just happen to be the “lucky” girl that

so happened to pass her TSI in the 8th grade. I’m the “lucky” girl that

didn’t just have the worries of starting high school but also the worries of

college and medical classes at the age of 14. I’m trapped in a box of dark

anxiety and pressure. You fight to escape. You fight to try and get to that

tiny sliver of light in the far corner. Each time you get closer it seems to

get further and further away. You fight and fight and you try your best at

everything you do but it seems to never be enough as the expectations

get higher and higher. Eventually, you’re overly sensitive emotions tend

to feel dryer and dryer and emptier and emptier. So, what do you do?

What are you supposed to do? I’m banging on the glass just waiting for

someone to notice. So, I guess this is my call for help. I guess my timid

voice has had enough. My body is tired of crying. It’s tired of being overly

sensitive. I’m tired and this is my last call for help. So, hello my name’s

Aurora, not Aurora, I am going to say it the right way no matter how

much it hurts to hear it butchered when someone tries to repeat it. I’m a

girl that loves videogames, anime, and books. I’m a girl that doesn’t have

the worries like drama or boyfriends. A girl wondering if shell get normal

high school worries. I’m a girl with worries of college and failure at 15. A

girl shooing away the crows eating at her last pieces of joy. So, this is my

call. This is my call for freedom. This somehow became a cry. This is my

last call for help.


164


Parker

I will not forget…

My best friend

The best listener

Even though you couldn’t talk back


My biggest inspiration

No matter your size

You took on the biggest challenges


The day you left

The day my best friend was taken from me

By the terrible laws of nature


The loneliness with you gone

My dried eyes after months of tears


The pain you were in

The relief you must’ve felt


You, your memory will always be with me

Promise me you will not forget me…

Parker

165

Empathy / Entropy


Three in the Morning

The fog roles in leaving dew on the grass

The vast lawns littered with gravestones

Fresh healthy grass is feeding on the remains buried there

All she hears is the roar of the crows and the slight reminiscence of the city

The light of the moon gives her glimpses of her horrible loving husband

Beads of sweat fall as she struggles with the saw

Her husband making it difficult making the saw falter every few seconds

Dirt litters her stunning cloth she wore on her wedding day

The pieces make a thump as they drop six feet

As each fall it feels like a strike to her heart

The clock strikes three am as the last piece of dirt is put back in place

In thirty minutes, she knows her fate will be metal, a tree, fire, and death

She runs knowing the people are looking for her

She knows they aren’t looking for her because she’s the lost princess

… but because she is the lost witch.


166

Sophie Johnson

Sophie Johnson is a sixteen year old who lives in Rockport, Texas

and is a junior at the local High School. She enjoys observing art,

making art, and breaking the rules of art. She also enjoys sleeping,

but that’s a lot less interesting.

Elegy of a Memory

Sitting with you, I reminisce

On a time that is now dark, but once shone

Brighter than the sun

At noon

How I ache to reach for you

And implement your sweetness back

Into the neurons of my brain

But as time goes on you decay

And I take a step further

To a place

Where the memory of you is as faint as the sun

Through the blinds of a shady window

the Real me?

I miss who I was before you came

I miss the quiet me

And I miss the content me

You make me, Buzz

And you make me crazy

My creativity

Not yet developed and not yet aware of how

bad this monster, how bad You, could get

Is a product of a hidden monster

That I long to hide

But I long to embrace

And I long to accept you

As a part of the real me

But i’m still convinced

the

Real

me

Is an imposter clouded by youthful naivety

How much you made me loathe

And how much you made me question:

Who is

The Real

Me?

How come the Real Me is still someone just shy of a decade

167

Empathy / Entropy

Xander Garcia

My name is Xander Garcia,

and trying to contain my negativity has proven ineffective.

I write because my imagination runs away when it’s neglected.

I love hate and complaints and the shady craft of misdirection.

I love the looming threat of chaos and discontent and insurrection.

It’s difficult not allowing my thoughts to become weapons

And it’s harder on me mentally to arm myself with good intentions.

I’ve been writing since the days I crawled from where the garbage gets

collected.

In the wake of my tears

I carry these reminders of what I’ve done around with me, for

better or worse

I keep a list of what I’ve lost, but I can’t remember where it is.

You keep these reminders at the bottom of a well and shove the

rest into the limelight.

It’s not a winning combination, but it’s worth the attempt.

What else is there to do?

I’ve met a man who has never tried.

Not bad company, for a statue.

Can we lift our legs out of the ground and make something from

this shred of undocumented history?

We can agree to change and to keep reminders and to lose, and to

try and do anything but stand still.

It’s the everyday lessons

Learning isn’t a smooth drive down a road with no potholes.

It’s more like a brick wall that you have to crash into again and again until it no

longer feels like a brick wall.

Learning is an entire process that you have to take apart and put back together

piece by piece.

It’s frustrating and tedious at best, and a dead end at its worst. Some people

find it easy, while others never learn.

I still don’t know which pile I fall into.

The realization will come with patience and attention to detail.

Learning is watching and waiting for the world to make sense.


168

Xander Garcia

Original Song for the Things

They Carried

In the darkness of a hot Vietnam night waits a surprise.

Kiowa and I have the last lookout shift before sunrise.

We march along the trail with hardly a whisper or blink.

We see nothing on either side where the dense fog sinks.

We both got the sudden urge to turn and leave our posts high and dry.

Our fear was never spoken, but I know it shone in our eyes.

There’s a shadow moving among the sea of grey I think.

A young man walks on the trail from where the dense fog sinks.

He carried an automatic and wore a gold ring on one hand.

I threw out a grenade just to see where it lands.

I didn’t give it a thought- It just sprung into action as if the man didn’t have

hopes or dreams or passions.

My friend Kiowa hears his steps while he tries to flee and gasps and hears a sharp

thud from where the grenade lands.

The explosion makes our ears ring long after it passes.

A silver flash rises, then the dirt cloud crashes.

He wasn’t a person but a problem and enemy.

At least that’s what the lieutenant said to me.

I accepted almost every word with a smile, until I saw the flying wrists of a child.

His jaw and his throat became a single part.

His scattered teeth broke my once-full heart.

His hair was blown back into the base of his skull- One eye shut, the other

a star-shaped hole.

I had a million emotions swelling up inside, but the worst was my remorse for

taking a life. My friend tries to tell me that I did no wrong, that the man would’ve

died either way all along.

Maybe that was true, but how would he know? Tell that to the kid who’s eye’s a

star-shaped hole. My friend made another attempt to comfort me still. With an

oxymoron he said “ It was a good kill.”

“ You write about war, so you must’ve killed somebody.” My daughter said that to

me, but I disagreed. I lied to her without lying, in a way, because I never killed

him, but it was my grenade.

Twenty years later, on very quiet nights, when my daughter’s asleep

I open the blinds.

I look up at the sky and feed it my soul, and all I can see is a star-shaped hole.

169

Empathy / Entropy

These notes have not been updated since fall 2022.

Please look up these creators’ and show support for

their valuable, irreplaceable talent.

Cameron Adams is Leticia R. Bajuyo is an interdisciplinary artist who creates

currently a student at visual poems, drawings, sculptures, and site-responsive installations

that are inspired by objects that are byproducts

Indiana University-

Bloomington. of human ingenuity and privilege. A Filipinx-American artist,

from small, midwestern town on the border of Illinois

A sophomore,

double majoring

in Biochemistry and Kentucky, Bajuyo presently creates, lives, works, and

and Earth Science. teaches in Norman, Oklahoma. In 2022, Bajuyo joined the

faculty at The University of Oklahoma. Prior to this professorship

in Oklahoma, Bajuyo, served as an Associate Professor of Art – Sculpture at

TAMU-CC 2017-2022. In addition to teaching and creative scholarship, Bajuyo seeks

community and collaboration by participating in artist collectives such as Land Report

and serving on the Boards of Directors for the Mid-South Sculpture Alliance

and Public Art Dialogue.

Jacob R. Benavides

is a recently graduated

Senior at Texas A&M

University-Corpus Christi

studying English Literary

Studies with minors

in Women, Gender and

Sexuality Studies and

Jacobus Marthinus Barnard is a South African immigrant

who journeyed across the world for a better life.

He now finds success as a second-year Honors student

at Indiana University, majoring in Biology and minoring

in Chemistry and Medical Sciences, with the goal of

becoming a doctor. Beyond the physical study of life,

Jacobus finds deep enjoyment in crafting works that

capture the brilliance and beauty of a human moment.

Studio Art. His writing focuses on exploring material and immaterial feelings through

the lens of an early 20 something year old, all the certain uncertainty included.

He is attentive to themes of Queer identity, love, mental health, familial identity,

and the relation of bodies both physical and imaginary within the ever-shifting

landscape of existence in South Texas. Jacob has previously been published in the

Windward Review, Texas Poetry Assignment and in the Notes app on his phone.

He received a HAAS writing award for creative writing in 2020 and is currently

working on a collection of poetry entitled The Melting of Mars (and other bodies).

Alan Berecka is the author of five Jimena Burnett writes poems and short

full collections and three chapbooks. stories, rides horses, plays tennis, and

His latest A Living is not a Life: A teaches in the First-Year Learning Communities

Program as a professor of Semi-

Working Title was published by Black

Spruce Press (Brooklyn,NY) late in nar at TAMUCC. She has an MA in English

2021. The three time Pushcart nominee’s

work has appeared in such attended various creative writing work-

from Texas A&M - Corpus Christi and has

places as The American Literary shops, such as the Summer Writing Festival

and the International Writing Program

Review, The Concho River Review,

The Christian Century, and several

issues of the Windward Review. shop with Brett Anthony Johnston, an all-

with the University of Iowa, a fiction work-

In 2017 Berecka was named as the genre workshop on the Catalog presented

first poet laureate of Corpus Christi

and served in that rule until 2019. and others. She is an alumna of the Coast-

by the Writer’s Studio of Corpus Christi,

al Bend Writing Project Summer Institute.

Her academic, creative, familial, tennis, and horsey endeavors keep her busy. She

has two children, two cats, two horses, one dog, and one husband. She likes to think

of herself as a lifelong learner and a lover of words, creativity, and the great outdoors!

Macaela Carder is a Visiting Assistant Professor in the Department of Theatre

and Musical Theatre at Sam Houston State University, where she teaches classes

in playwriting, play analysis and theatre history. As an independent artist, she

has worked as a director, actor, fight choreographer, and playwright. Macaela’s

current projects include an original musical on the women flour mill workers in

Minneapolis, a new adaptation of A Christmas Carol, and several 10-minute plays.

Vendela Cavanaugh of Lonsdale,

Minnesota is a recent St. Cloud State

University graduate with her Bachelor’s

in English/Creative Writing. Her

work has appeared in the Minnesota

Women’s Press and Upper Mississippi

Harvest Literary Journal, along

with editorial credit in the former.

This is just the start of her story.

Mark A. Fisher is a writer, poet,

and playwright living in Tehachapi,

CA. His poetry has appeared in:

Silver Blade, A Sharp Piece of Awesome, Penumbra, Young Ravens Literary Review,

and many other places. His first chapbook, drifter, is available from Amazon.

His second, hour of lead, won the 2017 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Chapbook

Contest. His poem “there are fossils” (originally published in Silver Blade)

came in second in the 2020 Dwarf Stars Speculative Poetry Competition. His plays

have appeared on California stages in Pine Mountain Club, Tehachapi, Bakersfield,

and Hayward. He has also won cooking ribbons at the Kern County Fair.

Crystal Garcia is a Corpus Christi,

Texas native who graduated in 2012

although strives to continue her education

in being a student of life. She is

a lover of books and all things literature—especially

poetry. Crystal’s works

have been published in Civility and You

2020 (Windward Review Volume 18),

Good Cop/Bad Cop: An Anthology,

and Corpus Christi Writers 2021. She

exercises her ability to pen heartfelt

poetry and also confronts with veracity

the current events of our time. As

a writer and content creator, Crystal

expresses empathy as well as an unfaltering

love for creative endeavors.

Born in Bogotá, Colombia, Sergio Godoy

(they/them) is a Graduate student of

the MFA in Creative Writing at the University

of Texas at El Paso. In the past,

they have worked in documentary filmmaking,

impact producing, and activism.

Now, they’re devoting themself to their

art through writing, photography, performance,

and film. They’re interested in language,

gender identity, social justice, and

the body as a space for liberation. Their

work has been published in the journals

Páginas Universitarias and Plural Personal.

Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton is a Louisville,

KY native who has traveled and

lived in several places, including Spain,

Appalachia, Panamá, Peru, the Philippines, and the Colorado River. Currently,

he is a poetry candidate in the Texas State University MFA program. He has a

chapbook, Rain Minnows, with Gnashing Teeth Publishing, as well as a chapbook,

Slow Wind, with Finishing Line Press. His poetry appears in such journals

as Windward Review, Amarillo Bay, Voices de la Luna, and San Antonio Review.

Michelle Hartman: “My fourth book, Wanton Disarray, along with my other books

Lost Journal of my Second Trip to Purgatory, (Old Seventy Creek Press) Disenchanted

and Disgruntled and Irony and Irreverence, from Lamar University Literary

Press, Wanton Disarray are available on Amazon and at B&N. My chapbooks,

First Night from Red Flag Press and Doors, Dancing Girl Press are available from

me, or the respective presses. Besides the above publishing credits, I am the former

editor for the online journal, Red River Review. I hold a BS in Political Science-Pre

Law from Texas Wesleyan University and a Certificate in Paralegal Studies

from Tarrant County College; who recently named me a Distinguished Alumni.”

CeAnna Heit is a poet, hybrid writer, and MFA alum from Western Washington

University (2021). She has been a poetry editor for the Bellingham Review and

an English 101 instructor. CeAnna is interested in experimental poetic forms and

hybrid creations built of poems, art, and photography; contemporary and surreal

poetry that works on breaking or expanding conventions of form, image, syntax,

or use of space on the page. At WWU, she took multi-genre writing, film, and

queer and native literature classes. She has written a short collection of poems

which was submitted to the button poetry contest. In the collection, she plays

with form by using classic forms like the pantoum, sonnet, ghazal, and rondeau

in experimental ways. One of her favorite books is Eduardo C. Corral’s Slow Lightning

for its use of imagery that transforms the boundaries of time and space.

She is also blown away by Jake Skeets’ book Eyes Bottle Dark with a Mouthful

of Flowers and draws inspiration from the way Skeets’ embodies language, turning,

for example a comma into a physical, corporeal presence in the world. She

loves talking poetry and hopes to teach it in the future. When she is not writing

or reading poetry, she enjoys hiking, watching movies, and playing the piano.

Katie Higinbotham is a writer,

editor, and nature enthusiast

from the Pacific Northwest.

She holds an MFA from Western

Washington University and a BA

from Linfield University. Katie has

served as an assistant nonfiction

editor for the High Desert Journal

and a nonfiction editor for the

Bellingham Review. You can find

more of her work in the Rappahannock

Review and The Offing.

Christina Hoag is the author of novels Girl

on the Brink and Skin of Tattoos (Onward

Press). Her short stories and essays have

been published in literary reviews including

Lunch Ticket, Shooter, and the Santa Barbara

Literary Journal. A former journalist for the

Miami Herald and Associated Press and Latin

America foreign correspondent, she recently

won prizes for essay and fiction in the International

Human Rights Arts Festival Literary

Awards and the Soul-Making Keats Writing

Competition. www.christinahoag.com.

Theodore “Ted” Hodges is a US Army Veteran, Husband, and father of three

boys. He is currently finishing his senior year at Saint Cloud State University in

Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His major interests are Classical and 20th Century history,

ethics, political science, and philosophy. As is reflected in Red From Shipping

and Receiving, his literary focuses are on veteran affairs and what fighting

men and women struggle with every day while at war, and his genre work

follows similar themes. You can find his blog, writing analysis, and news updates

https://theodorehodges.net/ or the Theodore Hodges page on Facebook.

Katherine Hoerth is the author

of five poetry collections,

including the forthcoming Flare

Stacks in Full Bloom (Texas Review

Press, 2021). In 2015, she

won the Texas Institute of Letters

Helen C. Smith Award. Her work

has been published in numerous

literary magazines including

Atticus, Valparaiso Review, and

Southwestern American Literature.

She is an assistant professor

at Lamar University and editor of

Lamar University Literary Press.

Devyn Jessogne is twenty and a second semester

sophomore studying Creative Writing:

Poetry at Columbia College Chicago where she

plans to graduate from in 2023. There, Devyn

works on honing her craft and writes both poetry

and prose on topics that range from sexuality,

mental health, family, relationships and

more. Devyn also plans to one day publish a

book of her own and has been working on that

goal for several years. She has previously been

published in FRANCES magazine, an online arts

journal, and can be contacted for writing work

opportunities and other inquiries on herself and

art via email with devely061329@gmail.com.

Nick Hone (he/him) is an actor, playwright from San Antonio, TX, and is currently

based in Oklahoma City, OK. He is a recent graduate of the University of Oklahoma’s

School of Drama. His work onstage has been seen at Oklahoma Shakespeare,

Lyric Theatre, and the Treehouse Collective. Shadow and Ash is his first play to

be published and was performed originally at the University of Oklahoma in the

2021 Student Playwriting Festival. More of his work can be found at nhactor.com

Allan Lake, originally

from Saskatchewan, has

lived in Vancouver, Cape

Breton, Ibiza, Tasmania

, and Melbourne. Poetry

Collection: ‘Sand in

the Sole’ (Xlibris, 2014).

Lake won Lost Tower

Publications (UK) Comp

2017, Melbourne Spoken

Word Poetry Fest

2018 and publication in

New Philosopher 2020.

Latest Chapbook (Ginninderra

Press 2020)

‘My Photos of Sicily’.

Jayne-Marie Linguist (she/her/hers) is a Texas

A&M University-Corpus Christi alum; she earned

her Bachelor of Arts degree in English and a Writing

for Nonprofit Certification in May 2021. Throughout

high school and college, Jayne-Marie grew to

love poetry as a tool for self-reflection and healing.

She often writes about her experiences with

grief, mental health, and queerness in her poems.

Jayne-Marie continues to write poetry and currently

lives in Corpus Christi, Texas with her cat, Poe M.

Crystal McKee: I’m a 23-year-old from New

York. I originally attended Columbia College Chicago

and have a passion for writing nonfiction and

fiction works. I specialize in the development of

classic literature into film and focus on represen-

Hope Meierkort is a Studio

Arts major at Indiana University

in Bloomington, Inditational

media as well, so keep a lookout for

my case studies! :) My Twitter is @films_lit

if you want to stay updated with my work.

ana. Her fixation on words developed at a young age and lives on in the hours

she spends frantically searching for the perfect word for her poetry and creative

nonfiction pieces. Through telling imagery and often existential language, she

hopes to capture the beautiful, abstract complexities of being human. Beyond

her crafted verse, Hope’s artistic eye expresses itself in her photography, mixed

media, appreciation of nature, and enjoyment of tea flavors with amusing names

Jill Ocone holds a BA in English from Rutgers University and an MS degree in

Curriculum, Instruction, and Technology from Nova Southeastern University. A

senior writer and editor for Jersey Shore Magazine, her work has also been published

in Read Furiously’s anthology Stay Salty: Life in the Garden State, Bloom

Literary Magazine (Volumes 2 and 3), Exeter Publishing’s From the Soil hometown

anthology, Red Penguin Books’ the leaves fall and ‘Tis the Season: Poems for Your

Holiday Spirit, Straightening Her Crown anthology, American Writers Review-A

Literary Journal (2020 and 2019 volumes), Everywhere magazine, and The Sun,

among others. When Jill isn’t writing or teaching high school journalism, you

may find her riding her bicycle alongside the beach, fishing with her husband, or

making memories with her nieces and nephews. Visit Jill online at jillocone.com.

Chinyin Oleson is an English major minoring in psychology and gerontology

at St. Cloud State University. She enjoys traveling to other lands,

many of which are found in her head. In the future, she hopes to publish

a book of short stories and a book of poems, or a combination of both.

Nicholas Pagano has been writing

for over 9 years and is currently

enrolled in the MA English

program at New York University.

Nicholas’ poetry has been published

in student run literary journals

at both New York University

Becky Busby Palmer writes slice-oflife

poetry and short stories. She has

her MFA from Texas State University

and is a proud Osage writer. She has

three children and six grandchildren.

and the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, as well as Beyond Words Literary

Magazine. He has work upcoming in The Lamp. Nicholas lives and works in New York.

Scott D. Vander Ploeg is a recently retired scholar and college professor

of English/Humanities. An emerging creative writer, he previously wrote

literary criticism on Renaissance figures such as John Donne, Bill Shakespeare,

and John Milton, and contemporary authors Neil Gaiman, Bobbie

Ann Mason, and Johathan Franzen. When not writing, Scott walks in

Nature Preserves in Lake Co. IL and Brevard Co. FL. He is an amateur

thespian, a jazz drummer, and a practioneer and sifu in Tai Chi Chuan.

Arrie Barnes Porter loves words.

She writes poetry and fiction and is

published in various literary journals.

She has reviewed books of fiction

for Angelo State University and

worked as a Gemini Ink -Writer in

Community. She is the former host

of the Coffee Loft – Open Mic—Atlanta

Georgia, and creator of “Voices,”

a Dreamweek Event in San Antonio,

Texas. Arrie is the creator of Nubian

Notes, a magazine now maintained

as a “Special Collection” at the John

Peace Library, Institute of Texas Cultures.

She has conducted interviews

and written articles for the San Antonio

Express and News and the San

Stefan Sencerz, born in in Warsaw, Poland,

came to the United States to study

philosophy and Zen Buddhism. He teaches

philosophy, Western and Eastern, at the

Texas A&M University, Corpus Christi. He

has numerous publications in professional

philosophy journals (mostly in the areas of

animal ethics, metaethics, and philosophy

of religion). He also published also numerous

refereed poems, short stories, and

essays that appeared in literary journals.

Stefan has been active on a spoken-word

scene winning the slam-masters poetry

slam in conjunction with the National Poetry

Slam in Madison Wisconsin, in 2008,

as well as several poetry slams in San

Antonio, Austin, Houston, and Chicago.

Antonio Report, formerly the Rivard Report. Arrie developed two commentaries for

Texas Public Radio-The George Floyd Protests in the Pandemic and Juneteenth,

It’s Complicated. She holds a MA/MFA degree in Literature, Creative Writing, and

Social Justice and is a Professor of English at Our Lady of the Lake University.

ire’ne lara silva is the author of four

poetry collections, furia, Blood Sugar

Canto, CUICACALLI/House of Song,

and FirstPoems, two chapbooks, Enduring

Azucares and Hibiscus Tacos, and

a short story collection, flesh to bone,

which won the Premio Aztlán. She and

poet Dan Vera are also the co-editors

of Imaniman: Poets Writing in the

Anzaldúan Borderlands, a collection of

poetry and essays. ire’ne is the recipient

of a 2021 Tasajillo Writers Grant,

a 2017 NALAC Fund for the Arts Grant,

the final Alfredo Cisneros del Moral

Award, and was the Fiction Finalist for

AROHO’s 2013 Gift of Freedom Award.

Most recently, ire’ne was awarded the

2021 Texas Institute of Letters Shrake

Award for Best Short Nonfiction. ire’ne

is currently a Writer at Large for Texas

Highways Magazine and is working

on a second collection of short stories

titled, the light of your body. Website:

irenelarasilva.wordpress.com

Formerly a teacher of Fine Arts, Ms.

Harriet Stratton retired to practice

what she taught and to pursue

her passion for poetry, natural landscapes

and studying birds. At work

on a poetry manuscript, she’s a member

of a Poetry Collective associated

with Lighthouse Writers Workshop in

Denver. Published in literary and local

journals, Harriet is proudest of a

protest poem that appeared in The

Colorado Independent just before the

last election. She lives on a sandstone

butte shouldering Pike’s Peak.

Michelle Eccellente Stevenson is a

mom, wife, abstract artist, writer, TEDx

Speaker, and Founder of Cultivate Caring.

Michelle’s Bachelor of Arts degree,

with a dual major in Political Science

and Sociology, gave her a peek into the

window of how connected we all are.

The bulk of Michelle’s career was spent

in the training and development sector,

working for major corporations as an

educator. She now spends her time trying

to make sense of the world through

art and writing. Color and mood define

her visual art pieces and themes of humanity

bind Michelle’s literary works. A

contributor to numerous art exhibits and

literary publications, Michelle can be followed

on social media @MESStudioArt.

Her TEDx Talk ‘How Caring Connects Us’

is on YouTube and she invites you to

join her on social media @CultivateCaring

to discover how you can care more

about yourself, others, and the world.

Cissy Tabor grew up among

mossed filled trees along bayous

in south Louisiana and now enjoys

living in coastal south Texas. She

wrote for several years for a local

lifestyle magazine, The Bend. Now

intrigued with poetry she delights

in the challenge of flipping words

onto a page with shape, music and

imagery. Cissy continues to experience

fun in learning as an active

participant of the Writer’s Studio.

John Stocks is a UK based Poet who has had work published in magazines

worldwide. He has been widely anthologised. Since 2010 John has appeared in

the UK ‘Soul Feathers’ anthology, alongside Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Seamus

Heaney, Carol Ann Duffy, Maya Angelou, Sharon Olds and others. He also had

the honour of sharing a page with Maya Angelou in the anthology, ‘Heart Shoots.’

Both anthologies were available in all major bookstores. Other anthologies that

John has featured in include: ‘This Island City’ the first themed poetry anthology

of poems about Portsmouth, the Cinnamon Press anthology, ‘Shape Shifting’, the

Northern Writer’s anthology, ‘Type 51’, and the Toronto-based Red Claw press

anthology, ‘Seek it’. In May 2013 john had a poem in the international anthology,

‘For Rhino in a Shrinking World’. In 2016, John had poems published in an

International Anthology for Seamus Heaney, the annual literary review of The

Long Island Poetry Collective, New York, and, ‘Trainstorm’, an anthology of Railway

Poetry, published in South Africa and London. Recent work has appeared

in ‘New Madrid’, ‘In Flight Literary Magazine’ and others. John is the poetry editor

of Bewildering Stories magazine. He is returning to poetry after a hiatus,

during which he completed an enovel and three volumes of historical prose.

Matthew Tavares is a

twelfth-grade English teacher

in San Antonio, Texas. His

work has been published

in various journals such as

Voices de la Luna, Sagebrush

Review, High Noon,

The Journal of Latina Critical

Feminism, and The Thing It-

Jane Vincent Taylor lives and writes In

Oklahoma City. She teaches creative writing

at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. Jane’s

recent collection is Let There Be Swimming.

Her book, The Lady Victory, was adapted

for the stage at Michigan State University

Drama School. See more about her poetry

projects at janevincenttaylor.blogspot.com

self. He holds a BA in English Creative Writing from the University of Texas San

Antonio. He is currently pursuing an MFA from Our Lady of the Lake University.

JE Trask: James’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Mudfish, The

Windward Review, The Heartland Review and elsewhere. He was a 2021 Pushcart

Prize nominee and his poetry has received awards from the Austin Poetry

Society, the San Antonio Writers’ Guild, and Jersey City Writers. He is a

veteran, and a recovering MBA holder and corporate minion, currently living

in San Marcos, Texas. His poems explore the loss and reclaiming of the emotional

self, new, dead and revolutionary Romanticism and intuitive imagination.

Minoti Vaishnav is a short

fiction author and poet whose

work has been published in

eight print anthologies in 2021

alone. She is also a television

writer most recently staffed on

The Equalizer on CBS, a former

pop star with three albums under

her belt, and a documentary

television producer who has

developed shows for Netflix,

NatGeo, Travel Channel, and

Discovery Channel among other

networks. Minoti also has a

Masters degree in Creative Writing

from Oxford University and

is an alumna of the ViacomCBS

Writers Mentoring Program.

Chad Valdez is an enrolled member of the

Navajo Nation currently residing in Las Cruces,

New Mexico where he is pursuing his

MFA in fiction at New Mexico State University

and works as prose editor for Puerto Del

Sol and teaches writing courses as a GA. His

writing has appeared in the Crimson Thread.

Ron Wallace is an Oklahoma native and

currently an adjunct instructor of English at

Southeastern Oklahoma State University, in

Durant, Oklahoma. He is the author of nine

books of poetry, five of which have been finalists

in the Oklahoma Book Awards. “Renegade

and Other Poems” was the 2018 winner of the

Oklahoma Book Award. Wallace has been a

“Pushcart Prize” nominee and has recently

been published in Oklahoma Today, Concho

River Review, Red Earth Review, Oklahoma

Humanities Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Borderlands ,and a number of

other magazines and journals. He has just finished editing Bull Buffalo and Indian

Paintbrush, a collection of Oklahoma Poetry.

Melody Wang currently resides in sunny

Southern California with her dear

husband and wishes it were autumn all

year ‘round. Her debut collection of poetry

“Night-blooming Cereus” was released

in December 2021 with Alien

Buddha Press. She can be found on Twitter

@MelodyOfMusings or at her website

https://linktr.ee/MelodyOfMusings

A Whittenberg is a Philadelphia native

who has a global perspective. If she wasn’t

an author she’d be a private detective or a

Joseph Wilson taught Senior

English, Advanced Placement,

Film Studies, and Creative Writing

at Richard King Highschool

for 42 years. He created and edited

the art and poetry magazine,

Open All Night, for 40 years. His

work can also be found in Corpus

Christi Writers 2018, Corpus

Christi Writers 2019, Corpus Christi

Writers 2020, Corpus Christi

Writers 2021, and Corpus Christi

Writers 2022. He writes poetry.

jazz singer. She loves reading about history and true crime. Her other novels include

Sweet Thang, Hollywood and Maine, Life is Fine, Tutored and The Sane Asylum.

Andrena Zawinski, veteran teacher of writing and activist poet, was born

and raised in Pittsburgh, PA but lives and writes in the San Francisco Bay

Area. Her poetry has received awards for lyricism, form, spirituality, and social

concern. Her latest poetry book is Born Under the Influence from Word Tech.

Previous collections are Landings from Kelsay Books, Something About from

Blue Light Press, Traveling in Reflected Light from Pig Iron Press, and a flash

fiction collection, Plumes & other flights of fancy from Writing Knights Books.

Windward Review Volume 19 (2021): Empathy and Entropy

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