Playing in the Shadows by: Gina Acampora, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
Quiet
Forbidden thoughts
Never seemed to materialize
When desired.
They sank down
Into clogged throats
Begging to meet daylight.
Continuously they clawed
Up along the mist
Seeking only to live.
Their makers disagreed
Letting them rot
Into spoiled aspirations.
Dusk was set ablaze
As they mourned the ashes
Of the warmth they buried.
They were haunted
By the words their tongues
Never dared exhale.
Two Eyes by: Melissa Gil, White Pencil, 2019
Mia and Olivia
Mia stood in the tall grass, shielding her eyes from the broken light of the morning. Across the clearing, birds carried on with the regular morning screech. She’d missed the robins, whose trills and calls were much smoother, and less guttural sounding.
The robins came only in the coldest months and she’d like to believe, though logically she knew it was unlikely, it was relatively the same flock that stopped by every year. It was the closest she had to a family visit. Despite most of her hair being grey, she was not a grandmother. She was not a mother either. She hadn’t been for a long while.
Her small house was located six miles from town and surrounded completely by woods. Mind you, it was not such a lonely existence, and she preferred it. Everyone seemed to bother her those days. But that spring, her peaceful existence had been interrupted.
A mile away, the vacant cottage by the river was no longer vacant. It had been taken up by a young family. While she had only caught glimpses of them in the past two weeks, they seemed very normal. The young couple and their daughter, who seemed around three, had walked past Mia’s property a few times. Once the mother had stopped and pointed to Mia’s house with one arm while holding her child on her hip with the other. She was saying something to her husband and had tight blonde curls that moved wildly as she spoke. Her husband had a tall, slender figure, and always walked with his hands clasped together behind his back. Every time they walked past they seemed to be getting closer and closer, like vultures. Even more unsettling, she had seen the mother with her face pressed against Mia’s window one afternoon. Luckily she’d been standing where she couldn’t see her. Had she ever thought to knock?
Before going out to her garden, Mia fell into a habit of peeking through her blinds and checking that the coast was clear.
It was only in the few hours of the morning that she felt comfortable being outside, they rarely seemed to leave the house before ten.
“Hi!” a voice rang out behind her.
A small panic shot up from Mia’s chest, as she turned to see the woman with blonde curls. She was wearing a loose button-up shirt and khakis that cut off right above her knobby knees. She fidgeted nervously for a moment before speaking.
“I hate to bother you. I knocked on the front door first but thought someone might be back here.” She had a light way of speaking, and her voice lifted at the end of each sentence. “But my daughter slipped and cut her leg. I washed it with soap but I don’t know which box our ointment and band-aids are in…” her voice trailed off, studying Mia’s face.
She looked much younger up close and without her daughter on her hip. She began speaking again, this time faster. Most likely unnerved by Mia’s silent stare. “I shouldn’t have bothered you, I’m sorry—My husband and I thought this house was abandoned but I wasn’t sure, because the outside was too well kept for that, it’s beautiful, really. I’m hopeless when it comes to growing things—”
Mia sighed a bit, before interrupting the woman’s rambling. She seemed nice enough. “How deep is it?”
“What?”
“Your daughter’s cut.”
“Oh, it’s not bad really. I just don’t want it getting infected.”
Mia paused for a moment, thinking. She then began peeling off her gardening gloves and striding to her back door.
“I have some bandages, but if you want ointment you’ll have to drive in town to the pharmacy.” The woman scurried to follow her.
She began speaking with less nervousness in her voice, “Thank you! I’m Olivia, by the way, we live two miles west.”
Mia walked up the stairs of her porch, opening her screen door. “Just give me a minute, miss Olivia—” she turned around to see Olivia halfway up the steps, but upon the older woman’s pause in speaking and blatant stare, she began awkwardly stepping back down. “—while I’ll get you your band-aids.” Mia looked at her again, studying her like some rare species, before disappearing into her house.
She rummaged through her wooden kitchen cabinets a bit before finding a somewhat squished variety pack of band-aids and checked inside to make sure it wasn’t empty.
When she reappeared Olivia was down in the garden, looking at Mia’s rosebush with awe. It was an even variety of white and red roses, one of the first things she began growing when she moved out here. After roses, it was tulips, lemons, oranges, and bell peppers. Her garden had grown out steadily over the years, and now stretched an eighth of a mile back, with small dirt paths running through to keep things organized. It had been a lot of work, and a bit exhausting at times, but incredibly rewarding. Any maternal instincts she had (there were very few) were focused on the things she grew.
Olivia reached out her bare hand to one of the roses, and just as she grabbed the stem she audibly gasped and drew her hand back with a jolt. It was like watching a pigeon fly into a glass window. Who grabs a rose stem with their entire bare palm?
She let the screen door fall shut, making an audible whack, to announce her presence. Olivia’s curls bounced back as she lifted her head in slight alarm, and moved her bleeding hand behind her back. Mia walked out to meet her by the roses and tapped the hand Olivia was keeping hidden, “Gotta watch out for those thorns.”
Olivia didn’t respond but sighed heavily. “You’re very talented, being able to do this all by yourself.” She gestured to the expansive garden.
“It’s not really that hard after a couple of years.”
Olivia’s green eyes remained fixed on the garden, clearly caught up in her own thoughts. “My husband says I couldn’t keep a cactus alive.”
Mia chortled. “What’s he got you out here for then?”
“I hardly know.” The young mother laughed faintly.
“Do you both work?”
“Charles is a writer, working on a story now. That’s why he wanted to be out here.”
“What kind of story?”
“He won’t tell me, says it’s a secret.”
Mia nodded with vague approval, she understood wanting privacy.
“You got any kids of your own?” Olivia asked.
Mia shifted her weight uncomfortably. “No, not for a long time.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”
Mia cut her off. “It’s all right.”
Olivia studied her face carefully.
“I think you ought to get these band-aids back home.”
Olivia smiled politely as she took the box of band-aids from Mia’s aging hands. “Thank you.”
Rustic Bike by: Alondra Guerrero, Archival Inkjet Print, 2019
Time
Rain turned to stone
Air became lead
Brain crystalized midthought
Memories a lump of coal
Brains boiling with the heat
of a thousand suns.
Skulls crack open ideas yet to be
Time forgot to tell the tale of a life one lived
Opposition by: Laura Escoto, Pastel, 2019
An Orange Floating in a Pond
Riding soft ebb and flow
Down murky oil colors
We drift
Through a changing canvas
Yet fret over
Seeing nothing
Reprogramming by: Josue Cuevas, Charcoal, 2019
Thoughts on a Sport
Boxing is like the mural on Canal Street. The faded blue background hangs above the empty sidewalk, as the sun-bleached drawings are often overlooked by most of the people driving past the abandoned warehouse. However, the few who bother to look up can still see the outlines, as each stroke tells a story beyond a boxing record. Don King would definitely be on the mural, lurking in the background as he shackled some of the greatest fighters to contracts that stole hundreds of millions of dollars and forced them to fight in conditions that guaranteed them brain damage. Muhammed Ali and Joe Frazier would also be together fighting in the dead center. Muhammed Ali would dodge killing hooks by a fraction of an inch and go in for the counter, as Joe Frazier bobbed and weaved his way through a hailstorm of jabs and uppercuts, just before leaping in and going for the kill with his legendary gazelle punch. And even though their rivalry ended a once close friendship, one cannot deny they brought out the best in each other in the ring. And of course, how could we forget the four kings of boxing? Sugar Ray Leonard would dance the mural with God-given footwork as the ferocious Roberto Duran would charge and corner him into a brawl, using his hands of stone to demolish opponents with hooks that flew mere inches. And although they gave each other their greatest victories and lowest defeats, their once bitter rivalry kindled a dear friendship. Thomas “The Hitman” Hearns would stun viewers with his lightening-fast flicker jab before he went in with his signature chopping right, as he would exchange explosive punches with Marvin Hagler. And although Hearns crashed into the canvas with a broken right hand in the third round, both left the ring as some of the best fighters boxing had to offer in what is often argued as the greatest fight the world has ever seen. Hell, even Chuck Wepner would be on the mural with all of his heart. With only 19 seconds left in the final round, the “Bayonne Bleeder” fell to the floor with both eyes swollen shut when he was knocked out by the legendary Muhammad Ali. Yet, the fact that a New Jersey underdog with a 40 to 1 shot lasted that long inspired millions, including a struggling actor who spent the next three days writing in his friend’s apartment to create the first script for the 1976 film Rocky. Behind every upset, every shattering defeat, every great one-two, every day after waking up with broken bones and limbs, lies an overcoming of a certain barrier, lies a challenge to be taken, lies an Oscar-winning story that inspires a hall full of people. But even then, it probably doesn’t matter much now. Such tales are nothing more than fables. Moments fading in the weathered wall of time, as the painted outlines begin to chip off on a vacant street occasionally seen by some kid looking out the car window. On the bright side, though, I heard the city re-painted the mural on Canal Street, so at least there’s that.
Dead Dasie by: Jacob Leones, Digital Photo, 2019
Bumblebee(s) Skin
Two Hornets in bumblebee skin
One takes the risk.
Poke
Its head is out.
Oh, now it turned red.
The other is certain to not shed its skin.
They come together.
Nursing the sunflower seed.
Redhead bumblebee cares for the seed.
Feeding it affection that no longer belonged to the other.
Unshed bumblebee, don’t grow angry.
Your tail is poking through and you’ll make redhead fume.
Sunflower seed you’ve grown to be 6 feet.
Much too tall for some little bumblebees.
The redhead hatches out of its shell.
Fluttering like a cabbage white.
Poor unshed bumblebee, left out with nowhere to go.
Even the sunflower is no longer in your reach.
The Minds Cube by: Pamela Gonzalez, Archival Inkjet Print, 2019
Enchanting
There’s a realm where even I don’t exist.
Where fountains don’t flow
and clocks cannot tick properly.
People are prey there
and tremble behind glass that
holds back nothing.
Though I don’t exist there
it feels like I do.
Nightshade is no longer a
poison. It binds me
to sparkling fear,
making me feel like my heart isn’t mine.
It’s disconcerting, really, feeling like
something of mine is not mine.
I can yell witchcraft but no,
it’s not that.
Enchantment is more the word,
I think.
The heart just holds the memories
I don’t think the mind
can handle. I feel them
and know of more things
than I probably should.
There’s a realm where I don’t exist,
but my heart does.
Reflexions by: Vicky Suarez, Acrylic and Wood, 2019
Where the Goldfinch Flew
The Crow flew north toward the bright and glowing orange
Where it was warm and the smell was so sweet
His sister eagerly waited for him with her eyes trained on a fresh meal
He flew where food was plentiful, as were the cries of men
The Cardinal flew east where the lost remain
He left there to guide those who had no direction
A place where the few together wept for the many alone
Where it was always cold and always silent
The Grackle flew south cackling along the way
He set out to a place where everyone was laughing
A setting so happy and loud that you didn’t hear the terrors
Where those could brave a smile under the masks they wore
The Condor flew west into nowhere
A place where he would rest his great wings
Where he’d have no worries about his survival
Because nowhere was a home for nothing
The Goldfinch had not yet flown
For he was not corrupted by the night skies
He saw the four paths fate had left him
And he dreaded the moment of his choice
The Crow relished in the flesh of those wounded by war
The Cardinal bridged spirits of the living and the deceased
The Grackle hid behind distractions to avoid his ghosts
The Condor gave up and was carried off into extinction
The Goldfinch took flight and knew which path to take
He flew up, towards the light of the moon
For he knew that as long as the moon shone bright
That behind it the sun was shining too
Colored Pencil Droplets by: Marissa Gaines, Archival Inkjet Print, 2019
Scoil Mhuire
Walking down a rain-soaked path,
Entering a large, weathered, blue door.
Warmth surrounds those who enter.
Hallways filled with the chatter
Of young girls attending classes.
400 people fill the building,
Which has stood for 400 years.
Winding staircases lead to dimly lit rooms,
Lit only by cheerful faces.
Happy to be there.
Four flights up, I’m home.
One window in the center of the room,
Water beaded on the surface.
The trickle of rain in the gutters,
And pounding of drops as they hit the ground.
Lessons begin, and a shift occurs,
No longer are the students smiling.
An older woman dressed in grey enters the room.
She carries the darkness and gloom the skies reflect.
Her voice drags on as we lose focus,
Whispers from those at the back.
One stern but low call,
Silences our laughter.
A single bell summons the flood
Of girls young and old to enter the streets.
I find myself once again,
Walking down a rain-soaked path.
Pena de Bernal by: Luzmaria Tolkov, Ink and Foil, 2019
The Ms. Sherrys
“You wanna pick out some outfits you like while I go look at something real quick?”
“Why?” Sonia asks. “We’re not gonna buy anything, anyway.”
I know this. It’s the only thing I can think of to keep my sister distracted, though. Plus, tryin’ on clothes is something we have fun doing. Our hopes of what the future may hold for us all wrapped up in a nice-ass flowered shirt.
“I know, Sonia! You think I’m stupid, or what? Just pick out some things and meet me in the dressing room, ok?”
“Fine.” She says, rolling her eyes. She starts walking toward the ‘junior’ section of the store.
I head towards the jewelry section, anxious and determined to leave with at least three pairs today. I like coming on weekdays because the mall is pretty much empty. The only people that come are those that ain’t got nothin’ else to do. Those with money leave with a bunch of stuff they probably won’t even wear, and those like us, well…. As I get closer I already see the first pair I have to have. The light reflects off of them like the light shines off a crystal chandelier in one of them fancy houses our mom cleans. Except when these things shine, they shine a square of light pink that reminds me of watered down Pepto Bismol, with green and blue in the middle that reminds me of the colors we draw the world when we’re kids.
I casually reach for the earrings and slowly start to take them off the little cardboard thing that holds them. Those things have sensors. I glance up to make sure no one is looking before I put them in the pocket of my black hoodie. First pair down, two to go. I glance up one more time and I see this lady smiling at me from the perfume section. Shit. I think she saw me. Damn. She’s walking this way. Man, they’re just earrings lady. Just act like you didn’t see and we can both move on with our lives. It’s not like they’re real or anything. I know this store can afford the, what was it?? Oh, 15 dollars and 99 cents these things cost.
“Can I help you, sweetie?” She asks with a smile on that face with way too much make-up. She’s wearing way too much perfume, too. Where do they even make that combination? She got ripped off. I wouldn’t buy somethin’ that smells like roses and mothballs. Her nametag says ‘Ms. Sherry.’
“No thanks,” I say. “Just looking.”
Still smiling she asks, “Which ones were you considering?”
Seriously? I know they don’t pay her extra for this shit. I knew I shouldn’t have drawn in my eyebrows like this today! Man, I knew I got them too thin. Got me lookin’ like I’m from East LA. Or maybe it’s the eyebrow ring? Whatever.
I point at the duplicates of the ones in my hoodie pocket.
“You have good taste.” She says as she smiles again.
I could roll my eyes at her. Why the hell is she so happy?? She takes the earrings from the rack and says, “Follow me.” Ah, shit. This is the part where I usually run, but for some reason, I don’t feel the urge to. Things aren’t going like they normally do.
“Hey, Sofia! I’m ready!” I hear my sister call out from the dressing room.
“Ahí voy!” I reply. I don’t want her to see what the hell is about to happen.
We get to the register. The lady scans the earrings. I hear the clickety-clack of a few keys, and then she hands them to me. I look at her confused as hell.
Again, she smiles.
“Take care of your sister,” she says. “Y’all are gonna make it, someday, honey.”
I can’t help but look her dead in the eyes. I don’t know what I’m looking for in them. Maybe the same thing she sees in mine, as she stares back. With my free hand, I slowly reach into the right pocket of my hoodie. I pull out the earrings and gently place them on the counter, still unsure of what just happened. She grabs them, clickety-clack again, and hands them back.
“Oh! Here’s the receipt, darlin’.”
I stare at the three things in my hands. Dazed. I don’t know why, but I feel a strong tug at my eyes.
“Thank you ma’am,” I say. Shit, I may be a lot of things, but rude ain’t one of them.
I turn and walk towards the dressing room, trying not to smile that cheesy ass smile. Even though that’s how I feel on the inside.
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