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THE PACIFIC REVIEW

ISSUE 38

ALONE TOGETHER: CONFINED IN A CONNECTED WORLD

Pacific ReviewPacific ReviewIssue 38Issue 38

20202020

Issue 38 Issue 38 33

Pacific ReviewPacific Review is a student-led editorial collective and literary magazine housed at California State University, San Bernardino. We bridge literary, artistic, and political conversations between students, local communities in San Bernardino, the Inland Empire, and beyond. Thus, we invite submissions from those affiliated with our university and from all local, national, international, and transnational writers, artists, critics, and scholars. Motivated by the pressing concerns of our students, campus, and local communities, we foster critical and imaginative dialogue about literature, literary practices, and creative processes. We seek ambitious and thoughtfully crafted work in poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, essay, playwriting, screenwriting, comics, photography, visual art, cross-genre and experimental forms, literary criticism, book reviews, and interviews.

[email protected]

Alone Together: Confined in a connected world Alone Together: Confined in a connected world44

Copyright © 2020 by Pacific Review at California State University, San Bernardino

All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.

Some of the contents in this book are works of fiction. Thus, names, times, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the individual author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published by Pacific Review California State University, San BernardinoDepartment of English5500 University ParkwaySan Bernardino, CA 92407

Cover Design: Victoria RowlandTable of Contents Image: Halee Bushman Interior Design: Christina Carlisle, Nicholas Munger, Victoria Rowland, Madison Thompson

PACIFICREVIEW.NET


Pacific Review Editorial Collective 2020Pacific Review Editorial Collective 2020

Keeano Agustiadi Brandi Cannon Christina Carlisle Kathleen Doucette Cesar Garcia Esbeth Heredia Denise Kollock Christopher Macias Arturo MedranoMichael Montrie Nicholas Munger Joshua Munoz Shelby Paone Patrick Quinn Alissa Ramirez Linette Rosiles Victoria Rowland Madison Thompson Melissa Villalobos Bernardelli


The Pacific Review would like to dedicate this issue to the African American men and women who have been terrorized and killed due to police brutality, state violence and all other

practices of racial injustice and anti-Black violence.


Letter from the editorsLetter from the editors

Dear CSUSB and Inland Empire Communities and Readers Who Support Us,

As editors of the Pacific Review, we feel we have a responsibility to respond to the current political and social climate that impact our lives as students, writers, community members and individuals.

Originally, we wanted this issue to focus on how (in)directly the pandemic of COVID-19 had changed (continues to change) how we interact, experience and exist in our communities and in our personal lives. We felt inspired to explore and publish a range of stories and poems that examine this unique experience of surviving amidst a public health crisis. The feelings of living in isolation but still connected through countless media platforms was something we could not escape.

However, in the coming months that followed which involved a national and now global uprising of protests, we are compelled to respond to the death of George Floyd, a 46-year old Black man murdered in the city of Minneapolis by the police. This horrendous act of anti-Blackness perpetuated by the police throughout American history is another important reminder on how racism, more specifically anti-Blackness, transphobia, state and police violence continue to destroy our Black and Brown communities. Thus, this issue is dedicated to the numerous Black deaths at the hands of the police.

At the Pacific Review, we are committed to ways creative writing demands us to learn and to unlearn. For us, literature is a mode of healing, critical thinking and understanding one another in what unites us and what makes us beautifully different. As editors and students of the literary arts, we strive to creatively dismantle the toxic isms of our world. We fully believe stories play a meaningful part in that unhinging and disrupting.

We strive to break down the barriers of silence. We ask our readers, our community members to take time to reflect, to be fiercely inquisitive. How does racism, anti-Blackness and gender violence affect you? How might you be perpetrating these forces in your homes and your communities at-large. How can you do your part to end violence against Black people, queer people, people of color, (indigenous people, disabled people, the undocumented, and the homeless)? The Pacific Review supports movements and collectives that aid in the fight and in the resistance against racism, police brutality and state violence. We support Black Lives Matter, Black Trans Lives Matter, All Black Lives Matter. They matter, they are loved, they are needed, they are necessary. Stay safe, stay aware, and enjoy the stories and art we’ve put together for you.

In Solidarity, Editors of Pacific ReviewJune 11, 2020


List of ResourcesList of Resources (where to provide donations to aid, uplift and advocate our (where to provide donations to aid, uplift and advocate our Black communities)Black communities)

Bail Funds:

Black Trans Protestors Emergency Fundhttps://cash.app/$btfacollective

National Bail Fund Network https://www.communityjusticeexchange.org/nbfn-directory

People City’s Council Freedom Fundhttps://www.gofundme.com/f/peoples-city-council-ticket-fund

Black-Led Organizations & Other Resources:

American Civil Liberties Unionhttps://www.aclu.org/

Beam (Black Emotional and Mental Health Collectivehttps://www.beam.community/donation

Black Visions Collectivehttps://secure.everyaction.com/4omQDAR0oUiUagTu0EG-Ig2

Directory of Community Bail Funds for unjustly jailed minorities, immigrants, and pro-testorshttps://www.communityjusticeexchange.org/nbfn-directory

National Association for the Advancement of Colored Peoplehttps://www.naacp.org/

People’s Budget LAhttps://peoplesbudgetla.com/

Individual Funds:

Memorial fund for George Floyd’s familyhttps://www.gofundme.com/f/georgefloyd

Official Gianna Floyd Fund (George Floyd’s Daughter)https://www.gofundme.com/f/gianna-floyd-daughter-of-george-floyd-fund

Fund for Jamel Floyd’s familyhttps://www.gofundme.com/f/justice-for-jamel-floyd

Iyanna Dior Support Fundhttps://cash.app/$NajaBabiie

In Memory of Tony Mcdadehttps://www.gofundme.com/f/in-memory-of-tony-mcdade

Justice for Breonna Taylor fundhttps://www.gofundme.com/f/9v4q2-justice-for-breonna-taylor


Table of ContentsTable of Contents

FictionFiction

PoetryPoetry

“A Boring Dystopia” - Natalie Thompson“12.02.15” - Steven Hinkle“My Country” - Michael Montrie“Making Ends Meet” - Gabriel List“Why It Felt like a Dream” - Gabriel List“The Lost Lovers” - Halee Bushman“SEARCH FOR SELF” - Victoria Rowland“Needed Comfort” - Denise Kollock“Moving Forward” - Denise Kollock“Whirlwind” - Scott Waters“Egypt” - Alissa Ramirez“I Make Her Rice” - Dominick J. Gonzalez-Amaya“I’ve Got Nothing but Dreams on My Side” - Natalie Thompson“Maskless Faces” - Angela Grummett“Masking the Pain” - Danielle Collado

33 34 36 37 38 39 40 42 43 44 46 47 48 4950

“Don’t Judge an Album by Its Cover” - Collin Hollihan“The Night of Broken Glass” - Kathleen Doucette“I, Corona” - Keeano Agustiadi“Jane’s Cubicle” - Michael Reyna“Lydia in the Park” - Anthony Alas“Mama Linda” - Candy Navarrete

12 18 20 23 25 28


Creative NonFictionCreative NonFiction

Visual ArtVisual Art

Contributor BiographiesContributor Biographies

“Dairy Entries: Parenting Through the Chaos” - Brandi Cannon Interviews with Essential Workers & Community Members:

“Interview with a High School Senior” - Brandi Cannon“Interview with a Construction Worker” - Patrick Quinn“Interview with a Firefighter” - Shelby Paone“Interview with a Registered Nurse” - Shelby Paone

54

57606264

“From Home” & “Navigating the Motions” - Yulissa Mendoza“From a Distance” & “Socializing” - Yulissa Mendoza“Second Glance” - Halee Bushman

6768

69-70

Keeano AgustiadiAnthony AlasHalee BushmanDanielle ColladoKathleen DoucetteDominick J. Gonzalez-AmayaAngela Grummett Steven HinkleCollin HollihanDenise KollockGabriel List Yulissa MendozaMichale MontrieCandy NavarreteAlissa RamirezMichael ReynaVictoria Rowland Natalie ThompsonScott Waters

727272727272 73 73 73 73 73 73 73 74 7474747474

FictionFiction


Don’t Judge an album by its coverDon’t Judge an album by its coverCollin HollihanCollin Hollihan

The needle drops. Moving through grooves of the 45, it snaps, crackles and pops like a bowl of Rice Krispies. A few more small pops and snaps until a chorus of horns begins to play through the small desktop speakers sitting on the bookshelf. Cab Calloway’s voice drips from the speakers as smooth as velvet. The music fills the small bedroom cluttered with dirty clothes on the floor and stacks of records everywhere. As Cab sings about the tale of Minnie the Moocher, Arthur lounges on his bed with his eyes closed. Music is the one thing in his life that means the most to him. To him, music has always been something more than just music. It’s a being like some powerful god of old that gives life meaning. It’s his form of emotional expression for when he doesn’t have words and it’s a soundtrack to his life.

Cab closes out the song and the record ends with a final snap, crackle, pop. Arthurs opens his eyes and feels a wave of relaxation fall over him. He is at peace and ready to start his day. He opens his eyes and gets up from his unmade bed. He stumbles over to the bookshelf where his turntable is, letting out an “oh shit” as he almost trips over the crate of records next to the foot of the bed. The hardwood oak floors are cold under his feet. The bookshelf is simple but serves its purpose. Its bottom shelves are filled with sci-fi novels, trade paperbacks from Image and DC comics, and copies of Midsummer’s Night Dream and The Great Gatsby his grandfather gave him after retiring from teaching. The top two shelves are crammed with records from his dad’s and grandparents’ collections and are the most prized of his collection. On top is the record player his dad had got him two Christmases ago. Its silver base has some minor wear and it’s being held up by a single alphabet building block where one of the rubber feet should have been. Its plastic cover is plastered with Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, and the Record Refinery decals. On either side sit a small desktop speaker with orange vinyl cones. Arthur had picked these up at the Record Refinery for ten bucks. He gingerly takes the Cab Calloway 45 off the turntable and puts it back in its sleeve that lays on top of the small wooden crate filled with 45’s on top of one of the speakers. He grabs the copy of AC/DC’s Back in Black from its spot on the first shelf and places it on the turntable. He drops the needle gently and Angus Young’s guitar tears through the speakers with powerful ferocity. As he gets dressed he can’t help but let his inner Brian Johnson come out, doing his best impression while singing along to “Back in Black.” He puts on a pair of worn-out Levi jeans with holes in the knees and his favorite olive-green shirt with Jim Morrison’s face plastered on it. He laces up his maroon converse high tops, grabs his black knock off Ray-Ban Wayfarers, his gray denim jacket, and his cane. He shuts off the record player in the midst of “Rock and Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution” and leaves his apartment.

He moved to the city two years ago. It was hard to leave home and especially hard to leave his folks. He would visit when he could, which made his mother happy. She

Fiction Fiction


was never the same after the accident even though Arthur had told her it wasn’t her fault. The air was so frigid it felt as if a yeti was punching you in the chest with each breath. It had snowed the night before and the fresh powder crunched underneath Arthur’s feet as he made his way to the Record Refinery. The Record Refinery was Arthur’s safe haven, besides his room. Inside the walls of this red-bricked building were where all of his “friends’ lived and to Arthur, it felt like home. The Record Refinery is one of only two shops in the city that sells records, the other being the church thrift shop and they mostly sell gospel records.

Entering the Refinery, you are hit with a cacophony of sound. The Clash’s London Calling blasts through three Peavey cabinet speakers and mingles with the sounds of customers digging through the various racks and crates of records and CDs. The soles of his Converse squeak slightly on the smooth concrete floor. Fwap, Fwap, Fwap, go the records as the customer’s thumb through the various albums looking for that gem or holy grail for their collections. Record collecting was like any other addiction, once you were hooked, you had to get your fix. Today, Arthur needed his fix. Just as he was about to dive into the new arrival bins next to the door, he hears someone clear their throat behind them.

“Hey, don’t tell me you were about to start digging without saying hello to your favorite record dealer.” That gravelly deep voice that resembled a cross between younger Tom Waits and Keith Richards could only belong to the one and only Russel Dewey. Russel, Dewey to his regulars, was the proprietor of the Record Refinery and one of Arthur’s few friends in the city. Russel was a burly guy with a long blonde braided beard and long hair to match. He looked like a modern-day Viking.

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, Dewey. I was just getting the lay of the land” Arthur replied with the sarcasm dripping off every word.

“Uh-huh, sure course you would.” Arthur made his way to the counter where he heard his friend’s voice and shook his hand. “So, what are we hunting for today, Arty?” Some of your usual fare or are you feeling more adventurous today?” Arthur hated it when people called him Arty, only Dewey and his mother were able to get away with it.

“I think I will stick to my normal fare and see what I can dig up. Lots of new arrivals come in today” he asked.

“Yeah man, in fact, I just picked up some old rocker’s collection just a couple of days ago. He had a lot of good stuff.”

“Oh, sick! I guess I better start digging then?!” Arthur’s voice dripped with excitement.

“No need, I saved you the trouble of digging and pulled you some good stuff.” The records land on the counter with a small thud, a good indication that Dewey had found some good stuff. “I found you that original pressing of Nirvana’s Nevermind you were looking for, B.B. King’s Live at the Regal, the new Tower Guard record that came in last week, and a couple old ‘90’s punk compilations for you.”

“Sweet! How bad is the damage though?” “I would say fifty bucks would persuade me to let you walk out my door with these

fine albums.” Arthur leans on the counter giving Dewey a semi-serious look. He knows fifty bucks is a good deal, but he likes to mess with Dewey.

“I don’t know man, fifty is steep,” he says as he runs his fingers along the counter.


“Oh no! You’re not pulling this shit with me, Arty. You know I got to make a living.” Arthurs chuckles loudly.

“Yeah man I know. Just giving you shit. You got a deal.”

Arthur’s mind drifts as London Calling gives way to the soft guitars of Joan Jett’s Crimson and Clover as Dewey bags his purchases.

“Hey man, have you heard from your folks lately?” Dewey’s question brought him back to reality.

“Nah not since last week, man” “How’s your mom holding up? Does she still blame herself?” “Yeah, sort of. She has been working through it with her therapist which seems to

be helping.” “Well, that’s great to hear man. I’m glad she is finally able to work through some

of that.” Dewey was the only other person that knew about the accident. There was a small awkward silence between them. It was only for a moment, but it felt longer than that.

“So, you said you had some new arrivals in, anything worth giving a listen to?” Arthur said thankfully the moment had passed.

“Hmm let me see. Nothing in particular. I do have a record from a local band if you want to give it a spin.” Dewey slid the record across the counter, the plastic film package making a small woosh sound as slid.

“A local band, huh?” He did his best to hide the look of curiosity on his face. “Sure, I’ll give it a spin.”

“Alright, man. The listening station is straight back. I’ll come to check on you in a few minutes to get your verdict.” Arthur chuckled as he meandered to the back of the shop.

The shrink-wrap crinkles like television static as Arthur carefully slides it off the jacket. He hates the sound it makes. Delicately, he frees the record from its paper sleeve prison careful to not touch the grooves. It makes a small gentle thud as he places it on the turntable. The anticipation builds as the needle hovers over the black spinning circle. He flicks the small lever on the side; the needle lowers as if drawn to the grooves like a magnet. Finally, Arthur’s favorite part of the process, listening. All he can hear is his breathing. No snaps or crackles; new records don’t have those. Silence emanates through the headphones. It seems to last for ages. An ARP Odyssey synthesizer cuts through the silence with a combination of A, B, C, and G notes. This combination sounds familiar to him, but he can’t quite place it. A soft but powerful feminine voice fills his ears. “Mirror, Mirror, on the wall. The face you show me, scares me so” the vocalist sings. It’s a hauntingly beautiful cover of Snowblind by Styx. As he listens, Arthur feels the air grow colder. Snow slowly drifts around him landing gently among the racks of CDs. The snow continues to fall around Arthur but harder now. It feels like thousands of tiny bees stinging his skin, but he keeps on listening. He can hear the whirring of an engine. It grows louder and begins to drown out the vocalist.

Fiction Fiction


They had been making their way home from taking his sister Allison to college. The snowfall seemed so calm as the hit I-35. It was falling straight to the ground, but as the winds picked as they traveled. The snow started falling towards them like it was falling sideways. As it hit the windshield of the little Ford hatchback, it reminded Arthur of being in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon as it entered hyperspace. “Life’s not pretty, even though I tried so hard to make it so”, the vocalist sings. Arthurs’ mom had grown up driving in the snow, but she had underestimated this storm. She could hardly see three feet in front of her. No wonder she didn’t see the tanker. It had come out of nowhere like a giant shining UFO. She slammed on the brakes with all her might, but there wasn’t enough room to stop. Arthur can hear the screeching of the hatchback’s brakes. “Mornings are such cold distress. How did I ever get into this mess.” the vocalist sings. Metal hitting metal is an awful sound. The side of the tanker ruptures like a sardine can spilling a deluge of dark rust color liquid. Shattering the windshield, it almost drowns Arthur and his mom. He can feel the liquid burning his eyes again. “Why did it burn so bad”, he remembered thinking. “Now I’m Snowblind. I can’t live without you.” Now he is in the hospital; surrounded by darkness. His eyes are open but all he can see is black. Sounds of the heart monitor and other machines around him meld in with the melody of guitar, drums, and keyboard of the song. The voices of nurses and doctors conversing with his mother out in the hallway fade in and out, but the vocalist’s voice overpowers them as she softly sings “Cause I’m Snowblind, Snowblind, Snowblind.”

“Arthur, Earth to Artie! Are you still with me brotherman?!” Dewey was standing next to him, waving his hand in front of his face. He could feel the small breeze as it swept past his face.

“I’m still here man. I just got lost in the music for a second.” “Yeah, you’re telling me. I think you were sucked in by the magic of the mystical

black circle”, Dewey said with a small chuckle “So what do you think of them, man?”“From what I heard; I dig them. The Styx cover is ballsy, but it works. That vocalist

is killer!” Dewey chuckles again like jolly Saint Nick. “I knew you were going to say that.” Arthur was a sucker for a good vocalist,

especially a female vocalist and Dewey knew it. “So, do they have any gigs coming soon?”, Arthur asked inquisitively. He had to

hear that voice again. “Sorry, man. They don’t have any gigs at the moment.” Arthur’s heart sank a little

as he heard this, he wanted to hear that voice. Dewey must have seen the look of devastation on his face.

“Hey man, don’t look like I broke your heart. They may not have any gigs at the moment, but you’re in luck. The vocalist works at the GrindHouse over on the corner.” Arthur’s heart felt like it was going to bust out of his chest and sing “Hello! My Baby” like Michigan J. Frog.

“Do you know if they are still open?” he asked with a hint of excitement. “Yeah, I believe so man,” Dewey replied.


“This day just keeps getting better”, Arthur thought to himself, a small smirk on his face. “Sweet! Hey, I’ll catch you later Dewey’’ he said as he hurried toward the door.

“Alright, man. Good luck!”, Dewey called to him as he opened the door into the icy tundra of the city.

The winter air hit him like Phil Collins during the drum fill of “In the Air Tonight.” As he made his way down the block carefully to avoid the patches of ice that coated parts of the sidewalk, Arthur started to think about the song he had heard in the record store. He had heard “Snowblind” by Styx before. It was the song that had been playing on the radio in his mom’s car when they hit the tanker. There had been only a few instances in which Arthur could remember when music had transported him to an event in his life, but something about that cover, that vocalist spoke to him. That song had been playing on the radio just before his mom had hit the tanker. He hadn’t listened to it since.

The Grind House was a newer coffee shop that had just opened a couple of months before. It had replaced the old camera store that had gone out of business when Arthur was little. According to the buzz around the city, the Grind House was a bohemian-like establishment that offered a wide variety of domestic and exotic coffees and teas. As he reached the corner, his ears perked up at the sound of Eddie Vedder. His unmistakable vocal tone was oozing out of the speakers outside the entrance as he sang “Spin the Black Circle.” It was Arthur’s favorite Pearl Jam song. Vedder had written the song as an ode to vinyl and his love for records. The sound Eddie Vedder and the musical stylings of Pearl Jam drew Arthur towards the door of the coffee house like a siren attracting a lost sailor at sea.

A small brass bell tinkles above him as he enters. Instantly he is hit with the smell of roasting coffee. The smell reminds him of home. The interior is low light to provide a comfortable atmosphere. The smell of coffee mingles with the smell of burning wood. A fire cracks and pops happily in the fireplace in the far corner of the space. Arthur ambles forward slowly, unfamiliar with the layout of the shop. He makes his way to the counter. It’s cool to the touch. “Probably granite”, he thinks to himself.

“I’ll be with you in a moment!” someone calls from the back. He hears a clatter of metal and someone utters “Shit!” under their breath before the sound of boots on the subway tile floor caught his attention. “Sorry about that”, a familiar voice says from across the counter, “What can I get you?” Arthur was stunned. It was her, the vocalist from the record. He was sure it was her, the warm softness of her voice caressed his ears and made him feel all tingly.

“Uhm yeah can I get a regular latte?” he managed to stutter out. Why was he so nervous?

“Sorry, Shades, but our latte machine is down for the evening since we are closing up soon. I can get you a cup of coffee though if that works.”

“That’s fine. Umm, why did you just call me Shades?” She utters a small, cute laugh as she grabs a mug off the wall. It makes a ceramic-like scraping sound as she slides it off the hook on the wall.

Fiction Fiction


“Well it’s’ nighttime and you’re wearing dark sunglasses and unfortunately I don’t think you’re Corey Hart.” A great voice and a reference to a late ‘80’s pop singer, who was this girl? he thought.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t wear these to look cool. It’s more of a Stevie Wonder or Ray Charles kind of thing.”

“Oh…” she pauses for a moment “I’m sorry my bad.” He can sense she feels bad. “No don’t be. You couldn’t have known”. She hands him the mug. The warmth

that radiates from it feels good on his cold hands. He lifts it to his lips. The coffee has a strong aroma to it. Taking a sip, he tastes a dark rich flavor of chocolate, cinnamon, and a hint of peppermint, “Damn, you make a good cup of coffee!”

“Thanks! So, what should I call you instead of Shades?” “My name is Arthur. Yours?” “My name is Rosa.” He noticed she rolled the “r” a little as she said it. Her

speaking voice possessed a warmth that reminded him of her singing voice. “Rosa,” he thought, “What a beautiful name to go with such a beautiful voice.” Arthur sat and enjoyed his coffee. As he sat he heard Death Cab for Cutie’s “I Will Follow You into the Dark” flow through the speakers.

“Is this your playlist?” he inquired. “Yeah, it is. Closers get to play their music in the evening.” “Well, I really dig it.” “Thanks! I love all kinds of music, so my playlist is pretty diverse.”“You’re welcome. A diverse love for music is a good quality to have, at least in my

opinion.”Arthur finished his coffee in silence, enjoying the indie-rock tune. Once finished, he

grabs his wallet out from his coat. He lays $20 on the counter along with his number on the receipt. He figured if she ever wanted to talk music she could call him. He pushes back from the bar top counter; the chair sliding without a sound. As he makes his way to the door the song ends; the coffee house is quiet. He reaches for the handle, preparing to face the cold when she calls out to him

“Hey! Are you leaving so soon?”“Yeah, I think so.” He replied. He heard her boots thud softly on the tile as she

shuffled toward him.“So I take it you left your number so you could ask me out?” “That was not my intention. I just figured you would want to talk music sometime.

Besides you wouldn’t want to be seen out with a blind guy.” Rosa moved closer to him. She smelled like roses and coffee. She grabbed his

hand; it was soft like a cloud. “Nonsense” she replied, “I don’t just buy an album by its cover.”


the night of broken glassthe night of broken glassKathleen DoucetteKathleen Doucette

Roger reluctantly calls his wife from the local Bull In Mouth Saloon & Casino. Cassie swiftly picks up the phone, screaming “Hello!” louder she says “Roger is this you?” hearing a mixture of background noise: muffled conversations, twanging country music, slot machine bells and the fainted dinging of coin winnings clanking in metal trays. These sounds add fury to his wife’s already angry demeanor. “Answer me, dammit!” she demands. Scared, he hesitates to open his mouth, stumbling over each syllable, he begins the usual pleading, slurring his promised lies,

“ba, ba I love’s you honzey, peez don’t, don’t leaze me, I want to change!” After hurtful words exchange between them in their heated phone argument,

she bams the receiver down into his ear several times, cracking the sandstorm colored plastic on the kitchen wall mount telephone. She quickly turns toward the living room for her escape.

“What am I still doing with him? I’m so stupid!” Passing by his faded brown recliner, she excessively strikes his open newspaper laying on the wood floor, tossing The Press-Enterprise into the air, flinging the papers all over the living room. “Yah, scored!” she shouts with two arms up “field goal.” Cassie makes a precise, pivotal turn as she has done thousands of times before, gripping the banister post, strutting up the stairs to the master bedroom. Cascading up the curvy stairs with her heart racing in thoughts, “I’m leaving his sorry ass for good this time!” with each running step she jump-skips each middle step to make it quicker to reach the top. Cursing venomously under her breath, with one arm gripping the scrolled rod-iron railing and the other swinging with pointed shooting acquisitions to nothingness in mid-air. After reaching the top, she turns, gripping the railing with both hands and screams to the invisible living room audience below her in reverberation throughout the house “I’m so done with his mother F *’s bullshit, he is a LOSER, why can’t he just STOP drinking and flushing all our money down the drain!” The bedroom door slams behind her echoing residuals of injury throughout the house. She presses her smashed face against the cold glass of the bedroom window yelling “I’m sure all of you screwed up neighbors are going to get a kick hearing this fight tonight!” Flipping off the darkness outside.

Frustrated with his weaknesses, she races to her closet to grab her suitcase, the two mirror doors slide in unison to the other side, colliding into the third with a loud thug, hitting and rumbling the adjacent floor rails, causing the mirrors to jump up and off their metal tracks. The doors fall back into the groves with no damage done. Cassie jumps upward to try and reach the giant suitcase on the top shelf, she can’t reach it and trips landing on her right thigh and hip [thud sound.] “Oh shit!” struggling in pain to get up again, rolling over on her back holding her hip with her injured palms that broke her fall, she struggles, this time finding a sturdy shoe box to step up on, finally grabbing the suitcase with both hands, she angrily flings the suitcase through the air just like an Olympic swimmer doing the backstroke. The suitcase lands on the bed, bouncing upward, knocking into the crystal lamp on the nightstand, “Oh no, oh shit, whatever!” she yells. The lamp topples along with their framed wedding picture, both

Fiction Fiction


pieces dropping unto the ground, also, knocking her night creams, clock, and glasses to the floor. The glass of the lamp and picture frame falls, shattering into a million fractured pieces upon the impact on the cold ceramic tile. “He can clean that one up, that stupid jerk, he expects me to be the good little housewife, to cook and clean, yeah, right.” “I will leave his sorry ass; then he will straighten his life out.

Hands trembling, she checks her wristwatch, it’s 9:32 pm, she races against the clock to pack before he arrives home from the bar. Rolling up her sleeves while leaping with stroke speed across the room to pick up the suitcase off the ground, suddenly stopping to a halt to carefully tiptoe across the layer of shattered shards of glass, crunching and crackling beneath her beige Toms shoes. This time, carefully hand-placing the suitcase on the bed. She scrambles to locate the damn zipper, “Finally,” [Zip zip zip.] She runs to unload the right side of the 4-tiered dresser drawers, first her panties, then bras, socks, and bathing suits. Then jaunts back to the closet, grabbing and cupping to her chest as many shoes as she can hold, throwing them into the suitcase one-by-one, turning back again toward the closet she catches a glimpse of herself in the closet mirror.

She sighs, pauses a moment to stare at herself in the mirror. Flushed red face, heart-pounding, panted breathing, the adrenaline rushes subside, but anger and anguish continue to grip her emotional state; her weathered distraught lines on her forehead and face show how tired she is. Slowly walking up, staring into the mirror, brushing away the ratted, sweaty hair sticking to her face; she begins to sob. Big tears stream down her cheeks like drops of desert rain hitting the pavement.

Cassie pauses a moment, and contemplates doubts and hesitates to continue the packing, her thoughts recall, “But, I do still love him, why doesn’t he care about us, to get help?” The cracked wedding picture on the floor lays on top of the shattered glass, she remembers her wedding like it was yesterday, she returns to pick it up, and is torn, having second thoughts about walking out, quitting their 10-year marriage. The vibration of the electric garage door startles her as the door opens beneath her feet.

A silent whisper escapes her lips “Oh God he’s home.”


I, CoronaI, CoronaKeeano AgustiadiKeeano Agustiadi

Throughout history, I’ve taken on various forms and have been called a number of names: “Azrael”, “The Angel of Death”, or even “The Tenth Plague”, but recently, my newest form is widely recognized as “The Corona Virus.” Peer at me through your microscopes and you will see my crown. Yes, it was I who took the lives of the firstborns of Egypt during God’s Exodus of the Israelites and now I claim your elderly. You, humans, are not worthy to speak on equal terms with me, but you probably wonder, “Why are you doing this to us? Is it punishment?” Oh please, in a perfect world, everyone would receive exactly what they deserve, the good are rewarded and the wicked are damned. If I were truly punishing the wicked, do you think Tom Hanks would be quarantined in Australia?

No, I do not discriminate. I returned to restore the balance that you humans have upset as you abuse the Nature that God has bestowed upon you since His Genesis. You multiply and you take from the land, seas, and skies but you hardly give back in your feeble attempts to recycle and conserve life. How many beloved creatures have gone extinct because of your greed and technology in order to impose your will and become more godlike? Such hubris! It is only fitting that my viral form will originate within the bat, the creature of the night, sacrifice, and death.

Those of you called the Chinese were the first to dare indulge upon the flesh of the bat. Because of their greedy government, they were forced to venture out and consume new animals, but all of you should have been content with the plentiful fruits and vegetables you were given! You should be thankful that the bats were protecting you from the vermin preying upon your crops as one can hunt down 500 insects within the time frame of an hour. And now, due to your part in climate change, Africa must suffer the wrath of the locusts. Yet despite these shortages in food, too many of you fight each other over toilet paper.

Even before the scare, washing your hands and using hand sanitizer should have been common sense, but it took thousands of people dying to motivate you into cleanliness. Just as a forest grows too thick, it must burn down to create space for a new life. This is my way of thinning the herd; only the strong survive in humanity’s test. Many of you will go infected without showing any symptoms to symbolize your ignorance. Then, you will help spread the cause by coughing upon others. The final trial will be to see who can endure exhaustion and fiery fever. I will rain my wrath upon the weak by targeting those with asthma, diabetes, and heart disease!

Oh, that is cute, more of you are wearing masks to prevent me from spreading. What good will that do when you all typically TOUCH YOUR FACE!!!!!! It is like some irresistible itch, furniture to face, a handrail to face, steering wheel to face, etc. Some of you even wear gloves, but I bet it gets sweaty in there after a while. Even washing hands is too tedious for you. You need to scrub your hands with hot water and soap for 20 seconds but most of you do it for only 5. What new lows have you sunk to if you sing 2 Happy Birthdays, Cardi B choruses, or Lizzo lyrics while washing your hands?

I will give you some credit though, your efforts are slowing me down, but how

Fiction Fiction


content can you be when I have already infected every continent? “Social Distancing”, ha! Let us see how long that will last. You, humans, are creatures of the company who need each other to survive and I will use that against you. How common is it in your cultures to shake hands, hug each other, or greet by pecking a kiss on each other’s cheeks? Old habits are hard to break, aren’t they? China shut down, Italy shut down, America shut down, but people are not shutting up because Corona Virus is all everyone is talking about. I am trending worldwide!

It seems China got the message by closing its wet markets. They were a central cesspool for the disease to trickle down animal cages with fluids, blood, and feces. Sure, the meat is fresh when you slaughter the poultry in front of the customer, but so is the pathogen. South Korea took me by surprise with their drive-thru testing. How innovative to have people already social distancing inside their metal pods to confirm whether they are infected by just rolling down their window. The Pope must be desperate if he allowed Mass to be transferred via screens around the globe.

President Trump never had a problem keeping people out with his sanctioning of his Mexican Border Wall and travel bans from the Middle East and Europe. What is it with you mortals and your money? I am causing an economic recession, the stock market is crashing, and all your investors are scrambling to recover. No more Disneyland, no more eating out, and no more school. Well, in person anyway. It is a good thing online classes were invented before I came along because America would be a lot dumber. The introverts must be having the time of their lives by now. They were always staying indoors playing Fortnite, reading books, or watching Netflix. Speaking of which, I wonder if I am helping streaming companies or making them crash with overwhelming demand?

Funny how things turn out, Democratic candidate Andrew Yang proposed universal income in the primary elections but after signs of the apocalypse, it turns out that Donald Trump is the one who ends up planning to disburse it in his stimulus package. Imagine what a college student can do with $1,200 a month. Would they spend it all at once? Would they put it in their savings account to lower their credit card debt or pay student loans? It is a blessing from the government, but the wealthier corporations keep demanding more for themselves. Therefore, I am punishing you, humans, as a whole; you are all inherently greedy and take as much as you can without being satisfied with what you need.

Yes, I am solemn and am aware of the suffering I am causing among you. The Chinese doctors scream into the phone to their superiors that they want to die because hospitals are overcrowded. Inner-city children starving because they receive their breakfast and lunch from schools that are now closed. Child abuse cases unreported by teachers because governors mandate that everyone must stay at home. But you humans are motivated by fear and must learn your lesson. This purge is for the greater good so that through your suffering, you will come out stronger.

Are you all not forced to spend more time with your families that you neglected with social media? Granted, it seems you are motivated to use social media even more, but at least it is within close proximity to your loved ones. And traffic cleared up throughout the freeways everywhere thanks to me. You’re welcome. Going back to my place of origin, pollution emission clouds are no more above the dense population of


China because I made everyone abandon their vehicles. I am taking back the planet one city at a time.

Respectively, since China is the one that first suffered my wrath, they are also the first ones to advance in fighting back. Robocop heat visors to check traveler body temperatures. What will they think of next? Adding social distancing to infrared technology is really making my job more difficult. No new cases within the Wuhan city limits after 5 months is impressively fast. It seems I underestimated you humans after all. Not bad.

It seems I am fighting a losing battle; summer is imminent and on top of your social distancing, I can no longer spread effectively. 80% of you who are infected, but can survive, will be immune to me for the rest of your lives. Public places will reopen and the Olympics will carry on. Time will tell if humanity learns its lesson. My mortality rate will only put a dent in your population as you continue to reproduce and will have to learn to co-exist.

I exercised my might in many ways, such as “The Black Plague”, “Smallpox”, and “The Spanish Flu” but each time, humanity comes back stronger for it (and hopefully smarter too). One year passed and your doctors distributed vaccinations for me across the globe. Countries were able to work together, and bipartisan actions proved that the American opposing political parties could unite in times of crisis. I am impressed by your more generous efforts to donate packaged goods to your less fortunate when they were not able to go outside. Perhaps you humans are not a lost cause after all.

There will be some changes to your way of life after my Corona Virus scare. The formerly mainstream practice of shaking hands, hugging, and greetings with pecks on the cheeks will be discouraged. People will prefer conducting business behind a screen rather than in person. Patriotism will shift from the military to those doctors, nurses, pharmacists, caregivers, store employees, chefs, and all essential workers who put themselves at risk on the front lines to fight my pandemic. These community heroes will be given discounts and told, “Thank you for your service.” Governments will be less polarizing as me providing you with a common enemy and a shock to your system will encourage you to work together. My Corona Virus serves as a wake-up call for your general populations to trust medical experts and demand a more practical function out of your governments than just emotional relief. I will be watching closely, for if I do not see improvement among humanity, I will unleash zombies upon you all…

Fiction Fiction


Jane’s CubicleJane’s CubicleMichael ReynaMichael Reyna

Option 1

Walk to your cubicle and say hi to Toby as you pass by his cubicle. You’ll see a picture of his wife and daughter, where it seems as though they’re on an island. Try not to remember that you live in a one-bedroom apartment, that has a leaking sink and that same sink has to be used for the bathroom and dishes. After having said hi, go to your “office” and look at your computer screen and try to remember why you ever wanted to work here. Your space only has a picture of your parents with a stack of sticky notes and a roll of tape. Grab the three sticky notes above your computer screen and throw them away. Try to look busy.

Option 2

When you sit down at your “office” start up the computer and see if you can find any interesting sites on the dark-net. No one monitors your screens, so you can spare thirty minutes. Find a dealer or dealers and see what their prices are on experimental marijuana, meth, or coke. If you find a good deal that goes over thirty-dollars, go into your gas money. If you obtain all three drugs or more, try all of them at once later tonight. You might not wake up, but you’ll feel okay with that.

Option 3

Screw your job. Yell out you quit and roll the bulky ass, four-foot-tall printer over the gray carpet and out the floor-to-ceiling window. It’ll either destroy itself or a car. Grab the photo of your parents and go back down the elevator. Place the framed photo on the passenger seat of your white 2003 Camry, with a dented back bumper, and drive down Lake Street. You might be charged for the broken window, but you won’t worry about it until you’re three towns over. Call your mother and listen to the deadline. Call her again for the same result.

Option 4

Do things straight-forward as soon as Mr. Richard comes. He always walks out the elevator, says his simple, “Good Morning everyone,” and enters the office with red-brown walls. No enthusiasm, no energy, no eye contact, and no care in this goddamn world. When he enters through his newly furnished door, you’ll grab your old, rusted box cutter and slip it into your short boots. Also, be glad you don’t follow the dress-code to its entirety. Make sure the blade is tucked in and secured so it doesn’t slip out or even poke out, your pants are so skinny that they make everything noticeable. Knock on his office door and gently grab the silver handle, rotating it downward. He’ll likely say, “Hey, come on in,” while the door’s open as you enter and change his tone


once the door clicks closed. You’ll sit in front of him on one of the two black, leather chairs, and he’ll ask you if there’s anything you want to talk about. Make sure you’re good at small talk because he likely knows you’re still pissed about last Friday. Pretend you’re itchy or drop an extra accessory, a pen, or bracelet, or something, whichever seems most convenient. At that moment you have to be quick and make sure you have the blade already poking out of the orange frame, as you pick your body back upright. With your right hand, keep the blade at least an inch away from your skin and reach over his chocolate brown desk; go directly into and across his throat. He’ll likely grab his throat, as his hands, white button-down shirt, and keyboard get covered in his blood. It won’t be long before he accepts his fate. Everyone outside this office will suspect you, so put the cutter in his hand and make sure to roll up your sleeves so your bruises become visible, which were technically made by him.

Option 5

Go to work. This has been your dream job anyway. Don’t let the stack of stapled papers in your cabinet intimidate you. When you’re done for the day in your five-foot-wide cubicle, remember to take the navy blue sweater out of the car because it needs a wash. Dial 9-1-1 and file a report against Richard. They won’t believe you because you’ve been resting a bag of ice onto your arms and legs every night.

Option 6

If you see Richard outside after work, wait for him to walk across the coding company’s parking lot and when you have an opening, hit him with your car. Put the car in reverse and feel the temporary speed-bump beneath your tires to be certain that it’s done. Go to the car wash afterward and wash off the new dent; there should be a sale today.

Fiction Fiction


lydia in the parklydia in the parkanthony Alasanthony Alas

Lydia stood on the corner on 72nd and Central Park West, with her poodle, Monet. Traffic roared by. Steam rose from the street. Trees swayed freely, from across Central Park. The Dakota building’s façade became more haunting. Lydia ignored the elegant scenery. She cared more about her own façade. Her black hair was elegantly groomed, big sunglasses hid her from prying eyes, and a lime green power suit, with matching heels, revealed a chic sense of style.

She marched across the street to Central Park, with Monet in tow. The park was littered with the typical characters. Tourists took pictures of John Lennon’s Strawberry Fields tribute. Joggers ran at high speed. A few people power-walked. A cast of different New Yorkers mingled on the park benches. The green leaves collided with a gray sky. Monet pulled Lydia, aggressively. Through the side of her eyes, she noticed a familiar face, walking toward her. She did her best to ignore Marty, who mirrored a Chimney Sweeper from Mary Poppins and lost beatnik. Monet kept trying to rush over to him.

“Mrs. Domingo,” Marty yelled.Reluctantly, she turned around and muttered to herself, “fucking serendipitous

New York.”Marty approached her, “Wow, I haven’t seen you in forever. Have you been

traveling?”“No, Marty. I’ve been working from home.” Lydia said, rather sternly.“Oh, how’s that crazy son of yours. I miss him, so. He was one of my more eccentric

and talented students.” Marty said.Marty’s face went blank. Lydia held her cool. Monet barked, insistently. Trying to

shift the conversation, Marty played with Monet.“I goofed. I don’t think I should use certain adjectives to describe people, ” Marty

said.“It’s fine. He’s in London, recovering from his little predicament. I must go. We’re

heading to the Reservoir,” Lydia said, making her way from Marty, who looked very embarrassed.

Lydia breathed in quite heavy. She took a hankie from her purse and patted her flawless skin. The crowds began to give her anxiety. Lydia kept their cool, while she shook inside. The reservoir began to appear, expansive and gray. Before Lydia could further proceed, a male skater grabbed her by the shoulder. She hit him with her purse. He fell to the ground. Staring down at him, she felt embarrassed.

“Oh, Alejandro. I’m so sorry,” Lydia said, lifting him up. “That’s okay. I see you’re still wearing shoulder pads,” Alejandro said, with a

chuckle.“Some things never left the 80’s,” She said, with a slight smile. “My mom’s been asking about you and the family? Everything okay?” Alejandro

asked.“You want to ask about Stevie. Look, he’s in London. I need to visit him. I don’t


know how he will do after this madness ends,” Lydia said, sternly.“Understood, he was my first friend when we moved to the City. I’m bummed that

he’s suffering in any way. He’s such a talented artist,” Alejandro said.“Thank you, Alejandro,” Lydia said. “I think you’ll probably want your alone time. Good to see you,” Alejandro said to

Lydia, before skating away. Lydia waved, goodbye. Finally, she and Monet reached the Jacqueline Kennedy

Onassis Reservoir. Not fazed by the awkward encounters, Lydia breathed in the Central Park air. The stately apartment houses of Fifth Avenue distracted Lydia, per usual. Suddenly, Monet broke loose from his leash and started running from the Reservoir.

“Monet!” She yelled. Struggling to run in her flats, Lydia circled the park, franticly. She kept catching

glances of Monet. Finally, she tripped over a tree branch. Her beautifully tailored suit was covered in dirt and ripped at the knees. Eventually, Lydia was back on her feet again. Tears flowed from her face. Her makeup became smeared.

“Monet, where the fuck are you?” Lydia yelled. Even within the crowded park, everything became eerily silent. From a distance,

she thought it was a mirage. A young woman, eerily familiar, sat with a poodle. Lydia approached the park bench. The woman looked identical to Lydia but wore a t-shirt and jeans. The poodle barked. Lydia smiled. It was indeed, her Monet.

“Ma, what happened?” Anna asked. “I decided to play in the mud,” Lydia said, as she sat down.“Are you feeling alright?” Anna asked.“I’m just peachy. What do you think? Your brother is in the Looney Bin,” Lydia said. “I phoned him. It was just an episode gone wrong,” Anna said.“Just a little suicide attempt. I’m so sick of being judged. This is my fault. He’s

fucking nuts,” Lydia said. “I wouldn’t nominate you Mom of the Year. I do think he had mental problems for a

long time. He was a cutter. We all knew that.” Anna, said, as she petted Monet. “What? I never noticed that” Lydia said. “You were trying to sculpt us into your perfect children. Why would you?” Anna

said, laughing. “I was pretty open-minded,” Lydia said.“Oh, ma, please you were always telling me how to act, how to speak, how to

breathe,” Anna said. “Teaching you how to not be hillbillies,” Lydia replied, annoyed. “You needed to accept us the way we were. Stevie was going to do his own thing.

You know that” Anna said. “Alright, I can’t change the past. You two kids came out great. Even Stevie, a music

video director, working painter, surprised me. I’m just embarrassed to tell people,” Lydia said.

“Ma, who cares?” Anna replied. Lydia took off her sunglasses and felt relieved. Her big brown eyes were revealed.

She leaned in and hugged Anna, goodbye. They both stood up.“I need to go to London, tonight and take care of Stevie,” Lydia said.

Fiction Fiction


“Wow, really?” Anna asked. “I don’t understand him. At least, I can be there. He still loves me, right?”

Lydia asked. “Of course, you know he’s usually the more forgiving of the Domingo

family,” Anna said. “Off to see your brother in London, it is. I’ll leave tonight. Mind watching,

Monet?” Lydia asked. “Sure, I have a set of keys to your apartment,” Anna said. The two women parted ways. Lydia and Monet walked out of the park, a bit

more chipper. Her designer suit was still tarnished. Fortunately, she breathed more of the crisp New York air and embraced her imperfect façade.


Mama LindaMama LindaCandy NavarreteCandy Navarrete

Sometime around two in the morning, Lucinda Quintanilla awoke to the incessant buzzing of her cell phone. Rosalinda, her little sister, was on the other end of the line sobbing. She was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital with their abuelita, Mama Linda. Lucinda immediately hung up the phone. She looked to the other side of the bed, empty again, she thought to herself. Her husband, Marco, had been staying out late on a more frequent basis. Not willing to lose another second, Lucinda left her eldest daughter in charge of the three younger children with the promise she would be only a call away and to pray for Mama Linda.

Once in the car, she called her two closest primas, Gloriana and Aurora, but as expected she was greeted with the sound of voicemail prompts.

Outside, she was met with gale force winds only the Santa Ana’s could emit. Her usually clean and quiet street was thrust into turmoil. Lucinda drove her minivan as if in an obstacle course, dodging falling branches and swerving around wayward trash cans. She was determined to get to the hospital as soon as possible and there was no way Mother Nature would stop her.

Once free from the calamity of her neighborhood, Lucinda took controlled breaths, attempting to re-center herself. Her hands gripped the wheel. She was looking forward to seeing her sister again. It had been about a year since Rosalinda had abruptly left to live with Mama Linda and cut her out of her life. There was a pang in Lucinda’s heart every time she had thought of her sister the past year, and all her abuela would say is “be patient Lucita, she will come around quando esta lista”. Abuela was always right.

The yellow fluorescent lighting of the community hospital stung her weary eyes as she looked for the signs leading her to the emergency waiting room. A minute or two later she stood facing two metal industrial doors with small windows. Through one of the windows, she spotted her sister. Placing her sweaty hands on the cold metal bar, Lucinda entered the waiting room with a mixture of apprehension and eagerness.

There she was, Rosalinda sat facing the entrance, face blotchy-red from crying. Her arms wrapped around herself to keep her warm. She hadn’t changed out of her mismatched pajamas, skimpy shorts, and a tank top, but had managed to throw on an oversized zip-up sweater. At that moment, Lucinda saw not a fifteen-year-old teenage girl, but a little girl of six who had cried when she accidentally crushed a butterfly with her hand.

Rosalinda immediately got up from her seat. The two walked swiftly to one another, enveloping each other in a firm embrace. They stood there locked in the comfort of their sisterly bond. All the resentment Lucinda had let weigh on her corazón lifted away and her motherly instincts kicked in. Rosalinda let down the iron-clad gates of silence she had harbored towards her sister. They both stood quietly, intertwined, basking in the warmth of sisterly love and comfort.

Like two magnets, they had to force themselves apart. Rosalinda wiped her nose and cleared the phlegm from her throat in preparation to speak.

“I dunno what happened, Lucy. Abuelita was fine yesterday and she hadn’t

Fiction Fiction


complained of pains or anything. Then when I got up to go to the bathroom, she was on the floor. She wasn’t moving.” She broke out into tears again.

Lucinda pulled the stray strands of dampened hair off her sister’s face. She used the hanky she always kept at her wrist with a liga – just like abuela - and dabbed at the wetness on Rosalinda’s face. She looked straight into her sister’s coffee-brown eyes; they were a mirror image of her own.

“It’s all going to be ok, Rosi. I’m here for you and abuelita. You don’t have to worry about anything. I can handle it from here.” said Lucinda in a calm reassuring voice.

“I’m sorry…I’m…so…so…sorry, Lucy. For leaving like that. But I-”, Rosalinda stuttered between sobs. “I had to leave. Marco…he’s…he tried to”, she stopped mid-sentence, not sure of what exactly or how much she wanted to say. “He’s not a good man and… I didn’t want to be the one to end your marriage.”

Lucinda stood there in shock. Trying to process what her sister was alluding to. She immediately thought the worst. She was seething, heat rising in her cheeks, and when she thought her husband’s name, she saw red. In order to quell the rage building inside her, she prompted herself to speak.

“Tú eres mi familia, mi sangre. I helped raise you. You are my daughter more than a sister. Whatever he did was not ok. I wish you would’ve just told me, but I understand, Rosi. And you don’t have to tell me what exactly happened. I hope one day you can” said Lucinda.

Lucinda wrapped her arms around Rosalinda, whispering into her ear: “Whatever Marco did he’s gone. I have had the time to see him for who he is, he’s not the man I thought he was when we married. Thank you for letting me see it for myself, Rosi. I know how hard it was for you.”

Rosalinda nodded her head in understanding and dug her face into Lucinda’s shoulder. There was no doubting her sister. Lucinda had a way of seeing people for their truth. She felt stupid for not being upfront before but was relieved to know her sister had figured it out herself. The thought of what Marco tried to do that afternoon in the car made her cringe with revulsion. Rosalinda would not be ready to talk about it anytime soon. The simple fact that Lucinda just understood, no questions asked, was a deep relief. Having Lucinda here was a big reassurance.

Lucinda kissed the top of her sister’s head. Her heart was happy. Her soul strong enough to deal with whatever came next.

Wiping away her own tears, Lucinda tugged at her jacket, took a deep breath, and lifted her head high. She walked over to ask the nurse on duty for an update on Mama Linda’s condition. The nurse, lost in the emotional reunion unfolding in front of her, was rubbing out “a little something from her eye” and went to personally get an update.

The nurse made it back but could only confirm their Mama Linda was in emergency surgery and the doctor would give them an update on her condition soon. All Lucinda and Rosalinda could do were to sit and wait, sharing the highlights of their past year intermingled with their favorite moments of Mama Linda’s life.

Time was lost within the sterile and windowless waiting room. As if windows would give the family too much hope. Having run out of battery on both of their phones, las hermanas were surprised when the wind blew hard against the building and with it their


primas. Gloriana and Aurora appeared at the doorway with windblown hair and miss-matching articles of clothing. The second they laid eyes on Lucinda and Rosi, the two began to cry and walked with a hurried fervor over to the seated sisters. Before any hugs or greetings could be exchanged, a gust of questions was hurled at the girls. Their faces promptly grimaced at being told there was no update on their abuelita. And then came the second Spanish inquisition. The primas launched themselves into a fit of complaints: why hadn’t they picked up their phones? How come either of them isn’t doing more to get an update? Has the rest of the familia been called?

The sisters sat there, not moving an inch, holding hands; relying on their combined strength to keep it together. Instinctually, both girls stood up in unison and grabbed each prima into a tight hug. Bringing an end to their relentless interrogation. The primas eased, their bodies relaxing and returned the embrace. They apologized for acting like locitas, commenting how nice it was Lucinda and Rosalinda were speaking once again. Wanting to intervene, Mama Linda had told them not to; it would all work out with time.

Rosalinda smiled thinking back to all the talks she had shared with her Mama Linda. Then saddened at the thought that there would be no more abuela to talk to.

As they quieted down, tired from the long night which had turned to morning according to the bright white numbers signaling on their phones, it was 6 AM. Lucinda settled her head on her sister’s shoulder and with Rosalinda’s head weight on hers, she took this opportunity to whisper to her, “You’re coming home with me”. Within a couple of seconds, she had dozed off for what she hoped would be a quick nap.

Lucinda was asleep, lightly enough to hear the commotion in the awake world, but also deep enough to be in a dream world. She stood in Mama Linda’s rose garden. Her abuelita stood in front of her looking down, she was young again. Lucinda was a little girl, eleven years old, her heart-shaped face wet with tears and her body shook with every sorrowful intake of air. Mama Linda bent down to get on her knees to be eye level with Lucinda, reaching out to cup Lucinda’s face. This was the day of her mother’s funeral.

“Mijita. Mi Lucita de amor, cry all the tears out. Let the pain and hurt flow from your body” said Mama Linda in her soft birdlike voice.

“Don’t worry mija, I’m going to be fine. Es mi tiempo” continued Mama Linda. Wiping at the tears with the hankie she always had attached to her wrist.

Lucinda was never much for words as a child. She blinked through the tears. Wiping her nose before reaching out for her abuelita, wrapping her arms around her and hugging as tightly as she could.

“Don’t leave me yet, abuelita. I still need you.” Said Lucinda. It was all she could manage to say.

“Aye mi Lucita, it’s time for me to join your abuelito. I wanted to see you one last time, to hold you in my arms, para darte un besito and tell you how proud I am of you. Of the woman you became the day tu mamá passed and even more proud when you stepped up to take care of Rosi after your papi left. I’m sorry, you had to grow up too fast. I know it was hard for you.” Said, Mama Linda.

Lucinda pulled herself away from the embrace to look at her abuelita once again.

Fiction Fiction


She was old and frail now. Her eyes remorseful, but fearless. She stood up but was now looking up at Lucinda, who was now her current adult height. Lucinda smiled, looking down at her. This time it was her turn to hold her abuelitas face in her hands.

“La Familia is strong again. Don’t let yourselves drift apart otra vez, there won’t be another chance. It’s up to you, you have always been the head, your primas the heart, and your hermanita the soul. You all need each other.” Said Mama Linda, pausing to look at something far away, her eyes glistening with tears. “I have to go now, Lucita.”

Lucinda was unable to move. She didn’t want to let go of Mama Linda, but her human form transformed into a million white rose petals. The petals hung in the air where her abuelita had been, forming the shape of her human form. A light breeze came out of nowhere, taking with it the rose petals, floating delicately into the blue sky until they vanished into the horizon. Her arms were still floating in the air, hands grasping the void that was once her abuelitas face.

From afar she could hear the faint sounds of howling cries. Her primas. The pressure of Rosalinda’s head had been lifted off hers. Through her blurry vision, she saw the form of a doctor in scrubs come into focus with his arms around Gloriana. Aurora’s head buried into the nape of Gloriana’s neck. Rosalinda was stoically quiet. All Lucinda could do was smile and cry; lingering was the scent of rose petals and sunshine.


PoetryPoetry


A Boring DystopiaA Boring DystopiaNatalie ThompsonNatalie Thompson

A car pulls up to the drive throughThe CVS sign shone brightReminding everyone that they are openAmong the dark bleakness surrounding the building

Plastic covers the pharmacy in the back of the storeEverything filtered through a grainy texture,As bodies move around insidePill bottles filled and shoved into UPS bags,Construction masks cover all their faces whereThere was once nothingCovering expressions of grimness, terror,Who knows anymore

The Window doesn’t openA speaker booms‘How can I help you’,With a quick exchange of a driver licenseAnd a couple rumpled dollar bills

The operation goes as fast as possibleWith the pill bottles pushed into the carTo push the process forwardA pill bottle marked‘Unable to be delivered’One of the few still on the shelfThe rest tucked away in UPS Bags

The car drives off just as quicklyArriving home to quickly sanitizeThe bodies, the license, the bottle,Mask removedAnd hands wash.To continue life as if this is allNormal


12.02.1512.02.15Steven HinkleSteven Hinkle

For the fallen, their families, and the city of San Bernardino.

There was no mentionOf our old eyesores—The abandoned buildings Made blacker by structure Fires. Structure fires That further orphan the home-Less. The homeless who Push strollers and carts filled With plastic, cloth, and aluminum Like their children.

There was no mentionOf our new Superior CourtPerched on the corner of WestThird Street and North Arrowhead Avenue, overlooking Meadowbrook Park and the flood control channel Running through it—overlooking Makeshift tents and the communal showerWith prejudicial eyes of justice.

There was no mentionOf our veterans living shipwrecked Along the barren banks of the Santa Ana, Behind the swollen, unairconditioned homes Of the smiling A to Z saviorWho entraps US under the wheelsOf conglomerate progress, reducing Our roads to rubble.

There was no mentionThat our city is deemed To be dirty like an impureSolicitor of the mediocre Street walkers who walkThe desperate beat of Baseline. Dirty like the needles clogging The arteries of inherited homesFollowing grief and slow transition.

poetrypoetry


There was no mentionOf the bullets shipped in a rushLike Hallmark cards And Forget-Me-NotsOn a Memorial Day—The everyday in our indebted Inner city, where Dr. King Is gawping, dreaming on The restive steps of our City Hall.

But when the bullets flew insideThe Inland Regional Center During a holiday office party—Catching the fertile fleshOf irreplaceable family branches and life-Long friends—we caught their attention.

We were given spin For a news cycle and a precedential election.

For the War on TerrorBut not our peace at home.


My Country My Country Michael MontrieMichael Montrie

I used to love my country as a child, pledging allegiance to ideas and dreams

I used to be proud like Lee Greenwood, not because I thought we were the greatest country on Earth, not because my Father served, but because we were supposed to be the good guys

I used to believe in justice, until I realized I had never truly seen it beforeI used to believe like everybody else did, until they just stopped

I saw a pandemic invade people’s lungs as they struggled to breath, and the person they were supposed to look to for protection said it’s a “new hoax”

I saw another pandemic that was never cured, nor treated, force its knee yet again on an innocent man’s neck as he struggled to say, “I can’t breathe.”

I used to love my country as a child, truth is, I only loved the idea of it.

poetrypoetry


Making Ends Meet Making Ends Meet Gabriel List Gabriel List

I was crossing the bridge, on my way to see you. Halfway, I made it, before I decided to jump. I felt my bones break against the surface of the river below, filling my skin with ash and sediments, then swept away, with earthly sentiment. You may have stayed up waiting for a call that you’ll never get. Maybe you had a moment of thought of where I had gone, and that would be the last thought of me - you will ever have again. Like the river time erases all. Let’s say you mention me in passing to a friend. Perhaps they’d carry my name in their pocket for a week. A week later, after doing laundry, the friend checks their pockets to see that I have turned to lint. After rubbing it between their thumb and fingertips, the lint dissipates into space. You see, brick by brick, we built this bridge. Even if I’m gone, one day, you will too. My calloused fingers, and your swollen feet, together, we built this bridge, connecting you - me. The bridge will last longer than both you and I, slowly, it will grow splendors of foliage that will mask the crumbling stone, slowly, cleansing human artifice, as it slips into the river, the bridge itself will meet its end and that’s alright by me.


Why it Felt Like a Dream Why it Felt Like a Dream Gabriel List Gabriel List

Her eyes are sunflowers drowning in oceans and I’m the one who drowned them.

What is love, really? Is it until death? departure? Tell me the difference.

We were walking on the beach, barefooted, toes leaving impressions behind us. We were heading somewhere nowhere, it didn’t matter at the time, because we knew time, was almost out.

The full moon folded the fabric of waves, where timid foam left salty pecks against our ankles. She cuffed my jeans, looked up at me, and I saw myself inside her. She then whispered - promise me -before my lips could part she sunk into the sea.

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The Lost Lovers The Lost Lovers Halee BushmanHalee Bushman

The sun hits my face rather harshly through the window,reminding me that morning has come again.Yet as I turn in my bed reaching out I am reminded,about the empty spot next to me.I stay there for a second reminiscing,trying to remember what your warmth felt like,merging into mine.

How we used to cause fires of love and passion,never growing cold. The things we built with our same love, shielding us from the outside world,the negativity, the pain, the rage, and so much more. Yet you can’t be here I thought.

I try to clear my head by getting out of bed,out of the place we laid and talked about life,out of the place where you loved me with all of you,the place I promised you my heart, when I should have made you promise me... Now I am cold again trying to warm myself.


Search For Self Search For Self Victoria RowlandVictoria Rowland

A subdued trace of lavenderthe smell preceding rainyou are,standing amongst a gardenof tepid stonesa windchime hums itsmetallic music to the breezeas mandarin skies swirlinto dark glittered night,their movement, an unhurried velvetgrumbling —I closed my eyes,left you here, in the uncertain

in my searching for youa storm is unceasingly overheadreminding meI kept myself fed with fragments and discardswhich was tolerable enough for a while,but you are achingyour voice a murder of crowsI know,I am a ghost of the woman I once wasshe may not ever be salvaged

I attempt to keep my feet grounded,rooted in with hydrangeas on that rusted trellis—our shoulders brushing against each otherreleasing our love odor,our pink pollinated petal bodiesyearning outwards forlight,away from home— I left you here, too,in the softness, the jasmine milk

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my burning was brought about bypointed edged words, prescriptions,and clenched fists —I spared you thisby locking you away, abandoned ina safe corner of memoryin hope that I could release you,back into light,let vitamin D penetrate yourcellsignite your cold blood in the flamesof the sun, of us —I wish I could find you, now,but you’re gone,I have hid you too well


Needed Comfort Needed Comfort Denise KollockDenise Kollock

Bed that comforts my body temporary, wishing his armsfulfill the void deep, down insidewhere the silence breaks by chatter, echoing the undecorated walls- plain, rough textures. Hands that grasps onto the controller, traveling away from reality- getting out of this box, confined, stuck processing thoughtskeeping my brain, my mind intact. Doing the right thing for myself, doesn’t please others- why let that take a toll? When you’re doing just fine.

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Moving Forward Moving Forward denise Kollockdenise Kollock

Days upon days, thoughts continuing within this complicated mind, a mind that’s driven to be in the clearbut also in confusion, a train of processgoing by what’s needed for myself, even if it’d make others feel some type of way- even if it’s getting back on track, back to where you belong.

Maybe the foolish games are old, old energy wastedmaybe it’s part of growing up, just maybe it’s the point where all, I mean...

all of it is draining

just, maybe it’s for the best to stay distant,growing in

separate ways.


Whirlwind Whirlwind Scott WatersScott Waters

You satsmiling and faton a table at a roadside shopin the Santa Cruz mountains

soft white hands lifted youinto the sunshine,blue eyes adoringyour creamy terracottaroundness,gift of the kiln

the hands carried youto a carwhere you sat contentedin a lapall the way to your new homein the Oakland hills.~Shelf life suited you,the clock at your elbowtaking bitesout of the riverof light and shadowpouring in through the windows,rippling over your bald headand sloped shoulders

and when the fire came,charging like a bullthrough the canyons,tearing into the timbers,knocking them down on your headin a galloping gust of sparks,

you kept smilingeven as the flameswhipped you white,an orange creamsicklelicked to the bone.~

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The next morningyou squatted greyand serenein the smoking ashesamong scorched bricksand hunks of blackened wood,the tombstone chimneysrolling away across the hills,more than 3,000 of thembrooding and tiltingin the mild October sunshine.~The soft white handsfound you again

and the blue eyes welledat the sight of the blastedwhite dome of your headpeeping from the rubble

today you sit on a different shelfin the house my wife and I share

the only possession from her lifebefore the fire

the Buddhawho survived

the whirlwind.


Egypt Egypt Alissa RamirezAlissa Ramirez

“I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house ofslavery.”(Exodus 20:2 NIV)

I remember the days whereI would number my days

I remember when I was idle, dead, and lacked praise

No voice, mere destruction, pure chaosI was in complete loss

Carry me to the land filled with milk and honeyOn my knees in praise I see that I was never truly alone

In an absolute devour, thinking that I was going insaneIn the midst of it all I read of a manWhen I was in my time of desperation

He, she, they were all prayinBy the Holy Ghost they were slainAcknowledging You, learning to see that life means acknowledging the previous stain

It has been my flesh that has been slainTrying one last time to remove the veilFrom my eyes, trying to get back to prayinNo longer lingering in flesh; layingWhen Thy King said, Rise you no longer have that deathly stain

My King says, I have called you to thee nations, you my child are loveBe free like I intended all my creations to beYou are my white dove

Child I have created you to purely love

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I Make Her Rice I Make Her Rice Dominik J. Gonzalez-AmayaDominik J. Gonzalez-Amaya

She taught me when I was still quiet.She shouldn’t be making food, butShe wants to feel normal.

The chopping of the onions release tears ofConfusion, anger and fear.The boiling water is my mind in a pot.

The heat gathers up around us and my momRemoves the bandanna from her head.I try not to look, but her baldness shows her strength. She’s too tired to stand and sits at the kitchen table,Explaining what to do and how to do it.

I stir her ingredients and cover it upWith a top and foil.Just like everything else.I eat her recipe and feel her love through the food.The cancer may take her, but I will stillMake her rice.


I’ve Got Nothing But Dreams On I’ve Got Nothing But Dreams On My Side My Side natalie Thompsonnatalie Thompson

My 4th grade teacherWrote:‘Boundless-Will go far’On my report card‘A pleasure to have in class’My mom hung it up on our white fridge

Now,It all feels wastedI used to be able to taste my potential Like the finest tasting menu at the Vineyard I’ll never be able to affordOr the many jobsI can no longer work.

I can feel my potential Crawling out of my full-size bedAs each day passes unnoticed And I still can’t moveThe pain wraps her fingers around My wrist and pins me downDigging her claws down my armstill there’s no blood left

My ambition was once hiding under my comforterWith me,The weight of this comforter was the only thing keeping Me grounded As with the 101-degree sun Peeked in behind the blackout curtainsReminding me of the Empty white fridge doorBut now I can’t find the ambition.It’s disappeared from under

All these blankets And it feels easier to Just give in

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Maskless Faces Maskless Faces Angela GrummettAngela Grummett

And when I returnTo sunlightTo moonlightAnd maskless faces—

To crowded coffee shops —I can smell the brewing and the beansCan hear the grind of the machinesAlready —

And library floors —No need to cleanTables or seatsOr lovely dusty book covers—

And church pews—Incense, crosses, glass windows,Baptisms and I do’s,Sacrifice of love in our hands —

And city lights—And bright nights—And kids at play—And school today—And eating out till we explode—And knowing there’s nothingIn this lifewe can ever truly know—

And you Yes, you—

I have missed you, too.


Masking The Pain Masking The Pain Danielle ColladoDanielle Collado

53 days before my graduation date,I was slapped in the faceWith an email which told meThat the ceremony I had anticipated my whole lifeWas not going to happen.

46 days before my graduation date,I ordered my cap and gown,Because even though part of me didn’t see the point, The other part of me refused to give upthe date that is rightfully mine.

But even with a confirmation email Saying that my order is on its way,It still feels likeI traded my cap and gown For a mask,Not only for our protection,But so that I can mask the pain—The pain of not being able to walk.

March 12, 2020Was my last day on campus,And I didn’t even know.But had I known,I would’ve hugged My friends a little tighter And tell my professors The “thank you” they deserve.Most of us couldn’t wait to leave,but now we’d do anything To come back.

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June 13th, 2020.I waited for this date—Sacrificed my time, My sleep,My energy,My blood, sweat, & tears For nearly 4 years45 months195 weeks 32,850 hours1,972,500 minutes118,350,000 secondsOnly to find out that my ceremony isn’t happening.

And on this day, I thought I’d be crying tears of joyAs I shake hands with the university’s president And turn my tassel from right to left.But instead,You’ll find me in bedWith my pajamas still on—Crying. Just crying.Not with my cap, but with my mask, on.

I waited for this date—Sacrificed my time, My sleep,My energy,My blood, sweat, & tears For nearly 4 years45 months195 weeks 32,850 hours1,972,500 minutes118,350,000 seconds

Only to find out that it isn’t happening.

And on this day, I thought I’d be crying tears of joyAs I turn shake hands with university’s president And turn my tassel from right to left.


But instead,You’ll find me in bedWith my pajamas on,Crying. Just crying. I am hurt, I am scared,I’m sad and disappointed. Devastated is an understatement. I know that a postponement Isn’t synonymous to a cancellation,And for that, I am thankful.But it doesn’t change the factThat we were robbed of the final moments Of our senior year And the ceremony that we deserve.

It hurts to know that June 13 Will just be another normal day,But just remember that we are a Special group of people.We lived through 9/11,The 2008 recession,The 2009 H1N1 & Ebola pandemics.

But if we can make it through all of that, We can make it through this pandemic, too. Ceremony or not, We--as the class of 2020— Have finally crossed the finish line,

Congratulations, class of 2020.We made it.


Diary Entries: Diary Entries: Parenting Through The Chaos Parenting Through The Chaos brandi Cannonbrandi Cannon

COVID -19 has had a huge impact on our society. Parents are asked now to transform their living rooms into classrooms, offices, play areas and lunch rooms. As a parent, parenting can sometimes be challenging. There are many obstacles that can be discouraging at every stage. Whether that be dealing with exhaustion or the tantrums of toddlerhood or arguing siblings. Now that we’re in quarantine, I know these challenges have become more intense. To shed light on the current parenting issue, I thought I’d share my experience as a single mother struggling through the pandemic. To all of my fellow parents out there, you are not alone. This parenting thing has its bumps in the road, but were all in this together.

Friday March 13, 2020

It was a rainy day; alerts and reports about potential school closure filled my inbox. It was a week before spring break, and the students were restless. Ten minutes before the sixth bell to finish the day. Mrs. Kerr announced that school will be closed from March 13th to April 9th. The bell rang, students ran through painted teal halls as if they just hit the lottery. This was also the week of finals. I was attending CSUSB full time taking five English classes, working full time, along with being a single mother of a four-year-old. I felt relieved; this was great news. I wouldn’t have the stress of the day-to-day hustle bustle. In fact, I thought I would have had time to complete all of my final papers without having to pull all-nighters.

Monday March 16, 2020

The day Governor Gavin Newsom ordered the temporary closure of malls, theme parks, sporting events, and set safety guidelines for keeping at least six feet away from each other. Whoever is 65 or older and anyone with chronic health conditions is advised to stay at home. Overnight, I thought this has become an instant nightmare. It was the day before my daughter’s fourth birthday. We were planning to go to Disneyland this year instead of having a party. Here I was stressing about completing my finals. I felt like a bad mom for not having a backup plan. How do you tell your child



that the trip she’s been looking forward to isn’t going to happen? How did I explain to her that she can’t celebrate at her favorite restaurant, Chili’s? How was I going to explain to her that she couldn’t take cupcakes, pizza or ice cream to school to celebrate with her friends? As I promised a couple of days ago. My chest was tight, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It all happened so fast, but I knew I had to come up with something quick. I ordered decorations and gifts on Amazon. Placed an order for cupcakes and balloons from a local bakery. I also arranged lunch catering from Chili’s. The ability to solve problems and adapt quickly to any situation is one of the many qualities of parenting.

Tuesday April 21, 2020

The second week of Spring Quarter. This would work perfectly, I thought. Now I can work from home, take classes and spend more time with my daughter. But things don’t always go as expected as they say. My last quarter at CSUSB I once again enrolled in five courses but all online this time. I set up a schedule for working in class time, meetings, teaching my daughter, working out and helping the teacher and students I work with. Sounds easy right? Easy is not an accurate statement. I was so overwhelmed I started slacking off, barley making deadlines, missing meetings and struggling to keep a schedule. Attending zoom meetings every Tuesday and Thursday; work from 9am to 11am, school from 12pm to 2pm. I didn’t understand how some of my professors expected us to complete multiple assignments along with attending lengthy zoom meetings. I thought they must not have children or small children anyway. Have you ever tried to read or get any kind of work done that requires concentration around a small child? Yeah, it’s not happening. Every five minutes “Mommy can you play with me? Mommy are you almost done? Mommy I’m hungry? Can I play with slime? Can I play with sand?”. “Mommy! Mommy!” Repeated like a broken record over and over again. Along with living in a household of seven. My younger sister home from college, younger brother distance learning, father self-employed and two grandparents who are both retired. Have you ever lived in a household filled with distractions, chaos, anxiousness and uncertainty? Siblings are arguing with my daughter because she wants their attention and would do whatever it took to get it. Everyone’s got something to complain about “Brandi come get your daughter! Brandi watch your kid! Brandi control you child, she’s out of control!”. “Brandi, Brandi, Brandi” I just wanted to tell everyone to shut the eff up. She’s only four years old trying to adapt just like everyone else. She was so used to having a busy scheduled filled with dance class, gymnastics, school and play dates; and now she’s limited to a house filled with “busy” adults. Oh, the many aspects of parenting remaining calm, cool and collected when you really want to go off on everybody.


Monday May 18, 2020

Today is the day, weeks of studying. Today is the day I take my CBEST exam. After this quarter I plan to attend University of Redlands summer session where I will complete a master’s degree and for a credential in Special Education. The goal is to become a high school Special Ed teacher. Shorting mothers’ days celebrations in order to fit in one last study session. Waking up at 5am in order to review the material one last time before leaving the house at 7 am. I thought to myself there is was no way I’m not going to pass this test the first time. As I pulled up to the testing center at 7:45 am the parking lot was empty. In a panic I rechecked my confirmation email. Maybe I had the wrong date or address and everything was correct. Something told me to check my junk email which I never do and there it was “Due to the pandemic we had to reschedule your testing date to June 11th”. I was annoyed, tired and frustrated. In order to be accepted into the program I would have to complete the CBEST before June. I kept thinking why me? My plan was to graduate with a BA in June and begin the eighteen-month master’s program in June. That way I could be done with all of my schooling by the time my daughter begins kindergarten. I’ve worked so hard sacrificing mommy-daughter time, pulling all-nighters, working full time and missing out on family events. All for what? All I want to do is be a role model for my daughter. Provide every possible resource for her to become successful in the future. But then in that moment I realized I’m not the only one in the world struggling to adapt to our new normal. There are people who have lost their jobs, houses, cars and have no idea where the next meal is going to come from. Suddenly all of my problems that seemed to be so big weren’t anymore. The worst-case scenario for my plans would be starting school in September instead of June. I felt like a horrible person. I need to be grateful. Grateful of how far I’ve come. Grateful that I have my grandparents to help me with my daughter. Grateful that I still have a job. Grateful that me and my family are healthy. Grateful that through all the chaos we still have each other. And that’s something to be grateful for.



Interview with a Interview with a High School SeniorHigh School Seniorbrandi Cannonbrandi Cannon (Pacific Review staff) (Pacific Review staff)

High school is one of the most memorable times in our lives. Growing up we’d look forward to football games, pep rallies, prom, grad night and most importantly graduation. Millions of high school seniors across the world have been robbed of this memory. In hopes to shed light and get the perspective of a high school senior. I have interviewed Jade Rios a high school senior at Canyon Springs High school who has suffered a terrible lost. Before the COVID- 19 outbreak Jades mother died from diabetes. Not only does she have to grieve the loss of her mother, but also suffers the loss of the many fun memories with her fellow classmates.

PR: So, Jade tell me a little bit about yourself?

JR: Okay well my name is Jade Rios. I’m a senior at Canyon Springs High school in Moreno Valley CA. I like to write so I keep a journal that I write in daily. I also like to read sad books. I like to hang out friends but since all this stuff is going on, I haven’t been able to spend much time with them. But we do get to facetime and see each other on zoom. I like to dress my dog up and take her for walks. I like to cook so now I that I’m always home, I’ve learned how to cook spaghetti and bake a bananas cake.

PR: Oh, wow that’s awesome. You’ll have to share some of those recipes with me I love to bake. Recently I’ve started to keep a daily journal. But it’s so hard to stay consistent, I’m always forgetting to write in it. Where were you and how did you feel when you found out about schools closing due to the pandemic.

JR: I remember it was towards the end of the day. I was in Mr. Pasqualetto’s class helping you grade papers. When the principle announced that school would be closing and we would have three weeks now for spring break. In that moment I felt nervous and sad that I would be home all day with everything going on in my life. School was the one place I could stay busy and hangout with my friends.

PR: Oh yes, I remember everyone screaming and yelling through the hallway overjoyed with excitement to have an extra week of spring break. But I’m sure they would all rather be at school now. So, what has your experience been like with distance learning? Do you like online classes? Do you feel like you’re learning anything?

JR: Yeah, I’m still learning new things but it’s boring. It has been an eye-opening experience. I would rather be at school. I don’t like having class online. The connection is bad and it is hard to understand people. Sometimes there are too many people trying to all talk at once and it gets overwhelming.


PR: Oh yes, I can definitely relate. I’ve been taking classes online as well and I would much rather be in class. Do you plan on attending college after high school? If so, what has the process been like? And what do you plan on studying?

JR: Yes of course I like school. Before all of this happened, I was planning to attend Grand Canyon University but now I decided to stay in Moreno Valley and attend Moreno Valley City College. I want to become a kindergarten teacher. The overall process has been good. I’ve had Zoom meetings with counselors about the programs they offer, scheduling classes and they have given me advice on how to manage online learning.

PR: That’s awesome Jade, I’m very proud of you. I know you’ll be an excellent teacher. The ultimate question that were all anxiously wanting to know, how do you feel about grad night and prom being canceled? And an untraditional graduation?

JR: It makes me sad. It’s unfair, this is something that we look forward to experiencing since we were kids. Now I won’t have those memories to share with my kids in the future. I won’t experience picking out a dress, getting my hair and nails done. Taking prom pictures with my friends. The drive thru graduation is weird. It’s like were going to a restaurant to pick up our diplomas in our cap and gown. As if it were Mc Donald’s or something. I won’t be able to say goodbye to some of my favorite teachers and staff along with some of my friends who are moving or going off to college.

PR: I couldn’t imagine what you seniors are going through. I remember receiving the yellow check out slip where you have to get all your teachers to sign in order to check out of school. It was one of the happiest days of my life. It felt so good to finally be done. The senior class of 2020 will go down in history for your incredible strength and ability to adapted to the current circumstances. With that being said, how do you stay positive through all of this? Is your family supportive?

JR: My family is very supportive. My sisters and close family friends motivated me to keep working hard. I just try to keep busy and stay positive, I know my mom is with me every step of the way so that motivates me as well.

PR: That’s great. You’re doing an amazing job. I know she must be extremely proud of how much you have overcome through this difficult time. Last question, What are your hopes for 2020? Any future goals and aspirations?

JR: I just want this to all be over. I want things to open back up and be able to hang out with friends, go to the mall or the store without wearing a face mask.

PR: Yes, we are hoping for a little bit if normalcy hopefully soon. Thank you so much Jade for such wonderful insight and taking the time to share your experience as a high school senior during the pandemic. Congratulations on all of your

Creative NonFiction: InterviewsCreative NonFiction: Interviews


accomplishments and future endeavors. You’re going to do an outstanding job in college and become an amazing teacher. Your future students will be lucky to have you. Yayyy! Class of 2020.

JR: Thank you, Ms. Brandi, for all of your support.


Interview with a Interview with a Construction WorkerConstruction WorkerPatrick Quinn (Pacific Review staff)Patrick Quinn (Pacific Review staff)

5:30am a man, who we will give the nickname T, wakes up to get ready for his job of over 10 years in construction for the union. His drive normally would take about 30 minutes or so has essentially become cut in half since the arrival of the viral virus Covid-19. T is what we now know as an essential worker, ones who’s work was typically taken for granted by many until the arrival of Covid-19. As we all know Covid-19 has affected many including that of the interviewers family but, here we get to see how this virus has affected an essential worker most importantly.

PR: Good afternoon T, so we have come to the agreement that we will not use your real name for personal reasons correct?

T: Yes correct.

PR: Okay, So how would you describe your life post pandemic?

T: I would describe almost as anyone else would, everything felt normal and was going well. Never thought I would ever be dreading going to work after being in the field so long I’ve learned to love my job.

PR: So you I noticed you say “dreading” what part exactly about your job do you now dread?

T: Maybe I should have said that differently. Its not that I dread my job as I love what I do, it’s the fact that not only do I have to leave the safety of my home during a pandemic. I Fear the possibility of bringing the virus home and exposing my family to it.

PR: I understand where you are coming from entirely. How do you feel your job is handling the situation?

T: If I had to say…. I don’t think I am cared about anymore than the next non “essential” worker.

PR: What makes you feel this way?

T: I get that my job is important and I get that we help with a lot of big projects as far as housing and other important building projects go but, what I feel like I am missing is what everyone else feels at home safe with their families and I don’t really



know what that feels like.

PR: Wow, I don’t necessarily know how to respond to that other than to thank you for what you and other essential workers have done and are doing during this pandemic to make sure that the consumer gets what they need. Sometimes I do think we often take things for granted. So tell me this has this pandemic allowed you to realize anything you didn’t before?

T: If I am understanding the question correctly, this has made me realize my value to the company, all we get is a spill about the masks etc but, never did I ever feel the appreciation that someone who in a sense has to put his life on the line for not only the company but for the communities across California.

PR: Yes, you got the question spot on and I can only imagine how that feels but one thing I can say is at least you know you are a part of something much bigger than you may have thought in the past. So my next question would be how does your family feel about all this?

T: Concerned, would be the first word to come to mind as they always want me to be safe and make sure I have a mask and gloves on when I leave the house also having hand sanitizer just for extra precaution.

PR: That’s good that you have that sort of support at home I’m sure that makes you feel like your time in the field is worth the while and you know for sure its appreciated.

T: It does turn my day around when I get home seeing how happy they are to see me.

PR: Thank you for your time and doing this interview on your day off, is there anything you would like to say or include for your fellow essential worker.

T: Yes I would like to say that your work is appreciated no matter how much it may not seem that was. Just know someone somewhere does in fact appreciate what you are doing and so do I. Remember be safe and social distance is key we can beat Covid-19


Interview with a Interview with a FirefighterFirefighterShelby PaoneShelby Paone (Pacific Review staff) (Pacific Review staff)

Ryan W. works for the Pasadena fire department, and has been part of the team since August of 2006. He started working as a fireman, and has become engineer for his team the past four years. He chose this profession wanting to help others, and enjoys the diversity of activities of his job. He says, “There’s something new everyday. Nothing is ever the same, and it keeps the job interesting. There’s always new people to help, and people to meet.”

PR: I’d like to start my first question by asking you, did you ever expect something like this, COVID, would ever occur?

RW: “No, not really like this. I guess I expected something along the lines of a pandemic since there had been pandemics in the past, but nothing of seriousness.”

PR: When COVID-19 was announced, what was your initial reaction, and as time went on, how did your reaction change?

RW: “I didn’t really have a reaction at first because I didn’t think much of it. As time went on, I was actually surprised by the response everyone was having to the pandemic. Not that the reactions were unwarranted, but it did come as a shock.”

PR: Were there any challenges or changes that occurred in the work place with this situation and the reactions it gave off?

RW: “Yes, a lot. So much has changed during this time in general. There was an emphasis on sanitization and minimal amounts of people are able to run calls. We had to dress in a lot more gear than the usual, full face masks, goggles, gowns, and were required to wear a mask in the station at all day, at all times.”

PR: Are calls more related to the pandemic than anything else?

RW: “Not majority. Technically, when we get the call, we don’t know if it’s COVID related at all up until we get there. Most calls are only for symptoms of COVID, and we don’t know if the call was COVID related up until a week later. Overall calls are way down actually. People are afraid to go to hospitals, and not many people are out at this time.”

PR: Thank you so much for your time and participating in this interview Ryan. Just one last question, how has your everyday life changed overall?



RW: Just as anyone’s has honestly. I don’t go out much, so lots of housework gets done! I would say I miss going out to dinner the most.


Interview With a Interview With a Registered NurseRegistered NurseShelby PaoneShelby Paone (Pacific Review staff) (Pacific Review staff)

The registered nurse with whom the interview is with, has decided she would like to stay anonymous, aside from her initials, TP, but is more than willing to answer a variety of questions for an essential workers interview, during this country’s current situation. She is currently working at Children’s Hospital Orange County, CHOC, Children’s Neurology as a registered nurse, full time, five days a week. To begin this interview, I first asked her the most straightforward question,

PR: “Did you ever imagine, because of the field you work in, something like this, possibly a natural disaster or a pandemic, would ever occur?”

TP: “Yes. Looking at history, there have been outbreaks of viruses and diseases before, and those are always likely to happen again. You can never be naïve towards the possibilities, especially in this field of work. We are trained for things like this.

PR: “Aside from knowing the possibility of a pandemic, did it ever occur to you that it could be this bad?”

TP: “I never thought too much about the extent, just assumed I would one day be experiencing some kind of outbreak.”

PR: “When Covid-19 was first announced, how did you react? How did your reaction change as time went on?”

TP: “Initially, I thought the whole thing was an overreaction. I believed it was something similar to the flu. Nothing more, nothing less. As the virus continued to affect people’s lives, I realized the severity of the virus from how quickly and easily it was spreading through people. I started to think about all my friends and loved ones. Thinking, should I quarantine from family? Stay in isolation from my significant other, who also works as an essential worker. The way the virus has rapidly spread, attacking our respiratory system, is a very serious and scary issue we are facing.”

As the interview continued, I started to ask her more questions specifically about her job, working in a hospital.

PR: “Has there been any challenges or changes in your work place since COVID?”

TP: “Yes, many. All workers are required to do a screening everyday before work, new protocols were initiated, many patients were transferred to telemedicine, and



there was worry about how cautious was cautious enough. All nurses were also asked, that if things escalated to an even bigger extreme, if we would be willing to transfer, to work frontline in a main hospital, if necessary.”

PR:“I want to thank you so much for your time and participation in this interview, and my last question to you, is how has this changed your life, or everyday thought process now?”

TP: “This has definitely made me more cautious of my day to day life. I hope for patience and society to be safe, and hope for them to put more consideration into their hygiene needs, and how important just that really is in day to day life. No one should underestimate hand hygiene, covering your mouth from a cough or sneeze, or the amount of times you can wash your hands!”

PR: “Again, Thank you for your time, and thank you so much for all that you do for the people and the hospitals!”


Yulissa MendozaYulissa MendozaPhotographyPhotography

From HomeFrom Home

Navigating the MotionsNavigating the Motions

B&W 35mm film. Taken from a distance. Pictured is Samantha

Poliakon, she created outfits using only material found at home.

Outfit 1: plastic sheet, tape, and wooden sticks.

Outfit 2: tulle + cut up photos from a previous project.


SocializingSocializing

From a DistanceFrom a Distance

All of these photoshoots depict the pivotal shift in our history that we

are currently experiencing together. We have been forced to get creative

using the resources/materials that we have on hand as well as learn to

communicate/do our jobs in different ways. Pictured is Sarajane Bradford.

Facetime photoshoot. As a photographer, I have had to find ways to create/connect with others from a distance. Virtual photoshoots is one of them. Pictured is Alexl.



Halee BushmanHalee BushmanPhotographyPhotography

Second Second Glance Glance

SeriesSeries

Both photos were taken in Seattle, Washington


Santa Monica, California

Lancaster, California


Contributor BiographiesContributor Biographies


Keeano AgustiadiKeeano Agustiadi is an English: Creative Writing student from CSUSB who seeks above all to entertain his readers and does not hesitate to use what inspires him. He had to overcome struggles such as racist bullying, pressures to become a doctor, and bipolar disorder, which he channels into his creative process. Inspirations from his childhood include Marvel/DC cartoons, anime, and professional wrestling. Often, he can be found at CSUSB English Club Open Mics, where he practices his stand-up comedy and shares his short stories or poetry. He also loves karaoke! (PG. 20)

Anthony AlasAnthony Alas is a six times published author. His works have appeared in The Pacific Review, Scribble Lit, In Parentheses, and Azahares Magazine. After several years in New York City, Mr. Alas now calls California’s Inland Empire home, again. He is currently pursuing a Master’s degree in English literature, from CSU San Bernardino. (PG. 25)

Halee BushmanHalee Bushman is an English Major at Cal State San Bernardino expected to graduate June 2021 with an English Literature BA Degree. I love literature for so many reasons but the main one being when I don’t know how to say things, I know that I could write them and writing them open so many doors. One main door is being understood. That’s why I love poetry, because when I feel alone I know that somewhere out there someone feels the same as I do and all I need to do is find there poem. Then we both aren’t really alone anymore. When I first came to college I was in a bad place because I had all this pressure to succeed as a first generation student. I was lucky enough to meet an amazing group of people who helped me during this time find my voice and exposed me to a happier lifestyle. This also helped me show my voice through photography. Now I can show people my voice and how I see the world through my own lens. My camera lens. (PG. 39, 69-70)

Danielle ColladoDanielle Collado is a simple girl who loves to make people smile. She is currently a senior at CSUSB and is proud to say that she will be returning in the fall as a graduate student, majoring in English, with a concentration in composition & rhetoric. Writing has always been a passion of hers because it allows her to express herself freely. (PG. 50)

KATHLEEN DOUCETTEKATHLEEN DOUCETTE is a fiction writer, poet, speaker, and novelist, she is a lifelong native of California. She is a recent undergraduate with an English major with an emphasis on Creative Writing at CSUSB. Kathleen’s poetry selections from Dedicated to Mother are a collection of memories of coming of age. (PG. 18)[email protected]

Dominick J. Gonzalez-AmayaDominick J. Gonzalez-Amaya is a first-year transfer student at CSUSB. Other than being inspired by all things pop culture and sports, he is most inspired by his upbringing as a Mexican-Salvadoran American. He tries to balance his family roots while also being a first-generation American. (PG. 47)

Contributor Biographies Contributor Biographies


Angela GrummettAngela Grummett was born and raised in the small desert town of Brawley, California. She is an English major at CSUSB, focusing on creative writing. She has been writing since she was young, but her passion for the written word had truly begun to bloom in her early teens. Her dream, along with to become a published author, is to become a middle school English teacher. She enjoys reading, writing, trying to learn the ukulele, and spending time with her friends from the CSUSB Catholic Newman Club. (PG. 49)

Steven A. HinkleSteven A. Hinkle is a graduating English major at CSUSB. His poem “Out of Reality” appeared in Collected Whispers when he was 17. At 19, he handwrote the poetry collection Somewhere Between Here and Now for his first love. In 2019, his poems “Pavlov’s Kitchen” and “The Circles of Infinity” appeared in the 37th issue of the Pacific Review. (PG. 34)

Collin HollihanCollin Hollihan is a recent undergraduate student from CSUSB with a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology. I would consider myself as someone who has many hobbies, most of them involve some form of creativity. Creative writing is a skill I have been wanting to improve upon for some time now. This piece is a result of an excellent professor and a love for music. (PG. 12)

Denise KollockDenise Kollock is a soon to be CSUSB graduate, majoring in English (Creative Writing) and minoring in Gender and Sexuality Studies. Likes to play video games and watch anime for leisure time. (PG. 42-43)

Gabriel ListGabriel List is an American writer who dabbles with the pen from time to time. If it is not to finesse some poetics on to a page, it is to create music to tug at your ear lobes for a friendly experience. From a troubled childhood to the graduation ceremony, Gabriel has proved nothing but determinism. As they, the roughest storms create the best captains. (PG. 37-38)

Yulissa MendozaYulissa Mendoza is a fashion/portrait photographer from San Bernardino, CA. Photography is movement, it’s community, and curiosity. (PG. 67-68)Website: www.yulissamendoza.com Instagram: Yu.lis.sa Tiktok: Yu.lis.sa

Michael MontrieMichael Montrie is an English Major, on the creative writing track at California State University San Bernardino, set to graduate in the spring of 2020. He hopes to bring what he has learned as a writer to a professional level career and help shape the world of storytelling. (PG. 36)


Candy NavarreteCandy Navarrete is a lifelong native of Riverside, California, and a student at California State University – San Bernardino. My undergraduate focus is in English, Literature track with certification in Creative Writing. I am part of the Native American and Pacific Islander club, and the Indigenous Peoples Book Club on campus. My lived experience has been essential in the exploration of myself when writing poetry and short stories. My writing has been a great source to voice my anxieties and discoveries, as I navigate to better understand my place in the world as a non-traditional Mexican/Native American woman in the 21st century. (PG. 28)

Alissa RamirezAlissa Ramirez and is currently a student at CSUSB, and will be graduating this spring with my Bachelor’s Degree. I am majoring in English on a Literature track, but I must confess that as much as I enjoy literature I feel deeply connected to poetry. I found my deep love for writing poetry during a dark time in my life; poetry continues to serve as safe space for me to express my vulnerability. (PG. 46)

Michael ReynaMichael Reyna is a second year at California State University San Bernardino. I’m a student who’s always wanted to help people but I was unsure of how to until I realized I could do it with writing. I realized I could talk about topics that are important, but I feel aren’t talked about enough, that can actually resonate with people and bring a newer connection among all of us. (PG. 23)

Victoria RowlandVictoria Rowland is an undergraduate student at CSUSB and is due to graduate in Spring 2020. Victoria is an English major with an emphasis on Creative Writing and enjoys writing poetry and creative non-fiction. Victoria’s work focuses on themes and subject matter such as abuse, addiction, identity, and womanhood. (PG. 40)

Natalie ThompsonNatalie Thompson is an intersectional feminist and writer residing in Corona. She is interested in disability studies as a disabled poet. Natalie received her Bachelor of Art in English Literature from California State University, San Bernardino and is currently working on her Master of Art in English literature at the same college. She has also been published in Pacific Review and Badlands. (PG. 48)

Scott WatersScott Waters lives in Oakland, California with his wife and son. He graduated with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Scott has published previously in Loch Raven Review, Adelaide, Selcouth Station, Scarlet Leaf Review, A New Ulster, The Pangolin Review, Amethyst, Ink in Thirds, Praxis, The Santa Clara Review, and many other journals. (PG. 44)

alone together: confined in a connected w orld€¦ · any manner without the express written...

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