A Forest

Painting by Kelly Pankey
Acrylic on Canvas
11" x 14"

Contributor's Note: I have recently graduated from Cerro Coso and will be majoring in English at CSUB in the fall of 2010.

The Value of Choice

Essay by James Collins

Throughout mankind’s history, we have always looked for the answer to why men do what they do. Why do bad people do bad things and why do good people do good things? Or, more interestingly, why do good people do bad things and why do bad people do good things? Although modern psychology was not closely studied until the 19th century, the ethical search for the causality of human behavior dates back to the earliest civilizations of Egypt, Persia and Greece.

In literature, this enigma is often the driving force of the countless characters in countless stories. We find this protagonist thrust into that situation, and the suspense of the tale lies in how they will react and whether we will be able to predict what they will do. In “real life,” this conundrum often also drives our dramas of reality as well. How will our parents react to our recent engagement? How will our siblings deal with our father’s death?

In almost every instance, the choices characters make in literature, as well as the choices we make in reality, have immediate and longstanding consequences. The real question that ultimately matters in our judgments of any choice is not so much why, but was the choice justified? Could we celebrate the choices made if they are positive? Alternatively, can we understand and sympathize if the choices made were not in line with our own value set? Often, our society tends to “give a pass” to those who make poor decisions based on what the individuals have gone through in their lives and this, unfortunately, tends to relieve them of, if not true accountability, at least moral accountability.

This conflict of the reader’s judgment is very prevalent in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Indeed, the entire story is based upon two figures who, driven by their circumstance in life, seek to avoid accountability. Victor perpetually tries to ignore the existence of his creation, at first clapping and expressing “joy” (Shelley 63) simply to have the creature out of his sight. The creature, on the other hand, embraces “hellish rage and gnashing of teeth” (Shelley 125) towards “all mankind” (Shelley 126) due to his suffering at the hands of those he encounters. Yet, for both of these characters, the reader is expected to maintain a level of sympathy and understanding towards them, if not agreement.

We see further evidence of this tendency to expect sympathy and excuse for action in Mary Wollstonecraft’s From Maria, or the Wrongs of Woman in the main character, Jemima’s, depiction of her mother as one who was “seduced” (Wollstonecraft 197) rather than one who made the free decision to enter into a relationship with her father, leaving her “ruined” (Wollstonecraft 197). During this telling of the woeful tale, we are expected to accept Jemima for what she is as if she is beyond accountability since things were so hard for her from the beginning. Throughout the story, we see examples of less than desirable thoughts and decisions, such as stealing and fancying the murder of her sister in jealousy. Yet, in the end, it seems as if we are expected to feel as if all these things are excusable due to her harsh treatment.

In William Godwin’s Things as They Are, or The Adventures of Caleb Williams, even the antagonist of the story, Mr. Collins, excuses Caleb, stating “you did not make yourself” (Godwin 196). Again, we are presented with a character that is in a dire circumstance who seems to be there for every reason other than his own doing. Although Mr. Collins’ excuse of Caleb is more dismissive than sympathetic, it is excuse nonetheless. The character is a victim of his life and worthy of excuse.

This tendency of human nature is not restricted to the literary world. It seems that in all facets of life and popular culture, we tend to feel sorry for those in strife and think first of the turmoil they suffer and second, if at all, about why they are there. We feel bad for celebrities being chased by the paparazzi, for example, but don’t seem to give much thought to the fact that they are not suddenly cast, by surprise and against their will, into the public eye. They have spent years or decades trying to break into the upper echelon of Hollywood stardom. There is no mystery to what life is like for those that famous.

There are a number of articles and essays that carry this motif into reality. In one such article, “Peer Pressure Influences Gang Behavior” by Dale Greer, we follow a young underprivileged child named Hubert. It is stated as a given that he was cutting school because “his lack of material assets was so embarrassing” (Greer). By this logic, every child in his area should be cutting school, which, since there were obviously children at school, is untrue. Not long after, we find Hubert “committing crimes to provide for himself what his mother's income could not afford” (Greer). Certainly, Hubert couldn’t have been the only child in his neighborhood that had a poor mother. But, just as certainly, it is probably safe to assume that not every child in the area was a criminal.

There is no doubt that we are the sum of our parts. Certainly, many people in the world are forced into a life situation that is misfortunate. The refugees in Darfur, for example, either live in deplorable conditions in the refugee camp or face certain death by staying in their homelands. This is a much different situation than we see Victor, the creature, Jemima or Hubert face. Victor did not face certain demise if he did not toy with creating humanoid life. The creature would not have suffered more had he not killed Victor’s young brother. Jemima would not have starved had she not satisfied her “liquorish tooth” (Wollstonecraft 199). And, Hubert’s choices to commit crime so he wouldn’t be teased cannot be seen as one made in self preservation.

The moral dilemma being discussed here, when is it acceptable to commit egregious acts, does have a grey area, but one must tread lightly when considering whether to excuse one’s actions. A good example comes from a story used in psychology to study this very subject: moral dilemma. Dr. George Boeree published an article titled “Moral Development” outlining this topic. In the article, Boeree recounts a groundbreaking psychologist, Dr. Lawrence Kohlberg, using the following dilemma to test how subjects came to moral justification. It centers on a fictitious character named Heinz.

“His wife was dying of a disease that could be cured if he could get a certain medicine. When he asked the pharmacist, he was told that he could get the medicine, but only at a very high price- one that Heinz could not possibly afford. So the next evening, Heinz broke into the pharmacy and stole the drug to save his wife's life. Was Heinz right or wrong to steal the drug?” (Boeree)

Obviously, either answer would have positive and negative implications. If Heinz were to let his wife die, he would be not only heartbroken, but could even be considered negligent. However, if he steals, he has broken a key tenet of society. The argument isn’t so much which choice Heinz should make, but that Heinz must accept consequence for either choice and expect no excuse for his actions either way.

Such is the recurring theme in Frankenstein. We have a story that sprawls through numerous settings and even more numerous moral landscapes. With Victor, at every turn, he is confronted with his foul decision to bestow life to the creature. Instead of embracing his decision and fostering the goodwill of the creature, he instead allows “disgust” (Shelley 61) to drive his actions. Although this does not, by any means, excuse the creature’s future actions, it certainly lays the seed for what is to come. This failure cannot be excused. As Peg Tittle puts it in her article “Couples Should Need a License to Obtain the Privilege of Parenthood”, “’I created someone by accident’ should be just as horrific, and just as morally reprehensible, as ‘I killed someone by accident’” (Tittle). Although the context Ms. Tittle uses is one for procreation, the argument is the same and denies Victor the excuse that he could not have known what would happen upon animating the creature.

Just as surely, the creature can expect no sympathy for his actions, regardless of how he was treated in his life. Nothing can justify murder as a tool or a means to an end. Just as Paracelsus declares that “every field is ordered by its seed, and no seed by its field” (Paracelsus 204), the creature can seek no shelter of justification that the world had made him what he was. He could have chosen to exile himself, to continue to approach Victor in benevolence or any order of different paths other than vengeful murder.

It is clear that Victor and the creature do not value true accountability. They lament their situations at length throughout the novel and attempt to blame the other for their misfortunes, but neither of them ever seek to resolve the problem between them and, once it is too late and innocent blood had been shed, neither of them are willing to commit to the other any quarter which may end the ever escalating conflict between them. What they value is a victory over an adversary which is unattainable. They base this value upon a false notion that evil deeds perpetuate evil responses. They justify these actions to themselves at every step at the cost of those around them. In the end, not only does what they hold dear crumble around them, but those who are unwittingly associated with the situation pay with high cost– some with their lives.

What a reader should take from this writing, and those discussed throughout this essay, is that poor choices need to be dealt with head on. That which can be salvaged should be salvaged and that which is lost must be put behind oneself. What we see in Shelley’s Frankenstein is the manifestation of failure perpetuating failure and lack of accountability perpetuating further acts without accountability. We should learn from this writing that, although we are a sum of our parts and often victims of our circumstances, we are not ever without choice to do the right thing. To do otherwise or to believe contrary invites only more strife and indignity.

Works Cited

Bidinotto, Robert James. "A Lack of Morals Causes Criminal Behavior." Current Controversies: Crime. Ed. Paul A. Winters. San Diego:Greenhaven Press, 1998. Opposing Viewpoints Resource Center. Gale. Cerro Coso Community College. n. pag. Web. 21 Apr. 2010

Boeree, George. "Moral Development." General Psychology. N.p., 2003. Web. 22 Apr 2010

Godwin, William, "Things as They Are, or The Adventures of Caleb Williams." Frankenstein (Contextual Documents). 2nd ed. Johanna Smith. Boston, MA: Bedford/St Martins, 2000. Print.

Greer, Dale. "Peer Pressure Influences Gang Behavior." Opposing Viewpoints: Gangs. Ed. Laura K. Egendorf. San Diego: Greenhaven Press,2001. Opposing Viewpoints Resource Center. Gale. Cerro Coso Community College. n. pag. Web. 21 Apr. 2010

Paracelsus, "On Creation." Frankenstein (Contextual Documents). Johanna Smith. Boston, MA: Bedford/St Martins, 2000. Print.

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. 2nd ed. Ed. Johanna Smith Boston, MA: Bedford/St Martins, 2000. Print.

Tittle, Peg. "Couples Should Need a License to Obtain the Privilege of Parenthood." At Issue: Is Parenthood a Right or a Privilege?. Ed. Stefan Kiesbye. Detroit: Greenhaven Press, 2009. Opposing Viewpoints Resource Center. Gale. Cerro Coso Community College. n. pag. Web. 22 Apr. 2010

Contributor's Note:I am a current student of Cerro Coso seeking a business degree. I am a US Air Force veteran and married father of two. I have a passion for writing and other creative expression. I wrote this piece during my freshman composition course and was encouraged to submit it to Met by my instructor, Gary Enns.

 

Evening Watering

Poem by Amy Ashworth

The polished brown rock in my garden
Shines when drips from the watering can hit it.
The light fragments
In the water drops
Are the falling pieces of your mind-
One of which recognized
Your imminent departure
From memory's world-
One of which presented me
With this glowing, smooth gift.

Contributors Note: I'm taking Creative Writing with Gary Enns to challenge myself to work. I grew up in Ridgecrest and graduated in 1996 from PLNU with a degree in English Education. I'm currently living in Campbell and enjoying online courses.

Untitled

Painting by Kelly Pankey
Oil Crayon on Paper
24" x 30"

Contributor's Note: I have recently graduated from Cerro Coso and will be majoring in English at CSUB in the fall of 2010.

The Doldrums

Poem by Uriah Burke

Here I sit behind bars fabricated out of other's minds.
Monotony is my guard, he beats me regularly.
My mind rots ever approaching the destruction of my soul.
The world sentenced me here, for the infractions of Nature.

I am surrounded by folks who share my turmoil.
The term is life, and that is exactly what it takes.
Most will expire forever ignorant to what they could have.
Knowledge is my ally, she inspires hope.

Daily I salt the grounds with my progress.
Inch by inch out, under a poster of beautiful thinkers.
But when freedom is achieved the joke is on me.
I will become a juror, passing the same sentence.

Contributors Note: I am currently in my last semester here at Cerro Coso. This winter I will be Transferring to Cal State Bakersfield. I have years of experience as a tutor under my belt, and have tried to incorporate it into a lot of my work. I enjoy all kinds of fantasy and fiction, and while I enjoy writing have never been published before.

The Storm

Poem by Kelly Pankey

We rode faster on the way home.

As the storm crawled over the mountains to my right
I began to notice things I had not given thought
To before, as I was preoccupied with reaching
My destination in record time.

But now I was hurrying for another reason.
The storm was approaching quickly but
Hardly detectable
Slowly stalking over the mountains and casting an ominous shadow

Over the highway and the roadside memorials
Weathered by time with names that are now
Peeling and cannot be read by the passing machines that
Would not look anyway or care to know whose life ended on that highway
Years before, when the disintegrating walls of the old buildings were newly painted and cared for
By other names no longer remembered.

Buildings, memorials in themselves of dreams tasted but never fully realized
Now only their peeling, splintered skeletons remain as a testimony to someone’s hopes
That existed long ago
Beside that highway.

As I raced to beat the rain I thought about how temporary it all is
The buildings, the memorials, the highway, this moment and the
Storm which would cover all of it including me

And how the machines that care not for such things
Will still be passing it all by
When there is nothing left to remember us

Contributors Note: I have graduated from Cerro Coso, and will be attending CSUB in the fall of 2010.

The Phone Call That Changed My Life Forever

Essay by Marilyn Booth-Horn

It was an early morning in June, one week after school had ended and the day after my tenth birthday, June 25, 1958 to be exact. The phone rang. My dad, Ken Gormley, still in his pajamas and bare-footed, dashed across the hardwood floors of our Malibu Lake home in Southern California to answer the phone with a surprised look on his face. No one ever called this early. After a brief conversation, Dad walked ashen-faced back into the family room. He called to me and my little, eight year old brother, Pat, to tell us the grim news.

“Marilyn and Pat, I’ve something to tell you. Mommy has died,” he muttered softly.

This was unexpected. We’d all just visited her yesterday. The Motion Picture Hospital where my dad worked as a steam and refrigeration engineer and where my mother, Bessie, had been in “hospice care” had given us a special birthday visit. As young as Pat and I were, we were never allowed to visit our mother the long months she’d been hospitalized on and off for the past two years. But on this “birthday visit” the hospital had made an exception.

Mom was doing well and was obviously proud of my reaching ten. I could sense something in her expressions, a relief that seemed to say, “My babies are growing up and are doing fine.” She sat up in bed and chatted with us with a satisfied and calm demeanor, her soft Southern accent always pleasant to hear. In later years, my family came to believe that she’d willed herself to keep living those long eight years of battling cancer until that moment when she felt confident that Pat and I would be okay, not babies anymore.

My beautiful mom with high cheek bones, blue-blue eyes and the Southern drawl, only thirty-six years old, gone from my life when I had only just turned ten. My mom who baked cookies and made strawberry short cake from scratch; my mom who would give the most profound answers to my simple, childish questions was never going to be part of my life again.

“Where did everything come from?” I asked Mom when I was five.

“God made everything,” she replied. This revelation led to my lifelong belief in God.

“There must be life on other planets since there is life here on Earth,” she had stated when I ask about that possibility when I was eight years old.

Back in the 1950’s, before space exploration, this was very advanced thinking for her, who’d been raised as a Mississippi farm girl. I would never be able to ask her about her life and beliefs again. This is what I miss the most.

Sadly, Dad called Pat and I to his now dimly lit master bedroom where we sat on our parent’s double bed with the happy yellow bedspread. A place we two kids had snuggled safely when we were little. It was now our place of mourning. We all cried together for hours like an old Irish wake. There was nothing to be said. Mom was gone forever. We three were as one sad heart, each grieving the same loss.

Before that phone call our family had been Mom and Dad and little brother and big sister. I was Daddy’s little girl and Pat was Mommy’s little boy; a totally even parent distribution. There were no conflicts. We each were cherished by both our parents, but each was “special” to either Mom or Dad. Now it was a different dynamic, just Dad to be shared in competition by brother and sister. This didn’t become evident at first, but in a couple of years it became our daily power battle.

When the day ended, Dad quickly set to work to solve our dilemma. For two years we’d needed a baby-sitter during the swing shift which was two in the afternoon to ten at night that Dad worked on weekdays. He got us up and off to school, not very well groomed, but well fed and loved much. After school, various regular baby-sitters would care for us. On weekends, Dad spent all his time with us, a true “Mr. Mom.” Now he was in a panic, but didn’t let us know it. He was terrified Social Services would take us away, a totally irrational fear since he was a good provider and care giver.

Therefore, Dad arranged for me to spend the summer at my best friend, Debbie Gunn’s home. Debbie and I were so much alike, we were often mistaken as twins. Despite the fact that Debbie was a brunette and I was blonde, we were both very short, had blue eyes, and acted alike; both a little shy, but goofy and silly. So instead of having a sad, lonely summer, I had a really fun summer with Debbie, swimming and boating in Malibu Lake, playing dolls, swinging and pretending we were horses, which was one of our favorite games.

I also assisted Debbie with all her household chores, which were many since she was the oldest daughter of eight children in that large Catholic family. Even though I missed Mom terribly, the fact was that despite the shock and finality of my mom’s death, I had become used to her being gone. Pat was to spend summer days at his best friend, Robbie Blakely’s house; later in the evening he’d go home when Dad would pick him up after work.

Dad, a short French-Irishman with black hair, barely middle-age, a Maurice Chevalier nose, always with a joke to tell and clever sayings he made up, had a charm that could win any lady. He started dating Esther immediately and quickly won her over. She was a fifty year old spinster, seven years older than Dad. She worked at the Motion Picture Hospital and had served food to my mother. She and Dad had met in the elevator. Pat and I were introduced to her when Dad took us all to the country fair. I liked her; she laughed a lot and seemed to be truly happy and comfortable with our family.

On Labor Day, in early September, they married. Dad called me home from the Gunn’s. The Gunns tried to persuade me to stay by offering to take me and their kids to the Ice Capades. Later I found out they’d offered to adopt me, primarily, I thought, to help Debbie keep their four-story home clean, while Mrs. Gunn was continually pregnant and Mr. Gunn worked two jobs.

Pat and I, who were always included in all our family’s activities, were invited to go on the honeymoon, a trip to Seattle, Washington. Cute, button nosed, blue-eyed Pat, the spitting image of our mother, who had declared to Esther before the marriage, “Go away, you’re not our Mommy,” started adjusting to her as our new step-mom. We called her “Es,” her nickname, never Mom. “Mom” was reserved forever for our Mom.

Sometimes I felt guilty for how Dad, Pat, and I occasionally excluded her as part of the “real” family. When we’d talk about Mom it was like we had a secret club that Es didn’t belong to. We needed to talk about Mom and work through the grieving process, but because Dad had remarried so quickly, it was awkward. It must have been difficult for her and showed in the hurt in her green eyes when this happened. She tried hard to be the mom we needed but that special intimacy and bond that existed with our own mother was gone forever.

Despite Dad’s mad dash to “save the family,” he was unable to cope with his own grief and bitter disappointment because of my mom’s death. Never allowing himself to fully grieve, he started drinking daily. He was angry at life and God for Mom’s death and was often unkind to Esther, even sometimes throwing her dinners against the wall if he didn’t like it. But he always treated me and Pat as precious. We were never spanked or even disciplined in anyway; the way he had always raised us. He continued to be a good provider and limited his drinking to “after hours.”

Esther responded to this abuse by having a mental breakdown the summer I turned thirteen. She spent that summer of 1961 in a mental hospital having “shock” treatments. She came home with daily medications, a changed attitude which was cold and sometimes hostile, with future tendencies towards more nervous breakdowns. Her laughter was gone. Later we learned she’d exhibited mental illness symptoms since she was a child in the 1910’s when she had almost died because of a very high fever. There was a lack of antibiotics in that era. Perhaps that’s why, despite her Irish dark-haired, freckled good- looks, she had never married until she met Dad.

Now my family had become dysfunctional. Dad and Es stayed together for twenty years, until her death at age seventy. They had their good and bad times, but managed to raise me and Pat in an outwardly normal way with vacation trips and outings. However, there was always an underlying tension. Pat and I battled competitively from junior high on, never being nice to each other. The sweet, cherished family when my mother was alive became just a memory.

In my teens, I learned of other women who had worked in World War II factories who had developed cancer, like my mother; and their daughters were unable to have children. I concluded my mother’s cancer had developed by exposure to radiation or toxins in the San Francisco bomb factory she’d worked in during the war where she’d met Dad. She had been a lead lady who was in charge of testing bombs for leaks and cracks.

As adults, both my brother and I, although healthy, never were able to have children. This led to my becoming an adoptive and foster parent. I wanted to help children from troubled homes. I wanted to be a loving and guiding support in their life, as my mother had been in mine. Although Mom’s time in my life was short, I always carry the memory of her love.

Contributor's Note: I've lived here in Lake Isabella for seven years now. I'm a retired foster parent, but am still raising permanently placed children. I started college at the age of 59. The things I enjoy the most are helping kids be the best they can be and going to college so I can be the best I can be, too.

View from the River Styx

Essay by Kristine Perry

This room is dark and motionless. I lie in the stillness, breathing in the reality of what I was going to face on this day. I was going to hold my baby. I have waited nine long whole months for this day. I struggle to lift my swollen body from this lumpy, comfortless mattress. Every movement is a new ache that empowers my body. Standing in this room I can see minute traces of shadows stirring from the light outside my bedroom window. The smell of dirty socks and strawberry shampoo congests my senses as I step towards my unlit bathroom.

The brown stained linoleum floor in this room is cold and wet. I rub my belly, “soon little one,” I say as I start the water in my shower. The warm feeling from the drops of water on my body is refreshing and motivating. Yet thinking of my baby makes me tremble both with fear and joy. This is my fifth birth yet it feels like my first. The moisture from the steam of the shower fogs the mirror on my medicine cabinet. I wipe away the residue and peer at my glowing, tired features. Time has sure had its toll on me and I am afraid. Can I handle another child, both emotionally and financially? What kind of support will I get from my husband? He failed me so many times before. I can hear him getting the kids up. Soon it will be time to go to the birthing center. With a deep sigh, I press on towards getting dressed and out the door to my delivering destiny. My next stop is a quaint little room on the third floor of San Joaquin hospital.

My family drops me off in front of the automatic doors to the hospital entrance. I stand in the twilight of the morning and wave good bye to my kids as they drive away with my husband. I enter the waiting room where many expecting parents wait—funny how I am all alone. Baby pictures from various ethnic races hang from the textured tan walls and fake, multi-colored wildflowers adorn the lone coffee table. The waiting takes so long that I begin having second thoughts. Maybe I can come back tomorrow; I’m only two weeks overdue. Too late, they’ve called my name.

They lead me to a crisp white room that smells of ammonia and baby oil. New life will begin in this room. Blue checkered curtains suspend from my second story window view and brown, padded chairs sit empty. The sound of a tiny heartbeat echoes through the room from a monitor next to my adjustable hospital bed. Suddenly shadows fall from the ceiling as the room begins to fade into darkness. People rushing around look like flickers of light from a burning candle. Faint voices stir in the background of my diminishing existence. This room full of joy and happiness has turned into a chamber of sorrow and tears. My unborn son suffocating and my blood spilling everywhere—this wasn’t supposed to happen! This is a room where one life was lost and one life was saved. A new life has ended in this room.

Three days after my son is put on life support, I am taken into a big conference room. Everywhere I look there are people in white jackets with name tags holding clipboards. Doctors and nurses hush their conversation about my son when I enter the room. The gloomy look on all their faces tells me what I knew all along. My baby is gone and the damage to his brain is irreversible. Pain shoots through my gut but I know I still have one option left for him. “I want my son to be a donor,” I say with a heavy heart. The silence of the room is broken by the condolences of strangers for my unselfish gift to others. As I leave the room and enter the cool hallway of the hospital, I fall to my knees sobbing uncontrollably; time to say goodbye to my son.

How do I tell my kids? How do I break the news to my family? I cannot contain the anger, fear and sadness long enough to speak. They look at me with solace and know that my news is grim….. I don’t need to speak. My mother escorts me into the neo-natal unit at the hospital were my son lies among the tiny premature babies. He is not like the others. He looks like a giant among the crowd. The nurse gently places him into my arms, wrapped in a soft woolen blanket; his eyes are closed. I rock him for the last time: “I need to let you go now. I am so sorry” I choke as tears roll down my face, “I will see you again, when it is my time, I want you to be the one to meet me there.” I want to remember this moment, I want to stay here forever but I can’t. It’s time for him to go so the nurse takes him from my arms—he is gone.

I sit alone in my pale green hospital room awaiting the news that my son’s organs have been harvested. I feel numb all over my body. My nurse comes to check on the three IV’s attached to my arms and leg. I stare off into oblivion, as the housekeeper spreads water and what smells like pine-sol on the floor. At three in the morning a coordinator from the organ donor association arrives with the news that two little girls will be saved because of my son, two families will hold their children. I am given a consent form to give permission for the hospital to take my son’s organs, mainly his liver and heart; he had a strong heart. I stay up until the early morning hours crying and feeling like I was in a bad dream. The television has been on all night and I turn up the sound when the Channel 29 news comes on. They are covering my story and the death of my son. I watch as a long white limo, carrying my son’s organs, arrives at the airport, where a plane is waiting for his precious commodity. As the tiny plane flies into the distance I cover my head with my thin hospital sheet and go to sleep.

Funerals always seem to bring people together. It’s sad to think that it takes the death of a loved one to make you forget about all the quarrels you’ve had the past year. As I ponder this thought, I walk across the dew covered grass towards the green colored canopy above my son’s grave site. The breeze blows a sweet aroma of pine needles and fresh cut flowers. I can see my son’s tiny white casket that has been filled with many letters and toys alongside his lifeless body. Friends and relatives approach me to offer their sympathy. Today is the day I bury my son, today I breathe in the reality of life and death.

Contributor’s Note: I am involved in a few community programs as well as withCerro Coso College. I am the secretary for the ASCC in Lake Isabella, a tutor, and a peer mentor. I volunteer at the local library and I am a volunteer for the Salvation Army. I am also a full time student and mother. I am also an Ambassador for One Legacy. I write with deep expressions of my emotions and
experiences that have occurred in my life.

When I Die

Poem by Laural Zimmerman

Don’t paint me and lay me out
Like some grotesque waxen doll.
Don’t put me in a box and lower me
In the ground only be dug up
A thousand years from now.

No – wrap me in a blanket
And give my clothing to strangers
Then leave me high in a tree
To feed the ravens and the vultures
Like the Indians used to do.

Or better yet, burn me in a funeral pyre
Pile it higher and higher
Until the flames touch the sky.
Invite my friends to come around
And roast marshmallows.

Then put my ashes in a cardboard box
And carry me to a high mountain lake
Then scatter me in the wind to soar
Among the hawks and jays before drifting down
To fertilize the trees.

Contributor’s Note: I am a perpetual student, although not constantly. I havethree years of Environmental Science, an AA in Child Development, and am presently the Secretary/Treasurer of a family-owned business. I am married and the mother of two grown sons. I presently live in Trona, CA.

The Perfect Family Picture

Poem by Julia Powell

This print hangs on my wall,
A father
A mother
Three girls
Two boys
The perfect family.

The father is wearing a shirt and tie,
—Smiling in this one
The mother is holding the youngest boy
—Focusing on her smile
The two boys are beaming
—Sharing their own special bond
The two oldest girls are sinfully beautiful
—can do no wrong in Daddies eyes
The youngest girl in the corner
—Rarely noticed, is me.

What no sees behind the perfect smiles are.
The oldest daughter will expose her deepest secret
—She’s pregnant
—At 17
—And marrying the father.
The two brothers will go out, get drunk.
—And drive,
—hit a tree.
One will be paralyzed from the waist down
—The other won’t survive.
—Ending their bond forever.

The father will reel from the experience by
—working all the time
—and rarely staying at home.
The mother will seek divine guidance
—from the bottom of a bottle.

The other sister, will not marry,
—Go to college
—Get some degree
—Trust no one.
Not sure what happened to her after that.

The parents will divorce
—after a final blow-up that caused
The father to walk out
—to his mistress
—And not return.

But me, the shy girl in the corner
—try to be perfect
—Be noticed
—Go to therapy
—In hopes of putting my family back together.

So I will gaze at the perfect family picture on the wall
—And never take it down.

Contributor’s Note: My name is Julia Powell and I have been writing ever since I can remember. My friends would always make fun of me because I would rather sit on the sidelines and write.

The Truck Stop

Essay by Kelly Pankey

I was very young when I started to think about leaving home. In fact, I was barely in grade school. I remember waking up late at night while everyone else was asleep, tiptoeing through the dark hallway, and positioning myself backwards on what seemed to me at the time to be an enormous muddy colored couch so that I could look out of our front window. I would pull back the thick gray curtains to expose the empty street outside, and the cold light of the street lamps that gave me no sense of safety. But I wanted that danger. I wanted to be out there in the world; free of the structured, boring, and everyday life I now lived.

I wanted to experience everything for myself. I didn’t want to be told how the world worked. I wanted to experience all that the world had to offer and I wanted to do it by myself.

As life went on and my family moved from one place to another my nightly views changed also. This time my view was from a kitchen window and it was much more interesting. I would still get up for my nightly excursions but instead of an empty, dark street I had a view of half of the lower east side of the city.

There were lights everywhere. I could see the headlights from the cars moving along the freeway. I could see lights from houses, street lamps, and parking lots. But the most distant of all those lights was what caught my eye. It was off by itself. It was a bright orange glow kind of like the glow of a large street lamp in the parking lot of a market. I would stand at that kitchen window and wonder what was out there. Could it be an empty parking lot or maybe a farmer’s market? Was there someone, some shady character standing underneath that light? What was going on out there on the outskirts of town? I wanted to find out.

When I was finally old enough to drive I knew I would find the source of that orange glow. Late one night I left my parents house and headed for that side of town. I drove out of the “good” side of town and across the railroad tracks to the “scary” side of town. It really was scary. There were strange men standing next to the road glaring at me as I passed them by. As I drove with the window open I noticed even the air smelled strange there. It smelled like a busted sewer line.

I made it to the southernmost part of town and found the orange lights at last. But I was disappointed to say the least. It was just an old dilapidated truck stop. The outside was painted white, but the paint had long since faded and peeled away in some places. There was a gas station, but it too looked like it had been there since the early fifties. I left disappointed, but I learned an important lesson that night about life. It just took me another ten years to understand what that was.

When high school was over I decided that I couldn’t wait any longer, so I joined the Navy. I wanted to be free of my parents, free of my friends, and free of that town. I can still remember the day I left. I remember the tears on my mother’s cheeks as she drove me to the recruiter’s office. I remember the soldier who drove me to the bus station. His crisp, clean navy blue uniform with the colored bars decorating his left chest showed a sense of pride and honor in his chosen profession. I wanted that same sense of pride.

After I’d been in a little while I learned what military service was really like. It was hiding in muddy ditches for days at a time waiting for an attack. It was climbing through barbed wire in the pitch black dark. It was wearing thick, sweaty gear and a suffocating mask to keep out the tear gas that the higher ups thought was necessary for training. It was working for three days straight without sleep to repair a busted water main. I remember how tired and muddy I was after that. My job was to take a wheelbarrow full of concrete down into a ditch to cover up the repaired pipe. What I had to do to accomplish this was to kind of take the wheelbarrow with both hands and sort of slide down the side of the ditch with it. When I reached the pipe I would use my feet as breaks and then let go of the wheelbarrow. Needless to say I was quite a mess when I finally finished my job.

Then there was my time in Spain. I learned a lot from that experience about how things really weren’t what they seemed. Spain is a beautiful country if you don’t look too close. When you get down into the alleyways and streets right outside of the American base it isn’t too pretty. That’s where it all happens. That’s where the soldiers get drunk and wander into questionable tattoo parlors. That’s where soldiers cheat on their wives back home with seedy prostitutes. That’s where they pass out in the streets and have to be carried back home. The streets there are filled with dreck and waste.

That’s what I really thought of Spain once I had been there. It was just like that truck stop back home. In fact, my whole experience with the military was just like that truck stop. I’m not saying that I’m not proud of my service, but behind that crisp navy blue uniform with all the shiny medals and ribbons is a filthy camouflage blouse.

Contributor’s Note: I am currently a full time student at Cerro Coso Community College. I mostly like to paint, but I also like to write quite a bit now and then.

Our Barbies

Poem by Laural Zimmerman

Her Barbie
Had hair that was sleek and smooth
Or braided to keep from tangling

My Barbie
Had hair that was knotted and snarled
Or braided to hide the tangles

Her Barbie
Had custom designed clothes
Outfits matching, down to the shoes

My Barbie
Had clothes ripped and torn
Outfits grimy, never any shoes

Her Barbie
Had a house with tables and matching chairs
A hand-knit carpet on the floor

My Barbie
Had a tin can table and wood block chairs
A scribble-paper carpet on the floor

Her Barbie
Drove off with Ken in her convertible
Into a world of European vacations and New Year’s Balls
And raising dogs

My Barbie
Hitched a ride in GI Joe’s Jeep
Into a world of hard hats and steel-toed boots
And raising boys

Her dogs died

My boys left

Her Ken
Drove off in her convertible
With Scooter by his side

My Joe
Kept his old jeep
With me by his side

Contributor’s Note: I am a perpetual student, although not constantly. I have three years of Environmental Science, an AA in Child Development, and am presently the Secretary/Treasurer of a family-owned business. I am married and the mother of two grown sons. I presently live in Trona, CA.

Goodnight Lance

Poem by Sara Baird

That chilly moonlit night, while our families were camping,
I shared a bed with your sister in your family's old,
creaky camper. Her incessant kicking forced me to quietly move
to the floor. “Shhh,” I told myself as the floor squeaked.
Blanket-less I shivered on the hard, cold ground.

I looked at you in your bed. I thought for several moments
about asking you. I watched you turn your body
around. I heard you sigh. You were awake! I decided then
to ask you. I crept next to your bed. “Shhh,” I
reminded myself, “don’t wake anyone up.” I looked at you.

Your eyes were closed, chest rising and falling with each
breath. I took a deep breath. There’s no turning back.
“Lance,” I whispered. “Yeah.” Another deep breath. “Can
I sleep with you?” I saw your face clearly then in the
moonlight that shown through the window. Your green eyes glowed,
you smiled, a happy smile. “Yes,” was your answer.
My stomach ached and soared at the thrill of crawling into
bed next to you.

A noise! Someone was moving! A creak rippled throughout
the trailer. Your dad! “Shhh,” you whispered in my ear
as my head rested on your arm. Silence. We made no movement,
no sound. My heart raced, my breath ragged. Your breath on
my neck sent a chill throughout my body. Would we be caught? The
trouble we would be in! My heart ached as it raced while we
laid there. Waiting. Listening. Your family breathing,
crickets chirping, the wind blowing through the trees.

No more moving. No more human sounds. We were safe.
We breathed together, sighs of relief. I felt the
warmth of the blanket as you wrapped your other arm around
me. You held me close. Your breath on my face, warm
and minty. You held my hand. Delight. “Goodnight Sara,” you
whispered. I sighed in content. “Goodnight Lance.”

Contributor’s Note: Sara Baird is a Cerro Coso student.

The Closer

Poem by Nicole Fraijo

Fallen leaves
Oh when did it all begin?
Another day dragging as if tomorrow will never come
I try to rush my way out of it
I struggle
But it’s no use
I’m frozen
I’m in trouble

They call him Cinderello
Such an ironic name
For such pale creamy skin that never sees the sun
Or cares
He slowly drifts through life
knowingly dragging us with him
It’s torture

Snow falls on the crest of the soft ground
Everybody is paused
Frozen by his spell
Unable to answer
I call out but it is no use
No one can hear my risen voice
Where will we go?

They call him Cinderello
Such an innocent name
But his dark cascading hair speaks for the long days we are locked in
Our screams are hushed
Nobody blinks an eye
Or even looks our way
They all continue working expecting us to do the same
Suddenly we hear a malicious cackle
That condemns us

The winds blow and shake us up
We fight harder
Months go by but we dare not to give up

They call him Cinderello
They all stare into those innocent eyes
But we are the only ones who see past
All who he sucks in to his spell

We shiver
We prepare for the storm
But also the bright sunrise
For there has to be
Snow melts, things thaw
We wait

Contributor’s Note: I am a full time student at Cerro Coso Community College. I enjoy writing short stories and poetry. I also work at Burger King and have made a lot of friends there.

The Strangeness

Painting by Kelly Pankey
Pastel on pastel paper
9" x 11"

Contributor’s Note: I am currently a student with a few semesters behind me. I am hoping to receive a degree from Cerro Coso and then transfer to a university. I love to read and write, but I have also discovered, since attending college, that I enjoy just about every other subject I pursue in my studies.

Drop House

Short Story by Denise A. Otte

I sat at the table peeling potatoes for the 'papas fritas' while she washed the potatoes in the sink. The afternoon sun was casting my shadow upon the opposite wall of the tiny kitchen. My shadow blended in with the dirt and stains on the faded, floral wallpaper, so that it was hard to tell were the shadow ended and the stains began. When she finished scrubbing each potato, she handed it to me. I had a bowl of cold water in front me on the table and I put the potatoes into it when they were peeled to prevent them from turning brown. I looked down at the stained and torn jeans I was wearing and noticed a folded piece of newspaper that was jammed underneath one of the table legs to balance it. I worried silently that this might not keep the table steady and my bowl would topple off the table. I had a potato in my left hand and a peeler in the other. I sat on a rickety chair with the seat padding ripped out. This too had uneven legs and the chair tottered from side to side as I peeled. I had an old, metal barrel with a trash bag inside of it propped on top of an empty crate between my legs. I leaned over the barrel as I peeled, so the peelings would fall into the make-shift trash can. As I leaned forward my long, dark hair fell in front of me blocking my view of my hands as I peeled, and I almost peeled my thumb. I had to stop peeling to push the hair back from my face. I glanced out of the corner of my eye to the woman at the sink. She was a small framed woman with a tan, weathered face. She wore a faded, floral dress and had her black and gray streaked hair tied up in a bun with a rubber band. She worked quickly with older, more experienced hands and I struggled to keep her pace. It took much longer for me to peel the papas then it did for her to wash them, so I had a pile of potatoes waiting for me to catch up.

She handed me another potato. I reached for it, but when she let go the potato fell between my slippery, wet hands to the floor. I picked it up, hopping that she hadn't noticed my clumsiness. All I needed was more nasty words from her. She never raised her voice to me, but she was full of insults. Many of them whispered under her breath in Spanish, as if I couldn't hear her and couldn't understand her meaning.

Since my arrival in America last night she had already criticized me twice for choosing to speak English, instead of our native tongue. While growing up in Mexico, my father had stressed to me the importance of speaking English as well as Spanish and we spoke both languages in our home. He often said to me, “Soledad, English is the language of success,” and since I was finally here on American soil, I wanted to speak only English. This seemed to irritate Socorro.

Luckily, she hadn’t noticed that I dropped the papa. Picking the potato up from the hard, dirt floor of the tiny kitchen, I realized that the potato would need to be washed again. I would have to tell Socorro of my mistake. Silently, I got up from the table and walked to the sink. I showed her the dirty potato and motioned toward the stream of water. To my surprise, she didn't scold or taunt me. She didn't say a word. She just scowled at me and washed it. When she handed it back to me, I could feel the coldness of the potato from the tap water she used to wash it. I wondered to myself why she used cold water. My mother always used warm water for washing the potatoes.

"Why do you use cold water on the potatoes?" I asked in English. "My mother always washes them in warm."

"Well, your mother isn't here, is she, and we don't have the luxury of warm, running water here," she snarled in Spanish. She almost always spoke Spanish, but I could tell that her English was good. As she glanced at me over her shoulder, she added, "No, your mama is probably at home in her own kitchen in Mexico. She was never here in the coyote's kitchen, but she sends you here, yes?"

"She had no choice," I explained. "She became ill and my father was already here in America working to send us money every month. My Mama will pass away soon and I had to come here to live with my Papi. How else could I get here?" I asked. "I understand. This was a very difficult decision for my parents."

"No. Mija, tu no comprende! You don’t understand anything and neither do your foolish parents," she exhaled shortly through her nose with such force that I could see her nostrils flare. Making a "huhm" sound, she whispered "Tonto" under her breath at me, as she tossed the scrubbing pad into the sink.

"I am not silly! Don’t call me ‘Tonto.’ My name is Soledad!" I shouted at her, louder than I had intended, but my anger was welling up inside of me. “What right did she have to judge my family?” I thought to myself. “She is nothing!”

She glared at me. “You need to show respect and not raise your voice. If you speak this way to a true coyote, he will kill you. We are not playing house. These people mean business. We are their business," Socorro explained and for once she sounded almost kind, like a mother giving stern, but sound advice.

"No." I said curtly. "You are their business. You are their slave. I don't work for them. I am only here for another day. My father has the money. He just got a good factory job. He will pay the coyotes for smuggling me into America and then I will go live with him." The anger inside of me grew. I could feel my breathing had become more rapid and my skin began to heat up. My voice began to quiver, but I kept it low as she had warned me. "You, Socorro,” I spat at her through gritted teeth, “are the one no one wants. No one will ever pay to free you."

She turned toward me and stood directly in front of me, her shoulders straightened and her eyes met mine. She glared down at me with an intensity that sent a chill through me and, instinctively, I took one step back. She smirked and shook her head. “Don’t challenge me, child,” she said to me in Spanish, our eyes still locked. “I was head-strong, just like you in my youth and I already know everything that you will ever learn in your whole life. I am not another chicken, like you. I choose to work here because I am needed here. No one needs to pay to free me. I can go anytime I want to leave. Now, get to work on those potatoes. You are too slow. I had a donkey in Mexico that peeled papas faster with his teeth! And if I were you,” she warned as she motioned with her head toward the door, “I wouldn’t speak too loudly of my father’s good factory job. Do you see those two guards outside smoking and laughing on the porch? They report everything they see and hear to the coyotes. In general, Mija, don’t speak too loud. We don’t want to bring attention from the neighbors, either, or they will call ‘La Migra’.”

I didn’t say a word to her. “What could I say?” I thought to myself. I turned my attention back to the potatoes and sat working in silence, struggling to catch up with her. As we peeled, the tension in the room began to slowly subside. I looked down at the pile of potatoes waiting for me and realized that there were a lot of potatoes peeled. In an effort to alleviate the tension between us, I said to Socorro, “We eat good tonight,” in a falsely light-hearted tone. “This will be a nice filling meal for the six of us.”

“Huhm,” said Socorro again.

“Huhm, that is her favorite word,” I thought to myself, but I didn’t dare say it. Cautiously, I added, “I’m so hungry, I could eat it all myself. Last night when I arrived with that elderly couple, Roberto gave us the leftover papas fritas from last night’s dinner and I haven’t had anything since.”

As if she hadn’t heard me, she said. “We are expecting two coyotes and their chickens to arrive tonight,” Socorro said flatly, as she gestured toward my pile of potatoes.

“How many chickens…I mean…people in each group?” I asked.

“Who knows, two or three, maybe ten or twenty,” she explained. “And one of the coyotes is Pedro. He is notorious for bringing in very large groups. He smuggles them inside specially made compartments under the floor boards of semi trucks. Stacks them on top of each other like a deck of cards. One time he brought in over twenty-five chickens in one truck load. He made some big money from that shipment, but do you think any of us got a bigger cut, no!”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” I exclaimed, “Smuggling people in a truck like that!”

“Yes, Mija, many times the chickens don’t make it. On that run, he had six chickens die of suffocation and asphyxiation, but he just tossed them into a ditch and told their family that they didn’t show up at his station. He always blames mistakes on the coyotes before him. That’s why even the other coyotes don’t like Pedro much, but he makes more money than all of them combined.”

I looked down again at the wobbly table and the potatoes waiting for me. “Socorro,” I said feeling sick to my stomach and hungry at the same time, “this isn’t nearly enough potatoes to feed twenty people.”

“Don’t you worry, Tonto,” she said sarcastically. “Most of them will be too sick from the fumes and lack of air to eat anything anyway.”

I closed my eyes and silently brought my finger tips to my forehead, down to my heart and then across my chest from shoulder to shoulder in prayer. “Dear God,” I whispered. “I pray my father can pay tomorrow.”

“You’d better pray that Pedro doesn’t find out about your father’s new factory job or he’ll double your price,” said Socorro, as she finished cleaning the last of the potatoes. “Finish up quickly, Tonto, and help me find some type of bedding for the new chickens.”

I considered telling her again that my name was not “Tonto,” and I was not silly, but I knew she would never call me anything else, so I finished peeling the potatoes and cleaned the kitchen as quickly as possible. When I finished, I went to search for Socorro.

I found her with Senora Ramirez and her daughter Rosa. They were tying together burlap sacks and stuffing them with dead grass from the yard. They had been smuggled into the country like me. Socorro had told me earlier that the Ramirez’ have been here for three weeks, waiting for their family to raise enough money to free them. When she saw me standing at the doorway, Socorro shook her head and pursed her lips. Then she pointed at the burlap bags and snapped, “Get to work” then she added. “The real mattress you slept on last night will belong to Pedro tonight.”

“Perhaps he will share it with her instead of Rosa,” said Senora Ramirez to Socorro in Spanish and with a smirk in my direction, she added, “Pedro will like her. She is young and very pretty.” Looking me in the eye, she lifted her eyebrows, slightly tilted her head and said, “The coyotes are nicer, if you pet them, my dear. We will get our price cut in half because of Rosa. I am sure of it.”

“She won’t be here long enough to worry about that. She leaves tomorrow and good riddance to her,” said Socorro, right in front of me. “She has been quite useless since she got here, like teats on a warthog.” The women laughed as Senora Ramirez made clucking noises with her tongue and shook her finger at me. She was a large, stout woman with a sour face and a sour smell. She looked at everything with distain, including her daughter and I hadn’t heard her say one kind word to anyone since my arrival.

I sat down on the floor of the bedroom between Senora Ramirez and Rosa. The walls of the room were faded and stained, like the walls of the kitchen, but this one had old, striped wallpaper which was peeling in several places. I sat with my legs crossed in front of me and glanced around the room. I noticed another guard sitting on the floor in the hallway just outside the room. He was cleaning his pistol. All of the guards liked to sit around cleaning their pistols. I lowered my head to make eye contact with Rosa, who appeared to be my age and wore a dress made of the same material as her mother’s dress. I gave Rosa a pleading half-grin, but she turned away from me.

“How old are you?” I asked her.

“Don’t speak English to her, Tonto” growled Senora Ramirez in Spanish. “As a matter of fact, don’t speak to my daughter at all,” she said. I turned to Rosa. She acted as if nothing had been said about her and continued to stuff the burlap sacks. I uncrossed my legs, which were now beginning to ache and I continued to work as well. Longer shadows were now being cast against the back wall of the bedroom. It was getting dark, so the four of us began to work faster.

The darkness fell quickly and shrouded us in an uneasy secrecy. The house had no electricity, so we lit candles and lanterns to see as we continued to stuff more mattresses. We carefully kept the candles away from the grass and burlap. Just then we heard muffled noises coming from the back door. Socorro suddenly leaped to her feet and ran down the hallway to unlock the door. Rosa and I ran after her with the guard and Senora Ramirez close behind. All at once a freezing, cold gust of wind swept inside the house as Socorro swung open the door. It made the already cool air inside the house instantly feel like shards of ice cutting into my skin. The coldness literally hurt. I hadn’t recovered from the sudden, biting cold when the stench hit me full force. My stomach flip flopped as I automatically doubled over and the back of my throat clenched shut to keep the sparse amount of food I had inside of me down. The horrid smell of urine, vomit and gasoline filled the kitchen. People began to flood into the tiny room. Socorro lit the pilot light of the gas oven and opened the oven door. I was sure that she was trying to get some warmth into the room and into these poor people. Men, women and children dragged themselves inside, most of them crumpling to the floor against the walls as soon as they entered the house. Later in my life, I will look back to this moment and recall that this is how the walls had become so stained.

I sat stunned, gazing around the room. There was an old man sitting alone in the corner talking to himself and rocking his torso back and forth. A middle aged woman knelt beside him spitting up blood into my make-shift barrel trashcan. I searched the room until I saw Socorro in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room. She was on the floor bending over the body of a small boy with what looked like an oxygen mask over his face. A young woman cradled his head in her lap. Her eyes were closed as her tears streamed down her face like a waterfall. She clutched a Rosary in her hands and twisted, pulled and crushed it so hard, I was sure the beads were about to break. In Spanish she recited, “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and in the hour of our death.” She repeated this prayer again and again between her sobs. Somehow I heard her pleads to the Lord, in spite of the other muffled noises in the kitchen. I slowly and cautiously made my way through the crowd in the kitchen toward the woman. By the time I knelt by Socorro’s side, she was already lifting the mask off of the boy’s face and to my relief, he was breathing and conscious. Suddenly, the young woman grabbed Socorro’s hand and brought it to her lips. In Spanish she gushed, “Thank God for you! You must be our guardian angel. Gracias, Senora.” The boy coughed and choked again and before I could move a muscle, he turned and vomited in my lap. Dazed and shocked, Socorro and I instinctively turned our faces toward one another and then I noticed the grin beginning to form at the corners of her mouth. We shared a silent smile and then she hustled me back into the kitchen to wipe down my clothes with a wet towel.

The initial wave of activity in the house was starting to die down and everyone seemed to be settling in for the night. Senora Ramirez and Rosa had already served the ‘papas fritas’ to those who were able to eat. I surveyed the scene slowly. Socorro was now tending to the woman who was spitting up blood. She was guiding the woman into the bathroom. Senora Ramirez, Rosa and some of the guards began herding people into the back bedrooms and handing out the burlap mattresses. I was still standing by the sink trying to clean the vomit stains from my jeans when the back door opened again. The cold air swirled around the kitchen and a large man with dirty clothes and a rifle slung across his back sauntered into the room. He had thick, black hair and a worn, leathered face. His eyes were wide-set and he had several deep wrinkles around his mouth and across his forehead. “Frown lines,” my mother had called them. He wore an emotionless expression and he smelled of sweat and gasoline. As he turned to me, he asked, “Where is Socorro?”

I swallowed hard and my heart began to beat harder in my chest. “I…um, she’s…uh… she’s in the living room,” I answered. The man looked me up and down and then his gaze settled upon my young breasts which were not quite fully developed. His stare frightened me. My stomach sank and my heart pounded. Instinctively, I hunched my shoulders inward, lowered my head and crossed my arms in front of my chest. The man made a small, grunting sound at me and then walked away.

I waited awhile before I followed him. I wondered why he had asked for Socorro so quickly and wondered if he might hurt her. I was worried about her and I was afraid of this man, whom I assumed to be Pedro.

I walked down the hallway as quietly as possible. I heard muffled voices coming from the living room and suddenly I was struck with the memory of spying on my parents when I was a little girl. Many nights I watched from my hiding place as they talked and laughed and told each other about their day. It had been a long time since my parents and I had lived together in the same house because my father had gone to America for work. As I crept closer to the living room, following Pedro, I realized that I would never again be in the same house with my parents. When I heard Socorro’s voice, it reminded me that I would probably never hear my mother’s voice again either and a sadness filled my heart unexpectedly. Socorro’s voice seemed to grow louder as I came to the end of the hallway. My memories of home faded away as I realized that Socorro and the man were talking. They were talking about me.

“What did you find out about her family today?” interrogated the man in an accusing tone of voice. His voice was deep and resonant. He spoke quietly and with self-control. “How much do you think they can pay?”

“Pedro,” Socorro began. “Her mother is dying in Mexico and her father is a field worker. How much did you tell him for her delivery?” Socorro asked.

“So, that is Pedro,” I thought to myself. As he spoke, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled and stood upright.

“I told him $1200 American dollars for her transportation and one night’s lodging. His deadline is tomorrow. I had Marco call him today. The man says he has the money, but do you think we can squeeze him for more?” Pedro asked.

“No,” said Socorro too quickly. Her voice flew up an octave and she sounded almost like a girl herself. She cleared her throat, took a deep breath and then continued, more calmly, “I think you’d be wasting your time with this one, Pedro. Better to keep squeezing Franco Ramirez for his wife and daughter. He must be getting desperate after so long. He will definitely pay more for them.”

Pedro groaned as he leaned back on the torn, old sofa. There were so many rips in the upholstery that it was hard to visualize the original pattern. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ve squeezed all we can with that one and besides I’m getting tired of that Ramirez girl,” he said as he signaled for Socorro to remove his boots. I had crawled to the end of the wall and was shielded from view by a collapsing old recliner. In this spot I could get little glimpses of the scene and hear every word. Socorro knelt down in front of Pedro and untied his big, dirt covered boot. She tugged at the boot a few times before it came off his foot. When the boot was freed, a horrid stench like rotting meat and sweat assaulted my nostrils from across the room. The odor lingered in the air. “Whoa, woman!” he said gruffly as he kicked at her. He missed her face by only fractions of an inch. “My feet are sore and I don’t need you pulling my leg off!” he spat at her. He put his rancid, foul feet up on the coffee table and said casually, “I like that new girl in the kitchen. I want her tonight. Bring her to me later.”

All at once I felt the room grow colder and everything began to spin around me. I rested my head against the wall. My blood seemed to be half frozen as it pumped through my body. Colder, I felt colder still. My heart began to beat violently in my chest and a shiver shook my whole body. “Did he mean…yes, I’m sure that’s what he meant…” My palms began to sweat and my skin felt clammy. I felt cold and hot at the same time and tears began to sting my eyes. She will tell him, “NO!” I knew she would. I sat waiting, willing, pleading Socorro to tell him “No, you can’t have her! I won’t let you touch her,” but she didn’t.

“Lo siento, Mi amore,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hurt your foot,” she apologized.

I couldn’t believe my ears. She apologized! She had not defended me and she had referred to him as her love! “Who could love such a man?” I screamed in my head. “She must be out of her mind,” I thought, but as I silently watched her frantic efforts to make him comfortable, I began to see that she did not act like a woman in love, but rather, like a nervous servant. This was not love, my parents sitting and talking together, that was love. I then recalled the words Senora Ramirez had used earlier this evening, “the coyotes are nicer if you pet them” and I began to understand Socorro’s behavior, but I still wasn’t sure if she intended to deliver me to the monster later in the night. Did she expect me to appease the coyote as well?

Socorro’s voice lifted me out of my thoughts and I heard her say, “you don’t want to keep that annoying little girl. She is stupid, useless and disrespectful. She rarely does what she is told to do and when she does, she makes a mess of it. You should’ve seen how many papas she dropped today and she dropped a dish too. She is full of fight and her clumsiness will cost you money, Pedro,” she explained too earnestly. Shaking a finger at Pedro, she told him in a stern voice, “You should send her home tomorrow as planned.”

Pedro sat forward on the couch and eyed Socorro closely. His eyebrows furled and his scowl returned. I began to worry that he was angry at her for being so bold with him. I could tell that Socorro was worried too because she leaned away from him and brought her legs up underneath herself into a squatting position in case she needed to run. Pedro slowly lifted his hand toward her face, grabbed her by the chin and pulled her face closer to his own. He glared deeply into her eyes. His angry expression eased. Then suddenly, he bellowed a hearty laugh. “You are jealous that I want to keep her,” he said with a smug, satisfied grin. “Aren’t you, woman? I suppose you want me to stay with you tonight, don’t you?” he taunted her. “Very well, I will keep you company tonight. You don’t have to make excuses to get rid of the girl. Now, go get my whiskey. I need a drink.”

I watched him intently, as my heart pounded heavily in my ears. I thought maybe I had misunderstood what he had said. The realization that I would be safe tonight was just beginning to sink into my brain, when I noticed Socorro’s feet on the floor beside me. She had walked around the corner on her way to the kitchen to get Pedro’s whiskey and found me crouched halfway behind the wall and the recliner. She moved further down the hall so Pedro would not see her and signaled for me to follow her. Silently, I did as I was told and followed her into the kitchen.

“I…I…you saved me…” I didn’t know what to say. My mind was reeling. A million thoughts crashed together in my mind and my eyes began to well with tears. “Socorro…” I said breathlessly, “I…”

“Don’t do this, Mija,” she answered in Spanish. “I don’t like all this drama. I do whatever I have to do to survive in this place…because I belong here, but you don’t belong here and so you need to go home tomorrow with your father. I will see to it. Now, go quietly to find a piece of burlap and get some sleep. You will need your strength.”

She bent down and removed the grate off the bottom of the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of whiskey that was hidden inside. She walked past me down the hall. Just before she turned the corner into the living room, she stopped and looked back at me. We stood silently for a moment, staring at each other, but before she turned away again, I quietly whispered the words in Spanish, “Gracias, Senora.”

Contributor’s Note: My name is Denise Otte and I am currently a case manager at a prison that houses primarily immigration inmates. This employment background gives birth to most of my story ideas. I am currently an on-line student at Cerro Coso and although I've been writing short stories since I was a teenager, this is the first story that I have ever completed. In the past, I never finished my stories because there was always something missing when I read them over. They seemed flat, lacking character and depth. Sometimes there were fundamental errors in the plot or I simply lost interest because the story never came alive for me. This began to change after I enrolled in the English C141 course Creative Writing: Fiction and Poetry here at Cerro Coso. The teaching and the reading assignments showed me how to liven up my stories and make them believable and more vivid. It also helped to have a deadline. I found that I work much better under pressure. Now that I know I can actually complete a story, I plan to finish all those other half-told tales that are saved in my
computer.

Girl in the Picture

Poem by Jennifer L. Day

She is a young woman in the picture.
Her hair is set just so,
in the style all the other girls wear.
She looks like she’d said goodbye
to someone in World War II.
She stands alone on a balcony
in a dark dress, very neat with
her high-heeled feet crossed,
the only thing noticeably improper.
She looks to the side, her hair glistening
and covering half of her ivory face,
as if to hide a sad story. She lets a small smile
touch her lips. She appears to know I am watching
her, that I see her stand by herself in a place
so exquisite and breathtaking,
somewhere lovers must have met in secret.
But she doesn’t want me to see
how alone she is. But then
I feel her spirit as I refuse
to shift my invading eyes
and I am standing where she was
there alone.
In the next moment, I’ll be joined
by a charming stranger
who likes to make girls laugh.
Maybe we’ll dance like children
And maybe when I stand here again
We’ll be the lovers gazing over
a new world.

Contributors Note: I am currently a student at Cerro Coso and hope to continue studying the art of the English language. I love photography and I hope to learn more of the arts and all they entail.

Creating a Monster Using the Method of Victor Frankenstein

Essay by Kelly Pankey

“I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial” -Pierre Charles Baudleaire

There are many reasons why someone would want to create a monster. One reason could be that a person wishes to play God, but he or she feels that just creating a normal being would be boring and let’s face it, it’s been done before. Then there are those that are just naturally angry about everything and want to punish the world for its lack of sympathy and understanding. These people want to create a monster that will wreak havoc upon their enemies. The last group of monster makers would be those who just have nothing better to do with their time. If you fit into any of these categories you might be interested in Victor Frankenstein’s method for creating a monster.

The first step you will need to take is to study an outdated science such as Alchemy or some other scientific field that has since been discredited. People may ridicule you for it, and they may even laugh at you, but this is a necessary step in the process. Don’t become disheartened when you are put down for devoting your studies to Alchemy. Victor’s own father called Victor’s first book on Alchemy “sad trash” (Shelley 46), and told him not to waste his time on it. Even Victor’s professor at the university told him that he wasted his time studying those books. But that did not deter Victor!
Next, you must find a suitable place in which to work on your creation. The place you choose must be secluded and dreary for best results. You must also take consideration of how you are going to illuminate your new abode. Candles are a good choice. They put out very little light and are inexpensive. Plus, they set the mood, which will provide you with some much-needed inspiration for your project.

The third step is where you start to get your hands dirty. This is where the fun starts. You are now required to visit the morgues and cemeteries to gather up your materials. Slaughterhouses are also a great resource. It is very important at this point to choose the largest and most grotesque body parts you can find. The bigger and uglier you get, the better your monster will be. Also, the larger body parts are easier to work with, which will make the task go by more quickly, as Victor discovered, “As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature …” (Shelley 58).

After collecting your materials, you must begin assembling your creature. This will take a lot of time and patience. You must forget about family, friends, and anything else that could be a distraction to your work, and focus complete attention upon the task at hand. You may receive a few concerned letters from your loved ones, but just ignore them for the time being. Your devotion and hard work will be rewarded in the end.

At last, after perhaps years of struggles and setbacks, your task is almost finished. But the final step is also the most important step in creating a true monster. After life is finally bestowed upon your creation you must do one more thing. Run away! You must now abandon the thing you devoted so much time and attention to for so long. If you don’t complete this last step properly you may just end up with a giant, ugly best friend. You don’t want the monster to feel the slightest bit of gratitude to you for creating it. And God forbid it should learn any of the other human emotions besides anger, hate, and devastation. What good would a kind, compassionate monster be, anyway?

Well, if you follow step-by-step Victor Frankenstein’s guide for creating a monster, the results should be nothing less than an angry, murderous, and probably very miserable creature that will owe its entire existence to you and you alone. You may lose a few close friends and family members to the monster’s wrath, but that’s a price you must be willing to pay when you take up the occupation of creator.

Works Cited
Baudleaire, Pierre Charles. BrainyQuote. 2008. 13 March 2008.
Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. Ed. Johanna M. Smith. New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2000.

Contributor’s Note: I am currently a student with a few semesters behind me. I am hoping to receive a degree from Cerro Coso and then transfer to a university. I love to read and write, but I have also discovered since attending college, that I enjoy just about every other subject I pursue in my studies.