Metamorphoses: A Journal of Literature and Art

Memory

2011-04-11T01:00:00.000-07:00

A Poem by Tim Holloway

Memory – by Tim Holloway

Our memory is like a burning scrap of paper,

we use it to light up the past.

Once upon a time there were people

that weren’t very good at thinking.

To them, everything old was sacred.

Priests made sure that no son did anything

that his father had not done before him.

They lived in cities and towns,

buried from time to time by the desert sands.

The land turned year by year like a potter’s wheel.

They would eventually become the greatest inventors of all time.

***

Have you ever stood between two mirrors?

Even when you can’t see the mirrors in their reflections anymore,

they are still there, and you know it.

Like the past, they continue on, becoming the future.

And behind every ‘Once upon a time…’ there is another.

For some reason the ego needs a past to spring from,

or it would suffer and crumble into dust.

Our memory is like a burning scrap of paper,

we use it to light up the past.

Contributor's Note: This is my sixth foray into online education at Cerro Coso - the first being a pair of computer classes - followed by Philosophy, Ethics, Music, Film Studies, Anthropology, Archeology, Theater, E-Commerce, and Creative Writing courses. It has been an experience that I highly recommend. I’m slowly whittling away at completing the required courses towards acquiring an AA degree - of one form or another - and having these classes available online is priceless.

Nine in Time

2011-02-21T01:00:00.000-08:00

A Poem by Tim Holloway

She lay in repose
on the frost nipped lawn,
Jagged, sharp teeth bared in the grimace
of her last thoughts.
Her silver hair reflects the iciness
of the scene.
Her fur coat stiff; breathlessness
claims what once ran wild.
Carefully, awkwardly, I collect her
and then place her to rest rigidly with my discards.
Many mice will dance tonite.

Contributor's Note: This is my sixth foray into online education at Cerro Coso - the first being a pair of computer classes - followed by Philosophy, Ethics, Music, Film Studies, Anthropology, Archeology, Theater, E-Commerce, and Creative Writing courses. It has been an experience that I highly recommend. I’m slowly whittling away at completing the required courses towards acquiring an AA degree - of one form or another - and having these classes available online is priceless.

Memory

2011-02-14T01:00:00.000-08:00

A Poem by Tim Holloway

Memory is like
a burning scrap of paper
lighting up the past.

Contributor's Note: This is my sixth foray into online education at Cerro Coso - the first being a pair of computer classes - followed by Philosophy, Ethics, Music, Film Studies, Anthropology, Archeology, Theater, E-Commerce, and Creative Writing courses. It has been an experience that I highly recommend. I’m slowly whittling away at completing the required courses towards acquiring an AA degree - of one form or another - and having these classes available online is priceless.

Sunset Boulevard Villanelle

2011-02-07T01:00:00.000-08:00

A Poem by Angie Wilson

A bag lady leans against a palm tree
At the corner of Sunset and Gower,
Smashing cans with a broken chunk of concrete.

Her face has aged twenty years past the dreams
That brought her here. At the heart of rush hour,
A bag lady leans against a palm tree.

At Van Ness sits a double amputee
In his chair by the KTLA tower,
Smashing cans with a broken chunk of concrete.

An impeccably dressed studio flunky
Looks in a rush but pauses to glower.
A bag lady leans against a palm tree,

Singing, strumming, and stinking of Chablis.
Dream big but don’t wind up on a corner
Smashing cans with a broken chunk of concrete.

It’s a short walk from the Grove to gritty
And they keep the doors locked at Sunset Gower.
A bag lady leans against a palm tree
Smashing cans with a broken chunk of concrete.

Contributor's Note: After fifteen years of sporadic study at four community colleges, I accidentally earned an A.A. in Social Sciences from Cerro Coso and now I occasionally take a class for fun. I'm a city girl living in a small town, a beach bum marooned in the desert, a pacifist working on a Navy base.

The Mountaineer

2011-01-31T01:00:00.000-08:00

Short Story by William Barclay

When they checked into the hotel, Carolyn remembered something strange. A year ago, probably to the day, they had been in France. There were no problems then with the lavatories or with airport security. They had each brought a single bag. It was a group vacation, one of those organized tours, and they had been surrounded by strangers who talked over everything and laughed raucously at secret jokes. Steven hated the tour guides, hated walking around in a herd and being told where to look. He wanted to see great art and had no interest in street performers or the clever boutiques at the Palais Royal. They separated from the group; they spent hours looking at Caravaggios; they made love the day before they came home. It was pleasing in a comfortable and entirely familiar way, the way their friends’ vacations were pleasing. And now, a year later, this.

There was no accounting for life. She had learned that much, and yet Carolyn was still prepared. While they waited for the elevator, trailed by a bellman hauling their collection of trunks, she inspected the list of names and phone numbers, the precisely choreographed itinerary, the new dosing schedule. She managed her existence this way, writing everything down on checklists and color-coded index cards held together by rubber bands. She was no longer herself; she was the thing on those papers; she was the next thing.

In their room, plain but decent and overlooking a narrow, tree-lined courtyard, she helped Steven into the bathroom and onto the toilet. She took a dampened washcloth to his face, being careful not to rile the sore that had appeared on his chin. She brushed his teeth. While Carolyn brewed his coffee—decaf, not that it mattered, not that he would actually drink it—she inspected the brochures fanned out along the table in the kitchenette. They were provided by companies that sold hiking equipment and offered rafting trips for outdoorsmen and their families. Sun River, she was reminded, offered you the time of your life.

Armed with his coffee, Steven worked some more on his letter to the family. It was his opus, composed over the course of months using a device that translated his speaking voice into large blocks of text on a laptop computer. It was a stupid machine. It put contractions where whole words should have been; it didn’t know the difference between “am” and “an”. His words were punctuated by long pauses, by neck spasms and short, sudden gasps for air. A couple of times, when the machine went haywire or he forgot where he left off, he glanced over at Carolyn and widened his eyes comically. This was his wink, his shrug. They could still laugh, couldn’t they?

Soon he drifted off. He was sleeping more and more lately. Whether it was the drugs or the stress or the gradual diminution of his body no one knew. He could sit there for hours, twelve or fourteen at a time, waking only to chew on muscle relaxants or sip water through a straw. Carolyn usually read a book. This time she decided to go for a walk, although she wasn’t entirely sure why. Air seemed like a good idea, fresh air, and even though it was dark she thought that she might recognize a thing or two.

She headed out along the main road and tried to remember which of the side streets would take her down to the gorge. It had been more than twenty years since she and Steven had stumbled upon the lonesome sandstone gorge and that dusty knoll where they shared a picnic lunch and watched tiny pinpoint men scale far-off mountains. They were like that then, not brave enough to summit a mountain, not exactly, but young enough to sit and look at one. Now she dreaded the thought of Steven in his chair, wincing as they crossed over unpaved roads and cursing her in his mind for taking the long way.

The town was larger than she remembered it, but prettier, too. Rows of tiny shops and mock cottages had sprung up along the thoroughfares. The streets themselves were mostly empty, illuminated by old fashioned street lamps, by the glimmer of a half-obscured crescent moon, and the steady clapping of her feet against the pavement reminded Carolyn how wonderfully far she was from home. What a little silence could do; how easily it could swallow up time and place. Yes, even people. Especially people.
Wandering down side roads and winding in and out of cul-de-sacs, she realized after a little while that she was lost. In the distance, some tiny glass-fronted place—a restaurant or maybe a bar—lit the sidewalk in spheres of green and gold. She decided to go in, just to ask for directions, really, but when she did, the bartender set down a menu. Carolyn wondered if it was fate. She believed in fate sometimes.

The place itself was darker than it had seemed and Carolyn found herself surrounded by sights and sounds which seemed familiar, but only vaguely so, like memories from childhood or perhaps from some past life, memories, she was sure, which were better left forgotten. There were the bleary-eyed older men, the vapid, giggling young girls, the deafening clang of too many people and things. But there was music as well and the music, although she couldn’t place it, the sound of music still made her smile. When the bartender returned, Carolyn ordered a white wine, whatever they had, the drier the better. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken a drink and when it came the wine scorched her tongue. It was rotten; it was just like too-ripe pears and she suspected the bottle had been corked, but it went to her head in a way that helped her forget about the taste.

“Climber?”

The man glancing over at her was young and broadbacked, sitting two stools down, with a beard that looked as though it might have grown in by accident. Carolyn had seen him earlier, staring off at persons or places unknown, but his sudden attention still left her confused. “Excuse me?” she asked, trying her best to smile.

“The climbing, is that it? Are you here for the climbing?” Carolyn thought for a moment that he was being deliberately stupid, that he was mocking her age and her situation, and then, looking down at her plain khaki pants and practical shoes, it dawned on her that she was perhaps dressed for the part. Were there really female climbers? Of her age?

“Yes,” she said in a tone meant to be deadpan. “I can hardly get enough of climbing. Mountains, rocks, anything really.”

He nodded his agreement and then began to tell her his story in the way that people do to strangers in bars, with great attention to detail, with sweeping movements of his hands, with a voice so loud and booming that it made her blush. He had, Carolyn learned, read a magazine article about someone kayaking the Kali River and decided to circle the globe in search of the world’s fiercest rapids. He travelled with a friend, a rich friend who funded their expeditions, and the two of them had already visited four continents and more than a dozen states. He hated Tambor and loved Phuket. Once, while passing through Cyprus, he had broken his wrist and had it set by a local shaman. It healed in a matter of days. She marveled at the very idea of people like him, of just picking up and going somewhere. He seemed every bit as reckless and brave, every bit as childlike, as the men in her books.

“You know,” she said, straightening up a little, “I don’t think that there’s anything more glorious than standing on a mountaintop at daybreak. Just at daybreak, I mean. When the sun is coming up and the sky is light.” Carolyn wondered where she had heard that, probably in a movie. For a second, she was quite proud of herself and then, suddenly, an image: her sagging neck and sunken cheeks, the lines around her eyes, that time of night, a woman alone, some strange bar. What must he be thinking?

“Actually, my husband and I did a pre-dawn climb not far from here,” she said, emphasizing it—emphasizing her husband—as best she could. “Just a few days after we were married.”

“That’s cute,” he said in a way that left Carolyn embarrassed. “So this is part two then? Sort of a second honeymoon?”

“Well, no,” she told him, tracing the outline of her glass with one finger. It occurred to her that the man was waiting, that she would need to tell him something more, and then, as quickly as she realized it, the something appeared, as if it had willed itself into being, as if it had perhaps been waiting all this time for a chance to emerge. “My husband is dead.”

It was a horrible thing to say. Carolyn did not understand where the words had come from or why, having said them, she did not feel guilty or ashamed. Just this: she had said them. She wanted to take another drink, something stronger, maybe a whiskey sour. Yes, whiskey sounded good. It occurred to her that she could probably stay there and drink until the bar closed, until she could barely stand and had forgotten where she was. No one knew her there. What difference would it make?

Things became quiet for her.

She ordered another glass of wine and then, because she remembered that she hated the wine, a cognac. The man with the beard said something brief and meaningless about rivers and rainfall, but was otherwise silent. Carolyn understood. The alcohol made her breath feel heavy and allowed her to lose track of the space between herself and the man, between the man and the street, between the street here and the street she knew as a girl. She had been meaning to go back and visit. Her poor mother.

Finally, when she found herself gripped by a strange and uncomfortable ringing in her ears, Carolyn excused herself and exited to the restroom. She paid her tab, leaving the bartender an especially large tip. What a nice man to stand there and draw her a map on the back of a napkin. What a nice place. The world was smaller than it sometimes seemed. On her way out, she put a hand on the shoulder of the bearded man.

“I need to go now,” she told him. “But good luck with the river.”

He stared back at her blankly. Carolyn realized that she had interrupted, that he was already having a conversation with another man, this one clean-shaven but equally large. She thought it might be the friend he had told her about. Soon after she left, a brief chorus of laughter poured out of the bar, echoing off of the abandoned storefront across the street and Carolyn wondered if it was them, the two adventurers, laughing at the foolish old lady and her talk of mountaintops.

She looked at the map only briefly. The hotel, it turned out, was closer than she had realized, and on the way there she was able to locate the road that led down to the gorge. She followed it halfway down, until she could see what she thought was moonlight reflecting off of the water, and decided not to go any further. It was dreadful, just a haphazard slit carved into the earth. It was worse than dreadful; it was nothing; it was the absence of space. Carolyn hated this town now, how it was crowded and desolate all at once, how far away it seemed from every familiar signpost, every hint of civilization. She should have never left the hotel, she knew that now. She ought to have stayed with Steven, to have finished her book and taken her pill and fallen asleep to the sound of the television. It was, after all, her job, her only job, to be there and attend to him. And besides, he needed her so much.

Contributor's Note: William Barclay lives in Santa Monica and sometimes in Ridgecrest.

A Forest

2010-10-11T01:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-04T01:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-27T01:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-20T01:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-13T01:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-06T01:00:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-30T01:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-29T01:30:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-22T01:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-15T01:30:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-08T01:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-03-01T01:30:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-22T01:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-15T01:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-08T01:00:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-01T01:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-25T01:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-18T01:30:00.000-08:00

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.

Nostalgic Tea Time

2009-12-07T01:00:00.000-08:00

Digital Art by Randa Henderson
12.8" x 8"

Contributor's Note: I grew up in Ridgecrest and am pursuing a degree in Graphic Design. So far I've only had one class in digital art, and I am excited to improve and learn more about this profession and art form.

The Angel and I

2009-11-30T01:30:00.000-08:00

Poem by Ashley Olson

She didn’t know that I
was there in the graveyard
that cold November night.

I watched hidden by an angel of granite,
as the little, hunched over woman
made her way to a fresh grave.

Light from a rising full moon, glistened off her wet cheeks
as she knelt down to the soft ground and whispered,
“I still love you.”

Though the night was young
it was time to go, the angel and I,
so we drifted away into the shadows.

All the while I whispered back to the darkness,
“I know, I know.”
She didn’t get to hear me.

Contributor’s Note: I am seventeen years old. I have only been living in the beautiful Owens Valley for a year and a half, and have loved every minute of it. I have been attending Cerro Coso Community college since the move. I enjoy horseback riding, competing in many of the local English shows, and fishing for the notorious native Brown Trout.

My Penance

2009-11-23T01:30:00.000-08:00

Short Story by Denise A. Otte

It was a warm September morning and I was sitting on a bench at the bus stop when Teresa sauntered over and sat down next to me. I knew it was her, even though I was looking down. I could see her big, white work shoes out of the corner of my eye. She had to step over a McDonald’s bag with something smashed inside it, probably a hamburger. I could see the ketchup soaking through the bag. In this neighborhood, I was surprised some hobo crack head hadn’t picked it up for breakfast. Teresa sat down, but didn’t lean back. “Don’t worry it’s dry,” I said as I waved my hand toward the newly spray-painted “Sur 13” on the back of the bench. “Spider and Rico did it yesterday. Nice job, huh?” I asked. Teresa nodded her agreement.

I swear I used to feel like my whole life was spent at the bus stop. I was seventeen then and I took the bus everywhere. I was always going somewhere because I never wanted to be where I was. At the time, I was living with Rico, my boyfriend. My mom threatened to kick me out if I didn’t stop seeing him. She didn’t like his gangster hype or the drugs he sold. Instead of breaking up with him, I moved in with him and then I had to take the bus to high school every morning. I really wanted to get my diploma. Everyone said I wasn’t going to graduate because of the baby on the way, but I figured I could make it until the end of the school year. I was only two months pregnant. I had a few friends that had babies and quit school. After that, they couldn’t even get a job at the mall. That wasn’t going to be me. I wasn’t going to let this thing, this mistake, ruin my life.

Teresa was twenty years old and she was a waitress at an old diner called the Red Barn. I was telling Teresa about how I got the bruise on my cheek. “I know that sometimes there is no right or wrong, just different ways of looking at the same situation,” I explained to her. “Rico says that I make him too angry and he’s right. There have been a lot of times when I knew he was getting mad, but instead of backing off, I just kept at him. Is it more wrong of me to push him or is it more wrong of him to hit me? ‘Cause I always hit him back, every time he hits me, so maybe there is no right or wrong.”

“I don’t think anyone should be hitting anyone,” said Teresa, “but a man shouldn’t be hitting a woman at all, especially not a pregnant one. They’re too strong. He could really hurt you or the baby.” She crossed her arms over her red and white checkered apron. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that loser uniform. If she had washed off two layers of makeup and put her big, sprayed hair in two pig tails, she’d have looked just like a milk maid straight off the farm.

Teresa wasn’t really my friend. I talked to her at the bus stop every morning, but I didn’t ever take her advice on anything. Teresa didn’t date, so she didn’t know much about men. She was kind of ugly. She had a really big head and a big nose and bad, nasty teeth, probably from her druggie days. I still liked Teresa though, she was real smart. She was always reading something at the bus stop, but she didn’t know anything about love or relationships. She said she had sex with a lot of guys when she was using, but never had any real boyfriends, so I didn’t take her advice about my problems with Rico. Teresa wasn’t a very understanding person anyway. She was always acting better than everyone else and always preaching about God. She said she found Jesus when she got clean and then He helped her get that waitress job with the great tips that she always bragged about. I thought that maybe Jesus could have got her something a little better than that. Anyway, she was always criticizing me and Rico. She told me I was stupid for having sex with him because he was a player. Then she would tell me that he was abusive because of the hitting. I didn’t think Rico was a player, but looking back on things now, well, she might have been right about the hitting. At the time, I thought that maybe the hitting was a sign that Rico just wasn’t my soul mate. That’s why we made each other so mad all the time.

I didn’t think that Rico was a player, but he did have one other girl, Stephanie, that he was seeing. Players screw everybody and lie about it. Rico didn’t do that stuff. He was a nice guy. He was just in love with both of us and he hadn’t made his decision about who he wanted to be with yet. I told Teresa, “Everyone who is dating has to make the decision to be with only one person sometime. You don’t meet someone and just dump all your other choices overnight. Rico is just taking his time making up his mind to be sure he makes the right choice between me and Stephanie, and if I nag him about it too much, he won’t choose me.” Now, when I look back on things, I think that maybe he shouldn’t have taken so long to decide.

The bus came just in time to save me from Teresa’s preaching about Rico cheating on me. I didn’t know why she always called it cheating. She just didn’t get it. I understood Rico, so it didn’t matter to me what the bus stop waitress thought. Grateful for the chance to move away from her, I picked up my backpack and slung it over my right shoulder. My long, black hair got caught under the strap. Teresa pulled my hair out for me and said, “I swear, Maria, you should cut your hair. It goes all the way down to your butt. It must give you headaches. By the way, how are you feeling lately with the baby and all? Are you still sick all the time?”

“Nope,” I said. “The sick feeling has gone away, but I still feel bloated all the time.” Then whispering to her, I said, “Monday, I had a little blood in my panties.”

“How come you didn’t go to the clinic right away?” she asked, looking at me kind of funny. “Aren’t you worried?”

“No,” I said. “I’m sure everything is fine. I feel okay and I don’t want to cost Rico any more money for extra visits.” Teresa just rolled her eyes and gently pushed me ahead of her onto the bus.

The bus arrived at Teresa’s stop first, and I was glad because I didn’t want to talk to her about the baby anymore. I just wanted to ignore it and forget for a minute that it even existed. I felt like nobody ever wanted to talk about me anymore. They only asked about the baby. Even Rico paid more attention to the baby than to me. Sometimes he acted really excited about the baby and he patted by belly. One time he brought home a Little Golden Book about a train that said over and over again, “I think I can, I think I can." He made me sit down on the couch. It was really nice because he put my feet up on the coffee table and he put a pillow behind my head and one under my feet. He rubbed my belly and kissed it and then read the train story to my belly. That little train thought he could do anything and I remember thinking that Rico could probably do anything. Every time he said he would do something, he did it. He always came through for me and for his homies. Rico was a guy you could count on. Not like my old man, my father. He was never around much, and when he was, he just drank and yelled at us. If we got in his way or talked too loud when he was home, my mom would smack us good. I know she did it to protect us. It was much better to get a quick smack from her than to get punched by him.

I liked that Rico read to my belly. It was so sweet that it made me cry and I stopped crying when I was seven. Nobody ever felt sorry for me anyway, so why bother crying. I felt like a big baby crying that day about a stupid train story. Rico said it was just that pregnant women get really emotional about their babies, but I wasn’t thinking about the baby. I was thinking that Rico wouldn’t be doing all that nice stuff for me if I wasn’t pregnant. It was all for the baby. None of it was for me. Rubbing my belly was pretty much the only time he touched me anymore. I wondered if he was having more sex with Stephanie.

As I sat on the bus, I glared down at my stomach. I had a pooch there where it had been flat before. My belly ring seemed to stick out at an awkward angle and my favorite jeans were starting to get too tight. I didn’t want to get fat and I didn’t want to give up these really cute jeans. They showed off my butt and I loved them because they were Mudd jeans. I was so lucky to find them at the thrift store. The bus lurched a few times and the fumes were pretty bad. Usually, I would get nauseous on the bus ride, but that week I had felt pretty good. It was great, like I wasn’t even pregnant, and on the bus that day, I remember pretending in my head that I wasn’t going to have a baby at all. I imagined myself selling all kinds of Mary Kay make-up and winning a cruise and a pink car. Sometimes, I even pretended that I was going to college and when I graduated my parents and all the ‘cholos’ from the neighborhood that talk shit about me, came and saw me. After the ceremony, they all hugged me and told me how wrong they were about me and apologized for being mean. Then they all asked to borrow money from me and I looked them straight in the eye and said, “No.”

The bus came to Teresa’s stop and she said goodbye and wished me luck at the clinic. I watched her exit the bus and walk down the sidewalk. I began to think about what Teresa had said about Rico and the hitting. I spent a lot of time defending Rico, but the truth was, I think a lot of the time Rico started the fights on purpose, just so he could get mad and stomp out of the house. While he was out, he would go down to the club and hang out with Spider to “cool down.” That way, he got out of the house without me nagging him about him spending more time with Spider than with me. If I complained about it later, he would say he was planning on spending time with me until I started a fight and drove him away. I used to believe him when he said that stuff and I wondered why I was always nagging him. After being with Rico for about a year, I started to realize that he was getting me all worked up on purpose. So after that realization, I ignored him. He didn’t like being ignored. I think that’s when the hitting started. He couldn’t get me to nag him or fight with him because I was ignoring his comments and he got really mad. The first time I ignored him, he swung his fist at me hard, landing his knuckles on my jaw. After hitting me that day, he went to Stephanie’s apartment and stayed the whole night. Eventually, I learned to fight with him, but just a little bit, so he would just go hang with Spider. If I fought too much or ignored him completely, he'd hit me then run to Stephanie, saying it was my fault.

When I first got pregnant, I was excited because I thought he would dump Stephanie for sure and we would start a family together, maybe even get married. But now I was just praying that he didn’t take off and leave me with this thing all by myself. If he did, my mom wouldn’t help me. The day I told her I was pregnant, she called me a whore. “You don’t deserve to have a child!” she screamed in my face.

As the bus continued to roll along, my thoughts drifted toward my older half-sister, Rosa. She was my mom’s first kid from Julio. Sometimes my dad would be gone for weeks and Julio would come around. My mom always had a lot of men, and she called me a whore. I wondered if Rosa would let me stay with her if I left Rico. I didn’t think she could afford to keep me and a baby. If I went to work, who would watch it for us? At least Rico made enough money on the street to pay for the stuff we needed, and he didn’t ask me to work or quit school. The way I saw it, I was stuck with him, bound together by the baby. This thought sometimes made me giddy with happiness and sometimes it scared me to death.

I sat in my bus seat and watched faceless people walk by on the sidewalks and colorless cars pass on the street, until finally the bus stopped and I got off. The clinic was right in front of the bus stop. It was in a really bad neighborhood. I think it was Crips territory. I pulled the sleeve of my jacket down and held the material between my thumb and forefinger, trying to hide the “13” tattooed on my wrist. It wouldn’t be a welcome sight around here. The outside of the clinic was clean, but the paint was so chipped that it was hard to tell what color it had once been. There wasn’t a sign on the top of the building; instead there was a large piece of wood leaning against the wall. It had the word “clinic” spray painted on it with an arrow pointed toward the door.

Before I walked in, I checked my purse to make sure I had the ten dollars they charged me for each visit. The room was small and it smelled like pine sol. There was a counter near the door where the receptionist sat, and a bunch of hard, plastic chairs against the opposite wall. Between the chairs and the counter was an old, wooden coffee table covered with outdated magazines.

“Name?” said the woman behind the counter. Her name tag said Stephanie. My skin crawled and I glared at her. The woman was old, at least thirty. I knew it wasn’t Rico’s Stephanie, but I still didn’t like her.

“Just what the world needs,” I thought to myself, “another Stephanie.”

“Name?” she said again, impatiently.

“Maria,” I replied as I rubbed my shoe against the baseboard of the counter.

“Uh, your full name. I need your full name,” said Stephanie with a fake smile.

“Maria Consuela Calderon,” I said, looking her in the eye with my own fake smile. “Is Dr. Hubbard in today?” I asked. “I saw her the first time I was here and I’d like to see her again.”

“Yes. She’s here, but you’ll have to take a seat and wait your turn,” said Stephanie pointing to the crowded waiting room.

I remember waiting for what seemed like hours. Finally, Stephanie poked her ugly, sour face into the room and said my name. She led me to a room in the back. It was a small room, painted white with gray trim. There was a sink and counter, an examination bed, a stool and a tray. In the corner was a machine with a little tv screen. I undressed, put on the paper gown Stephanie had given me, and sat there for awhile waiting for the doctor. As I waited, I daydreamed that I was a grown woman in a church dress with a handsome husband and a minivan. In my fantasy, the husband was standing next to me, holding my hand and suggesting baby names. I was so lost in my imagination that I didn’t hear Dr. Hubbard and her assistant enter the room.

“Hi Maria,” said the doctor. “This is Sheila. She’s a student who will be working with me for awhile. Do mind if she observes your check up?” she asked.

“No,” I lied. Dr. Hubbard asked me to lie down and put my feet into the stirrups at the end of the exam table. She and the student moved down to the end of the table, looking up my paper dress. The student asked me to scoot down to the end of the table, so I moved my butt down toward her a few inches. Then she asked me to scoot some more and then more. My butt felt the edge of the table before the puta finally said to stop. Any farther and I would’ve fallen off. Lying flat on my back with my knees in the air, I felt like I was on display at some kind of freak show, or maybe at some alien autopsy where I was the alien or maybe the baby was the alien. I remembered some sci-fi movie where the alien baby rips its way out of the mother, or host, as they called her. That’s how I felt--like a host to this alien invader.

“Have you had any problems since your first visit,” asked Dr. Hubbard.

“No,” I lied again. For some reason I felt like the bloating and the bleeding should be kept secret. I didn’t want her to ask me why I didn’t come in sooner like Teresa had asked. “I haven’t even been getting sick lately either,” I added honestly.

“Well, I’d like to do an ultrasound today,” said the doctor.

“Okay,” I said. “Will it hurt?”

“Not at all,” she explained, as she brought the machine with the little TV screen over to me. Sheila helped her get it set up and then she poured a cold, clear gel onto my stomach. She had a small thing in her hand that kind of looked like a remote control or a computer mouse and she rubbed it over my stomach. As she rubbed, she studied the TV screen carefully. Her face crinkled up and her eyes squinted at the screen.

“Turn up the volume please,” Dr. Hubbard told Sheila. I heard a crackling sound as Sheila turned a knob on the front of the TV, but I heard only a faint static. Sheila gave Dr. Hubbard a funny look and then the doctor took over, rubbing the little thing over my stomach again, this time pressing harder. I could see fuzzy, black and white blobs on the screen, but none of it made any sense to me. Sheila looked confused and worried.

“Maria, I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat,” said Dr. Hubbard. “I don’t want you to worry though. Sometimes they are just hard to pick up on the ultrasound. I’m going to try to get closer to the baby and see if we can find something that way. Okay?”

“Get closer?” I asked. My heart began pumping hard in my chest. “Is there something wrong with the baby?” I asked. All the hair on my body stood on end and my skin suddenly felt cold and prickly. I was scared, terrified, but then, suddenly, another thought flashed through my mind, “I’m free. If the baby’s gone, then I’m free.” The thought sent a shock through me and made my stomach turn. I grimaced and gritted my teeth to keep the bile down. I wanted to throw up. How could I think such an awful thing? What kind of monster am I? Dr. Hubbard saw my reaction and put her arm on my shoulder.

“It’s okay, Maria. Don’t worry about the baby. We don’t know anything yet. Just let me take a look,” she said. “We have a different kind of ultrasound wand that we can insert inside of you to press on the cervix. This will give us a better idea of what’s going on in there. It won’t hurt, but you will feel a lot of pressure. Just lie still.”

I remember laying there on the exam table, wondering if God would strike me with lightening at that very moment. My mother was right about me. I didn’t deserve a baby and I didn’t deserve Dr. Hubbard’s kindness. The doctor pressed and pushed the wand inside of me, but there was still no sound and only blobs on the screen. She finished her exam and helped me sit up so we could talk. She explained to me that the baby had died. As she spoke, my eyes filled with tears and then I started to shake. The sobs slowly took over. My body began to convulse and then lurch violently with each huge sob. I heard the gut-wrenching sounds, but they sounded far away and it took a few seconds for me to realize that the sounds were coming from me. My ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton balls, so it was hard to hear my own voice. Instead of hearing my own cries, I felt the sound waves ripple from within me, like an ocean tide beginning in my stomach and crashing out through my mouth. I collapsed into the doctor’s arms. Even now, when I remember that moment, I’m not sure why I was crying. I just know that I felt so much emotion that it was indescribable. There was no name for it. It wasn’t pain, sadness, relief, fear, shame or remorse. It was all feelings and no feelings all at the same time, an overwhelming emptiness.

Dr. Hubbard and Sheila stayed with me in the room for awhile, until I calmed down. Then the doctor told me that she wanted to schedule me for a D&C the next morning. She told me to clean up and put my clothes back on so I could talk with her in her office.

Dr. Hubbard was sitting behind her desk when I walked into her office. It was a small room with the same bare, white walls of the exam room and the same cheap furniture that was in the waiting room. Dr. Hubbard motioned for me to sit down at the desk across from her. As I sat down, my eyes focused on her certificates and degrees. They hung on the wall behind her and between them was a picture of her leaning against a minivan. In the picture, a handsome, smiling man stood behind her, making bunny ears over her head. They were both laughing.

“Maria, we scheduled you at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning for the D&C procedure,” said the doctor.

“What is a D&C?” I asked.

“It is a dilation and curettage that is performed after miscarriages,” she explained. “It's a simple procedure in which the cervix is dilated and the fetal and placental tissue is suctioned out. It's much easier than waiting for your body to expel the fetus naturally and if we do it soon we can avoid severe cramping and hemorrhaging for you. Do you have any questions about the procedure?” she asked.

“No,” I lied again. Dilation and curettage sounded so violent to me. I just stared at the picture of Dr. Hubbard and the man. Then I asked, “Why did it die?”

She came around from the back of her desk and sat in the empty chair beside me. She took my hand and explained that these things sometimes happened with first pregnancies, especially in younger women. She said that sometimes the body just doesn’t produce enough hormones to support a new pregnancy and that it was not a sign of problems with future pregnancies. Then she asked me if I had any more questions, but I only had one.

“Could the baby feel my feelings?” I asked. I really wanted to ask her if the baby could read my mind, feel my fear, my resentment. Instead, I just stared at that picture of her and her man.

Dr. Hubbard tilted her head slightly giving me a curious look. Slowly she began to shake her head. “No,” she said in a small, quizzical tone. “The fetus couldn’t feel your feelings. It was too underdeveloped to feel anything.” There was a long pause and then she asked with concern, “Maria, are you going to be okay? Is there someone we can call to come get you?”

“No,” I replied. “I’ll just take the bus.” I sat outside on the bench, waiting for the bus. I thought about taking the next bus to Reseda to stay with Rosa. Now, it would just be me. I knew she would drive me back tomorrow for the procedure and then, maybe, I could stay with her. My mom might even let me come home, but only if I left Rico for good. Besides, I didn't want to deal with her men always hitting on me. Then I tried to imagine my life without Rico. I had been with him since I was fourteen. I can’t even remember what things were like before him. Sometimes, it seemed like he was always a part of my life.

The first year we were together, for my birthday he gave me a little jewelry box with an angel on it. He said it was because I was like a beautiful angel to him, a gift from heaven. It was the first birthday present anyone had ever given me. If I could have had a baby girl, I thought to myself, I could’ve given that jewelry box to her on her first birthday and Rico could’ve read her the little train book. As I sat daydreaming of a baby and a peaceful life with Rico, the bus to Reseda arrived and the doors opened. I thought about getting up, but I felt so heavy, like I was glued to the bench. My body felt drained and my head felt kind of cloudy. Unable to decide, I just sat there. The driver stared at me for a minute and then, as if in a dream, he slowly closed the doors and the bus floated away.

The next bus would be my bus back home to Rico, the last bus of the evening. If I didn't get on it, I would have been out there in the dark for the rest of the night and that neighborhood was the worst I’d ever been in. The bus to Rosa’s house was gone and I couldn’t sit at the bus stop forever. I would have to get on the next bus. I thought about getting off at a different stop, but I wouldn’t know anyone in those neighborhoods and that was dangerous.

So, in this way my decision was made. Making no decision at all became the most pivotal decision of my life. Instead of getting on that bus, I just sat there. Why hadn't I gotten on that bus? I think I wanted to. Looking back at things now, so many years later, I know that I should have, but I didn't. I sat at that bus stop for what felt like forever, waiting for the next bus home. As I waited, I imagined another bus pulling up to the stop, a bus painted bright, sunny colors, like the Partridge Family's bus. On this bus people were singing cheerfully, “I think I can, I think I can,” and it made me feel happy inside, in spite of the tears running down my cheek.

Contributor’s Note: I am the mother of two awesome little girls and I work for Corrections Corporation of America. In my free time I enjoy writing short stories. My dream is to someday publish my own anthology.

Threnody

2009-11-16T01:00:00.000-08:00

Poem by Cherie K. Day

The echoed knell of the church
bell rings through my ears,
penetrating my soul with
its indelible immutability.
Who am I now?

Contributor’s Note: Day is a Cerro Coso student.

Tree of Life

2009-11-09T12:37:00.000-08:00

Painting by Kelly Pankey
Acrylic on canvas
4'x 2'6"

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.

Waxing the Moss on My Back

2009-11-02T01:00:00.000-08:00

Essay by Kristi Goss

I had a Super Bowl party last night. This house is a disaster. Dishes are strewn around and there is the faint odor of cigarettes in the closed garage. Empty soda and beer cans are lined up on the kitchen counter. Remnants of a once whole tortilla chip are ground into the carpet. I’m stressed out but an unlikely acceptance overcomes me. Usually, I can’t concentrate with such a catastrophe surrounding me, but I have an assignment due for a college class. With a two year old boy, no sitter and limited time - I summon the energy to get started on it.

I plop down at my computer with my hot cup of coffee in my hand, staring out the window of my house. It’s a modest house, but it rests in an almost flamboyant spot and I call it home. I scored this geographical prize a few months ago. It was pure luck and it's cheap. I am content here. Did I say I’m content here? Yes, I can honestly say I’m just fine here.

I get to work and begin to type, but I'm distracted as a hummingbird lands on the feeder I’ve placed outside my window. She visits often. Her body ruffles with the chill in the air. She seems frenzied, yet curiously calm on her perch. A family of Quail waddles along the hillside looking for some food. A cottontail bunny playfully hops across the yard. Cows dot the hillside and the sizable mountains behind them vanish at the top of my windows. It’s unpleasantly cold and dark, but the storm clouds have fragmented long enough to reveal the striking rolling green hills that are in my view. Cool, bluish-grey shadows reveal intense emerald patches of grass that resemble a manicured golf course. The invented golf greens are broken up with large grey rocks and a crisp cerulean blue sky that I had painted from imagination years ago. Countless snarled oak trees and mossy boulders are scattered across the hills. I think of how permanent they are. They have no option of getting up and leaving. Everlasting and wise, they seem pleased right where they are.

A crackling fire is burning in my fireplace and my two year old son stares into the television with those annoying TV characters, the Teletubbies, giggling in the background. The noise is distracting, yet while entertaining my son it offers me a bit of time to do my “thing” with school. As I gaze out the window, I’m content and peaceful. I don’t itch to get out of this place. I love it here. This is a change for me because I’ve spent most of my adult life wanting to get out of the geographical prison I was born into.

Growing up in a small town wasn’t desirable to a girl who wanted to be a rock star and an artist. The yearning to break free has led me to some interesting places. My first break out was in my teens. I moved to Hollywood, then after a summer, moved back home. The San Francisco Bay area was home for awhile, and then I hung out with Buddhist monks in a monastery in Scotland. The culture and the old traditions of the Deep South were intoxicating too, but so was I, most of the time. It was time to go home again. I escaped to the glamorous Palm Springs. As I did many other times, I retreated into my cell. This time, I brought a visitor. As I keep typing, I look up at my beautiful and precocious son, Jack. His triumphant entry into the world has slowed my hurried approach to life. Yet, he keeps me at a speedy pace. So here I am, back again. Although, this time, it no longer feels like a sentence.

I get up to clear some cans off the counter while my son is singing along to the lyrics “I love you, you love me…” with Barney. This tune would make me nauseous at any other time in my life, but watching my two year old attempt to sing anything brings a big smile to my face. I try to refocus. I sit down and begin typing again, trying to put words to what I’m feeling and experiencing. It’s difficult to concentrate with this little guy at my feet.

It’s time to put another log on the fire. It’s time to put another load in the dishwasher. I get up for the hundredth time to check on my son who has now retreated to his room to play. He’s fine, so I sit down again at the kitchen table to get this assignment done. It doesn’t take long before Jack has wandered out of his room and is again staring at the TV. He’s hungry. I make him lunch. He seems pleased. I pour another cup of coffee and begin typing again.

As I struggle to illustrate the final points on my paper, I can’t help but look up from my computer and out at the rolling hills again. The rain clouds are returning. The overcast sky turns the colors of the landscape into a deeper and richer palette. The weather is constantly shifting, suggestive of our life on this planet. Gazing deep into the landscape, I sense a profound knowledge that I am going places. With the effort and determination of returning to school, I’m traveling in my mind. My soul knows that I’m moving towards something different - something I think I like, yet the geography is the same.

As I eagerly type the last sentence, the harried hummingbird returns to the bare-limbed tree outside. I watch her dance around. This creature is free to go wherever she wants, yet she remains here - day after day. I think she loves it here. She’s content - reminiscent of the oak trees, the mossy boulders and regardless of the cloudy days.

Contributor’s Note: Kristi Goss is a forty-one year old student returning to college to achieve a bachelor’s degree. She writes, paints, plays guitar and (at his frequent request) plays "pirate" with her two year old son, Jack.

Poetry in the Written Word

2009-10-26T14:34:00.000-07:00

Poem by Jennifer L. Day

A drama of black and white
Creating characters of love, hate, heartache
Erratic in its conception
Fluid in its completion

Defying ways of the mind
But surrendering to the soul
As I look on that which I love
I, all the more, consider it my enemy

Contributor’s 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.

Fiction Contest--Deadline July 31

2009-06-22T11:13:00.000-07:00

Glimmer Train Press

Family Matters
A prize of $1,200 and publication in Glimmer Train Stories is given quarterly for a short story about family. Online submissions are encouraged. Submit a story of 500 to 12,000 words with a $15 entry fee by July 31. Visit the Web site for complete guidelines.

Very Short Fiction Award
A prize of $1,200 and publication in Glimmer Train Stories is given twice yearly for a short story. Online submissions are encouraged. Submit a story of up to 3,000 words with a $15 entry fee by August 31. Visit the Web site for complete guidelines.

Glimmer Train Press, 1211 NW Glisan Street, Suite 207, Portland, OR 97209. (503) 221-0836. Susan Burmeister-Brown and Linda Swanson-Davies, Coeditors. http://www.glimmertrain.org/

Fiction Writing Contest

2009-06-15T16:56:00.001-07:00

Attention Creative Writing Community: the Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival is accepting submissions for its Second Annual Fiction Writing Contest. The winner will recieve a $1500 prize, a $500-value VIP pass to the festival (March 24-28, 2010), publication in the New Orleans Review, and more. Open to writers who have not yet published a book of fiction. For all the details, go to tennesseewilliams.net. Sounds like a good time!

Creative Writing Club: Call for Writers and Literature Lovers!

2009-03-31T19:14:00.001-07:00

Oh, the words, the words,
the achingly

inadequate

beautiful

words.

--Terry Hertzler

Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Michele Beller, and I am the new Student Editor for Cerro Coso’s online Creative Writing Club. I am very excited about having a community of fellow writers with whom I can share my love of writing and good literature. What a great opportunity! Here, we can support each other as we master our craft, bounce ideas off each other, and share resources. I look forward to some inspiration, some good reads, and I really look forward to some great discussions!

What better time than National Poetry Month (April) to shift the online Creative Writing Club into first gear and get ‘er running again? National Poetry Month is an annual celebration of the art of poetry, with the goal of increasing appreciation and support for poetry and poets. Let’s read some great poetry! Let’s write some even better poems! Let’s turn our friends and family on to the pleasures of verse! And let’s have some great fun in the process!

National Poetry Month was started by the Academy of American Poets in 1996, and has been gaining momentum every year since. Inspired by this celebration, we have many fun activities scheduled for April, like some great reads, and some fun writing exercises. Come join us! If you are already a member of Cerro Coso’s online Creative Writing Club, log on and jump in. You’ll see the site has received a spiffy tune-up and a new paint job. If you’re not a member, go here to request the enrollment key from the club’s faculty advisor, Gary Enns.

Review for Parra's After-Dinner Declarations

2008-12-08T09:35:00.000-08:00

After Dinner Declarations
Poetry by Nicanor Parra / Translated by Dave Oliphant
Available: December 2008
Host Publications

"What is Poetry?" begins a Nicanor Parra poem that sets the stage for an experience in poetry I never knew I wanted. All right, so you have to get halfway through the book before you read this snippet of thought I'm beginning with, but sometimes we have to be in the middle to realize the value of what came before. Parra describes himself as an anti-poet and I could, at best, be described as anti-poetry. Don't get me wrong, I like some of it, and my generalized opinions haven't miraculously changed due to this reading, but I do believe a gem has been found. I think most critics can agree it's difficult to find good poetry saying something remotely interesting. What was appealing about Parra's style is that he's not pretentious, nor is he cliché.

Parra writes many of his poems in succession to each other offering you to read as if he were thinking aloud and letting his mind wander. Readers might not be familiar with many of the other authors Parra frequently mentions, but think of it as a chance to depart from the formulaic writings that are thrust into our Hollywood society and jump into new ideas for your next booklist. It doesn't take away from the experience. Parra's unique way with words, if not somewhat cryptic, creates a sense of humility (sometimes self deprecating) while simultaneously pompous. And he certainly knows how to serve up a bowl of irony that's palatable while still being thought-provoking.

In one particular poem, Parra utilizes Hamlet's most famous soliloquy, commentary sprinkled throughout for a modern context, in a blatantly honest and humorously somber look into the human condition. The genius that is "After Dinner Declarations" could only come from someone who has lived long enough to know or was born with more wisdom than he deserves. He has seen the pain of politics, life, and ignorance. And yet he maintains the outrage and innocence of a youth who has not yet seen the remainder of his poems. That sort of passion dies with "I've lived long enough to understand," "I've seen things over the course of my life," and the ever so slightly bitter and accepting; "The world is going to hell in a hand basket." He sees idealism as a requirement for young people and insanity for old, but you can't help but see sparks of optimism in his own ideas. Maybe as you reach a certain age, you're able to suppress it and by the time you pass age 70, you can afford to think like a young man/woman, provided the excuse "eccentricity" is readily available.

There are few poets (and for that matter, authors) who can illuminate a problem with such calm and normalcy to be effective in inspiring voluntary brainwork. Parra's "Remarks by the Minister in Charge" relates a social dilemma as if it were the fault of the victims, not unlike the style of Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal." The creativity of this reverse psychology tickles the poetic ivories until you hear the sound of truth ringing in your ears.

The book, on the whole, is very enjoyable. In fact, I quite enjoyed this work for its honesty, complexity, irony, and entertainment, (not to be confused with modern entertainment which lacks the essential effort it takes to realize your being entertained). Parra without a doubt has a way with words, and more importantly, ideas, which explains why he has been nominated several times for a Nobel Prize. But his work speaks for itself, so, to return to the question and poem that I began with, "What is Poetry?" I step down from my podium and ask someone better than me to answer. Mr. Parra, would you mind taking the floor?

Decoding The Love Song

2008-12-04T15:24:00.000-08:00

T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” brings to life the inner workings of an aging man who worries about isolation and loneliness because he lacks a mate. With only a cursory glance, a reader might believe that this epic journey is but a mere dirge to a life which lacks love. However, deeper analysis brings forth another conclusion about this poem’s true intent. It is in fact a veiled social commentary, focusing on various aspects of human society.

Perhaps the biggest elucidation would be the plot of Prufrock itself. The speaker of the poem is a balding man who it seems cannot find love no matter how hard he tries. As he grows older, his chances become slimmer due to physical unattractiveness which is at odds with the preconceived notion of physical beauty that his community holds when courting. He lives with the knowledge that the women he seeks will say things about him like “'but how his arms and legs are thin'” (678)! Controversially, Prufrock also lets the women he sees blend together into a singular being in the respect that he has “known their eyes already, known them all” (679). Here the speaker is pointing out how all of the women have the same values in a man, and that they are in a way all the same, and thus almost gives up by not knowing how to “presume” due to the repetitive nature of the females in his world. However, eventually, later in the poem he seems to succumb to the situation by deciding that the proper way to handle his age is to take up the latest fashion, wearing the “bottoms of [his] trousers rolled” (680). Even though he still seems dejected and maintains that he will probably never find a woman, he trudges onward and carries on with his quest to attain love. This interpretation of the ending helps us see the conformity that is imposed upon a person who is for the entirety of their monologue and objector to the statues queue. He goes along with the concepts he hates only because he it seems to be the only means to his end. As such, much of his dialog can bee seen as a commentary of the social standards one has to go though for even the most minuscule prospect of love.

One way Eliot illustrates his social qualms is with the many historical references he makes, one of the most noteworthy being “In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo” (678). We can imagine that he is talking of perhaps the most famous Michelangelo who created the Sistine Chapel, reputed to be on of the greatest artists of all time. For approximately a hundred years now there have been rumors and evidence circulating claiming that he was a homosexual, this timeline would of course put the start of the rumors within the same time period that Eliot was writing this composition (Alberge). Homosexuality was something of a taboo practice in the early 20th century; it can be assumed that one of the most noteworthy people of all time possibly partaking in same sex relations would be the hot button for gossip. With rumors, there is no need for truth in the matter, only that people are willing to spread it to others who will do so in kind. So when a critical question is posed in the poem we “make our visit” to the place where women talk “of Michelangelo” (678). It would seem as if the speaker is saying that we as a society put the most stock in the gossip of a sewing circle, rather than focusing on what is actually important in the bigger picture. His connotations to rumors are supplemented by those of other literary classics.

Elliot makes numerous allusions to other great works including, but not limited to, Hamlet, The Bible, and Dante’s Inferno. The sheer number of references he makes is a testament to his poetic style, and simultaneously turns the poem itself into something of a social commentary in that only the learned people of the world could read and understand it. Perhaps this was intentionally done to help drive people into become more scholarly, and have a greater appreciation for the various forms of the written word. It has been suggested that he intentionally made his poetry so complex in order to pull in the reader and make them “involved” (Brooker). Is there any doubt that today almost a hundred years later, in the U.S.A, our educational system seems to be in at least quasi dire straights? Moreover, this idea can be further expounded upon when the connection is made that out of all the works both the editors Schilb/Clifford and I could not find a single one which was spawned from the mind of an American. This development helps show his lack of respect for American Literature which was riddled with Romanticism during his time period. In fact he was often noted to “[react] against Romanticism” (Brooker). Perhaps the numerous allusions he makes are in a sense a challenge to the contemporary writers of the era to change their style and become noteworthy enough to be made reference to in a literary work.

Arguably, the most interesting reference in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” is made in the very beginning of the poem; it is a selection written in its original Italian from Dante's Inferno. This epic poem is but the fist in a three part masterpiece which chronicles a man’s trip though the various settings of the after life (Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven); the Inferno corresponding to Hell. After translation we find that the excerpt is that of a person in Hell telling Dante that no one returns from Abaddon (Eliot 677). The primary purpose for this opening line would seem to be to tell us as readers that we are already in the fiery pits even if we may not know it. But what is this Hades which Eliot wishes us to see and realize we are in? The rest of the poem would is centered on the social scene of the era with lines like “I have measure out my life with coffee spoons” (678). It is not unfathomable that Eliot might be saying that the communal environment of the time is very much like the dankest of abysses.

Yet another connection occurs in stanzas 5 and 7 in which Eliot some what mimics the biblical poem Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 by repeating the phrase “There will be time” and a pattern of listing two opposing acts such as “plant” and “uproot.” Following the allusion are various metropolitan aspects such as “yellow smoke” (smog) and “taking of toast and tea” (678). Here it is almost as if he is attempting to show us how venerated such facets of life have become, by comparing them in a biblical sense. Furthermore, he goes on to in the same list tell us of time to “murder,” an act which helps bring forth the darker connotation he seems to be going for. As it stands both these stanzas seem to cast light onto some of the “evil” areas of modern life (Brooker).

T.S. Eliot's style and life experiences give credence to the conclusion that “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” is a social commentary. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” was the culmination of the first portion of his career, and was only preceded by a few poems titled respectively "Portrait of a Lady," "Preludes," and "Rhapsody on a Windy Night.” All four of these poems set themes that Elliot would revisit “time and time again.” This concept should be taken into account when we consider his land mark work, known as “The Wasteland” in which he “diagnosed” the troubles not only of his epoch, but of “Western Civilization” as well. His time spent as a literary critic is also quite telling as so many of his essays included “social and religious criticism.” His other works show that he has something of a predisposition for societal appraisal; it would stand to reason then that Prufrock could be thought of as a stepping stone to the greater annotations of his later career (Brooker).

T.S. Elliot has riddled this piece with social commentary galore. He has masterfully woven in many differing views on the way things were accomplished in the world then, and has managed to keep it applicable for today’s world almost a hundred years later. His primary overtone being that of reforming the dating system, we find him even going so far as to compare the dating pool to a circle of Hell. Some of his undertones use historical and biblical connections to show our dependency on rumors and ritual. He even, in a very round about way, goes so far as to make the assumption that American literature is not worthy, and that our educational system is in adequate. The surface of the brimming pot of social commentary has only been scratched, but even soaking in at this level leads me to believe that this is no mere souls lamentation of loneliness.

Works Cited

Alberge, Dalya. "Michelangelo was not gay, says scholar." The Times (London, England) (Feb 22, 1999): 8. InfoTrac Custom Newspapers. Gale. Cerro Coso Community College. 20 Nov. 2008 .

Brooker, Jewel Spears. Dictionary of Literary Biography Volume 329. Literature Resource Center. Gale. 2007. 18 Nov. 2008. Cerro Coso Community College.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, New International Version. BibleGateway.com. 2008. 18 Nov. 2008

Eliot, T.S.. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Making Arguments About Literature. Ed. John Schilb and John Clifford. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2005. 677-680.

Using Masks as Tools of Self-Discovery

2008-12-04T14:52:00.000-08:00

The Poems Of Vikram Babu
Poetry by Jesús Aguado / Translated By Electa Arenal / Beatrix Gates
Available: January 2009
Host Publications

Say not, “I have found the truth,” but
Rather, “I have found a truth.”
Say not, “I have found the path of the soul.”
Say rather, “I have met
the soul walking upon my path.”
For the soul walks upon all paths.
-Kahlil Gibran

There exists within every culture the desire to delve into the innermost workings of human nature and expose the conflicts and hypocrisies that divide every person from his or her Self. The poet has always served as a facilitator and mentor in this task, guiding those with the fortitude and desire for such a journey through the darkest passages of their own minds. The Spanish poet, Jesus Aguado, performs this sacred charge by adopting the guise of a seventeenth-century Indian mystic and basket-weaver called Vikram Babu. In his newest book of poems titled The Poems of Vikram Babu, Aguado presents the reader with dark scenarios and sometimes rather comical situations, and then poses questions that dare the reader to explore his or her relationship to the words on the page. But why does Aguado choose the persona of an Indian mystic? And why do the poems in this collection follow such a rigid pattern? While the specific reasons why Aguado imbues his poetry with these characteristics may not be known, it can be inferred that he uses the persona of an Indian mystic to create a sense of the student/teacher relationship between the speaker and the reader. This guise also allows Aguado to detach himself from his creation, giving the poetry in this collection a distinct personality that is not necessarily defined by the author’s own emotions and convictions. The rigid structure used by Aguado may be nothing more than an example of the way in which an Indian mystic may query his students, or it may be a way of inviting the reader to compare him or herself to the subject of the poem.

The persona has always been a standard tool of many of the greatest poets throughout history. Jeannine Hall Gailey, in her essay, “Why We Wear Masks,” writes, “a persona is the “I” of a narrative or the implied speaker of a lyric poem” (1). This is, of course, a rather text book definition for an element used in writing for as many different reasons as there are writers. But Gailey goes further by explaining that the use of the persona is “an exercise in empathy and analysis” (1) that frees the writer and allows the reader to feel what the speaker feels, and see what the speaker sees. In her poem, “Phantasia for Elvira Shatayev,” poet Adrienne Rich speaks through the voice of Elvira Shatayev, leader of a woman’s climbing team who died, along with the other women in her party, while climbing Lenin Peak during a storm in 1974. Addressing her husband, the speaker lists her reasons for undertaking such a dangerous climb, and explains the depth of comradery and love the women have for each other (4). Through this persona Rich is able to convey to the reader the struggle for validation and acceptance a woman in a male-dominated society must undergo, sometimes losing her life in the process. Many of Rich’s poems are written through the personas of real people with tragic stories, inviting the reader to view these individuals as being more than just media fodder, but real people with thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams.

There are other ways that a poet can employ the use of a persona effectively in his or her works. Some poets pose riddles, enticing the reader to guess at what mask they have chosen to wear. Emily Dickinson does this with exceptional skill. She has been everything from an insect to a cloud, hiding behind clever metaphors and hints. Sylvia Plath’s poem, “Metaphors,” does essentially the same thing, although after reading the first line most will already guess the answer. When the speaker describes herself as “a riddle in nine syllables” (726), there is not much left to puzzle over for the reader. However, the riddle may not have been Plath’s main theme, but a vehicle to drive home another message.

Vikram Babu, the persona used by Jesus Aguado in his latest book of poems, is obviously not used in the same way that the previously mentioned poets choose to incorporate theirs. Instead, Aguado has more in common with Kahlil Gibran and his poetic masterpiece, titled The Prophet. Both Aguado and Gibran channel their inspiration through spiritual teachers who are sought out by those in need of guidance and instruction. Gibran’s persona, named “Almustafa,” (3) answers questions posed by the inhabitants of the city of Orphalese, where he has lived for the past twelve years. The narrative structure employed by Gibran works to draw the reader into the poetry, but more from the perspective of a bystander that is hearing, vicariously, the teachings of Almustafa to his followers. Aguado’s speaker is given no such background information or narrative context, and the reader must create for him or herself the conditions under which these poems are presented. This approach works well for Aguado, and I found myself reading the poems as if Vikram Babu was speaking directly to me, as we both sat meditating by the banks of the river. Both Gibran and Aguado, however, use their personas similarly, to create a textbook of sorts, to guide the reader on a path of truth seeking and self-discovery.

Through Vikram Babu, Aguado dissociates his Self from his poems, making it easier for the reader to claim ownership of the ideas they contain. He is also able to transcend the boundaries of time, religious belief, and cultural constraint by donning the mask of such a benevolent character. In comparison, Gibran’s persona runs a striking parallel to the character of Jesus Christ. Even the way in which Gibran’s speaker addresses his followers is reminiscent of Christ’s sermons. But while Gibran’s speaker is addressing the inhabitants of a fictional city, Aguado’s speaker seems to be posing his questions directly to the reader.

Another important difference between Gibran and Aguado is in the way the poems are written. Gibran’s poems are free-flowing statements advocating a spiritual approach to everyday life, but Aguado’s poems are questions posed in the form of a simile, each one following a strict pattern of structure. Aguado deliberately uses the same format for all fifty of the poems in this collection, presumably to give a traditional voice to his mystic Indian speaker. But repetition is used quite frequently in poetry for a number of reasons. Some poets repeat significant phrases throughout their poems to help guide the reader’s interpretation. Others may incorporate the techniques of poetic meter to present their message in a more subtle way. Aguado’s use of repetition seems to be a way of connecting the poems to each other and to the reader. George Szirtes, author of an essay called, “Formal Wear: Notes on Rhyme, Meter, Stanza and Pattern,” says that patterns “can be the beginnings of religious vision” (5). Like the words a Buddhist monk chants in order to induce a state of pure meditation, the repeated structure in Aguado’s poems works to direct the reader’s gaze inward, until the message is completely absorbed into his or her consciousness.

One more definitive characteristic of The Poems of Vikram Babu is the use of simile found in every one of the poems. All of the poems begin with an almost identical format, such as, “Like the one who attempts” (Aguado 7). Using a Simile as structural support in these poems is a creative way of getting the reader to compare him or herself to the subject of the poem, even before the speaker asks the question, “you too?” (7). Although the use of the simile is by no means new to the poetic landscape, Aguado is able to incorporate this literary tool in such a way that the reader has no choice but to acknowledge the familiar aspects connecting him or her to the poem.

There are many different paths that lead to self-discovery, and some form of truth can be found through all of them. It is the poet’s task to create a map for the reader to consult in order to find his or her bearings in a world where society, like a thick fog, can sometimes bring fear and doubt to a confused and weary traveler. Through The Poems of Vikram Babu, Jesus Aguado has fashioned a map that will serve well the reader who decides to embark on this most serious of expeditions. The defining trait of a great poet is that “if he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of his wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind” (Gibran 56). A debt of gratitude is undeniably owed to Electa Arenal and Beatrix Gates for translating The Poems of Vikram Babu, so that many more people around the world can now add a new and powerful tool to their inventory of indispensable equipment for the journey of self-discovery.

Works Cited

Aguado, Jesus. The Poems of Vikram Babu. Trans. Electa Arenal and Beatrix Gates. Austin: Host, 2008.

Gailey, Jeannine Hall. “Why We Wear Masks.” Poemeleon. 2008. 20 Nov. 2008. http://www.poemeleon.org/gailey-why-we-wear-masks-essay/

Gibran, Kahlil. The Prophet. New York: Alfred A Knopf, 1994.

Plath, Sylvia. “Metaphors.” Perrine’s Literature: Structure, Sound, and Sense. Ed. Thomas R. Arp and Greg Johnson. Boston: Thomson Wadsworth, 2006. 726.

Rich, Adrienne. The Dream of a Common Language. New York: Norton, 1993.

Szirtes, George. “Formal Wear: Notes on Rhyme, Meter, Stanza, and Pattern.” Poetry 187.5 (2006): 416(9). Expanded Academic ASAP. Gale. Cerro Coso Commuity College. 20 Nov. 2008. http://find.galegroup.com/itx/start.do?prodld=EAIM

Met Meetings

2008-11-13T17:39:00.000-08:00

Hi guys,this is your new blog editor Pliskin42. We have had two meetings on the KRV campus these past two Tuesdays and we came up to several difficult decisions during them.

In the first meeting we discussed very broad guidelines that we wanted to use when selecting which submissions we would want to make it into print. things that tend to denote amateur writers were to be avoided, such as overtly simple rhyme scheme.We also came to something of a agreement on how to weigh in the ratings on the number scale given already (two or more tens was defiantly worth discussion, ect). Then we eventually delved in, began judging the pieces, and weeded out those who it seemed did not to cut it. There are still a few pieces that are on the proverbial fence, so you editors who have not put in any input throw in your two cents.

During the latter meeting we came to the conclusion that since the Graphic design class is not in session this semester, and we had in the past worked hand in hand with them for art and layout design, it would most likely be best to push back production of this years Met in order make use of their services. This decisions holds a two fold benefit, the first being the aforementioned use of the classes on campus, and the second being that we can now open for new submission and hopefully flush out the few areas where we were seemingly lacking ( for instance we only had a single art submission.) As such we had to go back and come up with new deadline dates. February 28 is now the last day we will be taking submissions for this upcoming Met. March 16 is the deadline we set to have all the submissions that we have chosen in the order we wish them to appear in our final cut. March 31 is our final due date, this is the day on which we must have everything edited as well as ordered and then sent off to the Digital Imaging class for lay out and construction. After Deciding on dates we then discussed how we could foster more support. We came to the conclusion that we needed to advertise more around the various campuses here in Cerro Coso and that it could be done both by word of mouth and by creation of posters. Additionally to foster a greater following with our web based community, the ideas were thrown out to promote the blog with more contributions from the various members of the creative writing community. So all you creative writing community members who want to help make this blog great come on forward! lastly we created a couple new positions in the club, the first being the blog editor (that would be myself) and the second was that of calendar editor ( which went to Margret).

If there is any more questions, concerns, or comments feel free to let us know!
-Pliskin

Buffalo Carp Flash Fiction Contest

2008-08-27T17:56:00.000-07:00

BUFFALO CARP
Quad City Arts’ Literary Magazine

*GUIDELINES for Buffalo Carp’s FLASH FICTION CONTEST*

-Prize is $250 USD, plus five copies of Buffalo Carp, Volume 6. All entries will be considered for publication.

-Send no more than three (3) flash fiction stories, each one being no longer than 600 words. ONLY unpublished flash fiction stories may be submitted.

-Entry fee is $10 for each submission of up to three (3) flash fiction stories; please make checks payable to “QUAD CITY ARTS”. All entrants will receive Buffalo Carp, Volume 6 (winning story will be published in Volume 6) with paid entry fee.

-Email submissions are accepted, but will NOT be processed until the $10 entry fee is received.

-Please include a SASE for notification and cover sheet with all contact information (name, address, phone #, and email), title of all stories submitted, and a brief bio. Name and contact information should NOT appear on the stories themselves.

-Judging will be done by the editorial staff of Buffalo Carp.

-Simultaneous submissions are accepted, as long as you notify Buffalo Carp immediately should your work be accepted elsewhere.

-Deadline for submissions is January 16, 2009. Winners will be announced February 2009.

Please send entries to:

Flash Fiction Contest
Buffalo Carp
Quad City Arts
1715 Second Avenue
Rock Island, IL 61201

OR email submissions to: buffalocarp@gmail.com

If you have questions, please contact Ryan Collins: (309) 793-1213 ext. 107, or email: rcollins@quadcityarts.com

Camp Shakespeare

2008-08-05T09:13:00.000-07:00

This may seem like an advertisement, like I'm being paid to say such glowing things. But I assure you I've got nothing at stake here. This is pure love!

I've just returned from a week-long, ultra-intensive and very fun week of Camp Shakespeare at the Tony Award winning Utah Shakespearean Festival, and words, words, words can hardly describe the experience. I feel like I've just woken up form a strange dream--a dream that an Elizabethan English playhouse had been magically transported to the red sandstone mountains of Southern Utah, that Shakespeare fans and students of all ages were now traveling to Utah in droves to see stellar performances of the bard's plays, that actors and audience members alike were partying after hours in cabarets, that world renowned scholars and directors and stage designers were drawn inexplicably to Cedar City to create some of the best Shakespearean theater in the world ...

(Slide show photos by Gary Enns, Gary Graupman, and Michael Flachmann)

If you have never been to the Utah Shakespearean Festival, then you are in for a shock. There is not much that seems regional about this regional theater. For forty-six years, Fred Adams and USF supporters have been building this festival into something spectacular. The festival grounds now boast three stages, indoor and outdoor lecture spaces, concessions, and a center with bookstore and gift shop. The USF produces nine--yes, nine--plays per year. Needless to say, Southern Utah is now a magnet for professional actors, directors, and other drama professionals. For its excellence, in 2000, The USF achieved international attention when it won a Tony Award for Outstanding Regional Theater of the Year.

The Adams Memorial Theatre is the crown jewel at the USF. An open-air theater designed in the spirit of Shakespeare's Globe, it's the space of choice for traditional period productions of the plays of Shakespeare and his contemporaries. For musicals, contemporary plays, and non-traditional productions of Shakespeare, the USF utilizes the beautifully gilded indoor Randall L. Jones Theatre.

For anyone even remotely curious about the Shakespeare and the theater, Camp Shakespeare is a fantastic introduction. In five intense days, you see six plays (three of Shakespeare's and three by other playwrights and/or composers), attend seminars and classes and workshops on all things theater, and eat extremely well in SUU's beautiful and elegant Great Hall. Lodging and all meals are included. World renowned Shakespeare scholar and official festival dramaturg Michael Flachmann heads up the camp, wearing several hats--host, teacher, party coordinator, and general fun guy. And if you are a student, valuable university undergraduate and graduate credit is available through SUU and CSUB.

The 2008 Summer season that I just attended includes The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Othello, The Taming of the Shrew, Edmond Rostand's Cyrano de Bergerac, Moliere's The School for Wives, and Bock, Harnick, and Stein's popular musical Fiddler on the Roof. The highlight for me was Rostand's play directed by David Ivers. The chemistry between leads Brian Vaughn and Melinda Pfunstein was first rate and brought great pathos to this melodramatic play.

For more information on Camp Shakespeare options (including Mini CS and CS for Seniors), visit Camp Shakespeare Online. Hopefully I'll see you in Utah for Summer 2009!

Aeron's Review: Down to a Sunless Sea by Matthias Freese

2008-07-21T12:23:00.000-07:00

Down to a Sunless Sea was a challenging and emotional read, but one I took on with interest and intensity. I saw reflections of myself, turned this way or that in the glass of the book, responding to the pictures that are so sharply and courageously drawn of people in inescapable pain, some of whom who seem to be mourning or experiencing deep anguish or torment. It was as if the book were a pool of dark water that revealed a hall of mirrors as I broke the surface in my dive into the deep.

I very much like Freese’s title for this collection, and saw it interlaced throughout the book in the deep and disturbing nature of the stories he tells. I felt drawn to many of his characters, fascinated in a tender way by their dark, even sad, yet striking portraits. To say that I felt their struggles resonating within me would be an understatement. The experience of reading the book may have been heightened somewhat for me by a recent personal loss, but even without fresh pain, reading Down to a Sunless Sea will strike in most readers that common chord of humanity, as they see so clearly before them the desolate, and yet recall the undying hope so many of us carry within.

Matthias Freese’s writing is sensitive, yet starkly illustrative of the sometimes frantic, sometimes muted angst of mental illness and emotional turmoil that his work reveals to readers. It’s as if, at certain moments, I felt the author’s voice as well as hearing it, and I responded with an array of feelings – from anger to compassion, and everything in between.

Every now and then, a turn of the phrase would capture me and take me to another level in my life as a reader. For example, in the story “Unanswerable,” the phrase “…the dead are alive in us…” really struck me – and not simply due to my recent loss, but more because “…that memory is as present as time itself…” I could feel the pain of distance and disappointment, of fear and loathing, mixed with love and confusion and loss in this story, for both the child and the man. As an anthem to numbness, I resonated with the words “…he had no there in him.”

I cannot name a favorite from among the stories; they are each unto themselves unique, and yet that golden thread unites them all and I did not find it difficult to transition from one to the other. Instead, I seemed to want more. I tend to put a book down and then pick it up again, and, true to form, I did that with this collection of stories – the natural breaks from one to the other making my habit fit easily within its covers. Still, I would find myself thinking about the last story I had read and anticipating, not in a voyeuristic fashion but in a sense of being drawn to, the next. I would pass by my study and see the book on the arm of my chair and find myself stopping in when there were other things to do.

I plan to spend more time with Freese’s stories, and encourage especially those who are interested in the mind and in exploring in more detail the inner lives of human persons to read his work. I have recently read The i Tetralogy, and found it a welcome arrival when I was ready to move on from Down to a Sunless Sea. I admit that I was not altogether willing to move on, but after a time of self-reflection, found my footing and did so, eager for more of the rich descriptions to which I had become accustomed. The i Tetralogy did not disappoint, but I did find myself wanting to revisit the intensely personal worlds of Down to a Sunless Sea.

I noted some typographical errors in the printing (errant punctuation such as a comma and period residing in the same location), but – even with my perfectionistic bent as an editor – simply wished them away. Usually, those items of housekeeping distract me when reading, and, were I to be completely honest, they did here – but they did not detract from my overall experience of this read and may have, in some spiritual way, been fitting. My attention was certainly not taken at any point from the sometimes jarring but somehow tranquil journey through the landscape of emotional and mental life, and I dare say that I came away from the reading with a new place opened up inside myself – yet another tender access to my already captivated mind and willing heart.

I congratulate Matthias Freese on a challenging work expertly done.

Aeron Hicks, reviewer
Crossfield Consulting Literary Agency
©2008

Drumroll please!

2008-05-09T11:36:00.000-07:00

The moment we've all been waiting for is here at last! The release of Metamorphoses 2007-08 is finally here!

Many apologies to those of you, if any, who have not yet given up on us and are still eagerly awaiting your copies. The change in funding and everything became a little more than we could chew... in a timely manner. Switching from being a school funded production to an independent project brought on many new obstacles that proved a bit much, but we have made it at last and are thrilled to present the culmination of our efforts.

To all of those wonderful individuals and businesses who supported our funding, as well as those who contributed all the great art, poems, and stories that make up this edition, we will be sending you a copy of the journal just as soon as we can get them all packaged and labeled. We thoroughly hope you can all be as proud of the first independent edition of Met as we are, knowing that it couldnt have happened without the support and contributions of people like you! Thank you for making Met what it is this year, and we hope you will join us to see the progress in years to come and know that it all started here.

For those who are not getting copies shipped to you, you can pick yours up at the Cerro Coso campus or online at http://www.cerrocoso.edu/metamorphoses/. As I understand, we are going to try to keep this publication free of cost to CCCC students, and for non students it will be $5 per copy (plus shipping for both students and non-students if you order online). Please continue to support by telling all of your family and friends!

Id like to congratulate our cover artist, Michael Batty, both on his awesome art work and on the award he recieved at the 2008 Awards Banquet at the Ridgecrest campus yesterday. I didnt get the chance to talk with him, but he recieved recognition from the Fine Arts department as the student of the year for that subject. I have to say just from seeing your work and hearing all the great things that were said about you that you deserve it! Keep up the good work, and were proud to have your work displayed as the cover of our very first independent publication!

"Met" Minutes

2008-02-20T10:02:00.000-08:00

Greetings, all! I hope you're all doing well.
No, Met has not been published yet, but when I asked Gary about it today he said "March, March March!" so hopefully that means March...
In the meantime, I would like to give you a little bit of a preview of what is to come, and maybe my reviews of a few pieces.

This is "Pair of Feet" by M. Batty. He is a Cerro Coso student from Ridgecrest, and I absolutely love his work. We are featuring several of his pieces, including the cover piece, which you will have to wait to see!

This is "Rousing the Whirlwind" but Aunia Kahn. She is one of the non- Cerro Coso students we have fought to be able to feature. We are also featuring more than one of her pieces, and each one of the pieces submitted by her have a very unique statement. I like the way she expresses herself through her work.

"Desert Dreams II" by Jeani Sunday. I love this piece. Not many photographs of deserted buildings make me want to be in the picture, but I almost get a feeling of weightlessness looking at this. It's beautiful.

"Amusing" by Donna Fitch. I have taken art classes with Donna, and she does some amazing work. This is one of my favorite pieces of hers.

COMBING by ANDREW SHELLY
I.
Stilled dusk of washed-out louring light
rain-tense day silted down to a black line of cloud on the horizon
sense how everything goes quiet and freezes
just before the storm crumbles and boils over
cloud violently colliding with itself to crush and fracture the curdled light brighter
feel how everything goes silent just before the fall of autumn or that of night
see how a life goes still and turns in on itself at evening just before it ends
as if viewed through a soundproof screen of doom-tinted glass/shade-stained glaze
element stained to slurry with black ink
cloud-streaks of blue-black aquatint
whose sleek perspectives trailing back into the sky's past
converged upon us and trapped us standing there at an odd angle to each other
drawn across the landscaped page
with a paint-drenched brush pressed firmly to the surface
shot across the ether's sheet
or dashed angrily in savage black against the feverish background greys
held back beyond the dulled rim of the looming horizon ruthlessly planed down
flush with the pert cut scar of your flat prim mouth
slowly disintegrating like a jet's ragged wake
as torn tares into the close-heated thickness of afternoon-muted light
earth line brought so near as to be a gulch between us
by the storm-borne air of haze-saturated heat/waterlogged lead
heavy as tears in a pain-soaked skull-shell of scree and sand/sunburst earthhead
rimful of intimate distance brimming with unshed, grey theatre rain
yellow-purple bruise of sunset storm-sky just before it breaks in blood
low-humming of near-pent water muted ominous booming
threatening to bulge and burst out as the first or final flood
retreating and retrenching to silt over the parched terrain
to fresh growth teeming from black mud.
II.
Stiff, dry grass in the swamp-heavy air
combed obliquely back and forth between green and paler matte lime
I stood slightly slantwise on the uneven rain-thirsty plain
rigidly ruled into plots by cotton twined round short planted stakes
pock-marked with hollows and unburst shell-holes,
I untangled your hair, as your bare face wept
unraveled the knots in your clammy hair carefully
washed out the matted strands of your hair in the river water
pecked cloth-balls from your crummy clothes ruefully
your baggy rumpled skirt and wind-shocked top
while you cried, bare-faced,
while ineptly you wept, your bald face wet
a trickle of wincing tenderness seeped out through the cracks in our broken hearts
vulnerable pulp or sap to salve the knife-cuts in the tree's bark
which slashed our sticky initials into the fresh white wood flesh
such that they oozed glue but obstinately refused to adhere together
separated by a thin line like a joy division sign
like a flat cut pert mouth primly shut and silent
me over you doesn't go or leaves a remainder of precisely zero
flung an 0 echoing down the deserted street of days in the bleak light of spastic dawn
popped us like a plastic spit-bubble
pricked to the shape of a flame-burnt scar-tissue heart by a red-hot needle
hovering over our heads forever like a trembling speech-balloon
empty but for an exclamation that twists itself up to the shape of a question mark
or an illegible rune that bursts in a pretty tinkle of little spit-specks like a teardrop tree
and vanishes into clean air, into lean air.
I dried you, while you cried, your bare shame-face
turned up to the sky which dropped a fine
freckling of scattered rain-flecks upon the pale
sliver-of moon opal thumbnail of your face's plane,
my finger chucking you lightly under the chin
tilted the beaten-thin disc of your visage's skin
slightly to the grey light the grim sky
like a jagged diamond turned slowly between fingertips
in the hard light of exact appreciation,
precise pencil-beam trained seekingly upon the smooth of your round moon-face
fused first as pixel points of dense intensity
into the surrounding dawnrise silence
as you smiled a little in the hot pre-storm half-dark
shattered blue of your eyes' metalled crystal ovals
faint against the stark zinc light
like almond-facets of pastel quartz
touched into the neuter pre-downpour twilight
bleached colorless and drained off-white like strained rinds
by a blunt thumb's end dipped in stain.
We stood slightly bent towards each other-
I stood sagging in low-slung loose trousers at an awkward angle
one foot higher than the other and skewed shoulders slanting sideways
in the spitting pre-deluge drizzle
on the stumpy marsh-land studded with clumps of hard sod
crumpling into myself like a used tissue screwed up in a fat fist
having absorbed all the snot and sweat and filth of the world
you ran off over a fence, leapt like a lamb,
heavy space weighed me down, drooping greens
all around, early haze, pre-summer moist,
rain-freighted shale while
the vivid bright stile closed its colors.

This is another one of the people who submitted that we almost didn't get to publish. Andrew Shelley is from London, and I'm glad we are able to publish this work.

PUTTING DOWN MY RAKE, I TAKE A MOMENT TO THINK ABOUT GETTING OLDER by Shawn Aprill.
September leaves fall.
Beige hand holds brown—see myself:
Fragile. One more year…

Shawn Aprill is local but is not a Cerro Coso student. All the wonderful work we wouldn't have been able to use without all the fundraising we did!

Coleridge’s Contribution to Creativity

2008-02-13T20:31:00.000-08:00

To go on a voyage resonates as something fantastic and breathtaking. The word “voyage” in itself brings to mind indistinct, exotic places. However, when one reads The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, an expedition conveys a completely different significance. In this narrative ballad, the Mariner discloses the harrowing account of his own unforgettable voyage. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is regarded by some as Coleridge’s greatest contribution to poetry. This work took poems to a whole new level with meter, imagery, and the never-ending quest for penance. Though one can presuppose that Coleridge was at least moderately inspired by his addiction to laudanum, this literary scholar would prefer to concentrate exclusively on the poem—isolated from all outside influence. So, please--read this poem and post your thoughts here. Do you think the old Mariner ever attains peace? What do you think is the message here?

Letters to Ebay Twisted and Hilarious

2007-12-20T18:22:00.000-08:00

Here's a quick review of a hilarious book I've been making my way through this Christmas break.

If you're looking for something weird, twisted, and hilarious to pass some down time, then pick up a copy of Art Farkas' (pen name of Central Valley eBay enthusiast and author Paul Meadors) Letters to eBay.

Amazon.com lists the book's key phrases as "happy bidding," "lint rollers," "deer jerky," and "depression glass" - fitting for this farcical, oftentimes obsessive, exploration of the virtual world of online consumerism.

Farkas' basis for the book is simple. According to his blog, he began "firing off crazy questions and seemingly far-fetched scenarios to eBay vendors concerning their items mixed in with a dose of TMI (too much information)." His crazy questions along with the oftentimes serious (and thus hilarious) replies from the vendors creates the core of this book.

Letters to eBay is one of those books that's just plain good to have around when there's a possibility of a few moments down time. The letters/answers are quick reads and can be taken in small doses. Farkas knows how to shape an incredibly ridiculous question with just enough detail and earnest tone to make it believable. And the unsuspecting vendors bite, responding here with good natured sincerity, there with exasperation. The questions - funny; the real-life responses - even funnier!

Keep this book around - it's worth a big laugh a day.

"Met" Minutes

2007-11-06T09:37:00.000-08:00

Well, here we are, just after midterms, and still worrying away about the well being of Metamorphoses. Well, believe it or not, Met is indeed still alive and kicking, and is expected to be released (better late than never!) in December.
The fundraising went better than we ever expected it to, and thanks to all of the friends and supporters of Met, this issue will feature artists and writers from all over the world.
Despite an abundance of complications and delays, this is proving to be the best issue of Met that we could hope for!
Our publication this year will be a little bit edgy, featuring collages from an amazing artist in London, as well as some very thought-provoking work from the Cerro Coso student in Ridgcrest chosen to be featured on the cover. Our literature choices include a few pieces by the imfamous Sterling Warner, and Bakersfield's own Melinda Carroll as well. There are some really amazing writers, artists, poets, students, teachers, and dreamers being featured in this years Met.

INDEPENDENCE DAY SUPPER, FIREWORKS AND HIGHWAYMEN part 4 by Leo F. Kohl

2007-11-03T19:03:00.000-07:00

I now present to you the final installment of Leo F. Kohl's INDEPENDENCE DAY SUPPER, FIREWORKS AND HIGHWAYMEN.

Marty and Francois rose at dawn the next morning, while Louisa prepared them a brief breakfast and coffee, which they ate hurriedly, then went out to meet with the picking crew, which had gathered outside the main entrance to the winery. Francois, accompanied by Marty
and the members of the picking crew, walked out to the first block of grapes Francois desired to be picked first; these were the Dr Chaunac variety and the sugar content was at a high enough
level to be harvested.

“The grapes in this block should take from several days to a week to harvest and be
crushed,” Francois told Marty. “When they are through with this block, start the crew in harvesting the largest block; the ‘Catawba’ grapes!”

“Will do!” Marty replied, then asked, “When’s the winery crew due to arrive?”

“Anytime, now!” Francois answered. “Have them get the steam up in the boilers and the rollers started, so when the first vineyard wagons pull up to the hopper, they can be unloaded and the grapes started to be crushed!”

Everything proceeded smoothly until late in the morning. The winery crew had crushed the first load of De Chaunac grapes, and was ready to start on the next, when Sheriff O’Leery
and three Deputies came by the winery and were met by Francois and Marty. After shaking
hands all around, and following introductions of the Deputies to the two men, O’Leery shook his head incredulously as he exclaimed to Marty, “Don’t know how you did it, Allhoff, but you were right on the mark as to that being their hide-out!”

Marty replied, “Remember Tim! I was trained by one o’ the top Plainsman there are, Jack Lord!”

“And in that regard, you’re right on the mark as well!” O’Leery exclaimed, then went on to describe what had occurred. “We went to r Longworth’s Winery first, and he was completely bowled over when I described last night’s happenings to him! He asked me how you managed through all that happened, Francois?”

Francois replied, “Like myself, mon ami, he too, is not accustomed to violence happening so close to one’s person!”

O’Leery continued, “Anyway, we checked out the premises and found no one around or near the place. It was totally deserted! Had the warrant, but in the long run, it wasn’t needed. Searched the house an’ barn thoroughly an’ found a considerable amount o’ valuables stolen by the two in previous robberies! For a while, there, guess they had a picnic! Anyway, the folks who
had reported being robbed by the pair, will be asked to identify the bodies, and claim their property, if it’s still available and in our keeping! Have to inform the newspapers ‘bout what had happened, but as much as I can, I will not divulge your names, nor how either of you became involved!”

With a grim expression on his face, Marty told O’Leery, “Francois, I know, would very much appreciate not being involved from a local business standpoint, an’ I had enough o’ news- papers after what had happened this past Halloween!”

When O’Leery and his three deputies departed the winery, Francois and Marty continued to work with the harvest crew.

Marty had written down all the various steps and procedures he had been required to learn and carry out under Francois’ tutelage. When all that had been completed, Francois exclaimed to both of them shortly after the harvest season had ended, “All you need to know now is the bottling and tasting techniques to ensure you have developed the best vintage you can.
Over the next few weeks, I will teach you how to sample wine, determine the proper sugar content and select those casks that will be ready for bottling!”

True to his word, Francois had Marty sampling the wine, determining the sugar content in other wine vintages and learning the proper techniques required in the bottling and corking of wines. By mid-September, Marty had completed all the training that Francois could put him through, and according to Francois’ very high standards, he was considered to be an accompli- shed vintner.

About a week before Marty and Louisa were to leave Francois’ winery, Sheriff Tim
O’Leery and two of his deputies showed up at the winery and Francois asked them what they had on their minds.

“Not much!” O’Leery answered. “Heard a rumor in town that Marty an’ his wife’re gon-na be leavin’! That true?” he asked Francois.

Francois replied, “Mais oui! Yes, that is true! They will be leaving me in about a week, and head for Oakwood to be with their families for two weeks, then travel back to California, where Marty hopes to start a vineyard and winery in Coloma, where, from what he has told me, he has already purchased the land!”

At that moment, Marty and Louisa stepped out of the winery, saw O’Leery and his deputies and waved at them. When the couple approached closer to them, O’Leery commented to them, “Heard you’d be leavin’ soon, so wanted to confirm it with you! That right?”

Marty answered, “Right as rain, Tim! Headin’ home to be with our families for a couple
o’ weeks, then it’s off to California for us!”

O’Leery asked them, “How you gettin’ there?”

“Same way my brother an’ I came home!” Marty exclaimed. “On a special Wells, Fargo wagon train that carries supplies to various forts an’ outposts along the Oregon an’ California trails! In fact, our wagon train’s waitin fer us in East St. Louis!”

“That so?” O’Leery responded. “We’ll sure miss you ‘round here! Anyways, have a safe journey an’ say hello to Jack Lord for me, will you?”

“Marty replied, “Sure will! That is, if and when I get to see him!”

At that moment, Francois told O’Leery, “Mon amis, my many thanks for letting Marty in on those two road agents he shot recently, as well as keeping us out of any adverse publicity in
the local newspapers! On behalf of Pinaud’s Winery, allow me to present you with a bottle of champagne to show my thanks and gratitude!” From a case of champagne just inside the winery door, Francois removed a bottle of champagne and presented it to O’Leery. Turning, he asked the two deputies, “You like champagne?” Both men responded with a loud “Yes!!” So, Francois gave both deputies a bottle of champagne. All three thanked Francois for the champagne and shook his hand to show they were grateful. Then O’Leery shook Marty’s hand and bade he and
Louisa goodbye, and lots of luck!

In a few days, they left the winery and Francois drove them to the Railroad Depot in the Winery Carriage and Porters placed their trunks and luggage in the loading area reserved for Springfield. Marty had already purchased tickets on the stagecoach from Springfield to Oak- wood. He presented the train tickets to the Ticketmaster, who saw all was in order. The train came chugging into the station, wheezed and came to a stop in a cloud of steam, as they bade their host and employer the past five months, a very fond goodbye and wished him the very best in his winery operation.

Francois exclaimed to them, “Au revoir, mon amis! Goodby, my friends! I will miss you both! Maybe someday, I might be able to come out to California to see how you have prospered in your own grape production endeavors! Anyway, Au revoir! I wish you all the best in the
world, my friends! Marty, thank you for bing such an adept and knowing apprentice! Goodbye!”
Francois called out to them as the “All Aboard!” was shouted by all the conductors.

“Goodbye, Francois!” they called out to him as they hurried to their railroad car.
“Goodbye and good luck!”

The conductor helped Louisa up the steps, as Marty stepped on board and waved
goodbye to Francois upon entering the railroad car. The conductor escorted them to their seats, and they were no sooner seated, than the car lurched forward and they were underway back home to their families and Oakwood.

REFERENCE SOURCES.
1. McCabe, James D., Jr. “GREAT FORTUNES AND HOW THEY WERE MADE.” 1872. San
Francisco, CA, B. Hannaford & Company.

INDEPENDENCE DAY SUPPER, FIREWORKS AND HIGHWAYMEN part 3 by Leo F. Kohl

2007-10-21T23:20:00.000-07:00

I now present to you INDEPENDENCE DAY SUPPER, FIREWORKS AND HIGHWAYMEN part 3 by Leo F. Kohl with no commercial interruptions.

Once they left Longworth’s Winery, Francois allowed the horses to proceed at a slow canter, since it was night and he was not sure of the directions he should take. At his side, Marty, who had alertly watched the direction they traveled on the way to Longworth’s, told Francois to turn on certain roads until they were out on what appeared to be the main road headed toward their winery. They had not been on that road ten minutes, when Marty suddenly cocked his head to the side, looked behind them, and said to Francois, “We’re bein’ followed! Two men on horses an’ travelin’ at full gallop!” With that casual remark, Marty removed his pistol from its
holster and held it in his right had against the metal grillwork siding of the driver’s seat. Marty
told Francois to continue on at the slow pace they had been traveling.

In less than five minutes, the horses caught up with the carriage, and the riders slowed their pace and looked over each of them as they slowly passed on both sides of the carriage and , stopped, then turned and faced the team of horses. The big, brawny one of the two men dis- mounted and Marty noted that he drew his pistol from its holster, as it flashed dully in the light from the almost-full moon. Holding his pistol so it could not be seen by the folks on the carriage, the man approached, then loudly called out, “Halt! Stand and deliver! Now, Allhoff, you’re gonna get yours for killin’ my friends out in California!”

Fully alerted, Marty saw the man start to slowly raise his pistol, when Marty suddenly aimed and fired at the man and hit him dead center in the heart! The man grunted loudly,
“Uh-h-h-h!” Then he fell forward with his arms outstretched as his pistol fell to the ground from
his now dead fingers.

Confused and frightened by the shot, the other man’s horse reared up and made it impossible for the second man to draw his pistol. Marty pushed Francois flat on the seat, and softly said to him, “Good! Stay there ‘til I tell you to get up!”

Marty waited cooly until the horse’s front hooves hit the ground, then aimed and fired a
second shot. The ball found its mark just above the left eyebrow, as it entered the man’s fore- head. When that happened, the man let out the most horrible scream Marty had ever heard. The second shot frightened the horse once again, as it reared up and dislodged the now dead rider from his saddle and he tumbled face down in the road and blood from his wound seeped into the ground.

As soon as he fired his second shot, Marty jumped down from the carriage, grabbed the reins of the frightened horse and led it to the rear of the carriage, where he tied it securely to a ring that was there for that purpose. Then he went back to where the tall, thin road agent lay, and removed his pistol from its holster and jammed it into his waistband.

Then he went to the front of Francois’ team of horses to do the same thing with the other horse, and stopped briefly to check on the other road agent sprawled out on the road. He reached down and picked up the dead man’s revolver, then stuck it in his jacket pocket. He led the other horse to the back of the carriage and tied it to another set of rings, then called out to Francois, “Francois! Could you please come down here an’ give me a hand loading these two dead bodies on their horses? Oh! An’ do you have any rope in the carriage’s boot to use to tie ‘em down? I promised Sheriff O’Leery I’d bring him the bodies if I could!”

Francois, somewhat traumatized by the incident, climbed slowly down from the carriage,
went to its boot in the rear and came back to Marty with a coil of rope, as he exclaimed, “Sacre bleu! Tres mal! Tres mal!” Then the two of them struggled to get the larger of the two men
across the saddle and properly tied down so the body would not fall off in transit. The tall, thin man was much easier to handle, load onto his horse and tie him down.

Francois, a horrified expression on his face, exclaimed to Marty, “Mon Dieu, mon amis!
My God, my friend! You mean to tell me you shot five men out in California? For what reason?”

Marty answered, “To stay alive! You have to shoot first and ask questions later! Jus’ like
this big man here! He had his pistol drawn an’ was ready to fire, when I shot him first! If the other one could have gotten to his pistol, I’m sure he’d have taken a shot at me! Lucky for me he had a spooky horse! Now that we’ve got the bodies loaded, le’s head fer the Sheriff’s office in Cincinnati! Wanna see the expression on O’Leery’s face when we bring the two in to him!”

As they were climbing back to the driver’s seat, Marty asked Louisa, “You all right?”

“Still shaking a little! But now that I see you are all right, everything is much brighter!” she replied, then asked her husband, “Where are we going now? Back to the winery?”

“Nope!” Marty replied. “We’re takin’ the bodies to the Sheriff’s office! Told O’Leery I
would! Like I jus’ told Francois, wanna see the look on his face ! Know he didn’t believe me!”

Francois turned the carriage around and headed back in the direction of Cincinnati, which took them almost an hour. At that time of night, there was almost no traffic, and when they pulled up in front of the Sheriff’s office, pandemonium erupted! Half a dozen deputies accompanied Sheriff O’Leery to Francois’ carriage, as Marty jumped down and confronted the Sheriff. “There you are, Tim! All tied up an’ waitin’ for the Coroner! Correct me if I’m wrong, but the big one’s Steve Bearess, an the tall, thin one’s Ron Rotzinger! Right?”

O’Leery replied, “Right as rain! But how the hell did you do it? An’ don’t tell me a little bird tol’ you!”

“Well, almost! ‘Member I told you my brother, John, an’ I were scouts for Jack Lord’s
wagon train we traveled in goin’ ‘cross country to California. Learned how to use my senses, an’ tonight, it paid off! Ever been out to Longworth’s winery?”

“Yeah!” O’Leery replied. “A few times! Why?”

Marty asked him, “Member seein’ a round hill covered with trees to the left o’ the drive into the winery? Think that’s where these two were holed up! ‘Pears there might be a house on the other side o’ that round hill, ‘cause I saw two pairs o’ legs on the other side o’ the trees, but the trees blocked the view of the upper parts o’ the bodies. Suggest you obtain a warrant n’ go check it out!”

“Are you sure?” O’Leery asked him.

Marty replied, “Absolutely! When you an’ your Deputies’ve checked it all out, come by
Pianud’s Winery an’ let us know what you’ve found!”

O’Leery turned to Francois and asked him how he felt.

“Mon ami! My friend! Everything happened so fast, were it not for Marty, here, and I was alone, I might be lying by the side of the road, dead! I was not aware you knew each other out in California, nor that Marty had killed five men while he was out there!”

Then one of the Deputies who was standing beside O’Leery asked Marty, “Are you the same Allhoff who shot those four thugs on Halloween over in Oakwood, an’ killed their leader?”

“Yep! I’m one an’ the same!” Marty replied. “Constable overheard ‘em makin’ plans to waylay me an’ work me over! Unbeknownst to the rest o’ them, their leader planned to kill me!
Jury voted unanimously that I was ‘Not Guilty’ by reason o’ self-defense. The three thugs were
declared ‘Guilty’ an’re still in Ohio State Prison!”

Then Marty commented, “It’s after midnight, an’ tomorrow we start the summer grape harvest, so we better get back to the winery, don’t you think, Francois?”

Before Francois could respond, O’Leery said to both of them, “We’ll follow up on the information you just gave us, an’ we’ll drop by the winery a’ let you know what we found. Sound all right to you?”

“Fine with us! Right, Francois?” Marty asked his employer.

“Tres bien! Very good!” Francois responded, “Just keep us out of any adverse publicity!”

O’Leery replied, “Will do the best I can, but you know these newspapers! They make everything worse than what they really are, and actually lie about it to get a good story out of it!
Yellow Journalism! Phooey! See you sometime tomorrow!”

Francois turned the carriage around, and in an hour, were back at Pinaud’s Winery, where all three sought sleep as soon as possible.

Come back in two weeks to find out what happens to Marty and Francois next!

INDEPENDENCE DAY SUPPER, FIREWORKS AND HIGHWAYMEN part 2 by Leo F. Kohl

2007-10-06T17:41:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the delay folks. I know I said to come back in a week and it has been two weeks, but the author and I had a little palaver and we decided that maybe two weeks between sets would be better. Now without further ado I present to the world INDEPENDENCE DAY SUPPER, FIREWORKS AND HIGHWAYMEN part 2 by Leo F. Kohl.

They continued down the Winery Drive, until they were met by two gentlemen dressed in “Livery” costumes, who asked them where they were going. Francois replied, “To Nicholas Longworth’s July Fourth Party! I am Francois Pinaud, the owner of Pinaud’s winery on the other side of Cincinnati!”

“Yes, sir!” One of the men in livery responded. “You are on the list! Are the other two part of your operation?”

“Yes!” Francois answered somewhat gruffly, “but why all the questions? This is my apprentice foreman, and inside the coach is his wife! But why are we being so questioned? We are invited guests!”

At that moment, a rather slight man, about 5-foot, 8-inches tall, with bushy, white side-burns and twinkling, bright green eyes, came down the road and said to the two men in Livery, “That’s all right Karl! Stan! This is Mister Pinaud and his entourage! Let them in!”

“Yes, sir! Mister Longworth!” both men said in unison, then saluted the gentleman who had let them enter the winery.

Before Francois signaled the horses to move, Mister Longworth climbed up on the driver’s seat, as Marty made room for him to the outside. Longworth reached over and took Francois’ hand and said, “Welcome to Longworth’s Winery, Monsieur Pinaud!” He looked at Marty and asked,

“And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Marty Alhoff, sir! Glad to meet you, sir!” Marty answered. “And that’s my wife, Louisa,
back there in the coach!”

“Welcome all three of you to Longworth’s Vineyards and Winery. Sorry for the question and answer session back there, but since you are here, I had to make sure it was you, Francois, and not one of the riff-raff that have suddenly sprung up here in Cincinnati! Sheriff O’Leery has warned me against a pair of road agents that have been operating in our area at night on week- ends and specifically, a Holiday such as today!”

Francois then told Longworth, “There are two cases of different wines in the coaches’ boot. Would you be so kind as to have one of your attendants unload them, as they are our gift to
your party?

“Certainly!” Longworth replied, then asked Francois, “May I ask the names of the vintages you have brought us?”

“Oui! Certainement! Yes! Certainly!” Francois answered. “The first vintage is called ‘Marechal Foch,’ and being an early season fruit, is the first of the grapes we crush and make the wine. These we have brought you are from last year’s crop! The other is a wine named ‘Clarice,’ after my dear wife, who passed away in France. It is a sweet wine of my own fashion- ing! I do hope you will like both! Salud!”

“Why, thank you so very much, Monsieur Pinaud!” Longworth exclaimed , as a big smilelit up his face. “We’ll serve it to our guests and announce from whence it came! If you do not mind, we’ll let our guests pass judgement on your offerings!”

“That would be fine with me!” Francois replied, then added, “and please, call me Francois! I feel better when I can speak with people on a first-name basis! It feels more friendly under those conditions! Conpris? Do you understand?”

Longworth replied haltingly in French, “Je suis compris! I understand!”

With that, Francois asked Longworth, “Parlez vous Francais?”

To which, Longworth laughingly replied, “Un tres petit! A very little! Only a very little!
When I was studying to become a lawyer, I had to learn French, but not enough to carry on a full conversation, I’m afraid!”

“That is all right!” Francois replied. “We always have English in which to converse! Ne
c’est pas? Isn’t that right?”

Longworth chuckled and replied, “You are right! So very right!”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Francois exclaimed. “Herman Lister, one of my leading Vinegres, asked me to extend to you his warmest regards!”

Longworth replied, a wistful expression on his face, “Please return the favor to Herman!
He was one of the best workers I had working for me in my winery and vineyard! You are so lucky to have such a fine individual working for you!”

To which, Francois replied, “You are right! You are so very right!“

Excellent! Excellent!” Longworth replied. “Return my best to Herman when next you see him, please!”

Longworth then personally introduced Francois, Marty and Louisa to his assembled guests. No sooner had introductions been completed, than the Chef announced that supper was ready. The Chef was one of the foremost in Cincinnati, and had prepared a feast of steak barbequed on grills over coals from oak wood, along with various side dishes. The guests sat at tables strategically placed in the open area, with umbrellas which provided shade from the glare of the late afternoon sun. Longworth sat with Francois, Marty, and Louisa so he could have the opportunity of getting to know them a little better and find out more concerning their personal backgrounds. He became very excited when he learned that Marty had mined for gold in California, and even more so, when he was told by Francois that Marty and Louisa planned to leave for California sometime in September and establish a winery in the region in which Marty had mined for gold. It was then that supper was served to the guests and the area became quiet as the assembled guests consumed the delicious meal.

As dusk began to fall, and night was soon to be upon them, Longworth stood up and an- nounced to all his guests that they would be treated to a display of fireworks never before seen in the Cincinnati area, and hoped everyone would enjoy what they were about to witness. When the last glimpse of daylight had disappeared, everyone heard a loud “Whump!” from an open area some hundred yards from where they sat, as the darkness was split by various colored lights that burst, then burst again to make the entire party area light up as though it were instant daytime! Everyone in attendance applauded the opening fireworks display, then “Whump!” “Whump!” “Whump!” a whole series of bursting and cascading lights lit up the area, and for the next half-hour to forty-five minutes, different pyrotechnic displays drew “O-h-h-hs” and A-h-h-h’s” from the assembled guests, who were absolutely enchanted with the beautiful displays provided to them.

Soon, the fireworks display was over, and under some kerosene lamps provided by several attendants, Longworth served his guests the first of Francois’ wines, Marechal Foch, and asked each to properly taste the wine and judge its qualities. If they signify with a “One,” it means the wine was excellent! A “Two,” conveyed that it was good, but not great! A “Three,” signified that the wine was of poor quality! Longworth then introduced Francois to the guests, and indicated to them that it was he who had provided the wine for the final program of the evening. Francois stood up and thanked everyone for sampling and judging his wine, as he chuckled loudly when he told the assembled group he hoped to receive no “Three’s!”

It took about fifteen minutes for the group to properly taste the wine, then Longworth called out to them, “Are there any ‘Three’s?’” No one in attendance raised their hand! “Seems we’re off to a good start, so far!” Longworth commented. Then he called out to the group, “Are there any ‘Two’s?’” Four people raised their hands. “Maybe you better have your taste-buds checked by your doctor!” Longworth replied laughingly. “Now! For the down and dirty count!

Are there any ‘One’s?’” Forty-six people raised their hands, as Longworth exulted, “Fantastic!”
Francois beamed at the results of the tasting, and these folks, all wine lovers, proved his wine to be among the best!

The same procedure continued with Clarice, and the results were a little better; no “Threes,” only three “Two’s” and forty-seven “One’s” Everyone at the Supper Party liked the products from Pinaud’s Winery, and many asked where he was located, so they could visit, and perhaps, purchase some of the wines in his inventory.

The very pleasant evening ended with the wine-tasting and everyone stood up and prepared to depart Longworth’s Winery. Everyone who was in attendance told Longworth how much they enjoyed the dinner and especially the fireworks displays; then thanked him for inviting them. There were quite a few who came up to Francois and thanked him for providing the wine for all to taste. As the carriages and surreys were being brought up by Longworth’s attendants, Marty informed Francois concerning having seen the two pairs of legs on the other side of the hill, and noted to him that his “Scout’s Senses” were coming through in that regard and they have never failed him since the trek across country back in ‘49.

Marty told Francois, “Hope they’re wrong, for all o’ us concerned! But whatever happens out on the road, please do as I ask you to! I have a feeling we’re being singled out! In particular, myself, for having killed some o’ the friends o’ one o’ the Road Agents out in California!”

Marty turned to Louisa and told her what he had seen and what to expect. At first, she was incredulous, but soon came to the realization that Marty was extremely serious in this matter, so she told herself she would do whatever her husband wished her to do.

The two liveried attendants, Karl and Stan, brought Francois’ carriage up to them, then
helped Louisa into the carriage as Mister Longworth bade them all a “Goodnight!” Before they left, Longworth asked Francois if he might visit his winery sometime and note how his operations were conducted. Francois told him he could visit any time he wished, but he hoped it would be soon, since the summer harvest would soon be upon them and he and Marty would be extremely busy. Longworth told him he understood and would let him know as soon as he could.
Then Francois and Marty mounted to the drivers’ seat, and Francois cracked his whip as the four-horse team walked slowly up the drive past the tree-covered knoll, now enveloped in the blackness of night.

On the other side of the tree-covered slope, now cloaked in the night’s darkness, another,
yet more serious scene was unfolding. Two men, one tall and slender, the other heavy, tall and with broad shoulders, stood on the porch of a house that was set back into the hill, while both men discussed what actions to take concerning robbery and other potential mayhem. The large, heavy man with the broad shoulders told the tall, skinny one,”If we don’t move soon, that carriage’ll be beyond where I, for one, care to go ‘cause O’Leery has his deputies scouring the roads; an’ he knows me from when I was out in California! Besides, I’m positive that the feller with the black beard is Allhoff, an’ I have a score to settle with him fer killin some o’ my friends out in California!”

The tall, skinny one said to his companion, “Whatever you say, Steve! If we’re gonna carry this off tonight, we better get saddled up an’ get a move on!”

The larger man, Steve Bearess, told the slim young man, Ron Rotzinger, “All right, then,
le’s get the horses saddled! We might have to gallop ‘em fer a while to catch up, but that should- n’t take too long!”

Both men went to the stable where their horses were in two of the ten stalls that lined the walls of the barn. The property had once been owned by Rotzinger’s parents, and when they died, it was passed on to him; this was where the two “Highwaymen” were “Holed-Up,” since the house was not visible from the main-traveled roads. Both men quickly saddled their horses, then rode swiftly from the large barn. They galloped at a fast pace down a little-used drive until they reached the main road, upon which they turned left and galloped rapidly until, way up ahead of them, outlined in the bright moonlight, was the carriage they sought.

Come back in two weeks to find out what happens next!

INDEPENDENCE DAY SUPPER, FIREWORKS AND HIGHWAYMEN part 1 by Leo F. Kohl

2007-09-21T15:38:00.000-07:00

The following is a short story by KVR CCCC biology professor Leo F. Kohl. The story was a bit long for our printed publication, so the Metamorphoses editorial staff concluded that this piece must be serialized here on the Met blog. Now without further ado I present to the world INDEPENDENCE DAY SUPPER, FIREWORKS AND HIGHWAYMEN part 1 by Leo F. Kohl.

PROLOGUE:
Marty Allhoff and Louisa Weaver were married on the first Saturday of May, 1852 in the Emmanuel Lutheran Church in Dayton, Ohio and Honeymooned in Cincinnati, where Marty was to be apprenticed to Francois Pinaud, a local wine producer who had been a friend of his father’s in Germany. Through the Maitre’d at the Amherst Hotel, the leading Hotel at that time in Cincinnati, Marty and Louisa were able to meet Francois and learn the route to and from Francois’ winery. Louisa visited the local “Apothecarist” in Cincinnati to purchase proper contraceptives and thus escape becoming pregnant. Louisa remembered what her Papa had told her before her Mama had died; that he and Mama were married in 1835 and she was born in 1837. Louisa and Marty agreed they would wait a few years before having children. As a result, each night before she and Marty made love, she carefully followed the Druggist’s directions. From then on, she carefully followed the contraceptive methods that had been prescribed and was able to forestall problems with pregnancy.

In the meantime, while Louisa was at the Apothecarist, Marty decided he wanted to have his revolver registered with the local sheriff’s office, which, upon inquiry, he found out was only a few blocks down the street from the Hotel. He walked down the street to the building that had been described to him and saw it was the local Sheriff’s Office, since the sign over the main entrance to the building stated:

HAMILTON COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE CINCINNATI MAIN OFFICE

The moment he entered the office, he was greeted by a clean-shaven man dressed in a khaki uniform, who called out to him, “Well! If it ain’t Marty Allhoff! What brings you to this office?”

The uniformed man looked vaguely familiar to him, so he said to the man, “Apparently you know me, sir, but who’re you?”

“Thought you wouldn’t recognize me!” the man answered. “But maybe you’ll remember my name from back in Coloma when you shot them two horse thieves - one you killed an’ the other one you wounded! Vigilantes strung that one up an hour later! Name’s Tim, Tim O’Leery, who sometimes took your friend, Jack Lord’s place when he was called out on official duty! Was one o’ the Vigilantes who worked with Cap’n Shannon, the Alcalde, or Mayor of Coloma. Do you remember?”

“Well, I’ll be go to the devil!” Marty exclaimed as recognition began to set in. “Never would o’ recognized you without your beard! What brings you to Cincinnati?”

“Might ask you the same question, Allhoff?” O’Leery inquired, “How come you’ve come by the Sheriff’s Office? Most folks avoid us like the plague!”

“On my honeymoon!” Marty replied. “Wife’s out shoppin’, so thought I’d swing by the Sheriff’s office an’ register my revolver, in case I should ever need it!” Then he asked O’Leery, “When did you leave Coloma, an’ how’d you travel to Cincinnati?”

“You came to the right place, Allhoff!” O’Leery answered. “An’ with some o’ the problems that’ve jus’ started comin’up, you jus’ might need that pistol! You got it with you?”

“Right here!” Marty replied, as he opened his coat, removed his pistol from its holster, and handed it butt first to O’Leery. Then he asked him again, “When did you leave Coloma?”

“Bout the midddle o’ September, 1851! Traveled by sailin’ ship down the coast to the Isthmus o’ Panama, crossed it in three days with no hassles, caught a steamer in Colon to New Orleans, up the Mississippi to Davenport, Iowa, then by stagecoach to Toledo, Ohio, by a lake steamer to Cleveland, and finally by train to Cincinnati! All told, it took about six weeks to get here!” O’Leery added, “Oh! An’ congratulations on gettin’ married! When did that happen?"

“Last Saturday!” Marty replied. “You gonna register my pistol? An’ what do you mean I
might need it? What kinda problems would you have here in Ohio? Certainly nothin’ like we had out in California, are they?”

“Close to it!” O’Leery replied. “Remember the Dick Bell Gang out in California? Well, one o’ them was a member o’ that gang, has come here to the Cincinnati area an’ has teamed up with one o’ our local fellas. The two o’ ‘em have been holdin’ up carriages an’ robbin’ folks, jus’ like some members o’ the Bell gang used to do out in California before law an’ order got started. Anyways, they operate on the main roads at night, mostly durin’ the weekends an’ on holidays. As the sheriff o’ this County, I’ve sent deputies all over the County out from Cincinnati to try an’ catch ‘em, but to no avail!”

With awe evident in his voice, Marty asked O’Leery, “You’re the Sheriff?”

“Yep!” O’Leery replied. “No sooner got here than an election was takin’ place for a sheriff. Filed jus’ in time to throw my hat in the ring, an’ based on my experience as a policeman in New York, an’ some o’ the law enforcement work I was involved with in California, I was elected to be the County Sheriff!”

Marty asked O’Leery, “How do this pair o’ road agents work? My brother John an’ me had some experience with road agents on the way home, but we were informed who the gang members were an’ we were ready for ‘em!

“That so?” O’Leery asked, “But as to how these scoundrels work, we only know from the descriptions given us by the victims o’ their robberies. We’ve got the two men’s names, but elusive as they are, we haven’t been able to nab ‘em yet! With the big holiday, July 4th comin’ up, we’re hopin’ they’ll screw up somehow an’ we’ll be able to catch ‘em!”
Marty told O’Leery, “Thanks for the tip, an’ for your description o’ how these bozos operate! We’ll be on the lookout for ‘em if we’re ever out at night! Now, how’s ‘bout registerin’ my revolver so I can legally carry it here in your jurisdiction? Oh! An’ what are the two mens’ names?”

O’Leery took Marty’s proffered revolver, and started to register it, as he said to him, “The big fella, who was out in California has blonde hair, is clean-shaven an’ goes by the name o’ Steve Bearess. The other thin one, who wears a black mustache an’ chin whiskers, goes by the name o’ Ron Rotzinger! If you come across either one, be armed an’ ready to shoot! Knowin’ your past history out in California, an’ from what Jack Lord had told me, I’m quite sure you can handle yourself! If there’s any confrontation an’ you kill the two bastards, bring their bodies to me for verification, all right, Marty?”

Marty asked the Sheriff, “Seems like you think I might be o’ some help in catchin’ these two scoundrels, right Tim?”
O’Leery replied, “Bein’ out there at Pinaud’s Winery, an’ travelin’ ‘round out in the countryside, makes you a more potential victim for these two robbers! Besides, I’ve heard rumors out in California that Bearess has a grudge against you for killin’ some o’ his friends out there, so, knowin’ you from past history, you’ll be better able to carry it out than all my deputies an’ I’re able! Here! Carry this with you at all times while you’re wearin’ your gun an’ holster!”
he told Marty as he handed him the copy of the registration, signed “Timothy O’Leery, Sheriff.”

“Good luck! An’ shoot straight, if you have to!” O’Leery told Marty as he shook his hand. “Glad to see you back in Ohio! We’ll have to get together sometime an’ swap tales, all right with you?”

Marty replied, “I’d like that very much!” He turned and left the Sheriff’s office and
walked back to the Hotel, where he met Louisa in the lobby as she inquired, “Where have you
been?” He answered, “Tell you when we get back in our room!”

Once they were in their room, Marty related the entire story concerning how the local Sheriff was an acquaintance out in California, and had also known Jack Lord, who had taught Marty and his brother, John, how to handle weapons, had told him about the two “Highwaymen” who had been robbing local folks in large carriages and surreys. He told Louisa that O’Leery thought Marty might run into the pair, since he’d be living far out in the countryside, and having known Marty’s reputation out in California, felt that he would be able to handle any situation
that might arise. For once, Louisa had nothing to say in that regard, because she knew deep in her heart, that no more violence could happen to them. Nothing was further from the truth in that concern!

INDEPENDENCE DAY SUPPER, FIREWORKS AND HIGHWAYMEN.

On Friday, Francois Pinaud, the owner of Pinaud’s Winery a few miles out of Cincinnati, arrived at the Hotel in the winery’s carriage and helped Marty and one of the Bellmen and the Doorman load all their trunks and luggage in the carriage’s spacious boot. Marty tipped the Bell-man and Doorman handsomely for their efforts. Mister Cousey, the Hotel Manager, came out and wished them well at Pinaud’s Winery, and asked them to return to the Hotel from time-to-time, where they would be treated royally. The Maitre’d, Pierre Renaud, who had first taken Marty and Louisa to meet Monsieur Pinaud the previous Sunday, and had been a boyhood friend of Louisa’s Papa and had known her when she was but a baby, said his goodbyes to them. But he told them he would see them on his visits to the Winery to purchase wines and cordials to supply the Hotel’s wine cellar. Louisa and Marty bade all their new-found friends farewell, climbed into the carriage, and with Francois a t the reins, they were off to begin an entirely new experience in the wine-making business.

Francois took them out to his winery over the very same roads that Pierre had taken them the Sunday before on their very first visit. Francois had provided them a small cottage in which to stay, which would be their “First New Home” for the duration of their stay at the winery. When they arrived at the winery, Francois helped Marty unload their trunks and other luggage,while it was Louisa’s responsibility to see that all their garments were properly hung in the closets provided, as well as try out the various kitchen implements she would be using during their stay. Once all their trunks were unloaded and they were somewhat settled in, Francois asked them to accompany him around the vineyard so they could see for themselves the different types of grapes he produced, and the various wine vintages produced from those grapes.

Through the remainder of the month of May and through June, Francois, Marty and the crew of Vinegres, French for “Vineyard Workers,” harvested specific blocks of grapes that were crushed then placed in certain casks to allow them to ferment to alcohol to produce special wines for which Pinaud’s winery was noted in the region. On the last day in June, Francois approached Marty and Louisa in their little cottage and told them that the three of them had been invited to a special “Independence Day Supper With Fireworks” at Nicholas Longworth’s vineyard and winery on July 4th.

Francois said to them, “Mon amis, I hope you don’t mind, but I have already accepted the invitation on your behalf, as well as my own! I have always wanted an opportunity to meet the man who began the wine industry in this region, some thirty years ago, so I accepted his invitation and included both of you, tres certainement! Most certainly!”

“Sounds like a great idea to me!” Marty exclaimed. “I’d very much like to meet Mister Longworth, since I’ve heard different members o’ the crew mention his name in passin’ many number o’ times!”

“Me too!” Louisa exclaimed. “Sounds real exciting to me! And to see fireworks as well!”

Francois exclaimed to them, “Then it is all decided! We will go in my carriage, which you, Louisa will have all to yourself, since I want Marty to be in the driver’s seat with me!”

“Why is that, Francois?” Marty asked him. “You must have a specific reason in mind, since usually, you want us both to ride inside the carriage whenever we go somewhere!!”

“Yes, I do!” Francois replied. “Though I often put it off as rumor, several of my friends were robbed at gunpoint by “Road Agents” a few weeks ago! I contacted Sheriff O’Leery, and he confirmed my questions. Imagine my surprise when he told me he had known you quite well out in California, and then he said to me, “Have him ride up front with you, and follow any direct- ions Marty gives you, for your own good! With a weapon, ‘specially a pistol. Marty does not miss! Good luck on the road on Independence Day! Tell Marty, ‘Happy Huntin’!"

“Well, I’ll be danged!” Marty exclaimed loudly. “So, O’Leery told you all about my exploits out in California, eh? Hope he didn’t get too gory with the details!”

“Nothing of the sort, mon amis! Francois replied. “I will feel much better having you both along with me when we go to Nicholas Longworth’s!"

July Fourth, Independence Day was a bright, sunny day, but in the very early morning, it did not look like the day would begin as well as it did. A hazy fog hung over the Ohio River, a short distance away and began to spread further away from the River proper. But once the sun was up, the haze and fog soon disappeared and the day became one in which the Holiday could be enjoyed because of the fine weather. Both Francois and Marty were early risers, and early in the morning, both of them were in the wine vaults taking care of some last minute tests that had to be made with some of the new-made wine recently assigned to their respective casks. Once those tests were completed, and both were satisfied the wine was fermenting in a proper fashion, both men returned to Louisa’s and Marty’s cottage, where breakfast awaited them.

After breakfast, Francois and Marty gathered the harvest crew together. Most of the crew were experienced French Vinigres, but there were quite a few experienced Germans in the crew, as well. There was one German, who had worked for Nicholas Longworth for quite a few years, but when Francois had started his vineyard and winery, began working for him; the man’s name was Herman Lister. Herman was the “Crew Chief under” Marty, and took all his orders from him, unless orders came directly from Francois; which rarely occurred.

When all the crew had gathered around, Francois told the group that all their orders for that day would be given by Herman, since he and Marty would be gone from mid-afternoon on ‘til whenever they returned. They had both been invited to Nicholas Longworth’s vineyard and winery for a July Fourth party and they had accepted. Herman asked Francois to convey his best regards to Mister Longworth, and Francois indicated he would The crew returned to harvesting the grapes and Francois and Marty entered the vaults to check the progress of other vintages in various stages of fermentation. They were engaged in this fashion until lunch time, at which time, both men returned to Marty’s and Louisa’s cottage and sat down to a good lunch she had prepared.

By two o’clock P. M., they were ready to depart in Francois’ carriage, in which they had packed two cases of wine of different vintages for the enjoyment of the other guests. The two vintages were a case of Marechal Foch, and a case of one of Francois’ favorite creations named Clarice, after Francois’ late wife. As had previously been agreed upon, Louisa rode by herself inside the carriage, while Marty sat alongside Francois, who occupied the driver’s seat.

Francois’ vineyards and winery were about an hour’s carriage ride from Longworth’s property, which was situated on the down-side of East Sixth Street outside of Cincinnati proper, on the road to Observatory Hill (1:158). The terraced vineyards swept down a gradual slope to the Ohio River, and it and other vineyards that consisted of thousands of acres, stretched up from the banks of the Ohio River, that were covered with luxuriant and profitable vineyards that rivaled in profusion and beauty the vine-clad hills of Italy and France. The oldest vineyard in Hamilton County were Nicholas Longworth’s plantings, which he subsequently increased to two hundred acres.

The route they traveled took them around the main portion of the City of Cincinnati, and the road upon which they traveled was mainly still in the countryside. Ahead of them, and off to their right, they were able to see “Observatory Hill” in the distance and they knew they were getting close to Longworth’s property. They had covered less than a mile, when they saw a street sign that read “Sixth Street,” and was accompanied by a second sign that read, “Longworth’s Vineyard and Winery;” with an arrow that pointed to the right. Francois turned the carriage and traveled only a short distance, when the road forked, the one to the left obviously traveled up “Observatory Hill,” while the one to the right had another sign that read “Longworth’s Vineyards and Winery,” with a large arrow that pointed to the right. They traveled along the Winery Drive, as on their left, they saw a rather large, rounded hill covered with trees. All of a sudden, Marty shook his head. Had he been seeing things? He thought to himself, that he was sure he had seen two sets of legs running on the other side of the hill and he looked more closely. Yes! There they were again, but the bodies were obscured by the trees! Suddenly, he saw a bright flash of light! What could the that be, he asked himself? He thought back a few minutes, then it came to him. He remembered the trip across the prairies, and whenever Jack Lord wanted to see some- thing distant, he used his spyglass which often flashed a bright light on contact with sunlight.

He mused to himself, “Now who would have a spyglass to observe other people’s doings and travels? Wonder if those’re the road agents O’Leery told me about? Might be! Best to keep this to myself for the time being and tackle the problem, if there is one, when we leave Longworth’s tonight!"

Visit next week as we unvail what happens next!

Review of “Seussical"

2007-05-18T10:36:00.000-07:00

"Seussical”: From One Audience Members Perspective

The Cerro Coso theatre department recently ran a three day production of “Seussical, A Dr. Seuss Musical” directed by faculty member Melinda Fogle-Oliver. The musical featured music by Stephen Flaherty, lyrics by Lynn Ahrens, book by Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty. The musical was co-conceived by Lynn Ahrens, Stephen Flaherty and Eric Idle and was based on the works of Dr. Seuss.

I enjoyed the musical immensely, but I would definitely say that my 4 year old son found it to be far more magical. By the end of the performance he was literally dancing in his seat along with the performers as the show closed. To me that says something about the power of a performance if it can hold the attention of a child that young and keep them enchanted throughout - and he was captivated the entire 2 hours of the show!

We were transported to the mythical world of Seuss, through the Jungle of Nool, and the microscopic world of Whoville. It was a whimsical, fantastical, hysterical, and magical venture through the imagination of Seuss where elephants talk and kangaroos sing. Led by the Cat in the Hat, we met some of our favorite Seuss characters including Horton the Elephant, The Grinch, Lazie Mayzie, Gertrude McFuzz, and all the Whos of Whoville. The classical tales were seamlessly woven together in a tapestry of color and energetic music.

The set design was simple, with a tile floor of cream and teal large squares and two large backdrops painted with Seuss-style art scenes. All of the props used fit with the Seuss style of objects and art. I thought that the costumes were done cleverly since several of the actors/actresses played multiple parts. Their face paint was done in a whimsical manner, stylistically reminiscent of Seuss, but in a way that made them able to go from one costume to another and look good in any outfit. I found it amusing that the stage hands had numbers on them, and I believe that was a reference to the numbers on some of the Dr. Seuss characters from his stories.

I thought the entire cast performed wonderfully but a few of the stand outs in my opinion were; Gertrude (Brittany Candra Throckmorton), Horton the Elephant (Savanah Liska), and JoJo (Becki Cornett). These three ladies have wonderful voices but beyond that they really exude the personalities of their characters and are very emotive in their actions and their facial expressions. You connect with them and therefore connect with their characters and find yourself moved by them. An excellent performance by them all.

The primary themes of the musical were to be aware of “How Lucky You Are” and that “a person’s a person, no matter how small.” The first focused on the idea that no matter how difficult things may get it is important to know that they can always get worse. Count your blessings and know that everything will be okay. The production team was successful in doing this because it was very touching at parts of the story and it made me think about how lucky I am. I shouldn't stress out so much about little things and remember to hang on to the friends and family I have. The second focused on the concept that everyone has value, no matter how small they are, what they look like, or what they do. I found this theme very endearing, especially when Horton the Elephant was singing to the little tiny Who’s that they were important, no matter how small they were. I was very impressed with this production.

The production itself, as mentioned earlier, is a musical that is a combination of some of the Dr. Seuss stories. We meet Horton the Elephant who hears a Who and ends up in a tree sitting on Mayzie’s egg, JoJo the Who that gets in trouble for thinking too much but whose thinking saves the day, and Gertrude, the bird with the one feather tail who tries to get Horton’s attention by taking some pills to grow a fancy tail, but then can’t fly because her tail grows so long! We see the Grinch, Yertle the Turtle, a Sour Kangaroo, Cindy Lou Who, and a variety of other characters that made the evening a hoot. I felt the story was a wonderful blend of the original Seuss books, and I enjoyed the songs very much.

I found the production to be whimsical and energetic. I also found it to be moving and the story of Horton and the Who’s in particular very compassionate. The music was lively and made you want to sing along. As evidenced by my 4 year old, it also made you want to get up and dance along with the characters. I was happy to see that in the end Horton found the Who’s and that he wasn’t the only one who heard them anymore; that Gertrude finally got Horton to notice her; that JoJo saved the day and the Who’s realized that thinking wasn’t such a bad thing after all. It was definitely a journey I, and I’m sure my son, will not soon forget!

More Seussical Photos

"Met" Minutes

2007-04-28T21:44:00.000-07:00

Hello again everybody! I've been slacking on the updates, I know, but there really hasn't been much going on to speak of. Last week's meeting didn't happen, so nothing to discuss last week.

That means twice as much for this week, though. First, we're a little behind schedule, so we're making ourselves focus on getting some of the loose ends tied up. This coming Thursday, we are all going to sit down together in the same room and discuss all of the artwork to get a final consensus, and begin milling through the 211 pages of literature submissions.

Gary managed to find a printer that has given us a great price for the journal. Last year, we recieved 500 copies for $3200. This year, it looks like we're going to be able to print 1000 of essentially the same journal for $1800. Our funding is still not quite there, but we're way closer to $1800 than we are to $3200!! I actually have in my possession about $1200, and I believe Angela has another $500, so we should be able to pull this off.

So, it looks like we're going to be able to sell this and print whatever we want. Good to know that hard work actually does pay off once in a while!

Review of Romeo and Juliet at A Noise Within

2007-04-20T15:15:00.000-07:00

The Children of an Idle Brain
A Review of Romeo and Juliet at A Noise Within

234 S. Brand Blvd., Glendale, CA. 91204
Date: 25 March 2007

The theatre A Noise Within may not seem like a grand structure among the neighboring shopping malls, office buildings, and restaurants. However, this old Masonic temple holds more grandeur within its near century old walls than does its contemporary neighbors. It is in this aging temple/teenage theatre that a nearly full house awaits on pins and needles to partake of the story of star-crossed lovers, blood feuds, and death that is Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

Director Michael Murray does an awe-inspiring job conveying the comedy, romance, and tragedy of this Shakespearean classic, with the help of a cast of very talented actors of course. All of the actors in Murray’s production of Romeo and Juliet do a splendid job with their character/characters, but there are two players that—in this reviewer’s opinion—steal the show.

J. Todd Adams’ portrayal of Romeo’s fearless, garrulous friend Mercutio is one of the outstanding performances that stole the show, and audience attention—despite his minute break of character when a bulb blew in one of the overhead spotlights. For instance, Adams’ energy and conviction when delivering Mercutio’s throaty Queen Mab oration is unabashedly mind blowing—proving that we all suffer from “the children of an idle brain” (1.4.97). Also, when Mercutio is slain by Ken Merckx’s fiery Tybalt; Adams’ raging sincerity—“A plague o’ both your houses” (3.1.90)!—brought forth tears to some of the audience members eyes—including mine own. Not to mention, that after Mercutio’s tragic death Adams sprung into action with a fire extinguisher when a couch fire broke out in the alley behind the theatre. A fact none of the audience was privy to until after the show was over.

The other scene thief in Murray’s production is the bawdy Nurse, played brilliantly by accomplished actress Deborah Strang. Strang’s portrayal of Juliet’s robust and bawdy nurse commanded the audience’s attention and at times laughter in every scene that dared to contain her—which is quite often. For instance, the point in act two scene four when Adams’ Mercutio playfully accosts Strang’s Nurse left the whole audience in stitches. Most notably when the Nurse beats Michael Thompson’s Peter with her handbag for letting Mercutio use the Nurse “at his pleasure” (2.4.153)—hilarious!

Murray’s production of Romeo and Juliet—Murray has set scene in 1930’s Italy with Tybalt as a Nazi SS officer—is a robust display of gut wrenching comedy and melancholy tragedy. The fight scenes—choreographed by Ken Merckx—are breathtakingly daring. Most notably the initial fray that begins the play, which finds the small stage filled to the brim with action. The first half is exciting, energetic, and comical; while the tragic second half is rightly slower than the hilarious first half of the play. The continued great performance of Mark Bramhall as Friar Laurence is a definite high point of the play’s second half. Although I wasn’t overly impressed with Steve Coombs’ Romeo—Coombs flubbed a couple lines—or Joy Osmanski’s Juliet, the five hour round trip and fourteen dollar admission fee are well worth the experience of seeing a live production of a Shakespeare classic.

Overall, Murray’s production of Romeo and Juliet is a joy to behold, with the modest stage used to its fullest potential and 1930’s costumes—courtesy of Denitsa Bliznakova—are lavish, especially those worn during the masque. A Noise Within will be featuring Murray’s production of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet from March 24 thru May 25. So, grab a friend, loved one, classmate, stranger, or just lone wolf it and go have an awesome theatre experience at A Noise Within, you will not be disappointed.

Work Cited

Shakespeare, William. Romeo and Juliet. The Complete Works of Shakespeare: Shakespeare’s Tragedies, 5th Edition. Ed. David Bevington. New York, NY: Pearson/Longman, 2007. 1009-1050.

Romeo and Juliet at A Noise Within

2007-04-15T07:13:00.000-07:00

Sunday, March 25, my English 235 Shakespeare class and I took a big white van down south to Glendale to see Romeo and Juliet at A Noise Within. For many of my students, this was a first time experience with live Shakespeare (for some, live drama altogether), and so this was a particularly special event.

A Noise Within is located in an old converted Masonic Temple Building in downtown Glendale and is the only theater company in Southern California working in the repertory tradition. The company produces six plays annually and has won numerous awards including twenty-five (yes, twenty-five!) Los Angeles Drama Critics’ Circle awards. Not surprisingly, their production of Romeo and Juliet, lived up to their pedigree.

Please check back here in the near future for student reviews of the performance.

Little Quiet in Here...

2007-04-08T19:46:00.000-07:00

Just dropping in to let everyone know what's been going on with Met over spring break.

Angela and I have been contacting local businesses, friends, family, everyone for donations. We have had some luck-- weve raised around $800. Although this is nowhere near our main goal of $3500, I don't think it's unreasonable to expect to have the $1500 for the binding and everything.

I was really hoping to be able to raise the full amount; I would absolutely love to see this project become independant, and would also love to be a part of it's becoming independant. It almost seems as though all this work will have been for nothing if we don't get the full amount, if we have to do all of this again next year and still not be able to sell it or publish everyone's work in it. But, we're trying, and that's all we can do.

I have high hopes for the upcoming Art Show. The Art Association has added Cerro Coso to the list of gelleries on the Studio Tour this year, and we're expecting around 300 people to come through. I figure if I can get ten dollars from each person, we're set! But how? I've had fleeting thoughts of raffles and such, and have a few businesses that are willing to donate gift certificates for one, but theres two problems: one; I have to work all weekend and will be unable to be there the whole time, and two; we're too strapped for time to be able to plan and coordinate anything that's more than my own personal project. I have to talk to a few people still and get all the details ironed out, but I think I'm going to try it still. If anyone can help or has any ideas, let me know. (please!) The art show is April 21st and 22nd, and will feature all student work in various mediums. Stop by and see my work! And donate to Met!

"Met" Minutes

2007-03-23T22:56:00.000-07:00

Well, we have now scored all art submssions for the upcoming edition of Metamorphoses and are at the beginnig of the Great Debate-- that is, deciding which pieces will make it into the publication. We have some great work for review. Dani has set up some discussion forums and I think we are all anxious to jump in.

Or main problem still remains: funding. We were given a smaller amount of funding this year than in years past, and from a different source. While we appreciate the funding we have, there are several strict limitations it brings with it.

While we have been accepting submissions from anyone interested, as it stands, we are limited to publishing only those submitted by students and alumni. There are some great student pieces; definitely enough to make a great edition, but we have recieved worldwide attention from some amazing artists and it would be a shame not to be able to publish the stuff we have recieved.
Last year, we were able to publish with a perfect binding and a color cover. With the funding we currently have, however, we will be limited to a staple binding and probably no color. This is such a huge step back from the last edition. The 2006 edition was a beautiful, proffessional, well-recieved publication. We had hopes of making at least one small improvement to each edition, but it looks like we will be taking two steps back instead.

So, the only thing we can think to do at this point is fundraise. We have turned to local businesses, friends, and family, in the hopes that they will see the worthiness of supporting a Kern River Valley Cerro Coso project that has come this far. If we can raise the difference between our current funding and last years, we can at least get the perfect binding and perhaps some color. We have been unable to sell the edition in previous years due to funding stipulations, but if we can raise the entire amount and be a self-supported project, we can not only publish the submissions we have recieved from non-students but also sell the publication, which would feed into next years funding.
So, if you or anyone you know is interested in seeing this project succeed, contact one of the editors at Cerro Coso or email Gary or I at met.editor@yahoo.com

Remember, our goal is $3500, and we may not have time to raise the entire amount, but every dollar helps and if it doesnt go toward the 2007 edition of Metamorphoses, it will go to the 2008 edition.
Thank you all for you support! Hope you have a great week!

Eurydice: The Unmourned Mother

2007-03-16T23:52:00.000-07:00

One of the most compelling characters in the play, Antigone, is unfortunately the least mentioned. Eurydice, the wife of Creon and mother of Haemon, suffers this fate. Upon learning of her sons’ death, Eurydice, despairing and struck with grief, takes her own life. This is the only mention of her throughout the entire play! As a direct result of her insignificant role in the play, the reader is left with no remorse for a mother who deserves no less. It seems to be a transgression against the soul to allow one’s mother to go unmourned, yet this is the effect that the author has created. The reader is left to ponder and expand upon the life of Eurydice in the story of Antigone. One may even inquire as to what impact her death can have on the reader and how this can transform the story if her character is further defined. Step into the world of Antigone to perceive for yourself the true essence of Eurydice and why it is imperative for her character to be extraneous.

One could argue that Sophocles intentionally down-plays Eurydice’s character as a result of the fact that women possess little to no influence in Greece at this time. However, if chauvinism is the rationale, then the play itself would not be named after Antigone either. Taking a second look, the reader can plainly see that Antigone, a woman, is pivotal to this play, thereby ruling out the approach of sexism as a line of reasoning. The truth may lie closer to the reality that a central character already exists, and that Eurydice is a character with the potential to steal the spotlight away from that main character.

If the reader looks carefully, he or she might see that although Antigone is a chief character, that Creon is a main character of this play as well. When taking this into consideration, one can see that Eurydice’s role should in-fact remain small. If Eurydice’s part is magnified, perhaps Creon and Antigone would no longer be the two main characters. If truth be told, some readers begin to get frustrated with Antigone and Creon because of their blatant stubbornness. This frustration may entice a reader to relate better with Eurydice in her position as the loving mother. Consequently, this switch in central character(s) could completely jeopardize the entire story line of the play.

When Eurydice says, “sorrow and I are hardly strangers,” the reader very nearly begins to pity and bond with the character of Eurydice (l. 1312). For a mother to listen to the story of her own son’s demise must have been horrible! One can only sympathize with poor, unknown Eurydice at this time. However, in the very next moment, she is gone, providing no time for the reader to become too attached. This was a bold stroke of the pen by Sophocles who could have just as easily left Eurydice out of the play entirely. Instead, Sophocles chooses to give the reader just a taste of compassion for a woman we can never know. What little we do know about Eurydice resonates in this reader long after the play is done.

So, why did Sophocles choose not to tell us more about Eurydice and why is that so important? He chooses not to tell us more about her because Eurydice needs a story of her own. Eurydice is a character that is not easily described or summed up in just a few sentences; therefore, it would be impossible to get too involved in her character in this play. Her character is one with honor, love and commitment to her family—what more could a reader ask for in a heroine? However, in Antigone, we already have a main character or “heroine” if you will. Eurydice’s story is best left to her own tragic play.

Again I say—it seems to be a transgression against the soul to allow one’s mother to go unmourned—yet in this instance, one must see that it is essential. Just imagine a play solely about Eurydice; about her struggle with Creon through all of this; about the mother in her, aching to help her son. Then see her “loosing the bolts, [and] opening the doors / to appeal to queen Athena” in prayer (ll. 1306-1307). She hears commotion outside and runs to see what has happened. She asks her people to “[t]ell me the news, again… [for] sorrow and I are hardly strangers” (ll. 1311-1312). Then, just as one falls in love with her character, she takes her life. Would any reader not feel overwhelming compassion for her now? Now, of course, I must ask: would this not steal the main character positions away from Creon and Antigone? Of course it would and that is why it is absolutely necessary for Eurydice’s part to remain insignificant.

Works Cited

Sophocles. Antigone. Trans. Robert Fagles. Schilb and Clifford. 733-771.
Schilb, John and John Clifford, eds. Making Arguments about Literature: A Compact Guide and Anthology. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2005.

"Met" Minutes

2007-03-01T20:02:00.000-08:00

Good evening!!

I haven't had time to post this week, but we have some very important updates.

We have reached that time of year when we will begin reviewing submissions for the 2007 edition of Metamorphoses. As of midnight last night (February 28, 2007) We are no longer accepting submissions for this particular issue, and hopefully this coming Tuesday we will have them edited to a workable format to begin reviewing.

As with all growing and developing projects, we generally hope to make at least one improvement to this publication every issue. Unfortunately, due to some funding conflicts, it looks like not only are we not going to be able to improve, but me may very possibly have to take a step back. We are, as a group, very dissapointed, but are not discouraged. It looks like we are, in fact, funded, so that's one issue down. We hope to have these conflicts settled in time to make some improvements to the next issue. We may have to print in house this year, which means the binding will be of a lesser quality than was last year's, and we are also being limited to student, faculty, and alumn submissions.

However, so far this year, we have had a lot of online activity and support and are considering online publication of the some of the great art and literary work that we have recieved from all over the world. Hopefully we will have some more good news to share once we begin reviewing the work.

I have gotten the Myspace page up and running. I am still making changes to the general page setup and everything but you can go check it out. I posted one of my submissions as the photo, just to have something there, but if anyone has any pictures thay would like to have displayed on the page, email them to me or talk to me.

Thanks for reading and have a great week!

More Whiskey Flat Days Fun

2007-02-23T10:28:00.000-08:00

Yes, Whiskey Flat Days is a fun-filled weekend. However, there is tons of history behind this annual event. Kernville, California was first established during the Gold Rush days, but was known as the town of Whiskey Flat. Many miners were travelling through this region and a man by the name of Adam Hamilton saw this as a great business prospect. Hamilton set up a tent next to the Kern River and began selling whiskey to the prospecters that came through the valley. Next thing you know, Whiskey Flat was a town.

Some years later, a dam was built on the Kern River that created our own Lake Isabella. When this happened, the town of Whiskey Flat had to be relocated to a higher spot on the mountain. This is when the town became Kernville, as we know it today. As the Gold Rush dwindled down, people began to really settle into the town of Kernville. However, they were faced with a challenge: not many people wanted to travel all the way up here in the mountains. So, they decided to devise a plan that would bring tourists, and therefore more money into the town. Without tourism, the people knew that Kernville would not last.

The people agreed to have some kind of a celebration to attract people. According to The Kern Valley Sun, "Lloree Knowles, a local real estate broker, was the first to recommend that the community use a frontier-type celebration to try to bring more people into the Valley during the slack winter period." Then, Ardis Walker, a local historian and author, suggested the name "Whiskey Flat Days" because he thought that it would be a great way to showcase the town's historic past. The first Whiskey Flat Days kicked off in 1958 and has been growing ever since.

There you have it! The history of Whiskey Flat Days in Kernville, California.

As Candace said, there is so much to see here...and some GREAT artwork too.

But for me, the best part is that it offers fun for the whole family.

Whiskey Flat Days

2007-02-18T16:08:00.000-08:00

Hello again everyone! I hope everyone in the Kern River valley managed to make it up to Whiskey Flats and enjoy the festivities. I managed to make it for a few hours but didn't have much time to spend there. For those of you who are not from the area and are not familiar with the celebration, it is an annual event held in Kernvills to celebrate the history of the town. Vendors come from al over the United States to sell their goods; everything from home-made kettle corn to clothes and art. There are also events such as a shoot-out held in the park (following the western heritage of the town) and a carnival for the kids. I got a chance to speak to one of the vendors, Paul Harding, who comes to Kernville each year from San Jose, where he and his wife sell various goods, many hand-made. They have a great website; its definitely worth checking out. All of the pictures I have here are from their booth.
It seems like there are a dwindling number of good artists and good art each year. Maybe it's just me, or maybe I'm going on the wrong days, but I think the new restrictions put on sellable goods by the Chamber of Commerce has something to do with it. A few years ago, there were two different booths that sold original paintings that were remarkable, and all I saw this year were prints. Maybe I just missed them. I do miss some of the good stuff because I always have to work all weekend. Hopefully some year I'll make it to the carnival, or catch some of the live music at Riverside Park.

"Met" Minutes

2007-02-16T22:20:00.000-08:00

Hello, everyone! Just a little update on the progress of our Metamorphoses project. We had another (slightly condensed!) meeting yesterday, and we have some issues we need to work out fairly last minute for this project. Were having a little issue with funding, and Gary is going to have to scramble This weekend to put together the necessary paperwork to show that Met is a vocational project. Hopefully Dani's ideas will help him! We're all thinking of Gary this weekend.

We also are having a problem figuring out what to do with the printing. We are being encouraged to print in-house, which would be a little bit of a step down for the project. One of the goals of Met is to improve a little bit each year; one idea for this issue is to print the art pieces in color if funding allows. So we also have to convince someone that it is necessary to print out of house.
We did have some good news, on top of all the little details that need to be ironed out: The submissions are rolling in and some of our favorite contributors are signing up. Thanks for your involvement, guys!

Whiskey Flats weekend has arrived. I will be heading up there tomorrow and hoping it is a good year for the arts and crafts vendors. I'll take my camera just in case, and if I find anything interesting I'll definitely let you all know.
Have fun this weekend and drive safe!

A few words from Aeron Hicks

2007-02-08T20:30:00.000-08:00

The following is a letter that the Metamorphoses editors received from a Cerro Coso alumnus and poetry contributor to the premier 1989 issue. Since the writing of this letter, Aeron has agreed to serve as an alumnus editor of the upcoming 2007 issue of Metamorphoses.

February 01, 2007

Good morning!

I was viewing recent editions of Metamorphoses on the Cerro Coso website this morning, and noted my poem, "Metamorphosis" [1989 premier issue], among the assorted poems, stories, photos, and other works of art. What a joy it is for me to see; First, that Metamorphoses has continued; And, second, that my poem still inspires.

I remember the day my friend, Julia, and I approached Carol Hewer, our then English professor, about the idea of a literary magazine. How I hoped that our first effort would serve as a vehicle for students and others to express their voices – then and now.

The "Metamorphosis" poem, coupled with the drawing that served as cover art that year, hangs in my office and in my home as a testament to life and as an inspiration. Writing the poem was a turning point in my life; it was and is the hallmark of two years of deep reflection and growth – much of which took place in the classrooms and halls of Cerro Coso Community College. Challenged and lit afire, I rose from the testing of my wings… ready to fly.

I think of Carol Hewer, Dr. Maddox, Dr. Rosenberg, Leo Girardot, Dr. Leo, Morris Scharff, and many other professors and instructors who helped me build a strong foundation for future academics… and for life. I will always love Cerro Coso and remember that squared-off drive into campus…and the roadrunners and bunny-rabbits who attended me as I arrived every morning, ready for a new day, full of questions and the energy of seeking. I remember Santiago Vaca and the red walls (at least for one semester!) of the art gallery upstairs, the Library and the classroom across the hall where I "taught" my tutoring group in psychology… I even remember the cafeteria and that expansive view out the back bank of doors and windows, and the outdoor area outside the classroom where I first conquered math (bless you, Sally!). My memories enrich and fill me with renewing hope.

I send my best to you and to the students who bring their dreams to their experience at Cerro Coso.

With appreciation,

Aeron Hicks
Crossfield Consulting
crossfieldenterprises.com

"Met" Minutes

2007-02-03T20:27:00.000-08:00

We have some new additions to our list of Metamorphoses officers. Our official list is comprised of: Aeron Hicks (alum), Angela Looper, Candace Hawkins, Dani Draig, Josh Simpkins, Kevin Howe (alum), Pati Ruotsala, Serenity Flash, and Gary Enns. Welcome to everyone!
If you have anything to contribute to the blog effort, please feel free to contact me. I have already recieved one great letter from one of our alumn officers, Aeron, that will be viewable here shortly.
I would like to see some discussion on here, so if any of you would like to talk about anything literary, please do! I know a few of you are taking Shakespeare this semester, and I would love to hear how you like it so far! I was unable to take the class, but I do love Shakespeare and I hope Gary will continue to offer this course so that I might be able to take it in the future. Of the works Ive had the pleasure to read, I still enjoyed "A Midsummer Nights Dream" the most.
We are reading Frankenstein in my class right now and I am enjoying it! Im trying not to run too far ahead but Gary has only assigned us 20 pages per week so far and Im anxious to just read it!
Gary has informed me that all of the Met editors have been invited to participate in this blog, so theres no excuse not to!

"Met" Minutes

2007-02-01T13:43:00.000-08:00

Hi, my name is Candace. I am one of the editors of the new Metamorphoses club and will be checking in periodically to post updates on the success of our local literary journal.
We had our first meeting today. Our current members include Gary Enns, of course, myself, Angela, Pati, Serenity, Josh, and Dani. Our goals are beginning to develop for the success of Met 2007, and we hope to encourage the involvement of more of the members in our community, as well as everywhere else. We hope to receive more attention from the art community, as Met has not received many art submissions in the past. We hope to receive submissions from the students at Cerro Coso, as well as any and everyone else interested. We are working on developing ideas for advertising to help us reach out to possible contributors, and welcome feedback if anyone has any ideas or would like to be involved in any way.
Once again, I will be updating periodically, and encourage responses from everyone on the blog. Hopefully our other editors will be signed on soon and can also contribute. Thanks to Gary for involving me in Metamorphoses, and I will see you all again soon!

Men of Worth

2006-11-21T08:02:00.000-08:00

This past Friday I had the pleasure of attending a concert featuring the Celtic duo Men of Worth. I’ve seen this duo many times over the past 9 years that they have been coming to Cerro Coso College. Each Fall Men of Worth has entertained concert goers with their humor, casual and friendly attitude, and of course their wonderful folk music.

This concert is a treasure to all who attend. The back and forth friendly banter always draws a laugh, and James and Donnie know how to draw the audience in. Their ability to adapt on the fly, to bring attention in a light-hearted way to someone coming in late or clapping off beat, always amuses the audience. The concert is very informal and the audience is often regaled with stories of their travels to the location, or rather mishaps along the way. The musicians also share stories about the music, helping the audience to understand the meaning behind the words or the relevant history to help enlighten the listener to the significance of the songs. Songs are performed in both English and Gaelic and include exciting tunes and heartfelt ballads.

Something that really sets these musicians apart is that they welcome the audience to come down during the mid-concert break and talk with them and look at their instruments, which include a mandolin, accordion, bodhrans, guitar, concertina, banjo and mandola. Because of the intimate atmosphere at their concert you really feel like you’re enjoying an evening with a couple of old friends. James and Donnie have often said that their visit to Cerro Coso is one of their favorite stops on their fall concert tour, and for this concert goer, it is one of my favorite Fall events to attend.

Men of Worth was formed in 1986 by James Keigher from Ireland and Donnie Macdonald from Scotland. They currently reside in Southern Oregon and Northern California, the duo travel frequently, bringing the Gaelic culture to audiences throughout the western states. Learn more about Men of Worth by visiting their website, and look forward to their 2007 concert to be held next November.

Creative Expressions Art Show Review

2006-11-07T07:58:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I attended the Creative Expressions Art Show. What a plethora of talent! There was a variety of paintings, some graphite and colored pencil work, ceramics, gourd art, rock art, candles, decorated artificial trees, pottery, and cut paper Chinese pictures. The Chinese cut paper work was amazing, the delicacy of the paper, and the intricacy of the designs just blew me away; I even had to ask if they were all done by hand. Nna Chapman, the artist, showed me that all of work was done with just an ordinary cutting razor, just like the kind you’d find in any craft section, the ones with breakaway blades. That blew me away even more, I was sure that she must use some special tool to create her art.

I spoke with one of the jewelry artists whose abalone necklaces caught my eye (and whose fake ice crystal decorations enthralled my 3-year old). I asked where she got her materials and she said that she frequents bead stores while on travel and collects a multitude of beads and materials and then later designs the jewelry. She said that sometimes she’ll have a single art bead for years before she finds the coordinating beads that will complete the design. I was very impressed with her work, and especially the variety of her designs. I’ll definitely be back at her table again at Santa’s Art Shop, the next major local arts and crafts festival.

I was also able to meet Lois Hinman, a fabulous local artist whose ceramics work and paintings are very high quality, and Kathi Moe, who both organized the art show. Hinman has been involved with pottery for 30 years, and painting for the past 12. Moe has is a long-time Creative Expressions member, whose tole painting and wearable art has been seen, collected, and worn in Ridgecrest for many years.

The artist I was most interested to check out was Paula Caudill (Dragonfly Pottery), a friend and colleague, whose work I’ve admired for some time. Paula is a painter and ceramic artist who got her start in ceramics at Cerro Coso College where she first took ceramic classes, and received her A.A. in Art. Paula has been a resident of Ridgecrest for many years, leaving for a brief time to pursue her Bachelor’s degree in Art at Humboldt State University. Paula’s sculpture and paintings are very expressive and her pottery demonstrates a solid skill in both form and function. Paula is ever one to explore new things, and I was intrigued by her creations using polymer clay over glass – kaleidoscope of color with flowing patterns that look like an explosion of color. Her polymer work included plates, bowls, cups, flower vases, and candle vases, which when illuminated had the most wonderful translucent stone appearance.

We also talked about a new glaze she was using that had a deep teal color that was very appealing. I inquired about some of the different glazes as some appeared to be over porcelain and were very smooth, while others were darker and rough. I was surprised to learn that there were several pieces that used the same glaze, but were used over different clay bodies, one being white stoneware clay, the other being rich dark ‘electric brown’ clay. It was amazing the difference that the clay itself made to the results of the glaze. Having worked with only a few glazes and single type of clay in my own experience, it was a pleasure to learn more about how the clay body affects the glazing process.

Paula invited me, and any other interested persons, to come to an upcoming show the “Potted Barn” on December 9th from 9 to 4 at one of the participating artists studios located at 2168 S. Gateway, Ridgecrest, where more of her work will be displayed and sold. The Potted Barn started as a group of potters but it has expanded to include jewelry, metal work, and a variety of artistic creations. Hopefully I’ll have a chance to check out the Potted Barn and will share my discoveries after the visit. Check back for more information about upcoming art shows and artists in the Indian Wells and Kern River Valley area.

Paula's Pottery, Polymer Clay work, and Jewelry

Paula Caudill, Dragonfly Pottery

Creative Expressions Art Show

2006-11-01T09:25:00.000-08:00

This weekend the Creative Expressions art show comes to Ridgecrest. Creative Expressions is a community of local artists that was formed nearly twenty years ago by artists Kathi Moe, Lois Hinman, Donnie Woods, and other locals. The Creative Expressions show, offered twice a year, features the work of member and guest artists from the local community. Participating artists have an opportunity not only to share, but also to sell their work. The range of art is wide, from pottery to paintings to jewelry, crafts, rock art, and more. For anyone interested in art and the crafts of local artisans, this is a wonderful opportunity to partake of the talent in the Indian Wells Valley.

The Creative Expressions is showing from 9am to 5pm Friday and Saturday, November 3rd and 4th at the Kerr McGee Center in Ridgecrest, California. Admission is free.

Look for a follow-up article featuring my visit to the Creative Expressions art show, and my review of the work of local artist Paula Caudill.

Blog Seeks Student, Alumni, and Faculty Writers

2006-10-31T16:05:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the new Metamorphoses Blog: Thoughts and News about Literature and Art.

Metamorphoses is currently seeking students, alumni, faculty, and staff of Cerro Coso Community College who are interested in becoming contributing writers for this great new online project.

Topics may include, among others, local and national news in the art and publishing worlds, cinema, social commentary, literary criticism.

If this project sounds intriguing to you, email the coordinator for more information.