StoryLine Issue No. 6 Fall 2024

Coastline College's online "arts and letters" magazine

StoryLine Fall 2024 Issue 6

StoryLine

Attention Dolphins BREAKING NEWS SPECIAL EDITION ISSUE 7 IS COMING! SUBMIT YOUR WORK & GET PUBLISHED

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

StoryLine is published once a year, in the fall semester Submissions are accepted only during our reading period of February 1- July 1 each year, with decisions made in the late summer. Submissions must be formatted as follows: Art : This genre includes drawings, paintings, and graphic designs. Scan desired images and send them in high-resolution, .jpg format. Photography : Send up to 5 images in high-resolution, .jpg format. Poetry : Send up to 5 poems in one or multiple Word documents (.docx or .doc) Essays and Short Stories: 2,500 words maximum as a Word document (.docx or .doc) Original Short Videos/ Digital Stories on any interesting topic : Send a link to a YouTube video under five minutes long (must be correctly captioned).

Please fill out our submission form between February 1- July 1 for consideration in that year's issue.

Our Staff

Managing Student Editor Michaela Davis

Cover Design / Guest Designer Tecna Mostafa

Issue 6 Guest Editors Michaela Davis, Tecna Mostafa, Audrey Nguyenhuu

Faculty Advisor Prof. Oceana Callum

Submissions Support Prof. Kristen Nichols

This issue of StoryL ine is made possible through the support of Coastline's Associated Student Government (ASG) and Coastline's English Department , with special thanks to Dana Emerson, who supported this project from its inception. Views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in the magazine belong solely to the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Coastline College or any of its employees. Special thanks to Michaela Davis for her work on our accessible PDF version of the magazine.

Meet Our Editors

Michaela Davis (managing editor/ fiction / non-fiction edi tor ) A literary enthusiast from childhood, Michaela Davis is an aspiring storyteller with a strong passion for various forms of the craft. Captivated by raw and authentic narratives, she strives to cultivate authenticity in her own work, while uplifting fellow storytellers.

Tecna Mostafa (graphic design / art / poetry / fiction edi tor ) Founder and President of Golden West College’s Arts & Letters Club, as well as a tutor at the Academic Success Center, Tecna Mostafa’s passions are building thriving communities and delving into the fields of Psychology and English.

Audrey Nguyenhuu (poetry / fiction / non-fiction editor)

As a high school senior, Audrey Nguyenhuu possesses a profound passion for English and learning. She is dedicated to exploring the transformative power of language, literature, and storytelling, continually seeking to understand their impact on the wor ld.

“Pink Ribbon Blindfold” by Kyla Mello — Non-Fiction Table of Contents ON COVER #2: “Abundance” by Chlöe Alonzo — Ar t 10 13 13 16 17 20 2 “Season’s Harvest” by Jessica King — Photography “The Beauty of Life” by Kevin Tran — Photography “The Road Not Taken” by Holly Chaney — Poetry Reading Video “Stolen” by Chlöe Alonzo — Non-fiction “Silver Lining” by Jessica King — Photography

“False Door Fly” by Michaela Davis — Poet ry

“Still Flutter” by Jessica King — Photography

“The Phoenix” by Thomas Napela — Poet ry

“Seeds of Rotten Fruit” by Jessica King — Poet ry

“A Night to be Forgotten” by Jerian Operana — Poet ry

“Dawn Flight 2” by Cathy Breslaw — Ar t

“The Creative Breakthrough” by Anastasia Earles — Poet ry

“White on White” by Devon Sanchez-Forem — Poet ry

“A Town with a Knack for Appearances” by Laurel Bolton — F ict ion

“Excavations 4” by Cathy Breslaw — Ar t

“Alternative Sona” by Esmiralda Nguyen — Ar t

“Spa Day” by Stephanie Delucas — F ict ion

“Invisible Crisis” by Desiree Aguilar — Non-fiction

“On Night Drives” by J.M. — Non-fiction

“Dream of Dreams” by David Gusta — F ict ion

“Promoting a Book in the 1990s” by Teresa Conboy — F ict ion

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NON- FICTION

One Friday evening, you, a recently-turned-17-year-old, find yourself wanting to go out to meet a couple of friends to celebrate the completion of the week. Your twin brother has the same plans, except he will attend a party. Alas, when you work up the courage to ask your parents, you find they immediately shut you down, saying that it is much too late to go out. When you question why your brother is free to go, your parents refute your argument with the statement, “It is unsafe for young girls to go out past dark.” It sends you spiraling back to your room, where you turn on your music to hear a singer, a girl, in almost the exact same situation as you are in. You realize at that moment that you are not alone, and many girls have experienced the exact same treatment simply for being born a female. Through its use of verbal irony and vivid imagery, the rock song “Just a Girl” by No Doubt perfectly demonstrates how great is the power imbalance of the sexes, which has been degrading women for centuries.

“Just a Girl,” masterfully crafted in the 1990s , i s ent i rely characterized by its sarcasm, which demonstrates how women are looked to be thoughtless and weak. The basis of the song is a young woman borderline screaming about how she is a girl meant to be "pretty” and “petite” and mentions that she shouldn't have any rights. This is a bold statement that could be considered offensive to many, depending on who proclaims this. Gwen Stefani, the writer of this song, said this to show how ridiculous the standards of women are – to show how women are almost made to be akin to porcelain dolls, fragile and pretty but meant to have little thoughts behind their brains, which is nothing l ike thei r male counterparts. She continues to say that there are many different things that make her “run” and “hide,” so she cannot do the things she loves because she is so afraid of them. This represents the damsel in distress motif that has been portrayed throughout the media for decades – how women are in need of rescue from a man from the “big,bad world.”This lyric exemplifies this with its dramatics, showing women are scared of the smallest things, even the things they love they are afraid of. The hyperbole creates a sense of irony that conveys once again how ridiculous it sounds when people act like women are helpless creatures. Finally, Gwen Stefani ends the song by saying how lucky she is to be a girl and how there is no comparison.

After going through examples of how being a girl means having these stereotypes pushed onto them, this line basically summarizes that it actually is not lucky to be a girl, which is what the whole song is about if you pay attention closely enough. Furthermore, No Doubt provides the listeners with a multitude of detailed mental pictures to demonstrate how women are often looked at as blind and controllable. The song opens with Stefani describing someone taking a pink ribbon off of her eyes, which metaphorically exposes her to the real world, and then follows with how she is being forced to hold someone's (most likely a man's) hand. The pink blindfold symbolizes how girls are often being shielded from the harshness of the world, where many think that they are blinded to real-world atrocities. Stefani then continues to state that she knows exactly what position she is put in for simply being born a female. Women know and understand their and the world's situation, even with the pink ribbon tied across their faces .

But even so, many girls are thought to be helpless once again and need a man to help them. “Forced to hold your hand” is a key detail because she is implying that she, and girls in general, don't need help most of the time, but it is often assumed that they need to be coddled because they “don't understand.”

Continuously, No Doubt depicts girls as some sort of species to be gawked at. She then proceeds to mention that she must be some kind of freak because men often sit and stare at her. It shows that many women feel uncomfortable under the weight of the male gaze but often blame it on themselves. She is the one to call herself a freak, even when she wasn't the one doing the staring. Many women do this too when they feel uncomfortable – they deem that they, themselves, are the problem, even if they are simply existing. The domineering power of men has often made it feel like the women are in the wrong for what they are wearing or how they are acting when, in reality, it is men who have the staring problem and should be the ones dehumanized for doing something so disrespectful. In addition, Stefani continues to play upon how women are treated less than men by mentioning that a girl is what she is only allowed to be, followed by how she seems to be living in some sort of captivity. It is like she, the representative for girls around the world in this case is put in a box where she is only allowed to do what society tells her to do. Women are firstly supposed to act like a girl, sweet and coddled above all, and that is their “true” identity is to be looked at by men.

Only recently have women been able to break out of this rigid room of societal standards, but the cell is still there; women like Gwen Stefani have just gotten stronger and acted out of the stereotypical “girl” prototype. The unequal treatment of the sexes has been happening since the beginning of mankind, and Gwen Stefani was just one of the people to take a stand against it with this ridiculously ironic song and vivid pictures. Women are not porcelain dolls, and they shouldn't have to grow up thinking they are. Nor should they feel guilt for getting gawked at or confined to a certain standard, and of course, dr iving af ter dark should be allowed to take place safely, no matter the gender. Around the world, young girls who have grown up to be women are sick and tired of the constant societal standard forced upon them, and Gwen Stefani says it perfectly throughout this song: “I've had it up to here.”

“Season’s Harvest”

By Jessica King

“The Beauty of Life”

By Kevin Tran

“The Beauty of Life”

By Kevin Tran

“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost

Poetry Reading by Holly Chaney Video by Holly Chaney

Non- Fiction

I live in a very conservative town where anything not red, white, or backing the blue might as well be pissing on the flag. It might sound dramatic, but it was true for at least a few years that any off-color behavior could justifiably be punished by children in red hats. This was the climate in which I realized that not only was same-sex attraction real, but that I was not immune. Again, I cannot stress enough how romance was not a factor here. I was simply obsessed with someone I had no intention of ever interacting with.

I don’t like to call myself obsessive. It paints an overly clinical picture most of the time, someone with something diagnosable. I also feel it kind of perpetuates a less than tasteful stereotype about teen girls. One that I embodied for a year with great shame. At the time I was coming down off the adolescent high of being a naturally gifted student and was finally coming to terms with the fact that I was not perpetually going to be the smartest in the room. It was a maelstrom of emotions that no coming-of-age movie has ever left unmentioned. I have never had a crush. Even to this day, I’ve never felt gushy, cute, squeal-worthy feelings for someone, but I did feel an intense amount of fondness for people in a way that made me think perhaps I could morph it into something romantic. This was not one of those times, but I think this might be worse.

I didn’t want to speak with her. I never wanted to hold hands with her, I never wanted to look her in the eye. I did not want her to see me, I just wanted to see her. As much as I could. I felt like I had an iron safe for a heart when I saw her. It was so strange. I had no real fondness or warmth for her, but was so deeply infatuated with her poise and beauty. I’m mortified to recall the details now. We all sat in comfortable silence beneath the fluorescent lights, the constant buzz of electricity filled the air with artificial calm. Our teacher was a veteran of the district and was able to have an especially comfortable classroom. The wooden tables we had were meant for elementary students and afforded me the perfect vantage point to look at her. I don’t know if she ever said anything to me. I know I never said anything to her. I was too ashamed. I had a secret sketchbook filled with nothing but her face. I drew her with an unnaturally long neck and curly hair. I don’t know why I changed those things, but I did. It was an aesthetic adventure taken in silence and right under her nose.

She was an honors student. I was an honors student. She was so smart even if she didn’t act like she thought so. She was much taller than any girl in our grade, and she looked much older. At the time I was still wearing clothes from the children’s department. She had a very chiseled face, not a lick of baby fat, and the highest cheekbones I’ve seen outside of a magazine. Her hair touched her shoulder blades, was pin straight and dirty blonde, obviously a bit sun- bleached. She was wispy and thin but still moved like she was strong enough to toss an ox. I was fixed.

I don’t like to speak of muses. The modern muse is someone primed for abuse and exploitation, but something about watching her live and breathe made me feel like a hunched old genius.

I still have the book; I’ve filled many books since then. I’ve been paying for gas and lunches with the new faces I’ve made. I openly share nearly everything I’ve done, everything but that book. I hope that if anyone ever finds it they’ll just think I was bad at drawing different faces.

“Silver Lining”

By Jessica King

By Michaela Davis False Door Fly

Is he disoriented? Is he trying to pick at my already frayed nerves? Does he have a death wish? His buzz is never steady as he zooms past my ear, too fast for my flailing hand to swat, but so erratic that my finger and his body graze each other. The buzzing varies in a frantic rhythm, faltering each time his body beats against the water-spotted mirror. The mirrored reflections of the medicine cabinets are two more false doors he slams his body into. He skates too high and too close to the bright white heated bulbs, hoping to find an exit in the sunlight of a windowless room. My towel soars through the air in a fit of irritation, hoping for a connection. He veers out of the way as the fabric hits the mirror instead, and circles back around the small space right after escaping death, just to start again.

I feel a stab of sympathy, he will drive himself insane or end his life in the midst of trying to find freedom. And after all, I’ve beat against false doors too. They’ve left me with bruises and a crazed drive to run back around and do it over,

hoping for dents in the wood, or splintered hinges every time. How many times have I wrecked myself looking for a way out? How many times have I seen the pitiful results And tried the same way, hoping for a different outcome? And how many times has my own incessant buzzing been spared by a grace I refuse to show now?

“Still Flutter”

By Jessica King

The Phoenix

By Thomas Napela

It burns so bright, that painful sight, My people run away in fright, One-hundred-fifty years I sat in solitude alone, All twisted up and tangled with my body overgrown, And now the people run, while I watch my home ignite. My legs are rooted to the ground to keep myself upright, But I see the light grow closer, and my fate feels so unknown, The inferno creeps towards my legs, I cannot even fight, And it burns so bright. I stood there charred and burned that night, My people cried at such a sight. They took me in, called me their own, And from the ash a sprout had grown. And it burns so bright.

By Jessica King Seeds of Rotten Fruit

You smiled as beer dripped into the soil of my sweaty skin, liquid gold in the spring.

I laughed in the sunlight and you drew me into the night-shade, waiting, yearning, burning for my flesh. Clouds shrouded my mind until rain permeated my garden, sealing your fertilizer in the Garden of Eden. But you will not be the Lord over the vast land of my being; I will not bear the fruits of your labor. In the dead of night, I’ll flee the falsehood of your piety and dig a grave for the unborn.

– Inspired by Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants”

By Jerian Operana A Night to be Forgotten

I knew this vessel would give me a scare. Clueless with what is going on as I am still half asleep. Quickly sirens began to blare. I was slamming open doors looking for my parents asking, “Where?”. People are screaming and running and I still have no clue what is going on. I knew this vessel would give me a scare. Guards yelling at me and I am still not aware. I then found out that the vessel had struck an iceberg. Quickly sirens began to blare. I sprinted towards the end of the boat but went nowhere. I was terrified and scared and I was also in shock with the whole situation. I knew this vessel would give me a scare. One of the guards was in a prayer. I was waiting for a lifeboat and they were quickly diminishing. Quickly sirens began to blare. It was then my turn to get on a lifeboat and it felt like a breath of fresh air. I began to realize that this was the last lifeboat and many people were still left. I knew this vessel would give me a scare. Quickly sirens began to blare.

“Dawn Flight 2”

By Cathy Breslaw

By Anastasia Earles The Creative Breakthrough

Blank face with unopened pages, her mind is numb, silently looming. Yet she is also stifled with loud anxiety. The pressure weighed down on her, like the whole world was waiting for her to break through the fourth wall. She stares at her empty desk nearly paralyzed,

as something deep within was aching and yearning to be acknowledged.

Before touching the cover, she slips open her pill case and pops another onto her tongue. She sighs with relief, hoping it will alleviate her worries when diving into her psyche. She closes her eyes slowly then inhales deeply. A metaphysical force within evokes a spark, motivating her to do what she had once feared.

By Anastasia Earles The Creative Breakthrough

She envisions herself outside the box of thoughts, so she may gaze into her imagination without limitations. She levitates a pen above her head, scribbling words and drawing images. With focus and precision, she creates a vision. It’s the cover of her book, manifested. The book reads her name; this was her story to read, write, and revise. The book is her mind. Higher and higher, she feels inspired by the power. She contemplates life then meditates in silence. A realization evokes the emotions she’s craved the most.

She feels like herself again. It’s not the drugs that make her...her.

It’s deep inside, the beauty in the essence of her being. Her flair, passion, creativity, intelligence, everything. That’s who she truly is. And so she writes.

Who are we when we aren’t high?

By Devon Sanchez - Foreman White on White

Where have you gone to, little one? Your eyes fill white with haze Like curtains hiding who you are What remains is not the same. Do you still speak while deep in dreams? Your silence is much too loud A voice has gone, been locked away What remains is not the same. Do you reside behind eyes of white? I search without resolve That presence felt feels far away What remains is Not the same. Winter frost sheds way to life Clouds break, let loose the sun Blank paper lives by child’s brush (Eyes shroud in white unchanged)

By Devon Sanchez - Forem White on White

Why can’t I see you anymore? You’re here and yet, you’re not Glowing brown eyes now blankly stare

Engulfed Enveloped Devoured

The walls depress your button-nose They’re invisible to you now You’re white on white, one in the same

You match Blend in You fade

The glow you had still burns inside I feel it while I hold you Your fear subsides, you rest your head

Sleep tight My boy I’ve got you

Once there was a town that had a knack for appearances, and it was called Arc-de-Ciel. Displayed in a circle, there were 12 districts, each with its own color theme, based on Claude Boutet’s wheel, the first color gradient based on a prism’s hues. Every house was a masterpiece, each roof was evenly slanted, every brick perfectly in place with not too much nor too little mortar in between each rectangle.

There was the Lemon Grove, each house was in varying shades of a warm golden yellow with white shutters, hanging lights and lemon trees dotting the worn-in-but- not-dirty sidewalk. Three streets over from Lemon Grove was the Sailor’s Grotto, a blue, clandestine villa with a pervasive scent of saltwater in the air, usually credited to Old Man Willy and his ancient sailboat, though his niece said he had not used it in decades.

Fiction Short Story

Surprisingly, none of the districts ever argued with each other over the necessity of a block’s color. Now, this does not mean that the Violet Villa has not said one or two passive aggressive comments about the Indigo Gathering behind their backs, but if only skimming the surface - which most everyone did in Arc-de-Ciel - everyone got along swimmingly. One fall afternoon, Mrs. and Mrs. Baluyot got married in matching white suits and complimentary pocket squares, Elisa’s dark pink and Maja’s a light green. Despite the gray, cloudy sky, the people of Arc-de-Ciel celebrated triumphantly. So raucously, in fact, that no one noticed a newcomer in the mix until an Orange Row inhabitant stood up for her speech, and met the gray sunglasses of a total stranger. No one had come to the town for quite a long time. Still, the guests continued on as usual, not wanting to raise an alarm at such a sweet gathering. The stranger picked up champagne flutes to check for smudges, and once they were to his satisfaction, put them back in a different place than before. He did the same with the chairs, even pulled pieces of grass from the ground, smelled them and tested the strength of each blade. What was most unusual about the stranger, perhaps, was the way he dressed. Head to toe in a warm gray, the outsider wore an ensemble fit for a private investigator, fedora included. Even still, he danced with brutal efficiency, memorized steps fell out of his limbs like water from a spout. Late into the evening, as people began going to their respective houses on their designated lanes, a few offered the stranger a

place to stay, as they were good folk, even to unusual people such as him. The newcomer obliged. Ultimately, the stranger stayed for 2 weeks. The town folks got used to the weirdo’s presence, and invited him to lunches and dinners, as he had an intriguing manner about the way he ate and spoke that delighted the town. One night, after the town had gone to bed, Old Man Willy made the three street trek to where the stranger was staying and tapped hard on his window. After a brief bout of sharp (on Old Man Willy’s part) and confused (on the stranger’s part) hand gestures between the two, the stranger let him in. “Is everything alright?” The stranger asked, as he folded both legs into a perfect pretzel on the lavender bed sheets. “Yes, yes of course everyt’ing’s fine,” Old Man Willy whispered. “I just needed t’ talk wit’ ye.” “Okay?” the stranger whispered back. Old Man Willy got settled in the huge armchair in the corner of the purpley gray room, took off his cap, and sighed heavily before speaking. “Have ye been enjoyin’ yer time in Arc-de-Ciel?” his rough voice heaved out. “Yes, of course I have,” the stranger replied, “No one could hate a town like this.” Old Man Willy nodded his head, though soon it went from an agreeing nod to just a head bob, back and forth, shaggy white beard flowing with him. “Right,” he seemed to be speaking to himself, “of course.” “Was that all you had to ask me?” the stranger asked. “Yep, that’s all. Sorry t’ bother ye son,” Old Man Willy made for the window once more, and the stranger reached for his wrist. “Are you sure you are alright?” The stranger could wrap his entire forefinger

and thumb around Old Man Willy’s old, boney wrist. People in town had bets on how old he really was, though never out in the open, only with trusted companions lest anyone see how rude they were being, but no one ever won. Even Old Man Willy’s niece didn’t know his age. Old Man Willy, who knew of the bets through the grapevine but never said a word about them, sighed before speaking. The stranger felt it with how close the two were, “That’s always what it’s like ‘ere: perfect,” Old Man Willy spat the last word as if it were poison. “You make it sound like that is not good.” the stranger spoke. Old Man Willy sighed again, and didn’t speak for a long time. The stranger remained silent, waiting for Old Man Willy to continue. “But time, it moves in strange ways here,” “What do you mean, sir?” The stranger asked. “I can’t remember the last time someone graduated from ‘tis town,” Old Man Willy said quietly, the stranger had bent forward to listen, his hand still on Old Man Willy’s wrist. “Or the last time someone had to go t’ the hospital.” He looks the stranger in the eye, “I’ve never been on no boat.” Surprised, the stranger dropped Old Man Willy’s wrist, who followed him onto the bed, and sat criss-cross next to the stranger. He moved lithely, far more agile than anyone who looked as old as him should have been able to move. “Ye don’t believe me,” Old Man Willy sounded desperate, “I swear it all t’ be true!” “I believe you,” the stranger spoke near silently, “I was simply unaware that anyone noticed but me.” Old Man Willy harrumphed. He crossed

his arms, only to let his hands drop to his thighs a moment later. At last, he spoke, “I’ll tell you as much of this town’s history as I can remember,” “Alright–” “If,” Old Man Willy continued, “You help me get out of here.” The two stared at each other for a moment, on the perfect lavender bed in the spotless purple room, in the most picturesque town in the world. “Deal,” The stranger said, and they shook hands, and made plans to meet in the morning, before Old Man Willy slipped seamlessly into the quiet night.

“Excavations 4”

By Cathy Breslaw

“Alternative Sona”

By Esmiralda Nguyen

STEPHANIE DELUCAS SPA - DAY -

The first thing that Vivian did wrong was ask the distressed-looking lady a question. It appeared to Vivian that the lady wore a wig, Other than that, she looked healthy. She did not expect the lady to respond the way she did, and that’s when Vivian knew. She was not okay. The lady wasn’t okay. “Mind your own business,” she said.

The other women in the waiting area just stared at Vivian. The lady’s words stung. She wanted to tell her she was sorry for asking, but she kept quiet. She was sure her face had turned red from embarrassment. She couldn’t help but think that it was her business to ask. After all, Vivian and these women were there for the same reason:

further diagnostic testing for an abnormal mammogram. She was glad when the lady’s name was called, and she wouldn’t have to see her again. While Vivian waited, she thought about her marriage and how unhappy both she and her husband were. She didn’t tell him where she was going today. She only told a few friends, who told her not to worry about it. “We both have dense breast tissue, and I always have abnormal readings.” Vivian’s friend had told her. “Don’t even worry about it.” But she couldn’t help but worry. A nodule, the doctor said. That’s what the first mammogram showed—a nodule. So she sat and waited in the little holding area with its eye-pleasing accent wall of beige and baby blue, succulents spread around, and a flat- screen that showed images of waterfalls, forests, and meadows while being accompanied by classical music. She waited with the other women, who wore identical crisp-white robes, and it gave Vivian the impression they were at a spa waiting their turn to get massages and facials. She wondered about the lady in the wig and how

she did not want that to happen to herself. She shouldn’t have asked her if she was okay. No one else even seemed to care. The other women seemed lost in their thoughts, some just staring at the floor while others were on their cell phones. Was Vivian the only one who cared? We all have something in common here, ladies! She wanted to say. Why doesn’t anyone ask one another how they are doing? Then, all of a sudden, she blurted out: “Do you think the hospital staff will pass out champagne like they do at the spa?” she said with a smile. A few of the women laughed. She felt stupid for saying it. Little by little, the room started to empty. Her mind wandered back to her marriage. I’m not happy; he’s not happy. There is a huge elephant in the room that neither one of them wanted to address. What will it take? They have tried marriage counseling, but neither of them liked it or cared to put too much effort into it. Neither of them wanted to make the first move. Neither of them wanted to look like the bad person to their friends and family. No one knew how unhappy they were. Faking happiness all the time is so tiring. She’s sick of it. Thank

goodness we never had kids. What would happen if I did have cancer? Would he stick around and take care of me? Would I want him to? He would not be able to deal with it. Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard her name called. After the tests were completed, she laid there in shock when the radiologist went into the room and told her the test results. She felt numb. “You will need a biopsy to know for sure,” the radiologist told her. Vivian heard a ringing in her ears and stared at the radiologist. What? “You’re going to need a biopsy on the area of concern. It’s a pretty simple procedure— minimally invasive—and it’s done by inserting a small needle into the area that needs to be tested.” She wanted to cry; she felt hot tears form. The radiologist told her to get dressed, and the nurse at the front would make the appointment for her biopsy. “Most of the time, it turns out to be non- cancerous. But we need to find out.” Vivian nodded her head.

While she got dressed, she wondered if she should tell her husband where she went today. She remembered she needed to stop at the grocery store to get coffee, and she will buy some chicken from the deli for their dinner. Dinner for her and her husband, eating in front of the TV with their elephant in the corner.

NON-FICTION

cities like Eugene, Oregon that have mobile crisis teams that are suitable to handle any mental health crisis firsthand. Instead of calling 911, individuals can text the mobile crisis hotline number and a professional worker will get dispatched within minutes. Some individuals have voiced their decision not to contact the police first when dealing with a crisis situation out of fear of losing their lives (Waters, 2021). Suffering from a mental illness can be unbearable for the individual to handle alone. Many cases have gone unnoticed and/or neglected by government institutions. In fact, over a quarter of people shot dead by the police had an untreated mental illness (McCarthy, 2015). These individuals are scared, confused, and have so much going on mentally. Adding a police officer to the scenario only adds more confusion and chaos. The mentally ill “do not process what is happening like a normal criminal,” Mac Arthur said. “There’s a lot of white noise in their head” (Lowery., et al. 2015). Unfortunately, I’ve had this exact scenario come to fruition with a friend of mine who was African American, homeless, and suffering from a mental health crisis and was shot by the police. During his crisis, my friend had a verbal encounter with the police in broad daylight. Instead of the police trying to de- escalate the situation, the opposite happened: they fired over twenty rounds

Imagine that you are suffering from mental illness and suddenly, out of nowhere, you’re in a crisis situation. Everything around you becomes heightened by the sounds of your heartbeat racing and the constant fear and panic going through your head. Having no one to reach out to leaves you in a desperate state of disarray. Police are known as frontline workers and usually respond when a call comes through; they often handle mental health crisis situations before any other resource institution. Although Rob van den Brink firmly believes that police responsiveness has an influence on individuals reconnecting with mental health services (van den Brink, et al, 2012), it is clear that police are not fully equipped to handle mental health crisis situations, as they lack the proper training, skills, and staff. Studies have shown that, since 2015, 1,430 individuals suffering from a mental illness have been shot and killed by police in the United States (Waters, 2021). Minority individuals, specifically African Americans, are more likely to be shot by a police officer than any other race. Mental health crises should always be handled by professionals who are skillfully trained and properly educated. Having the basic police tactics isn’t going to cut it when dealing with individuals suffering with mental illnesses (Lowery., et. al. 2015). There are

in de-escalating and handling mental health situations. Subsequently, due to job shortages within mental health departments, police are left to handle crisis calls. On the other hand, there are those police departments who are taking the necessary steps in modeling a positive, productive approach to handling mental health crises. Such approaches include a tactic where the officer engages with the individual by calmly persuading instead of yelling and using force and having a psychologist or psychiatrist on hand if need be. This type of model approach needs to take effect in every police department across the United States and be a part of the police academy curriculum, as well as a requirement for graduation. Individuals suffering from mental illness are very vulnerable and fragile, requiring a whole lot of patience, empathy and compassion, but most of all humility. Living in a society and world where mental illness is at its all time high, it is only logical that our police officers —our ”first responders”—receive the proper training and skills to handle these types of situations. Ultimately, it needs to start from the top, with our congressional leaders allocating the necessary funding, specifically for mental health crises, throughout every police department. This will enable the necessary training and provide professional staff to work along with the police on crisis calls. Though there has been much debate on the matter, it is clear that mental health crisis situations shouldn’t be handled first by police officers. Instead, these types of situations should be left to those individuals who are professionally trained, educated, and fully capable of handling these situations. Mental illness is real; it should not be stigmatized, and more needs to be done to shed light on the subject. Individuals suffering from this type of illness should not become another statistic. Instead, they should be recognized as real people with an unbearable disease, in need of help.

of ammunition and killed my friend. There was no crisis team available to help him, nor was there an ambulance called to admit him into the proper facility. In many situations like this one, there are those police who have claimed to feel threatened by the individual in crisis and/or in fear of their lives. In many cases, they overreact and prematurely overuse their authority and power, resulting in an unnecessary death. Sometimes just the presence of a police officer can make a mental health crisis situation worse (Lowery et.,2015). Individuals in need may feel threatened and scared just by the presence of a police officer or the sounds of sirens. In my friend's situation, his family ended up suing their city's police department for his death and won the lawsuit. Although money could never justify the loss and pain of losing a loved one, it was able to give comfort and closure to the family to know that justice was served and accountability was enforced. Every crisis situation is different for the individual in need. There are those that may have experienced a medical crisis due to taking prescription pills and suffering from the adverse effects. In these situations, individuals may experience psychotic episodes resulting in delusions, hallucinations, and agitation. Moreover, these types of crises can be mistaken for a mental illness, leading families and loved ones to react and call the police (Lowery., et al. 2015). Police have even acknowledged that they are ill-equipped to handle mental health calls; this causes speculation that more needs to be done. “We as a society need to put more money and funding into treating the mentally ill. We need to work with these people…before they end in tragedy” (Lowery., et al. 2015). Some states only provide minimal training

Non- Fiction

When I drive at night, listening to music I feel like a god. There's no rent, there's no bills, there's no blood tests, there's no job searching, no arguments, no crowds. I'm not stuck. Blasting my 90s alt rock, my drum and bass, my hard rock Beck songs, all my boomer rock I travel along the empty roads and become someone else, someone with history, someone with mystery. A man on a mission to chill, to think, to solve all the world's problems in his head in a few hours of driving the roads. When I drive at night, listening to music, I feel like a god. There's no rent, there's no bills, there's no blood tests, there's no job searching, no arguments, no crowds. I'm not stuck. Blasting my 90s alt rock, my drum and bass, my hard rock Beck songs, all my boomer rock I travel along the empty roads and become someone else, someone with history, someone with mystery. A man on a mission to chill, to think, to solve all the world's problems in his head in a few hours of driving the roads. I leave my problems as soon as I get in that car and the music starts. Usually I go solo, but occasionally with like-minded friends. When I go at night, I always make progress. I’m forging ahead on the road and in my head. I don't have a map but I do have direction. Usually I go to the place. This view I can’t forget. Sometimes I take close friends for deep talks. One time I passed through Irvine. The city is widely considered sterile and soulless yet I felt free. Prince was shredding the guitar in my car while I drove that dead city and brought some life. In general it's vast and dark and statistically for OC there are a few drunk and impaired drivers likely near me. I leave my problems as soon as I get in that car and the music starts. Usually I go solo, but occasionally with like-minded friends. When I go at night, I always make progress. I’m forging ahead on the road and in my head. I don't have a map but I do have direction. Usually, I go to the place. This view I can’t forget. Sometimes I take close friends for deep talks. One time I passed through Irvine. The city is widely considered sterile and soulless, yet I felt free. Prince was shredding the guitar in my car while I drove that dead city and brought some life. In general, it's vast and dark, and statistically, for OC, there are a few drunk and impaired drivers likely near me. There's just enough danger to make it a small risk, a slight thrill. I am the coolest person alive in those hours. I mean I know I am a dork, out of touch with most modern trends, but in that sliver of time I rule this world. Everything flows through my head, all my thoughts, feelings, fears, memories. It's almost a religious experience in a godless landscape. Driving at night is such an universal experience, there’s even a music genre dedicated to eliciting the feeling of driving at night. I listen and I propel forward. The place was this particular stretch of the oceanway; it was my place of silent reflection. Many decisions were pondered on that road.

When I am journeying across the county, I sometimes imagine I will come across something wrong and that I through some sort of divine or random providence was brought here to help. Usually, I worry about animals. One time I found a duck and took it to the hospital. I take care not to get involved with others on the roadways late. Rotten people get bold at night. It was dark, the roads winding, the buildings modern and expensive, sometimes nice. The place looked tropical to me, which for some reason would reassure me. I always felt out of place here because this area is known for a certain hostility for the economically challenged. I felt like I was trespassing even though it was public property. This other time it was one of those nights; sometimes we didn't say anything for long stretches. It was 3 AM, going down this highway right by the ocean, passing through dark roads, seeing the houses that I could only dream of. A police car seemed to be following us, but eventually parted, some of my friends asleep in the back, another was driving. I took a break from driving that night because I wanted more time to see everything. I was looking at it like an old picture that makes you sad. There was something in seeing such calm and sometimes beautiful things in a dark and almost sinister context that made me want to prolong these convoluted feelings.

I looked through the passenger window. The houses raced by; we hit the darkness in between towns. It was dark, but I could still see the dark and vast ocean. It was intimidating, we were bugs compared to it. I felt like I saw the face of god in those waters and he stared back. I related to what I saw on such a level it made me want to find more places like this, to chase this feeling in my day life, this was my direction. It was one of the times I felt truly there, no distraction. Friends driving, late with no cares. Discovering the vast near-by. It was really nothing but to me it was everything. Rides with confidantes occur less frequently. People get busy. Life gets harder. There isn't much that can be done about that, but the road is always there; it listens and sometimes dispenses epiphany.

By J.M.

As I go through the day, my mind thinks about what will happen at night. The lands and time my mind and body would move through a portal vast and fast like a star shooting through the night. Oh dream of dreams, where will you take me tonight? The last time I dreamed, I was in another universe filled with war. I dreamed of Rome and the many nations they conquered, traveled with the great Alexander the Great as he traveled through Africa and made history every step he took. In the dream, I was his most trusted general, and they called me The Great David the Snake. I got the name David the Snake from how I would sneak up on my enemies and kill them while they

were asleep at night. Me and Alexander were like brothers, we felt as though our souls were in sync, and we felt like we could tell what the other was thinking. As the journey reached the time we were about to give our best and last push, oh dream of dreams suddenly started to fade, and my body began to wake. I tried to hang on to finish my last push with Alexander, but oh dream of dreams had awakened me. I felt startled and didn't know exactly how the dream had ended, my body was sweating, and I couldn't even remember what happened at the last push. As my mind wandered, rethinking every step of my dream, I found myself on the brink of

another night. Oh dream of dreams, where would you take me tonight? Let me dream of things out of my sight and dream of places I have never been. The day went fast, and it was almost time to dream again, and my body was filled with joy and ready for another night. I was like a kid in a candy store wanting more. As night approached, my body couldn't sleep, and my mind was wandering. It was 5 am, the sun started to rise, and that night, oh dream of dreams did not come, and my day was long, and I wondered if I said or did something that kept the dream of dreams away last night. The night before was hard, and the joy and rest didn't come. Oh dream of dreams, all I would like to do is fall asleep in your arms, dream of things I would love to do, and dream of places I would love to go. Oh dream of dreams, why do you leave me alone. It felt as if the comforting of dreams had forsaken me, leaving me stranded in the darkness of the night with no calm to be found in the realm of dreams.

Two weeks have passed, and I have not dreamed. I went to work and did a 12-hour shift. My friends invited me to see a movie afterward. During the movie, I started dozing, and what do you know, oh dream of dreams has returned, and I'm clothed in armor, at the table with other knights - I'm at the realm of Narnia face to face with Aslan. Now let the next adventure begin.

Promoting a Book in the 1990s

Fiction

The first thing LaVette LaRue, or “L.L.,” as her friends called her, did wrong was underestimate the logistics of altering the famed Hollywood Sign. Ever since Harold, aka drag queen LaVette LaRue, started going to fashion design school and saw all those bolts of fabric, she got the idea of covering up every letter but the two L’s on the iconic sign as a way to promote her autobiography, Heels On Parade – My Life During the Warhol Years. Ms. LaRue had been staring at the sign in the distance every day from her fourth- floor apartment window as the lure of Hollywood actress Peg Entwistle’s final stop beckoned. Of course, LaRue had no

intention of throwing herself off the sign as Entwistle did but would pay homage to the late actress once up there. “She…was an icon, honey, like no other! We have to avenge her death by this sick town!” And, of course, promote LaRue’s book in the process. LaRue started lugging home an extra bolt of fabric here and there from school for her various design assignments for class. While all the other drag queens who lived in the building were jealous of LaRue’s forthcoming book, they were not about to miss out on altering the Hollywood Sign, if only for bragging rights. When the queens got together and realized just how much

lest the queens in their martini haze set down a watery glass on his wooden antique furniture. To call everyone to order, LaRue let out her Holly Golightly whistle, and the meeting started. Someone asked what they should wear for the caper that was to take place at 2:00 a.m. in the morning. Tiki torches were suggested to light their way during the trek. Gladys Goodfoot offered to drive and that we could all lie down in the back of her pickup covered with a tarp. Each letter of the sign had a built-in ladder, which was how LaRue said Entwistle got up to the top to throw herself off. “So,” she said, “all we have to do, really, when we get up there is haul the fabric to the top, fasten it to the back of the letter and then just fling it down, and voila, one letter down, only the rest to go…except for the two L’s in the middle!” Then there was a discussion of how to fasten the fabric so that it wouldn’t fall off. Someone suggested using a staple gun. We would need more than one, so Birdnest Beatrice offered to borrow some from the theatre where she worked. Everyone was excited and getting amped up for this ultimate Hollywood publicity stunt! Then Jack weighed in with the question that stopped everyone in their tracks. “So, how many bolts of fabric do you have and how many yards or feet in each?” He had picked up a pamphlet about the sign from one of the tourist shops on Hollywood Boulevard. “You know, each letter is 45-feet tall.” LaRue knew from fashion design school that there was only 30 feet to each bolt.

material they would need for this Sisyphean task— to cover the H, O, Y, W, two other O’s, and the D—each went and bought a bolt of black fabric from the local fabric store. But when that wasn’t enough, LaRue asked Gladys Goodfoot to drive her old pickup truck over (that also served as a bedazzled float on Pride Parade Day) to the back of the school, where she had stashed multiple bolts of black fabric behind the trash bins. When I heard this caper had morphed into grand theft, I wondered if I was now aiding and abetting, having encouraged LaRue that she could pull off altering the sign. But as a writer looking for inspiration, this Hollywood Sign caper was too rich not to see through. Then again, as they say in Hollywood, some scenes are best left on the cutting room floor. Because there was nowhere to sit in LaRue’s apartment with all those bolts of fabric lying around (that her cat Nefertiti ended up using as scratching posts), a group meeting was instead held in her ghostwriter Jack’s apartment. The queens called Jack “Mr. Practical” because without him, LaRue’s book would have never been written. She couldn’t type, had little self-discipline and was only focused on getting her life story made into a movie. Jack made coffee for the meeting, but some of the participants brought over the ingredients to make martinis. This was a strategy meeting, but they also wanted to have a good time. To set the mood for this secret nighttime gathering, Jack lit a few candelabras and quickly set out coasters,

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