ArcturusA collection of art and literature from Highline Community College

Staff

Editors

Designers

Cover Art

Printing and Prepress

AdvisorsSharon HashimotoLaura WorthingtonTony SittnerDave Weber

Jeeranun RattanapongMili MulicJosh Kolden

Jessie MackleyDonovan GatesKayla Carlile

Paige KwonMark Ryan

Paige Kwon

Table of Contents

Room with a View

Reflection

Spring Hail

Warfare

Imperfectly Perfect Canvas

Ladies’ Mantle

Old and Forgotten

Seattle Sunset

Touching the Tank

Freeze Me to Sleep

The Year WaterChanged Everything

Mark Ryan

Kramer Stephenson

Daniel Matthews

Stevie Dollahite

Katie Crepeau

Helen Hodges

Chris Hagenbuch

Valerie Thompson

Aaron Yurth

Kasia wolowiec

Navneet Kaur

1

7

12 30

3

926

14 32

19

2

825

13 31

4

23

10 27

18 36

20

Clockwork Shadows

Haiku

Fall for Pride

Junkfood Kills

Gun Shot

Inked

A S’mores Nights

Gas Mask Agent

Poorman is the Art

Sherlock, Holmes and Zombies

Of Rhinos and Mangroves:Diversity and Our Changing Oceans

Tyler Egnes

Donovan Elijah Gates

Alex Poorman

Jeff Bukowski

John Beaver

Kristina Huynh

Jennifer Rosaldo

Jeff Bukowski

Deborah Hansen

Christina Pom

Reilly Hannigan

Surfing UFOAlex Poorman

24

Secrets of the SeaLeilani Jones

47

64

44

60

51

66

53

4359

48

65

39

37

55

45

63

52

70

71

54

Rock Star

White NoiseBoiling Point

Sole/Soul Skull and Roses

Through the DarknessA Second Chance

Standing in the Rain, I See Hope

Performing Pleasure

Victim ‘Til Death Due Us Part

The Storm Rolls InChase Building, Chicago

Step in the Past

Cannon Beach Kites

Waiting for Summer Inhale, Exhale

Emily

Redondo Sunset

Reflection

Filet

Sympathetic IntrospectionChris Hagenbuch

Gift Tantibanchachai Jeff Bukowski

Brian MasonAnonymous

Brandon D’Andrea

Kayla Carlile

Tu Vo

Erin K. Pili

Chris Kent Katarzyna Wolowiec

Helen Hodges

Karlin Richardson

Jeeranun RattanaPong

Helen Hodges

Angelina ValianiNeesheguy N. Newson

Kristina Huynh

Karlin Richardson

Helen Hodges

Jordon Pipkin

Mark Ryan

Table of Contents

40

38

58

1

Mark Ryan

Room with a View

2

Ladies’ Mantle

Helen Hodges

3

Hail is the band, playing thousands of drumsfrom the crown of the tin rooftop.The tiny marbles hit the wooden deskas if there was a tap dancer using it to practice.Hail is a jackhammer repeatedlystriking you as yovu walk.The feeling of a swarm of bees stingingis felt on the heads of people passing.The smell of pouring gravel fills the air,as the pellets bounce off the asphalt.Hail is the ground scattered with tiny white balls,like a field full of Camellias.A man in the black stands in the field with fallenwhite particles lying across his shoulders.It is the golf balls being gatheredfrom the much used driving range,bouncing as they crash into the surface.The balls stop pouring,as suddenly as they started.The road that was once black is now spotted white,like a Dalmatian laying on its side.

Spring HailKramer Stephenson

4

I stepped on every perfect looking face down shell with the heel of my foot, watching them shatter. I watched the sand squish in between my toes, and the water rise up through the sand, and then sink back down. I would step on every gooey duck I could find, watching spurts of water come shooting from the ground, and then evade them. I looked up from the mesmerizing beach aspects, and I saw it! A marvelous army tank, with a gun twice the length of me, buried under the waves.

The tank was just sitting there. Presenting itself to me, halfway submerged in ice cold water, gravel, and seaweed. It had no signs of destruction, corrosion, or use, almost flawless. It was clearly aged, it had been there for some time. The salt water would rise, and push the algae clinging onto the bottom half up, and then release. Barnacles, clams, and sea-urchins littered the lower half of this old war machine. I had to touch it. I had to feel it; to make contact with an object withholding such raw power was unfathomable. The need to feel what it would be like to stand in the cockpit where military men once did was incomprehensible. I gave in. The water surged outwards, almost lurching at me, attempted to pull me in. The tide was coming, and I had to act fast.

The family and I were going sightseeing, and we weren’t going to be at the beach much longer. I had to make my move. A six year old boy pitted against the force of nature, and the merciless Mediterranean? Not a chance. No matter.

I put one foot in front of the other, almost kicking at the sand in anticipation. I was scared, my heart raced. It was taking too long, I sped up. I ran into the water, the tank resting a mere 50 feet away, taunting me.

Knee deep, freezing water made contact with my legs, shortening my breath. I didn’t care, I made up my mind. Deeper and deeper, I ran into the water until I was up to my waist, restricting me so I could no longer sprint. In order to keep my speed, I had to bend my legs awkwardly as I ran to lift them out of the water, so the waves no longer held me back.

Touching the TankDaniel Matthews

5

I’m waist deep, almost swimming, almost there. The sea grabs hold of me. The water embraces me, pulls my head under, and steals my breath. The salty, relentless water surges through my nose, choking me. Grasping at the water at an attempt to save myself, proved futile.

Darkness engulfed my mind, pain spreading like wildfire. I’ve made contact with the tank, just not as I had planned. The water pulled me face first into the barnacle infested cast iron machine. It felt like I had just been assaulted by an abnormally large man wielding a very heavy sledgehammer. It was almost as if the sea had built up anger throughout the years, and I was its victim. I was so close to giving up, surrendering to the ceaseless pounding.

On the verge of letting go, letting the waves have their way, something, someone had grabbed hold of me. A sudden feeling of safety overcame me, temporarily anesthetizing my trembling, that feeling of helplessness. The sea calmed, almost apologizing for the terror. I was pulled out of the water to see the frightened face of my mother. Everything was perfect, the water at ease, my mother relieved, my head above the water.

Breaths were becoming easier, my lungs were filling with mostly air now, instead of salt water. I was on the way out, escaping the trap nature had laid out for me.

My head made contact with the sea floor (Not again, I thought). I reached up, awaiting the grasp of my mother. Nothing but air. This time I knew better, I had to let the water have its way. My resignation didn’t seem to help much. I saw my mother maybe only 20 feet away, trying to help me, trying to help herself. She was grabbing at the water and trying to pull it at herself at an attempt to gain speed and reach me. To see the person that I had thought to be invulnerable to danger, become defenseless and helpless, brought me to realization about the severity of the situation.

Everything was blurry. The waves were crashing and screaming as loud as they could, but under the water it was beautiful. The water stood still under the surface. No noise, no chaos.

The serenity came to a screeching halt. The noise, fright, and panic came rushing back like a flash flood breaking through a dam. An arm broke the surface, but this time it was not my mother’s. A man’s arm wrapped down my neck and around my chest, extinguishing what little air I had. A second arm took hold of me, this time a

6

familiar feel, my mom was safe, and she was holding onto me.

I was being rushed to safety, my rescuers running as fast as they could to escape the grasp of the sea. The waves crashing around us, clawing at us, refusing to part. The sea wasn’t giving up easily. It was almost as if it was trying to hold onto us, like we were a necessity, and it couldn’t afford to lose us. Almost there, my feet making contact with the sand line where sand castles can’t survive, but are remotely visible shortly after construction. The water was splashing around me, clouding my vision. The salt water invaded my eyes, forcing itself down my throat, and up my nose. I felt inebriated, unable to function properly, almost handicapped due to the shock.

Everyone was screaming panicking, even though we were almost out of the water. I didn’t understand the reasons behind all of the commotion. My head was in pain, but besides that, I was clueless. The man’s arm belonged to a family friend named Denny, accompanying us on our trip. I’d never thought I would be so thankful for a man who called me “punk” so many times.

I laid there on the beach, understanding for the first time the luxury of air, of the feeling of safety. It didn’t feel real, it still seemed like I was stuck, not yet realizing I had been near death. The water had stopped lurching at me, giving up to rest where it was originally.

I was just another person who had stepped in its destructive path, its capable wake, its temper.

7

Refelection

Aaron Yurth

8

Old and Forgotten

Chris Hagenbuch

9

Dreams, the breathtaking and the corruptAre the only reasons he can find to fall asleep,Nostalgia settling into his deepIrises. He becomes overtaken;Enthralled with how he can feel. They’reLovely, in comparison, to what he saw every day.

Carnage fills his visionsObscuring any clear conscience he might earn.Remorse obliterates progress, sending him throughDescent into destruction. His chest tightens with theExposed feeling of a caged soldier, looking forLogical in a place that shows him sulfur. IncreasinglyLanguid and terrified, he’s longing for closure.

Breaking from the constant, hisRemnants of fractures will keep himArmored. Days of combat willMemorialize every shot, venerate every blast.

WarfareStevie Dollahite

10

Crystal flakes fell from the sky, freezing everything in sight and making everything look as if it came from some kind of horrible and twisted fairy tale. Instead of seeing the beautiful and magical world that is always shown in movies or illustrated in picture books, all I could see was our dirty swing set covered in melting snow and pine needles. As I stared out through the kitchen window of our back yard sliding door, I couldn’t help but finally feel at peace. No longer could the cold touch me. The grasp that it had on me for the past few weeks was gone and I was going to do everything in my power to make sure that I would never return. My fear had finally been erased as she came home a few hours ago from the pristine hospital smelling of death.

I heard soft footsteps come closer to me, a chill running through my body as the woman who was the reason for such great fear and dread the past two weeks sat down next to me on the already worn out couch. She was slightly cold from standing out in the garage, probably watching the snow fall as I had been doing just moments before.

“You smell like smoke,” I said. My voice was soft, almost an unnoticeable mumble. I didn’t want to get her angry, especially if it meant she would be getting angry at me. She had been through enough, we all had, but I still couldn’t help but try to make her feel guilty. No child wants their mother to die and I was no exception. Maybe if I said it enough, she would finally quit her nasty habit of eating up death sticks. A grunt was all I got in return.

Placing my head on her arm I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the suffocating feeling as I inhaled the left over smoke from her clothes. I stared blankly at the TV, not really watching the old episode of Rugrats that I had seen too many times before, but just glad that she was back home with me. I tried to keep in sync with her breathing but her long and deep breaths made me just have to hold my own, imagine the red blotches scattered around my round and childish face.

I had never realized she had been human. Even when she had been writhing in pain on the floor, clutching her stomach, and sticking her middle finger down her throat as far as it could possibly go so that she could finally stop the pain in her stomach,

Freeze Me to SleepKasia Wolowliec

11

I still had thought that she was invincible. Or when I had gone to see her at the hospital, her pale skin glistening with sweat and her incoherent speech slurred with morphine. I hated seeing her in pain but I had never thought that she could die.

She had been faced with death, looking at the world from above everyone and she had chosen to leave it all behind. I pictured the man standing next to her, asking her the dreadful question and hating him for putting her though it. I was part of the reason that she had refused to go and if they wouldn’t let her up there again, wherever it was, then, if I had my own spot, I would give her mine.

As I finally calmed down ten minutes later, my eyes stinging and my throat parched and scratchy, and she told me to get ready for bed I could feel the cold wrap around me. It was like I was a fly trapped by a hungry spider forever coming to devour me but never actually getting there. My fear returned and I knew that this time it would never leave. For the first time I knew that my mother couldn’t do everything, that she wasn’t invincible. She could die.

12

Seattle Sunset

Valerie Thompson

13

Full of color and joy,Never black and white,This paint fades against the sky. Impossible to find perfection,But always coming out exactly how I want you. Brought on by tired eyes, Erratic, full of life,And always cheerful.The canvas is imperfectly stapledTo the frame that rests carefullyAgainst the easel.Water color drips against the floor The brush’s bristles against the coarse fabric.Vibrant colors of oil,Splattered against my heart,Gliding against my soul,Coated over my life,You keep me completely pieced together.Mixed like these colorsPlaced together no longer defective,No longer incomplete.Blues of the sky, reds of the sunset, browns of the road,Like the chocolate of your eyes, Create these rough edges. Blended together, they are made to be soft.Every color, drop, splatter and brush stroke,Creates the perfect work of art in your soul.

Imperfectly Perfect CanvasKatie Crepeau

14

It was raining quite hard one winter night. Not the usual slow, steady Seattle drizzle as the rain pounded on the rooftop and the wind whistled outside – these were signs of a storm. I pulled aside the curtains and took a look; no real damage here, but I was fortunate to be warm and safe inside.

I walked back to the sofa where my mom was sitting, watching the news. According to the unnecessarily cheerful news correspondent on King 5 News, some other parts of the Washington had gotten the worst of the storm over the past few days. Some areas that were located near rivers had begun to flood and the damage was broadcast on live TV. Some homeowners had water in their basements while commuters had to abandon their cars as they ran into too deep of water on the road.

“Oh those poor souls,” my mother began to say as we watched how the flood victims assessed the damage to their homes. “I know,” I said “We’re lucky that isn’t happening where we live.” My mother nodded in agreement. She did not say anything more for a while so I began flicking through the channels, trying to find something more pleasant to watch.

And then my mother turned to me and asked me, “Have I ever told you about how when I was a young girl, my family was in a flood?” Feeling a little shocked, I shook my head – I did not know anything about this. “Really? Wow, when did that happen?” I asked her, my eyes wide with curiosity as I waited for what she was going to say next. She replied, “Oh, it was a long time ago. I was only about nine years old. There would always be some minor flooding every year during the monsoon season, but that year it was much worse.” I looked at my mother’s face, she seemed deep in thought, in remembrance. I knew even at this point that my mother had a difficult life growing up. She was raised in a small village in northern India called Batala and was the daughter of two poor,

The Year Water Changed EverythingNavneet Kaur

15

uneducated farmers. And especially at the time she was grown up, many people did not have electricity – so when it came to weather alerts, people had to rely on word of mouth. I do not know what it is like to live such a life, and I know I often take my own life here in America for granted. I have access to clean water, a stable home to live in, and more technology than I could ever need; a lot of people in this world don’t even have one of these privileges.

And until that moment, I had never expressed much interest in my family history; I did not know a lot about my heritage nor had I ever met most of my relatives. Although right then, I wanted to know more. I had never been to my parents’ homeland myself, but I was anxious to hear my mother’s story. I wanted to understand her better. I wanted to understand where her strong will, admirable spirit, and perseverance came from.

Where my parents come from, the people have a unique relationship with water. In a sense it is their livelihood, but can be considered a thing to fear as well. Leonardo Da Vinci once said, “Water is the driving force of all nature.” This quote describes the relationship accurately. It doesn’t rain there too much for most of the year, and when it finally does, people are joyous because it’s good for their crops. If it never rained, they could not properly farm their land – and in turn they would not be able to sell their harvest, leaving small scale farmers like my grandparents destitute. But then things such as floods happen, and water can take everything away from the people with the damage it causes as well. After composing herself, my mother began telling me the rest of her story: “It had been raining a lot that summer, just like every summer in Batala. But then it began to dry up, and I thought the worst was over. But the elders of the village knew better, as did my parents. There was always a chance the Beaas Deryar – a local river – could overflow. It happened before, but the water only got to the outskirts of the farm land – never to the village.”

She continued to tell me that one of the villagers had seen the river rising when he had gone out to his farm a couple of miles away to check on his crops. As soon as he got back, he told everyone. This is when the chaos began. “Everybody, even the little ones like my brothers and me, climbed on to the roof tops to see the water.” my mother told me.

16

“Were you scared? What did you and your parents do?” I asked. Maybe the answer should have been obvious, but I wouldn’t know what to think in that situation. Sure, I had seen natural disasters on TV before – but I had never been in one.

“Of course I was scared!” She gave me a small smile. “And to make it worse, the other villagers began telling stories of the other times when it had flooded, telling us all of the unfortunate details.” But then she got a more serious look on her face, and she continued with her story.

She described about how her family, like all of the other families in the village, had to leave to find refuge in the neighboring villages that were on higher ground. They had to rely solely on their friends and relatives for help because the government could not afford to do so.

The first to leave was my grandmother Darshan, along with her the youngest children, and she managed to bring some of their belongings as well. My mother, her older brothe r Malkit and her father Naseeb planned to follow soon after my grandfather took care of things at the farm; taking any last precautions that would later help him salvage his property.

Later in the day, the water quickly began approaching Batala, which was starting to empty out of its residence.

“I was so scared when the water started rushing into the village streets! I began to cry, so my father picked me up and carried me on his shoulders. He told me not be scared, that we would be okay. But I could tell from his voice he was frightened himself, which was the worst part. And the water kept on getting higher and higher. Soon we were practically swimming away from the village. I had to hold on to my father because I was not a good swimmer like he was.”

“Before we even got out of there some of the homes had already been destroyed, and a lot of animals were lost. And the crops – they were gone of course. So much time we labored over that land, and everything was taken away from us in just moments…” She drifted off.

I noticed how my mother’s eyes had began to water and soon mine would as well. This hurt a part of my heart that only a child can feel for their mother. Even though it was not possible, I still wished in my young mind that I could have helped her some how.

17

As much as I wanted to understand, I could not even begin to fathom what she must have felt like.

Eventually, the three of them were able to make it safely to my great-grandparents’ house in a nearby village. My mother tells me how relieved she was to see everyone together safely again. But this happiness would not last long. As the days went on, the villagers started to return to their homes only to discover that this time that the water had completely destroyed everything.

Our ancestral village which had remained almost the same for centuries would have to be moved to a nearby land and rebuilt completely. This was a major setback for my mother’s family. It would take years of restoration before their farmland would be arable again. The only craft my grandfather knew was farming, so it was hard for him to find work after the flood. My mother admitted to me that she and her older brother had to drop out of school and start to work because my grandfather Naseeb, despite his best efforts, could not afford to support them all himself. I had remained mostly quiet as my mother had told her story. But now I wanted to say something, anything. I felt my own voice croak as I began, “Mom…I can’t believe that happened to you. Gosh, it must have been so terrible.” She looked at me with her deep, brown eyes. As my mother reached for my soft-skinned hand with her own calloused one, she said “My daughter, don’t feel bad for me. I know sometimes we have our own money or family troubles, and you worry for your future. But now you see my brothers and I went through so much as children, but we survived. No matter what happens, you just have to be strong and nothing will stop you in life. Not even something as powerful as mother nature.”

I did not completely comprehend what she was trying to tell me at the time, but the older I become, the more I hold this st ory and her words of advice dear to me. It was emotionally difficult to hear about the struggle my mother and her family endured, but now I consider myself fortunate in many ways and try not take my family or my life for granted.

18

Clockwork Shadows

Tyler Egnes

19

Swirls and sparklesbend and twistforming cryptic messagesalong her opalescent wrist.

A spiralturns and turnsalong a milky blue veinmarking infinite life,marking something deeperthat only she knows.

Black ink crawling up her armsdelicate and elaborate designscrawling up her shoulderspreading across her faceenveloping her entire body.

The messagesthese mystic twists and turnsthat captivate you,captivate her.

InkedKristina Huynh

20

Only the sound of my pounding feet and my rhythmic breathing can be heard in the noon air. I can see my grandmother who is waiting for me in her front yard surrounded by chain link fence, wearing a white blouse and blue jeans holding a bottle of diet Pepsi. She is so picky about her drink; it just has to be “diet”. Grandma gets mad when I run too fast, I’ll show her what fast really looks like.

I put on the after burners the image of my legs forming a circle of motion like Sonic the Hedgehog. “Grandma is going to be jealous when she sees how fast I am.” I remark as I close my eyes and start to lean into my run letting my arms hang behind me. “I’m the fastest 8 year old in the world.” I think as the wind waves my royal blue tee-shirt, tan shorts and gives my brown hair that cool slick back look. A bump from my foot ruins my performance and I start to fall landing on my bare knees first.

The gravel and rocks start mining into my knees like drills. My teeth grit and my head lurches back like I’m drowning, complete with gurgling sound and flailing motion. I start to fall face first to the grindstone but catch myself with my hands. The gravel burns itself into the palms of my hands slowing me to a stop. The slide of torment that seemed endless had finally stopped. I tried to keep myself up but the pain was too great and I rolled to my side.

Through the swamp of tears I make out the shape of my grandmother running around the fence. “I have to get up! I don’t want to hear I told you so again!” echoes through the halls of my body to my hands but the burning throb cause my hands to go numb.

I grind my teeth from the pain as I roll to a sitting position. I look down to see my blood twist and turns like a stream round the little hairs on my legs to the small lake of blood, and tears.

“Are you alright Elijah?!” I hear in-between the throbs from my head and the steps Grandma is taking toward me.

“Yea, I- I’m fine.” I say trying to keep some dignity as I look at her with a face you would expect from an action hero.

Fall for PrideDonovan Elijah Gates

21

Grandma reaches into her pocket and pulls out that old handkerchief she always has, spits in it, and starts to wipe away the blood. “What have I told you about running too fast? Did you even watch where you were going?! She huffs out her mouth as she scrubs my knee like it’s a tough stain.

“Aww grandma, that is so gross. Can’t you use something cleaner?” I ask squinting my eyes from the pain. She stops scrubbing, and glares her elderly eyes at me through her bifocals. She stands up and walks away. “Where are you going?” I ask leaning on my side to see her walk around the corner out of sight.

Grandma left me. I’m sitting here bleeding to death and she just walks away! I-I’m alone, and it’s all because I didn’t watch where I was going. Why does Grandma have to be right, and why did she leave me here? I thought Grandmas were supposed to have lots of love and care for their grandkids. Not leave them to die on a sidewalk!

I start to feel a bubble of sadness force its way up my throat and out my eyes in tears. I’m so alone. I want some help. I want to call out for help but all that comes out is crying to go along with my tears. My breathing is causing convulsions in my chest, I want it to stop.

I start to hear some footsteps come back. I hold my breath to stop the crying but the feeling is still there as it bangs around in my chest. I wipe away my tears to see my grandma coming back with a towel and first aid kit.

“WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME ALONE!?” I manage to shout out followed by a few heavy breaths from crying.

“You asked me to go get something cleaner so I did. I went into the house and got a clean wash rag and the first aid kit.” She says calmly starting to scrub my knees.

“I COULD HAVE DIED OUT HERE!” I scream looking at her pointing to my cuts and the blood on the ground.

“Oh hush. You aren’t hurt that bad and besides it’s your own fault you got hurt.” She says, it sounds like a lecture that she rehearsed a few times while she was in the house getting the first aid kit.

22

“I don’t have to listen to you grandma you aren’t my mom.” I say just to get back at her for leaving me alone. “I can go as fast as I want because I can. I’m tough enough to take on any injury like this. I’m so strong that I.” A slap to the knee makes me let out a yelp of pain.

“Oh my tough little man.” Grandma says sarcastically mocking me. “Give me your hand.” She says leaning over me and reaching for my hand.

“No! You’re just going to scrub it really hard.” I say holding my hands together and leaning back out of her reach. I feel another slap on the knee from her, “Ow! Stop doing that!”

“Then give me your hand and the pain will stop.” She says in a stern voice no longer asking me. Grandma was starting to get a little scary so I just went along with her demands.

“Ok.” I say leaning forward cautiously and presenting my hands. “Could you please be a little softer about cleaning them?” I ask in the sweetest voice I could.

“I will try but I want to make sure you are all clean so you don’t get an infection.” She says pressing softer in my hands and cleaning them. “I just want you to be more careful so you don’t have to be in pain again.” After she finishes cleaning my cuts she grabs the Neosporin from the first aid box. She rubs the Neosporin on my sores and puts a bandage on each cut covering it up and making it feel better.

“Thank you Grandma.” I say with a smile on my face. I get ready to jump to my feet but I think about what grandma said about going too fast and not being careful. I slowly lean forward and onto my feet. I look up and see my grandma giving me her hand and helping me up.

“You look like you will be ok, so you should head home.” She says with a smile and pulls a can of diet Pepsi from behind her. “Here you can have a drink while you walk home.”

“Thanks grandma.” I say with a half smile and I turn to walk home. Why did she give me a diet Pepsi, I like regular Pepsi and now every step I take has a little reminder of pain like a slap on the knee from grandma. Maybe grandma is right about being careful. I open the can of soda and take a drink. Diet doesn’t taste too bad, I like it.

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Poorman is the Art

Alex Poorman

24

glassy panes risingPeeking inside my oceanBlue forest tango

HaikuDeborah Hansen

25

Sitting by the campfire,at the patio of my cousins’ deckon those long summer nights,I was longing to have those mouthwatering s’mores that I began to crave.

I poke the white, cylindershaped marshmallowthrough the end of my stick.My eyes watch as the heatof the fire burn one side.

The crackling sound of the fireis like popcorn in the microwave.The heat of the fire touches my face.

Blowing onto the marshmallowthe small fire goes away. A puffof smoke descends into the air.

The smell of the sweetHershey’s milk chocolate candy,merges together in betweentwo graham crackers.The oozing of the marshmallow,melts in my mouthwith a crunch sound in every bite.

My taste buds now satisfied.

A S’mores NightJennifer Rosaldo

26

Junkfood Kills

Jeff Bukowski

27

A light, feminine voice chimed within the metro tunnel, alerting the awaiting citizens of the metropolitan that the bus line was delayed. It was the same message being repeated over and over for the past two hours. Two hours was plenty of time for something exciting to happen and yet it didn’t. All of us essentially had two options: Rise to the surface to broil in 100 degree weather or stay in the tunnel to bake with temperatures skimming over 90. It wasn’t much of a difference but with how there were over a hundred bodies invading my personal space, it was obvious what people had chosen to do. It had become a battle of determination to see who was willing to stay the longest to claim a spot on the bus-- a battle that I wanted to win for childish, teen fueled pride.

Dressed in cotton shorts dyed the color of blues I stood against my friend’s jersey cloth of grays as we both faced off within the dimly lit tunnel, awaiting the arrival of the metro bus 174 to take us home together. We were both silent but a tacit promise of commitment was shared between us. You see, her and I had a mutual understanding of each other and functioned on the same level of thought. We even went as far as calling each other “Sherlock” and “Holmes”; Not Watson but Holmes. We weren’t just tag-team partners, but quintessentially the same. Our connection was unbeatable and perfect--we were best friends. And as friends with an almost psychic line between us, we had both silently agreed the exhausted commuters around us were like monsters-- or more specifically, mindless drones that swarmed and lumbered around us like zombies.

“I’d get so screwed if we were mobbed,” Holmes’ voice is clear through the mumbling of the crowd as she spoke with a laugh. “Would you save me if I got into trouble?”

I grinned and rolled a shoulder at the question, “Well, if we actually had time to prepare for it, we wouldn’t be in the tunnels in the first place where a hoard could mob from all sides to rip us to pieces.”

Holmes fell silent and I thought she was satisfied with the answer until she turned fully to face me with an expression of serious concern, “No, really. Be serious! You never know with 2012 and the end of the world coming up.”

Sherlock, Holmes and ZombiesChristina Pom

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I snorted and turned my nose away, letting Holmes continue to talk as I tried to mute her from my hearing. “C’mon, I know it’s stupid but really, Sherlock. It’s either the world explodes, nothing happened or a zombie apocalypse! I’m really pinning for Z-day. Would you save me if I was being dragged down by the ankles and about to be eaten alive?”

I shrugged again, “We would be fine.”

“No seriously!” Holmes huffed and placed her sun burnt hands on her hips. “I took Tae Kwon Do when I was thirteen. I’m seventeen now and overweight. I really don’t think I can chop five wooden boards in half anymore. Plus I was never good at shooting games. If I’m getting dragged down and you don’t help me, I will die unless you do something. So, would you come over and punt a damned zombie off of me if you were given the God given chance?”

My smile fades and I inhale deeply. I always assumed we were both competent enough to stick together. I knew teamwork was essential but what about when things got out of hand? What if things became too dangerous with the high risk of death? With the pumping adrenaline urging us to survive and look out for numero uno, would I actually back track and look for Holmes if we were separated?

Her laughter bubbles, an obvious attempt to lighten the atmosphere, “I can trust you right? B.F.F.’s forever?”

Best friends forever? Would I take our friendship that far? I could imagine Holmes, once right behind me, being dragged away as the undead pulled her down onto the grime covered pavement. I could turn back, but coming to her rescue would mean my path to safety could be compromised. I was young and had a future, even in an apocalyptic world. It wasn’t even just about living, but being victorious in a world where only the best and most fit could survive. In that kind of world, it was a fact blood, gore, and sacrifices would be made before any one of us would get out alive.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized we weren’t very close to each other to begin with. We met when we were in middle school and we’ve spent countless days with each other enjoying our adolescent years yet we never talked to each other seriously about life, love or how we felt about each other. Hell, we never even hugged before and it’s been five years since I first said ‘hello’ to her. It didn’t feel right for her

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to even ask if I would save her life, especially if carnivorous predators were stuck into the equation. Were we even friends?” Could this flimsy thing we call a friendship be just a long-term casual and awkward acquaintance? Why should I save someone I had no closer attachments to? After five years of being constant friends, should I have considered her a sister by now? And why would I even look out for someone that wasn’t me? Life goes on. I could make new friends in a zombie apocalypse couldn’t I? Maybe I’d feel closer to them. We would all want to win and winners should stand amongst the crowd.

Throat tight, I felt words tumble out of my mouth, too fast for me to register what I had actually said. “I would leave you behind.”

I didn’t hear Holmes’ reply when a light bell chimed within the tunnels, signaling for the buses to roar to life and alerting the relieved, more animated masses to board. Slowly, Holmes and I followed the crowd toward a bus. I squirmed through the back door and found my place in the tightly packed space.

I turned around to yell at Holmes to hurry up but there she stood, ready to take her step onto the bus when rushing bodies moved in front of her and separated us. They swarmed around her, pushing her back when she tried to move forward to claim a spot. She reached out her hand toward me, a silent gesture for me to help her.

I hid my hands away into my pockets and feigned innocence.

The doors slipped shut and the bus began to inch forward, the gentle click-clacking of the wheels hushing the crowd like an urban lullaby. I could still see Holmes standing on the platform and for anything to relieve the guilt, I wished she wasn’t screaming at me with betrayed eyes as the crowd surrounded her and swallowed her whole.

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Gas Mask Agent

Jeff Bukowski

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Our relationship started with a bang,a bullet from a gun.For the longest time,I felt the cold steel weighing on my shoulders.You took it from me,and together we share its burden.The hammer has been pulled back,our goal lies ahead.Your warm hand on my shouldersteals the cold, gripped in my hand.My aim is true; andthe safety is off.I close my eyes tight,you open yours.Finger meets trigger, BANG!The smoke pours from the barrel,obscuring our vision.We wait, breath abated.The bullet found its mark.and so have I.

Gun ShotJohn Beaver

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Destruction island. True to name, this place has been abandoned for decades, returned to the puffins and others after one ship too many shattered on the rocks at high tide. Now, the only humans allowed on this wild place are biologists who study its enormous seabird colonies, which is how I wound up perched on a willow branch in utter darkness by the sea.

Growing straight out of the side of a steep slope, the grove offered perfect habitat for our subjects: Rhinoceros Auklets (“rhinos” for short), stocky seabirds that burrow and nest as deeply as twenty feet in the earth amid the giant root system. We hoped to collect samples of the birds’ diet, a task complicated by the fact that rhinos return to their burrows only at night. I checked in with my mentor sitting upslope, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) Ph.D. with whom I was interning: “Do they usually take this long?”

My question was answered by a feathery something that bounced off my head, landing in the dirt with a plop. I yelped and fumbled for my headlamp, switching it on to find one bewildered rhino auklet five feet away; we stared at each other, human versus bird, in a bizarre showdown over the limp fish clutched in its beak. I approached it cautiously, speaking aloud: “Please drop the fish, please, I’m really sorry, but I need to take these from you, just this once, please…”

Unimpressed by my begging, the Auklet grunted once and ran for it, dashing down the slope in a comical puffin-shuffle. Left behind was a beautiful bunch of tiny, silvery fish, laid in a neat pile in the dirt. Thought they were intended for consumption by the auklet’s chick, the study of these fish would reveal exactly what these birds were eating and how well they ate during their nesting season.

Though destruction lies three and a half miles from shore and thirteen miles south of any sign of civilization, we were reminded of the impacts of human pollution by the palette of colored plastics that washed in with high tide each morning. But though the plastic beach looked sinister, the real threat to the wildlife was microscopic.

Of Rhinos and Mangroves: Diversity and Our Changing OceansReilly Hannigan

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As documented by Lawrence Blus and Richard Fischer in 1981, Rhinoceros Auklets on Destruction Island hold toxins such as lead, cadmium, mercury, and polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) in their bodies. While the study determined that these levels were insignificant and tentatively labeled as harmless, no recent studies have been carried out to establish current levels of these toxins. After almost thirty years, who knows how ill these birds may be?

As biologists, we owe our own livelihoods to water, just like the Auklets. We wonder at the resourcefulness of our subjects, the lengths to which they will go to survive, acknowledging that none of it would be possible without this chemical. Our culture bears curiosity, passion, and a deep-seated sense of wonder for the diversity of life – a diversity which sprang from the sea. But by allowing our oceans to become contaminated with noxious pollutants such as heavy metals, fertilizers, and PCBs, we threaten the innate balance of biodiversity, and as a result, our own survival.

Biology is “the scientific study of living things,” according to the Macmillan dictionary, and it is a field centered upon the idea that life evolved from the water. One of the dominant theories on the origin of life is known as the “iron-sulfur world theory” proposed by Günter Wächtershäuser; this theory holds that the first living organisms originated from nutrient-rich volcanic emissions far beneath the sea. Over the course of hundreds of millions of years, the world’s oceans were then responsible for nurturing life as it became more complex, morphing and diversifying from simple, single-celled organisms into a myriad of intricate species that swam, crawled and flew. So enriching was the water that some creatures, such as whales, returned to the sea after spending millions of years on land, swapping flukes for legs for flukes again. Evidence of this can be seen in the skeletal structure of cetaceans; the remains of legs (known as “vestigial limbs”) appear at the hip of every whale.

After 50 million years of thriving at the top of the marine food chain, some of these whales are now in grave danger. Reckless usage of understudied chemicals taints the seas, as evidenced by the plight of the southern resident killer whales of the San Juan Islands. Icons of the Pacific Northwest, the three southern resident pods are now ranked among the most polluted mammals in the world, thanks to the high concentration of polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) in the whales’ bodies. Banned in the united states since 1979, PCBs were used in common products such as paints, flame retardants, and adhesives. These chemicals leaked into the air and sea, wreaking havoc as persistent organic pollutants.

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Stored in the whales’ thick layer of blubber, PCBs “represent a significant toxicological risk” to the southern resident pods. Absorbed during the consumption of salmon, PCBs are passed to nursing calves through the milk from their mothers, becoming more concentrated with each generation. These chemicals have been known to cause “reproductive impairment, skeletal abnormalities, immunotoxicity and endocrine disruption” in seal populations, and can be expected to have similar effects on the orcas; they will continue to affect the whales for the next fifty years at minimum, according to Peter Ross of NOAA’s Northwest Fisheries Science Center.

Considering the millions of species occupying this planet, it would appear inconsequential to lose just one. But as we were taught in Walt Disney’s classic film The Lion King, “the circle of life moves us all,” and the loss of even one species shifts the balance of the entire food web. For example, if the killer whales of the Pacific were to be driven to extinction by the chemicals tainting their milk and blubber, the numbers of large, carnivorous fish would increase, which would in turn reduce the population of small bait fish and squid, leaving my feathered friend on Destruction Island without a meal for his chick.

But, of course, it isn’t just the orcas who are in jeopardy. As reported by Science Daily, the current rate of extinction paints a dire picture: “Half of all living birds and mammal species will be gone within 200 or 300 years… on average, a distinct species of plant or animal becomes extinct every 20 minutes.” The biodiversity of Earth is disintegrating, and we are losing species more quickly than we can count them.

In my time as an intern for the Seattle Audubon Society and for NOAA’s Northwest Fisheries Science Center, I have fielded many questions regarding the relevance of this invisible environmental catastrophe, most along the lines of, “Why should I care? They’re just animals!” The answer is remarkably simple: So are we. Though our natural instinct is to assume that our own species has more value than the others, biology has proven that we are merely another twig on the tree of life. (Considering that it is rooted in the sea, I like to think of the tree as a mangrove.) As a species, our fate is inseparable from that of our animal brethren.

Several prime examples were outlined in a 2010 policy brief for the COHAB Initiative (Co-operation on Health and Biodiversity), in which seven main points were given to demonstrate the connections between biodiversity and human health. Three core points will be highlighted in order to demonstrate the critical nature of the subject.

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“Biodiversity supports food security.” The basic rules of natural selection are in play here, in that uniformity in agriculture would render all crops or all livestock susceptible to the same pathogens, wiping out the global food supply; genetic diversity ensures that different species and strains hold different strengths and weaknesses. Likewise, the same concept applies to biodiversity, helping in the “regulation and control of infectious diseases,” as uniformity in a population gives disease a firm leg up in its goal to infect and reproduce. Biodiversity also “provides important resources for medical research,” as many medical breakthroughs were achieved by studying of other species, such as sharks (known for their superb immune systems) and whales (which inspired decompression treatments for divers).

In the spirit of conservation education, 2010 has been declared by the United Nations to be the first “International Year of Biodiversity.” But if we continue to treat our water as an acceptable chemical dumping ground, we will pave the road towards the Earth’s sixth great extinction, as addressed in the 2008 documentary Flow: For the Love of Water.

“Water is life. It’s the briny broth of our originals, the pounding circulatory system of the world, a precarious molecular edge on which we survive,” says Barbara Kingsolver in a water-themed issue of National Geographic. It links us to blue whales and blowflies, and we must respect that. Though we are not the most important species on Earth, we are the dominant one, changing our environment rapidly and radically with chemicals and machines. Our actions have a profound impact on the well-being of other species, and we must take responsibility for them.

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Surfing UFO

Alex Poorman

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Victim

Chris Kent

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Standing on the peak of Mount Olympus has never felt worse. Free like a bald eagle yet confined inside an egg. Flightless, the downward spiral begins. Setting ablaze the lush evergreens, each flicker is death to my ears.

Approaching a pitchfork in the road, billows of blinding smoke from descending routes escort me to travel high. I am pure ecstasy. White as feathers of an angel, a hero needs his heroine.

Every single injection, vain, for I become further sole. The only leaf on an autumn tree hanging on for dear life. The time for this life now ceases like the period at the end of this life sentence.

Sole SoulGift Tantibanchachai

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Waiting for Summer

Brian Mason

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Just walking through the front door was a feeling of intensity. Work had let me off early, probably because I was the boss’s daughter and the boss was dying. Seeing that hospital bed we had set up in our living room, I go straight for him. I could see by the looks of things there wasn’t a lot of time left.

“Hey Dad, how ya feeling?” He doesn’t verbally respond. At this point, there isn’t much to do but smile, even if it is a fake one. I look around and feel the anxiety growing in me. There are so many family and friends here, but I don’t want to talk to any of them. I want to focus only on who would not be here tomorrow. I had to accept that he was going to die tonight. I just didn’t know what I was going to do in the mean time.

I decided to sit with him, try and have the last few conversations I would ever have with him. “So Dad, you want me to put something on TV?” He shook his head and quietly responded, “No.” I look around the room, needing to find something or some way to distract us; we both know what’s coming. “What about some music dad?” It would be really good for everyone to have something in our heads, especially something positive.” My Dad looks up and I can barely hear him say, “Yeah can you please put on my song? It makes me feel a little bit better.”

Getting up off his bed, I walk over to the CD player, his CD is already inside. I put it on track number five, push play, and hit ‘repeat song’. “I Can Only Imagine” starts to play lightly, it’s a Christian song about going to heaven and the feeling that you have when you meet Jesus. Looking over at my father, I see that look of relief suddenly come over him. I could never imagine what’s going through his mind. I’m not even sure what is going on in my own. Part of me just wants tonight to end, the other part is afraid to move on to tomorrow.

On the couch I sit looking at my father. I can’t help but think about how much today is going to change my life forever. I can hear all of our close friends and family in the background, it’s like white noise. I really like the white noise, it helps me put things in perspective. I can actually concentrate on my thoughts better.

White NoiseAngelina Valiani

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My little sisters aren’t home; they didn’t want to be home for this. They’re afraid of being here, seeing our father die. Someone is going to have to call them tonight; it was pointless for them to leave. Knowing my younger sisters they will want to be back here before his body leaves. My older sisters are around somewhere, I just don’t care to find them. I wonder if it’s as hard for them as it is for me, or if they’re feeling more pain than I am.

People are trying to sit by me now. I never look to see who. They mumble things, I mumble back. I realize people are trying to be supportive, but I don’t feel bad when I brush them off. When they see that they’re keeping me from my own thoughts, they leave me alone.

I definitely start seeing what death looks like; My father is slowly dying. The cancer is eating away at him as if it were a leech to an open wound. His responses and energy are deteriorating, just like his body. It kills me to smell the food that is cooking, only because I know it’s killing him. He hasn’t had a thing to eat since the mashed potatoes he threw up on Thanksgiving evening-- that was three days ago. In the past few months alone, the stomach cancer my father has been tortured by has completely altered his look. The body that was around 195-200 pounds of solid muscle, the body that never ate an unhealthy meal and never missed a week without multiple workouts, that body is now 75 pounds thinner, skin and bone, with little dark hair left, if any. It was apparent that not only the cancer took a lot out of him, but the chemo and radiation that failed to work did as well.

Looking at the clock now I realize it’s only 11:30. It has only been two long hours since I have been home from work. This night seems endless. I am so incredibly torn between wanting his suffering and pain to go away and being selfish and wanting him here as long as possible. I need to go back over to him, I don’t want to miss any more moments I may have left.

I look at the person who is not only my father, but my best friend, my role model. I start to feel myself becoming numb and bitter, maybe even stronger. My mind is thinking differently, realizing I am accepting things that haven’t happened yet; it’s scaring me. I can tell it’s getting closer. I’m too young for this to be happening. I just got my driver’s permit; I shouldn’t be experiencing this type of life just yet. I can see when this is all over, I will feel a lot older.

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My dad takes my hand slowly while I sit on the living room step next to him. People are coming and going, saying things to him. Some are trying to offer him water, which lately he hasn’t been able to get down without choking on it. I was frozen like ice, mostly because I wasn’t sure what to do now. I am feeling some weight on my shoulders, like it was a thousand stares from the people around us, waiting for something to happen just like me.

My hand keeps getting squeezed by my father every minute or so, I think it was him showing me he was still there. Suddenly, I am snapped out of my daze of thinking when he says to me, “I love you all,” I reply back with an inside joke between all of us sisters and him, “I love you more.” Family is starting to gather around us, the house is beginning to quiet down. As the quiet and peacefulness of everything starts to give me anxiety, I am sitting there wishing the white noise would come back.

The last squeeze of my hand was at 11:44PM. We were all so close to making it to tomorrow together. The quiet then erupted into chaos and sobs. That is when I decided to get up and to do the things that needed to be done for my family. Phone calls had to be made, my sisters needed to get home, and my mind needed something to do. There was no point in sitting with him any longer. He was gone.

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The Storm Rolls In

Helen Hodges

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Thick rolls of morning fogare a blanket on the bay. Like a whisping blindfold, it blocks out the sunrise. Its deceptive beauty is captivating; the mist and moisture hugs me from all sides as I reach out to grasp it.

But it stays just out of reach,dissipating as it hits the sides of my sailboat. My boat cuts through the endless cloud, and I begin to wonder If I’m still heading in the right direction. Where are the flashing lights of the harbor?

I feel trapped in a grey underworld. When will this burden lift from the sea and expose the natural beauty of the bay? I sit waiting, watching, wondering, worrying, when a thin ray of sunlight emerges. It chases away the heavy fog, carving out patches of blue sky. Slowly the curtain is lifted.

I set out to sea and look back with a reassuring smile at the harbor that was once lost.

Through the DarknessBrandon D’Andrea

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“Emily, dear, have you ever thought about, you know, leaving your husband?” asked Jane, my social worker.

I stare at her with disbelief. This lady, with her grey hair and coffee stained teeth, who just asked me if I ever considered leaving my husband, knows nothing of our love. This lady who stares at me, who judges me by the deep purple and yellow bruise marks that cover my arms, looks at me and dares to ask me that question.

“You don’t know anything!” I snap. “You don’t know of our past! You don’t know about the gentleman who held open doors for me and spared me his last pack of cigarettes when I had none. You don’t know about the man who dropped out of high school with me when I found out I was pregnant with our first child. We worked hard when I was kicked out of my house! I still remember the blank look in my mother’s eyes when I told her the news that her only daughter was knocked up at age 17. Her blue eyes turned grey to black emptiness and that was the last I saw of her. But he was there for me, Ricky was always there,” I say.

I look into my social worker’s eyes. They’re droopy and sad and I almost think she pities me until her back straightens and she asks, “What about the children?”

I stare at her with disbelief before saying in a low voice, “He never laid a hand on April and Sam. He loves those children. He never touched them. And those kids need a father. I don’t know how I would deal without another pair of hands to help out around the house. April and Sam doesn’t know anything about the hitting,” I sigh.

I look down at my hands and slowly drag my eyes to look at my arms, finally acknowledging the temporary marks that scream hurt. They’re big, dark purple and yellow clouds. I look up at the lady sitting in front of me, studying me and I forget for a second who she is until she says that I need help. I get up slowly, not saying anything. I grab my bag and leave the building.

EmilyKristina Huynh

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Outside, I sit on the cold metal bench watching buses and cars zoom by. Ordinary people living their ordinary lives, except not really. My mind flashes back to the last time Ricky was upset. He had just gotten back from another bad day at the local supermarket. Red faced, unshaven, and a dirty white T shirt would describe his every day look. But that day, things got out of control. He came into our small apartment yelling at me because of the dishes lying around in the kitchen. I frantically tell April and Sam, who were just finishing up their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, to go to their room. They look at me with their angel faces, sad almost, and leave just as Ricky storms over to me. And from there on out everything was a big coffee spilled on the newspaper blur. All I can remember is red running down his knuckles and being smashed into a wall. And then there was grey to black to nothing.

I close my eyes and cover my face in my hands. When I look up, I see Jane standing in front of me with a blank look on her face. She hands me a card with a lawyer’s name on it and walks away.

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Step in the Past

Jeeranun rattanapong

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A beautiful day. The sun shines so bright in the sky as I looked up. I can see the sun smiling down at me. All of a sudden the sun got covered with darkness. The clouds make my bright day soon turned all gray. No sun? And the next thing I know, the clouds decide to gather together and cause the rain to fall down on my face. There I was soaked from head to toe without my sunshine. I wonder why the sky decided to pour down so hard on that day.

“Mom…Dad? Why are we packing up so early?” I ask, raising my eyebrows and speaking with a shocking voice. “Yes, I’m sorry! Your uncle wants us to move out because we don’t have enough money to pay for the rent this month.” Her words went through my ear canals, ripped my ear drums and made my brain malfunction for a while.

I lean myself against the dry, emotionless wall. The white, thick, mysterious layer of water pours down outside forced me to stare at it. My parents and I are supposed to pack up and leave my uncle’s house as soon as possible but I was not because I forget myself and stare at the rain instead. The picture of my parents and me getting soaked to the skin while we are moving out of uncle’s house will be etched on my mind forever.

There is mud everywhere. I thought our luggage was covered with molten chocolate. “Stop it, stupid rain!” I scream so loud that my throat feels like it was being poked by hundreds of little pointy fish bones. The clouds keep singing their pitiful songs and pouring down even harder.

I don’t need the sky to cry out for me because my family has been kicked out while we’re broke. I don’t need its water to blend with the tears on my face. When I hear the patter of the rain on the rooftops, it feels like the terrific scene of that day happens again in front of my own eyes. The dark humongous bodies of cloud decided to gather all together. As a choir group, they started to sing their songs of grief. The raindrops were too harsh and heavy that my ears feel so hurt when they hit the ground. The raindrops were too neglectful and freezing that my skin felt like being cut by thousands of crystal knifes when they landed on me. I taste the weirdest flavor of water on my tongue. It was insipid like water, but salty like tears. It’s the taste of the raindrops on that day. Ever since then, I’ve started to hate the rain.

Standing In The Rain,I See HopeTu Vu

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I feel so frustrated and hopeless because all of a sudden, I have to leave all my high school friends without a farewell. The feeling of exhausting and madness invades me rapidly because of the whole moving thing I have to deal with. Everything just slams on me so fast and unexpected like the raindrops. There was my uncle; fifty-eight years old with long black wavy hair covers his bony face. His hideous personality is way more disgusting than his vicious look. With a mocking tone, he spits out his words on my family: “Hope your parents will find some jobs in Burien so you guys don’t have to get kicked out like this again!” My parents ignore his words because my mom knows my uncle enough.

My heart rate suddenly begins to pump up like a racing car speeds up to finish its last round. The blood flows so fast that my veins felt like they were going to explode and I could drown in my own blood. In order to calm myself down from his insulting words, I start to run and grab the entire heavy luggage from my dad. I want the blood to flow faster through the veins in my arms instead of my face and eyes because tears started to roll down my cheeks. “It’s ok son, we’re almost done with this place, be strong like your mom and daddy!” My mom consoles me. I can feel the tiredness from her silky soft voice, but her beautiful smile, her bright-eyes; the way they stare at me gives me hope and sympathy.

Later, we arrived our new home in Burien. Lying down on the hardwood floor of the basement, I can’t feel the coldness anymore. There was a mixture of feelings that overwhelmed me. I’m so mad at the cruel sky, how it decides to pour down nonstop and soaked my parents and me to the skin. But I’m glad that its water continuously pouring down to clean all the tears off my face. The rainwater freshened me.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps coming toward me and interrupting my thoughts “Hey Tu, what’s up with you? Are you a young man who’s lying down on the floor that looks like he’s weaker than a forty-six years old woman?” With a silly voice, my mom never loses her humor, even when she’s upset. “Nothing, Mother, I’m just thinking about something really random” I sighed.

“Ok, Son, sit up. I have to tell you something really important. I know this is not a good time to lecture you, but you gotta listen to me carefully this time!” Her tone changed so rapidly that gave me goose bumps. “I heard you yell at the sky earlier when we were at your uncle’s house. You were complaining about the rain and trying to hide from its water. Do you know how our life would be without rain? There’s gonna be no crops, no food for you to eat, no flowers for you to decorate, no big trees that give you shades to hide from the burning sunlight. Here’s an important thing you have to remember son. Jerry Chin said that “And when it rains on your parade,

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look up rather than down. Without the rain, there would be no rainbow”. Bad things always happen during our life journals, but without failing and losing we’re not gonna learn our lessons. We have to thank your uncle. To me, what he did to us means me and your dad have to work harder so we can take care of this family, not depend on anyone. It’s a new beginning son. Starting from today, from this place, it’s a new beginning for us!”

“Rain, and rainbow; fail and a new beginning.” Her words keep echoing in my mind. I sit in stunned silenced and after hours of contemplation. I finally know why my mom was not happy with me when I hated the rainwater. My body would be irritated by the stickiness from sweating without the rain cooling me down. How can I feel refreshed without its water pouring, and pouring down on me nonstop? I was speechless by the insightful words that my mom gave me. Now I understand the reason why my mom was not mad at uncle when he was insulting us with his malicious words. Now I know why the clouds decided to gather all together to cover my sun and started to pour down on the day we were moving out. Instead of running and hiding from getting wet, I have to go out look up to the gray sky and find the sunlight. Because when I found the sunlight, it means the rain has stopped, there I will see a rainbow. A rainbow that has been formed by the sun shines onto a thousand droplets of rainwater. A rainbow that gives me hope.

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Reflection

Helen Hodges

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Rock Star

Chris Hagenbuch

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Lightning smells like suffocating smoke puffed in gray patterns from a cigarette. It’s a cheetah, striking its prey with impeccable speed and precision, muscles tensing as it pounces. A Lilly of the Valley, white tiny bells of torture, poison streaming through the veins if consumed. It is a ballerina, performing on a light filled stage, doing 32 consecutive fouettes, toes pointed in baby pink satin.A violin in the arms of its master, striking the highest note as fast as possible. It is a shiny red hand drill, moving too fast for your eyes to notice, leaving behind perfect circles. It is the color of blinding white, the hospital walls that it will send you to, light of the tunnel that you can’t stay away from.

Til Death Do Us PartKasia Wolowiec

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Skull and Roses

Jeff Bukowski

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Standing outside on the dimly lit back porch of someone else’s house, I am staring into the night sky, just barely making out the silhouette pine trees in the distance. I take a puff from my cigarette and exhale into the chilly air. The cloud of smoke rises and thins out in front of me.

As I watch unknown faces move inside the warm glow of the house, I wonder how I got here, how did I allow myself to come to this gathering, with people I don’t know? I came with my friend and stayed inside for a few minutes before sneaking outside. I could have just stayed home. Puff…puff…whoosh. I wish I could disappear just as easily.

“What are you doing out here?” says Michel as she opens the sliding glass door and sauntering away from the party, taking a seat on one of the damp lawn chairs. Her porcelain skin seems to glow in contrast to the darkness outside.

I tell her I am just getting some air, turning my view towards the glass door. She looks at me, narrowing her eyes, and asks, “You want to go home, don’t you?”

I take another puff and tell her no, suddenly realizing the she was the one person I could not fool. She can see right through my feeble lie. Exhale. Another plume rises and disperses. Slowly I say, “Yes.” Hopefully she will understand that I’m not the type of person that does well around people. I’d rather be out here on the porch, away from everyone else. I don’t mind being alone. The night sky and the crisp air make good company. She says nothing; the silence between us is thick and quickly fills the space between our bodies. I stare at the glowing ember at the end of my cigarette. Tap. A small piece of ash floats away.

“Stop it.”

Her tone slices through the quiet, the unexpected force of it hits my senses with a sudden jolt. “Stop what?” I ask. I knew what she was about to say; we have had this conversation before. The words are beginning to ring louder in my head. Not now, I can’t deal with this now. Please don’t say it. Please don’t—

Inhale...ExhaleAnonymous

56

Michel says those too familiar words: “This whole ‘wanting to be alone’ thing. What’s wrong with you?”

I catch my breath, hearing each syllable of her words pounding in my ears, the cold, condemning look on her face bores deeper into my heart. Taking a few steps back and leaning on the balustrade, I try to grasp the right words to tell her, explaining why I am like this.

Puff…puff…tap…whoosh. I couldn’t say anything.

Michel leans forward and gets out of the chair, closing the gap between us in a few steps. Intent on an answer, she crosses her arms and locks her gaze on me. “Well? Are you going to answer me?” Although she is shorter than me, Michel stands tall; the authority in her stance makes me cower in embarrassment.

I turn away from her and rest my forearms on the cold railing, almost dropping my cigarette. “I don’t know.” I heard a defeated sigh come from behind me, and from the corner of my eyes I see her come over and take a place on the rail, looking out into the distance. I look at her, those icy blue eyes seem to glow and see the truth in everything. How did she become such a person? I wish I could be more like her; she doesn’t seem to have a problem making new friends.

It’s quiet again; all we hear is the muffled thumping of loud music coming from inside, the steady rhythm carrying my thoughts away. Puff…puff. I think about how terrifying it is, making new friends. I don’t really do well with people, so I find it easier to be alone.

Once again Michel’s voice breaks through the silence. “You don’t have to be afraid you know.” Again her words slam into me, bringing me back to reality.

“What?” was all I managed to get out of my mouth. “Who cares if someone doesn’t like you? That’s their problem. Just be yourself.”

Like it’s that easy, you have so many friends. I’m the one that always tags along and keeps quiet. Whoosh. Grabbing my coat she pulls me toward the door, “Just go in for a minute, if you don’t like it, then we can leave.”

I protest, “What if they don’t—”

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“No.” She interrupts and shakes head, and stares, the hard looks she throws my ways my way defeats me right there. I know I have to go in now, it’s too cold. Michel opens the sliding and looks at me; I pout and nod. No turning back now.She smiles, assuring me that everything will be fine and steps inside, disappearing into the crowd. I look inside and feel my heart turn into a mass of lead, dropping into my stomach. I don’t want to do this. I utter my friends words one more time: “You don’t have to be afraid…Just be yourself.”

Her words provide little comfort for me. Being myself has left me isolated, and I’m okay with it. That is until I see Michel sitting at a table inside, laughing away with people. Most likely she just met them. Glancing into the opposite direction, there is the peaceful solitude of the back deck. A part of me wants to stay. But now I am too cold, and I want to make an effort to be more like my friend. I want to be happy, just like her. Heaving a sigh, lifting my head, I reach for the handle of the door.

Alright, I’ve got nothing to lose. If I don’t make any friends, I probably won’t see them again. I take the last puff of my cigarette and fling it into the distance, watching the tiny ember disappear into the night. Exhale. I turn around and step inside, leaving the last trail of smoke behind me to face away.

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Water dancing, bubbles are turning Going around like a stormy tornado. Overflowing, a pot of veggies on high Spills and splashes onto the stove.

Potatoes simmer, ribs marinate And chicken broils. The smell of yams fills the room Oh so sweet!

We fight like two dogs over a bone, And then we come together like gravy and turkey: Pinch of this and a dash of that.

Oh how we mix so well together like a tossed salad Blending with tomatoes, cucumbers.

He drives me to the boiling point.

Cook like this! Make it this way! No, not like that!Everything planned out in great detail and so organized.

“Just let me cook and get out of the way,” I yell.

We argue and fuse our faces in a scramble Fight, kiss, and make up.Dinner smells oh so good.We sit down at the table to eat. He says “thank you my love for a wonderful treat,”

As everything comes to a simmerBoiling point, Boiling point for love.

Boiling PointNeesheguy N. Newson

59

Chase Building, Chicago

Karlin Richardson

60

Sitting in that little space they called an office made me more claustrophobic than I have ever been in my life. I feel goosebumps crawl across my skin as the temperature plummets fifty degrees, even though I have a long-sleeve shirt on and thick blue jeans. The white walls bare, the desk neat and orderly; everything perfect except for what Sheila is saying. The world is closing in on me as I hear this person I just met render judgment upon my beloved. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, and her scrubs have little puppies and cats on them, she looks so innocent but her face tells a different story. Her eyes look black as coal as she stares at us, her head is cocked to the side like she is enjoying this moment far too much.

Sheila utters the words that we had been dreading since we found out Jimmy was getting this opportunity, “We haven’t got an answer for you today, I’m sorry. We will call you soon with the results.”

My breath came in quick rasps as I started to lose focus, and tears blurred my already failing vision. I was so mad; all I saw was red. Who was she to decide his future? This is life and death, not a game.

Her words echo through my head; I can feel a headache coming on as a sharp pain pulses like little men with jackhammers tearing at my brain. The light hits Jimmy’s face, lighting up his sea-green eyes, flecked with gold, as well as tears. His dark blond hair looks as if he just woke up, as well as his dark blue jeans, and black shirt looking a little disheveled. Looking him over, I notice him staring at me with such sadness in his eyes that I can almost see his world crash and burn. I cannot even begin to comprehend or begin to understand what he is feeling or thinking, only that he needs me to stay strong for him. I walk toward him and wrap him in my arms, like my mom used to do to me when I was upset. “We’ll get through this, it will work out, we just have to be patient, baby.”

Quickly scanning my memory, I try to think of where we went wrong today. Did we say something wrong to one of the twenty or so doctors we visited? Did one of the tests come back wrong? What happened, why do they not have a damn decision? How hard is it to decide that he needs this otherwise his body will just deteriorate and become nothing but dust and bones?

A Second ChanceKayla Carlile

61

All my thoughts jumble together, coming quicker and quicker until it ceases with the sound of his words. It is like he has the remote to my mind, and has quickly pressed the ‘stop’ button seeing that I was losing control. He utters the words so quietly I almost do not hear them, “You do not have to stay, you know. You can just leave, I’ll understand…” He stares at the floor, not daring to meet my big, blue eyes staring at him with tears flowing down my face.

I stand there, my arms limp at my side. I can feel my heart drop to the floor with a “splat!” My face must have conveyed just how I felt because the next thing he said was like a slap to the face, “Why are you even with me? I have nothing to offer you, I’m completely worthless!”

I had only one simple response to those harsh words that cut through the air like daggers aimed at my heart, “I love you. That is why. I am not here because I feel bad, or because I want to hurt you….I LOVE YOU. Is that not good enough? Stop pushing me away when I am so close. I am not going anywhere, I’m here to stay….no matter what, you hear me?” We fall to the floor in a heap of tearful embraces, and sweet kisses; completely and utterly exhausted. Lost in our own happy world for a few moments we lost all track of time. We just held each other and murmured reassurances, before being interrupted by the Transplant Coordinator Sheila.

Sheila comes around the corner; her eyes now a soft hazel color, but with her head again cocked to the side, like she is hiding a secret that she cannot bear to tell. Seeing us, she stops walking abruptly, her words are cold as ice. “Follow me please, we need to speak with you.”

We stood together; our hands intertwined, both seeking comfort from one another, and followed this evil woman into our future. Walking into the room, I noticed that both of our parents were there, as well as all the doctors we had just seen. I look to Jimmy and see that he is just as confused as I am. My mom beckons us to sit next to her and my dad.

Sheila looks at us together and I can only imagine what she is thinking. “We have decided that you are a good candidate for a transplant, even with your past transgressions, we think you now deserve a second chance. However if you screw this up, you will not receive another, so be wise in your decisions.” Her body turns towards me, her eyes narrowing into two little black slits, while her words stab at my heart, “Kayla, it is because of you that he is getting this; you are his other half, his biggest supporter. I heard what transpired between you two and am impressed with you. Most would have turned and walked away, but you stayed, and because of that

62

we are here now with this offer.” She turns to Jimmy and utters almost with regret seen clearly on her face, and heard in her voice, “Jimmy, you are now on the Kidney Transplant List, congratulations.”My heart sped like a galloping horse so close to the finishing line. I jumped out of my chair and almost knocked Jimmy over with a hug and lots of kisses. Tears flowed freely down my face as I let go of all the pain and anger; it was done now. I looked to Jimmy and whispered, “We are in a new chapter of our lives. Taking on the world together, baby. I am here forever. I understand the fragility of life, and how hard it is to put your life in someone else’s hands; I will always be here and be there for you through this, no matter what.” He just smiled with tears in his eyes and a look of pure love on his face as I whispered in his ear, “Baby, it is happening. A second chance!”

63

Redondo Sunset

Karlin Richardson

64

Cannon Beach Kites

Helen Hodges

65

Provocative Pricilla in pleasing plum,Dance, dance, dance to a down beat drum.

Jingles and jangles and jewels abound,Sparkling spirit of sight and sound.

Chinking coins and changing cymbals,Beautiful body so bold and nimble.

Flying frocks and frisky feet,An ardent audience on the edge of their seat.

Scented wrists and swirling skirts,Merry men in merry mirth.

Hurried hips and hasty beat,Holy harem! a heated treat.

“Mystical maiden make me your master,”Pronounced pleas as Pricilla moves faster.

Flexing and flashing in flurrying craze,A wild woman with a wicked gaze.

So glance upon the gleaming goddess great,As sultry shimmies cease in seductive state.

Performing PleasureErin K. Pili

66

I took another bite of my simply-to-die-for filet mignon. Well perhaps not to die for but maybe give me an arm and a leg, which is exactly what I’m expecting the bill to be. I took a sip of my 2008 cabernet the waiter had somehow convinced me to buy, and I was reminded yet again why I love to take my dates here. I watched Leanne pushing her fork around in her cheesy baked potato causing her silver bracelet to catch the dim candle light. There was nothing that bothered me more than when a girl wouldn’t eat on a date. I could tell something wasn’t right.

“Is everything okay? Should I send anything back?” I ask her.

“Oh no, everything is delicious, thank you,” she replies staring me right in the eye. Her fierce blue eyes alive with passion shine as her long blonde hair dances in waves to her waist, just like the first time I had seen her ordering a grande white mocha at the Starbucks we both ritually visit. It had taken me longer than normal to pluck up the courage to ask her on tonight’s date. She was a keeper, no doubt about that. She wore a modest black dress that showed just enough to flirt with me but still keep me guessing. I paled in comparison to her, and I’m a pretty good looking guy. Tall, 6’2”, well built from playing soccer, dark hair, tan skin and dark brown, almost black eyes.

“I’ve never been here before, it’s quite impressive.” She’s making small talk now. I was enjoying the song the pianist was playing across the restaurant by the bar. I had heard it from somewhere else before and couldn’t recall where.

“Yeah…I love El Gaucho, I come here all the time.” Another bite of delicious mouthwatering steak made its way into my mouth.

She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, “Oh really? What for?”

“Oh, you know, stuff.” The corn was better then it usually is. So was the view.

“Aha. I see…” Leanne directed her attention back to her plate.

I looked over to the table next to us. There was an extremely attractive chick in a short and very low cut dress talking to a man who looked way too lucky to have a date with her, but he didn’t seem to know it. Looking back at Leanne I saw her watching me observe the people next to us. I leaned to the middle of the table so

FiletJordon Pipkin

67

Leanne could hear me, “That chick is way too good for him, don’t you think?” I was just trying to be interesting and conversational. Apparently, I didn’t come off so suave. She gave me a look, a look I can only describe as not good, as she responded harshly, “Yep, she sure is gorgeous.”

I’d never gotten such a reaction like that before. Normally there was a cute giggle and a playful smile, but not Leanne. She was different; it’s what drew me to her in the first place. Her confidence was sexy as hell and I couldn’t resist. Oh how I would just love to…

“Charlie,” she interrupted my thoughts.

“It’s Charles.” I hate when people call me Charlie or any kind of nickname people come up with to make my name cute and friendly as opposed to something more respectful.

Her face made that damn look again. “Ok…Charles, how has your firm been treating you?” She’s starting to look genuinely curious.

Taken aback by her question I simply say, “It’s going well. It’s been better of course but we get by all the same.” I just realized, I have no idea what she does for a living. “Le-anne, what is it you do again?”

“I don’t believe I ever told you, I’m a CEO of a sales company I started about 4 years ago. We sell internet security.” She’s stirring her fork throughout her corn now.

“Wait, no kidding?” She’s a CEO? She probably makes more than me.

“There’s a problem?” She’s smiling at me. She’s really smiling like she’s won some kind of game.

“No I’m just used to a woman staying home is all. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with a woman doing a man’s job it’s just…well, we tend to do it better. That’s what makes it a man’s job.”

“Are you saying you have a problem with me doing my job?” Her cold stare is stabbing me.

“No…only that sometimes, well, women have a harder time in those kinds of posi-tions.” Doesn’t she get it? I cast my gaze across the restaurant. I’m counting all of the soft yellow lamps now, 11 so far. I can’t think of anything to ease this awkward situa-tion. She’s not helping either.

“Why do you think I agreed to this date with you?” I hear her ask.

68

While trying to think of something other than, “Because I’m good looking and have money,” I took a sizeable bite of steak. Dang, it’s almost gone.

“Well…because…” I’m having a difficult time coming up with an answer with her studying me like a hawk would its tasty meal. “I don’t know,” is my pitiful response.

“When I met you, you were charming, witty, attractive and a gentlemen. But I can see I’m sadly mistaken.” Her not good look had turned into a bad one, one I had never seen before and never wanted to again. Her eyes were still fierce, but not with passion for life, but more like the kind of “I’d very much like to slap you but I’m too good for that” look. I glanced back over at the table next to us to see if they were listening.

“Excuse me, I’m over here,” Leanne elegantly spit her words at me now.

“Leanne, please, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“Oh no, I think I’ve got it quite right. You’re obsessed with yourself, your money and objectify women, I get it.” The disgust is caked on her face. It doesn’t suit her at all.

I put my hand on her thigh to try to calm her. I’m embarrassed to say it did the op-posite. She abruptly got up and quickly mumbled through tight lips, “Thank you very much for dinner, Chuck.” She placed her napkin on the table, picked up her handbag and turned on her four inch heel. What the heck did I do? Trying to calm myself down I rubbed my hand on the incredibly soft black mink lined booth under me. “Wait, Leanne, come back…” She looked back at me with an almost prideful look on her face, like a smile was tugging at her mouth. She was so sexy I could hardly stand it. Only it was more than that.

“Next time you take a woman out, make sure you know how to treat her first. We’re not here for your enjoyment.” Before I had a chance to ask her to stay and calm down, her wavy blonde hair was already asking the hostess for her coat and probably a cab as well.

I stared at my wounded filet, buttered sweet corn, and scalloped potatoes all meshing together on my plate for some kind of answer. When it gave me none I focused my attention back to the soft music emitting from the bar. It was the kind of music that goes perfectly with a romantic dinner and seemed incredibly out of place to me at the moment with the empty seat in front of me. I glanced down at Leanne’s plate; she had taken maybe two bites of steak.

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Who did Leanne think she was? She certainly acted like a stuck up queen of “I’m Better Than You” land. Leanne was way out of line, right? There was no truth to what she said, was there? I have great personality. It probably won’t hurt for the next place I take a woman to be significantly less impressive though. Not like Ihop or anything, but I don’t need to be flaunting my money. You can’t take a first date to somewhere people get engaged anyways. I hated Leanne and her eyes as strong and deep as the sea, just like her will. She was strong and she knew it.

I took the last bite of my filet. It was cold and bitter.

70

Diamonds sparkle whimsically atop the placid ocean waves,glistening and shimmering against the sun’s glossy sheen. Foamycrests and swells rock effortlessly in the wind’ssoft breezes, like a lover’s sensual samba. Liquidsapphire reflects the luminous golden light, as radiant crystal meets the sandy shore.

Ripples lapse, graceful and artistic. It sings a saccharine, melodiouslullaby, dispensed in winding shells. Moist, saline-filled galeswhisk along atop the dazzling sea. And as the blazing starslips across the sky and down past the rosy horizon,the dusky depths dance and the iridescent gems disappearinto serene slumber immersed with fantasies of the next day’s luster and radiance.

Secrets of the SeaLeilani Jones

71

Sympathetic Introspection

Mark Ryan

Publication Notes

SoftwareARCTURUS 2011 was produced using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CS5

FontsZapfino, Trajan Pro, Minion Pro

PaperInterior paper - 100lb Titan Dull BookCover paper - 100lb Titan Dull Cover

ProductionPrint & Binding - Students in the Graphics Production Program at HighlinePresses - Heidelberg GTOF-S 5-color Digital – Konica-Minolta 5501

ARCTURUS features poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography and artwork submitted by the Highline Community College students, alumni, faculty and staff.

ARCTURUS is edited and produced by Highline Community College students with guidence by their advisers.

Appreciation is extended to all that contributed their efforts in making the 2011 publication a grand success.

ARCTURUS is an annual literary publication of :

Highline Community College, Des Moines, Washington

www.Highline.edu

SubmissionsARCTURUS is an annual publication of Highline Community College with contributions by Highline Community College students, alumnae, faculty, and staff.

Poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography, drama, and artwork subbmissions are accepted for the publication in ARCTURUS 2012 and may be addressed to:

ARCTURUS 2012 Highline Community College Attn: Sharon Hashimoto, MS 5-1 P.O. Box 98000 Des Moines, WA 98198-9800

Please include the title of the piece submitted, a short biography, and full name of the submitter. Also include a slef-addressed, stamped envelope.

The next deadline for submissions will be xxxxxx

The next issue of ARCTURUS will be released in May/June 2012.

Students interested in becoming the editors for ARCTURUS should contact Sharon Hashimoto and inquire about WRITING 260: Editing the ARCTURUS (a six credit, two-quarter class offered annually during Winter and Spring quarter at Highline Community College. (Prerequisite: Writing 151).

Editors will read blind submissions as thy make their decisions for publication in the ARCTURUS. They will also work closely with the Visual Communications Program and Print Program to design and produce the ARCTURUS publication.