The Alternative

AlternAtive 2015

The Alternative, Eastfield Colleges student-produced fine arts and literary magazine, was first published in 1990 to highlight student writing and artwork. After a three-year hiatus from 2007-09, it was restarted in 2010, receiving an honorable mention for general excellence from the Texas Community College Journalism Association.

The college has published a student literary magazine under five other names, starting with The Villager in 1971. It was changed to Goat Leg in 1976,

Epoch in 1980, Et Cetera Ambiance in 1988 and Visions in 1989.

This years edition features a variety of works including drawings, paintings, poetry, photography and short stories. It would not have been possible without the collaborative efforts of students and advisers from the following disciplines: Art, Digital Imaging, English and Journalism.

About the AlternAtive

editor / designerMonica Bolton

Production consultAntGail Johnson

PublicAtions mAnAgerElizabeth Langton

FAculty AdvisersIris BechtolLori DannDavid DanforthLarissa Pierce

About the editor

Monica BoltonA wise person named Douglas Engelbart

once said, The digital revolution is far more significant than the invention of writing or even of printing. That is one of the many quotes Monica has referred to while enjoying her newfound passion. She served as editor of The Alternative and a designer for The Et Cetera student newspaper. Monica is pursuing her associates degree in digital imaging technology at Eastfield College and plans to graduate in May 2015.

All contributions in this magazine are the works of Eastfield College students. Opinions expressed in this magazine are those of the writers, photographers and artists and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Dallas CountyCommunity College District, Eastfield College and the magazine staff.

3737 Motley Drive, Mesquite, Texas 75150 972-860-7130 eastfieldcollege.edu

PoetryThe Woods | Susanna Carlton ................................................................................................................... 9Depression | Anthony Cardoso Castan .............................................................................................. 20Devil in Disguise | Alex Courson .............................................................................................................. 26Irish Funeral | J. Gomez .......................................................................................................................... 13Time Spent in a Bar | J. Gomez ............................................................................................................... 12Cleansing Waves | James Hartley ............................................................................................................. 2Denial | Michael N. Lay ........................................................................................................................... 32Homesickness | Bridget Menard ............................................................................................................. 16Weak Foundations | Bridget Menard ..................................................................................................... 17Cast My Cares | Crystal Poole ................................................................................................................. 23

Short StoriesIn a Handbasket | Samantha Berry ..........................................................................................................28My Lost Daisy | Ryan Cook ....................................................................................................................... 10Childhood | James Hartley ....................................................................................................................... 18Unsung | Caitlin Piper .............................................................................................................................. 24 The Frightful Fiend | Diana Rodriguez .......................................................................................................6

EssayThe Momo Shop | Christina F. Smith .......................................................................................................14

ArtworkCity Signs | Marlon Bell ............................................................................................................................ 34Long Bridge | Marlon Bell ........................................................................................................................ 34Swept | Marlon Bell ................................................................................................................................. 19Beautiful Roses | Shelbie Caudle .............................................................................................................27Spring 1 | Andy Carrizales ........................................................................................................................ 21Spring 2 | Andy Carrizales ........................................................................................................................ 21Groovy | Ilka Chavez ................................................................................................................................ 37Boys Singing | Meagan Corey................................................................................................................... 25Girl at Festival | Alli Gilbreath .................................................................................................................... 6Infestacion | Andrea Gonzales .................................................................................................................35Untitled | Samantha Mancha...................................................................................................................10III | James Moore ..................................................................................................................................... 35Untitled | James Moore ........................................................................................................................... 35Rushing Mist | Elisa R. Morris .................................................................................................................... 3A Brighter Side | Elisa R. Morris ...............................................................................................................22Holy Guacamole | Sidney Murillo ............................................................................................................15Hidden Kitesurfer | Michael Tony Neese ................................................................................................9Picture in Picture | Michael Tony Neese ..............................................................................................31Sandra y Juanita | Edith Perez .................................................................................................................35Untitled | Anna Saroni ............................................................................................................................... 8Owl | Nathan Tatom ................................................................................................................................. 35Bhangra Dance | Kathryn Vestal ..............................................................................................................33Tucking Hair | Stormy Wallbrecher ............................................................................................................4Lip Biting | Stormy Wallbrecher ................................................................................................................. 5HandsRubbing Shoulder

Table of ConTenTs

2 The Alternative

Many times I dreamt of water

To wash away my deepest sorrow

And the weight the world has thrown on me,

I dream I could wish it away.

The fire that consumes my spirit,

It tries to kill me but I remain,

Praying for the waves to come and heal me,

To cleanse my spirit of my pain.

God, cleanse my spirit of my pain.

I search for oceans,

But all are still,

I search for seas,

But they have all become dry,

Empty and barren.

I cannot find the waves to wash me,

Cleanse me of this past I hold,

Cleanse me of the weight I bear.

God, Cleanse me of the weight I bear.

Cleansing WavesBy James Hartley

Spring 2015 3

Rushing Mist | Elisa R. Morris

Many times I dreamt of waterTo wash away my deepest sorrow.

4 The Alternative

sTormy WallbreCher

Tucking Hair

Spring 2015 5

Lip Biting

Hands

Rubbing Shoulder

6 The Alternative

There have been many times when I felt like death was just around the corner. But never like that

moment, when my heart was beating as fast as a gazelle running from its predator, when I saw my life flash

before my eyes.

It was a Saturday night at my aunts house, and the whole family had met for a fiesta. Yes, there

were a lot of eyes present, but none of them were vigilant enough to protect us from our inevitable

fate. My three-year-old cousin Alexandra, my sister Leslie, and I were having fun playing Tic Tac Toe in a

secluded room upstairs. Being a mature seven-year-old, I had an unnecessary advantage against my five-

year-old sister, Leslie.

While we played, Alexandra was entertained by her colorful crayons; there were just a bunch of

scribbles in varied colors on a sheet of lined notebook paper, but she claimed her painting to be better than

the Mona Lisa. After our short-lived amusement, we were getting hungry. We decided to go downstairs to

snatch some food, but first we cleaned up our mess: a combination of choppy crayons and loose paper. As

we wandered towards the exit, she saw it ...

Aaah! A bug! Alexandra exclaimed. An enormous roach, crawling on the floor stopped us in

our tracks. We are done for! The door is the only way out, but there is no way to get there! I said with

quaking fear. We leaped faster than lightning toward the bed. As we tried to shelter ourselves from the

monstrous insect, we fought for the blanket and Leslie accidentally tangled herself into it and fell to the

floor. As she was getting up, she glanced at the wall and saw a second roach approaching. She screamed,

but no one came to our rescue. Our screams drowned into the loud music downstairs.

Alexandra began to weep and I tried to calm her. As the oldest, I had to keep the peace.

The Frightful Fiend by Diana RodriguezGirl at Festival | Alli Gilbreath

Spring 2015 7

I quickly made a plan in my head; it

was not the best plan, but at least it would soothe them and buy me time. My plan was

to wait for the roach to crawl under the bed so

we could make a run for it. Of course, my plan

did not work out exactly how I had predicted;

the roach decided to do its own thing. It began to put its disgusting legs all over my favorite

bed sheet as it made its way up the bed. As we kept moving farther and farther from the

gruesome pest, I reached for a paper that

was laying on the night table and got ready to attack. I quickly grabbed the paper, skillfully

folded it, courageously scooped the bug up,

and threw it out of sight. As I informed little

Alexandra about my victory and inhaled relief, I

noticed that the second roach started crawling

toward us.

Shielding our bodies from the

repulsive creature, we saw it stop abruptly. Fearfully, we had the bed sheets up to our

necks. The roach sat viciously, as if waiting

for us to forget about it so it could strike. As

we tried to calm down and think of a plan, we

ignored the bug in front of us. We laid down,

still covered and stared at the ceiling for what

felt like an eternity. Suddenly, I looked at the

wall and the roach jumped. I shrieked in fear

and everyone looked in the same direction.

The bug opened its wings and flew toward

us. The events happened so fast that there

was no time to react. As if in slow motion,

the insect drifted above our heads. We tried

to scream, but the fright was so great that we

made nothing but a squeak. The bug was so close to our faces that its wings could almost

blow our hair to the side. We thought it could not get any worse, but it did. The horrifying

beast landed on Leslies nose and started to crawl all over her face. She hollered once she

felt the bugs legs on her cheek, and as she

saw it, she fainted. Alexandra cried again and

we ran toward the door. We were almost out when I stepped on the roach I had thrown with the paper earlier. I stopped, screamed, and jumped in disgust. Alexandra, not waiting any

longer to escape, ran downstairs and called for

help. Meanwhile, I was stuck upstairs freaking

out about the bugs guts all over my bare foot,

as well as having to deal with Leslie too.

My mom went to the bedroom . Meanwhile my aunt, still incredulous, hollered

to my mom that there was nothing to worry about. You kids should all learn to be less

noisy and start considering everyone in your surroundings! she yelled. Once Alexandra

returned with my mom, who still believed we

were fooling around, Leslie opened her eyes

and began to cry. My mom, affirming that

the danger had passed, fell to the floor and

soothed our sad souls. She walked over to the two bugs and killed them with two mighty stomps. At that point, we were all safe and the

nightmare had ended.

From that day forward Leslie has had a

phobia of bugs, especially roaches. She cannot

bear to look at them. Alexandra and I still have

a good time remembering that day; although

it was filled with fear and agony, it is now just

a bad dream that can easily be turned into a funny incident. We were all scared, but when

we think of the events that happened that

night, we giggle until our stomachs are in pain.

That near-deadly experience made me realize

that fear is as big as we let it become. Bad days

have to end sooner or later; we just have to

decide when to end them. That was one scary but interesting night that I will never forget.

8 The Alternative

Untitled | Anna Saroni

Spring 2015 9

There was something mystical about them.

Something that made your imagination run wild and your heart beat faster.

It made you look twice at everything.

The smallest noise scared you to death.

In the woods your imagination had control over you, not your mind.

You could run as fast as a deer and as softly too.

You were part of the woods.

You could forget everything except here and now.

There were pine trees looming over you.

They hid the sky, as they stood so strong and proud.

They vowed that nothing could bring them down.

And standing there beneath them, feeling such security, youd wish that nothing ever would.

The Woods by susanna CarlTon

Hidden Kitesurfer | Michael Tony Neese

10 The Alternative

The losT daisy

awhile back I was told by one of my relatives, though heck if I can remember which one, that life

is like a Western movie. If thats true, I cant

be too sure as to why that is. I reckon its cause every day you wake up in the morning knowing youre facing a world thats always

trying to get at your throat. Always seems ready to bite like a snake looking for his

evening meal or a bandito closing in on your cash, knowing that all that stands between him and a new bottle of

whiskey is his knife and your neck. Or

maybe cause you can compare it to a wild stallion. You can

try and tame your day like you would a horse, but no matter what precautions you

take or kindness you give, youre always taking the chance of falling off or getting bucked out of your

saddle and into the stars.

Me? Hell, I tend to think that if a fellas

going to look at the world through the brim of a

ten-gallon hat, its probably cause hes lived his life

on his own terms. That he rides with nothing but wits and grit, but looks back behind him every now and then to see if anyones chasing him. When he

does, he finds that nothings closing in cept his own

regrets. I myself am no cowboy, but I can relate to

the notion of riding too fast and not looking back

soon enough.

It may seem like a tall tale to say that when I was young I had my first run in with Cupids

arrows. Well it darn sure isnt a small one since nothing like it ever happened again, not in my last years of elementary, not in high school, not even

through my college years. Funny thing is it was a short encounter; like a tumble weed catching a

breeze and then rolling in front of a stage coach,

it was a total surprise that caught me off guard but

was over just as fast. It was a clear summer day in

June when I got the inkling to ride out in the good weather. Like I said, Im

no cowboy, but when youre a little buckaroo of nine and the

future is as wide as the Great

Plains of Texas before you,

you tend to think of yourself

as the second coming of

Wyatt Earp. I didnt have a

horse, but I did have a pristine

and very reliable bike that I called Red Beam. And though I didnt live out in those bygone plains, I

did grow up in a quiet and safe

neighborhood that, at the time,

boasted of a park that was just

as vast and as pretty as anything youd see in the

movies. The fields stretched out nearly as far as the

town limits. There was a creek for skipping stones

while the frogs croaked their pond songs, and there

was even a sand box for playing volleyball in. Yes

sir, it was our little slice of Heaven, and I was free

to take old Red Beam down to it whenever the mood struck me. Some bacon on toast and a kiss from momma was all the fuel I needed to set me

off on my way. I tell you there is nothing like riding

a big kid bike down the mini concrete roads of your

neighborhood park.

The day didnt seem like it was going to be any different than any of the dozen other times

Untitled | Samantha Mancha

Spring 2015 11

I rode around in a giant circle, without anything particular on my mind cept how great the freedom

of it all felt. But on this particular ride, something

caught both my sight and my ears. It started as a blur and a faint whisper, like the cooing of a small

bird trailing within the clouds, and I made my way toward it. Eventually, the blur got more focused

as I was getting nearer and nearer and the sound

kept on growing just like my heart rate. Finally I

saw her, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She

looked to be about my age, and she was sitting on

her knees right by the sand box where a baby acorn tree was just starting to grow. She was singing to

herself while picking daisies out of the ground. She

had what I can only describe as the most angelic voice, one that I was sure Heaven was probably missing from its chorus. Rare is the day that I dont

wish I could remember the exact song she was singing. Maybe it was something she made up since I didnt recognize the lyrics, but I was mostly paying attention to her vocalizations. She got up to stretch

herself and the little dress she was wearing, and

the notes she was singing rose with her. She began waving her arms around to the tune the good Lord was giving her, and Iittle by little I was wishing I

was one of the flowers she was holding next to her

heart. It was like she was trying to sprout wings and fly up to whatever cloud she fell to earth from. I

dont rightly know if what I was feeling was some

kind of puppy love or just a deep fascination, but

whatever the case Red Beam and I were frozen

in our tracks. I was watching a real live Broadway performance play out in front of me, and I didnt

want it to end. But just when I thought time had

broken itself for me and her, I sneezed and her head

shot up like a stray bullet. She was staring right at me. Our eyes met like the moon meets the earth, and I tell you right now, if my heart didnt feel like

it was going to burst out of my chest and run for

the hills at that very moment, then Im not who you think I am.

Suddenly a thousand different scenarios

started playing in my head like an old-timey slide

show. One involved her screaming and calling for

her mother cause a peeper was spying on her from

afar. Another had her continuing with her song with

a grin on her face and red blush appearing on her

cheeks. The best was her asking me over and us talking about who we were and where we lived, which to make a longer story short, resulted in us becoming friends, then sweethearts, and finally

man and wife with two or three kids and a little

house out in the country. Sad as it is to say, nothing like that happened. No, like the cowboys of my

favorite movies, I just gave her a slight wave, then

hitched up old Red Beams kick stand and rode away without a second glance. I never saw her again.

Id be lying if I said I didnt know why

I didnt introduce myself to her, cause I do. Its

because even as a nine year old, I knew that some things are better left as they are. That moment of

watching that girl in her natural state of bliss and

beauty was so perfect that I just didnt think it was

going to get any better. She could have ended up

being the love of my life, but then again she also

could have been just another passing acquaintance,

another tumble weed just rolling along not wanting

to pay anyone any mind. Still, it was one of the first

times I can recall truly regretting a decision that I

made, but hey, it was still my choice. But if I ever

saw her again, I would choose differently, because a

cowboy always has his horse, his hat, boots, a rope and a gun, but he doesnt always have a gal. Today, I have a car, a pair of shoes, a hoodie, a cell phone

and a right hook, but where are you now my daisy girl? I hope youre still singing.

by Ryan Cook

12 The Alternative

Eyes pace the room,

weary from alcohol

and my present companys charm.

I extend my intoxication

as

women cloud the table

with warm

inebriated ease

and the harmonics of clattering knees.

I sit back against the eyes

tilted across the beer

my mouth takes apart

drink

and then a drink

consumes your words.

Brain unhinged,

words undue the buttons of my throat

as they graciously spell and quiet my

addiction to melodrama.

Time spenT in a barby J. Gomez

Spring 2015 13

Memorys phantom acquires its exit through

an uninhibited window, silencing your time on

this plane. The crying begins as recollections

are held ransom behind tapestries, banging

around the home of this grievance party. At 3

a.m. we arrested the clocks to signify when you

passed between our two worlds. We sabotaged

the reflection of our mirrors carefully under

cloth, preventing your metaphysical residue

from clinging to its earthly memories. Spirits

spill sentiments between floor boards and brew

aggression that brawls within broken glass. The

party burned for two days and then laid his

body to rest.

Columns of kin corrupt uncomfortably padded

pews, brandishing bourbon aroma, exercising

booze lit tears. Taper wax descends a candy

wick delirium. Sobering sobs strip and humble

us before a perforated Christ. Lips crucified

in gloss. Carnations and chrysanthemums

decorate our remembrance and close the casket

of his time.

irish Funeralby J. Gomez

14 The Alternative

The

momo shopby ChrisTina F. smiTh

Momos are one of the most beloved traditional foods of Nepal, the country in which I was raised.

You dont need to look for one. They can be seen everywhere, large stacked steamers, nearly as tall as the person tending to them, stand out like silver flags against the busy Kathmandu streets. Placed strategically outside of the shop, they threaten to take over the already narrow sidewalk and signal you to stop and desert whatever plans you had previously made; those things can wait. Squatting over an open kerosene burner, the pot lets out little squeals and puffs of steam that can be heard above the raging, bubbling water in the base level. Then one on top of the other, the steamers are stacked, each one filled with doughy, white dumplings. Small holes on the base of each pot allow the steam to travel up the levels, working its 100-degree magic on each momo. The lid sits on top, trying to contain the luscious, spicy aroma. A futile attempt; it escapes anyway, and fills the crowds with hunger that did not exist a moment earlier. Its impossible to say no to this smell, and if you do, you will regret your decision all day and crave momos all night.

I take a seat inside on a bench next to some fellow addicts. The surprisingly short cooking time never seems short enough. A woman yells from the back kitchen. Her 15 year old son emerges and grabs a large, flat, circular spatula, a smaller version of what is used to take pizza out from an oven, shiny silver to match the pot. He quickly removes the lid and jumps back a foot to avoid being scalded by an explosion of steam. The dumplings have now cooked to be the perfect pale golden, almost translucent, and dripping with juice from the meat inside. He expertly scoops them up with his spatula, 10 at a time, and serves them on tin plates. Each plate gets a small bowl of achaar.

Can I tell you about the achaar? Just as every momo shop has its unique way of preparing the meat and folding the dough into the perfect shape, the dipping sauce, or achaar, is different on every street corner. Some offer a chunky green chili sauce, others have a minty flavor. There are milder versions that I drink straight from the bowl like soup and ones that will set your tongue on fire, orange tomato laced concoctions and curry-like sauces that overflow with spice. To me it makes no difference; I wish I had the recipe for each one.

Im handed my plate and immediately I stab one of the little pieces of heaven with my fork, twirl it around the achaar bowl until its fully coated and then pop it in my mouth. The momo explodes with juicy, savory flavor as I bite into it. Momos are typically made with ground buffalo meat, though chicken and vegetable versions exist. The meat is delicately spiced with just the right amount of onion, garlic, coriander, cumin and ginger. I think that if I were on death row and asked what I should like to eat as my last meal on earth, this would be it. Breaking only to ask for more achaar (twice), I finish my meal in record time and walk to the back kitchen where the round, smiling mother is kneading a sticky lump of dough for the next round. Even though the shop is the size of a matchbox, its always packed with locals and travelers craving their fix. The shop owners day is long and busy, but she works with the calm focus of someone who takes pride in her craft and enjoys making others days brighter.

Dhanyabhad she says, not bothering to wipe the flour off her hands as she takes the 40 rupees that I hand her.

Dhanyabhad I reply, sincerely thankful for the bliss I have just experienced. Back on the street, my craving has been satisfied and Im determined to continue my day with focus. That is until I round the corner and the next silver pot knocks me off my feet.

Spring 2015 15

holy GuaCamole | sidney murillo

16 The Alternative

I take a walk around the crawfish pond,

Narrowly avoiding the ruts and stray hooksThat sprinkle the damp mud like land mines.I swing on the back porchAnd let the wind chimes serenade meAs the moisture in the air settles on my skin.I listen as someone sings,As someone teases the keys of a piano,As laughter travels down the narrow hall. And then the past escapes me,And mosquitos crawl across my bare legs,And screaming makes its way into every room,And the tinkling chimes hurt my ears.I now spend my visits elsewhere,Smoking cigarettes that the damp air left stale,And drowning the bitter taste with cheap beer that I wasnt carded for.I thought of that house as my home,Yet time and death and regret has wrecked that.You were my home.You radiated the warmth that the fireplace could not.

You created the notes that harmonized with the wind chimes.You were that house, personified.

And when we entered your walls,After placing you into the ground,There was a silence shared by us,Children who had been raised in your embrace,And I knew then that a rot had set in.

By Bridget Menard

homesiCkness

Spring 2015 17

Weak foundaTionsDont ask me why Im shaking.Why my hands tremble as I hold this sheet of paper,either violent enough for everyone to see or slight enough that only those close can catch. Why my body quakes,limbs convulsing and joints creaking. Why stillness is foreign to me,even with a steady heartbeat and untroubled thoughts. Perhaps I was built on a weak foundation, cobblestones without mortar,bricks constantly shifting. The slightest breeze will bring me down. Perhaps my blood flows faster,ready to explode from my veins. My heart beats harder,the vibration travels,and threatens to fracture my bones. Perhaps God wound me uplike an old-fashion toy,before setting me loose on the world.The crank turns endlessly, showing no signs that itll ever stop.I would give anything to build something, without having the pieces tumble clumsily from my grasp.I would give anything to hold my hand steady,as the person I love slips a ring onto my finger.I would give anything to take control of this body,to feel strong and solid,to stand here without feeling so fragile. So I beg of you, please,dont ask me why Im shaking. By Bridget Menard

18 The Alternative

I vividly remember my childhood, those priceless times in my life where there were no cares. Not those times when grades felt like the weight of the world; nor those where the home drama bogged down my life and made things difficult. No, Im talking about the times when those things didnt matter. The true spirit of adolescence was the times when things were real, when there was no filter. Those times when I wasnt in the game to try and please someone else, but rather there to make memories or simply to enjoy life or even more often just to feel. To me, that was what childhood was.

I recall, as if it were just yesterday, the first time I fell in love, and the time my first love made me feel my first heartbreak. I remember the burn of those tears in my eyes as that teenage boy tried to process why he wasnt good enough. I remember, as though it just happened, when my best friend Jake and I were almost arrested for vandalizing public property. As far as we knew the things we were painting under that bridge were just pretty cool paintings, but the police didnt seem to agree with us. I remember that fear and that adrena-line rush as we ran as fast as we could, and that relief, that feeling of being free and rebellious when we realized we were away free. That raw, unfiltered emotion.

I could describe to you even today, as the weight of independence tries to plant roots of struggle into my life, that time when I wasnt worried about grades or money. Those moments in junior high school, when I was more focused on girls and bands and what party my friends and I planned to crash. Those moments when real choices were made. Choices like not taking a hit from that joint, but not hesitating to kiss that girl. That choice that the small guy who kept calling me names wasnt worth a fight, but that guy who

was bigger than a skyscraper at only fourteen wasnt too big for me to handle (and boy was I wrong about that one). Those decisions that were real, not influenced by financial needs or any sense of responsibility for my actions.

I remember playing music and acting in theater because I felt like it, not because it would look good for colleges. I can still feel the crazy, insane motivation that drove me into trying out for track team because I wanted to impress that girl, and dropping out of track team when I realized that girls like football players and not track runners and that I had neither a desire to run nor to suffer multiple concussions to get Anna Reeds attention. Still, I can remember two years ago, at the age of twenty four, hearing that same girl, Anna Reed, whom I had fallen in love with in the eighth grade, say the words I do while standing across from me at the altar. Yes, that was a moment of what I would describe as a part of my childhood, my youth.

Still, with all of those memories, the one I hold most dear is somewhat clich. It was the point that I realized I was going to pursue my dreams to change peoples lives for the better, the moment I decided to help people find relief from things like depression and anxiety. Jake and I were both seventeen. We snuck out of Jakes house, took his dads car, and went for a long drive. It wasnt the first time wed done this. It had turned into a kind of rite of passage, though that may not be the best way to describe this time. Perhaps it was more of a celebration of a completion of a rite of passage.

Jake and I had both just received notices that we had been awarded full-ride scholarships to the same school for our achievements in arts: Jake in choir and me in

Childhood

Spring 2015 19

orchestra. Jake already knew that he was going to major in engineering, while I had no clue what I was going to do. So we went out on the road with no particular destination in mind. We talked about life, the past, the present, and the future. As we drove toward a tunnel, Jake dared me to stand up in the car, stick my head out the sunroof, and scream. Of course, never being one to turn away a dare, I did it. I watched from my vantage point as the tunnel grew closer.

As the wind blew through my hair and the tunnel grew closer, I felt something grow in my chest, some emotion that I cannot to this day describe. I screamed at the top of my lungs as we went through that tunnel looking at all the graffiti art that was on the walls. I saw one that caught my eye. I saw a picture of a boy, a teenager, crying. The caption read Help. I saw that and knew without a doubt in my mind that I wanted to help people. I wanted to heal. I wanted to find a way to take people who had hit rock

bottom and pull them up from that pit and show them that the future is always worth fighting for.

I cried. Tears of joy streamed down my face, stained my cheeks and burned my eyes. I failed in my attempts to choke back those tears. Why did I try, though? They were tears of joy! I finally knew what my purpose in life was. I finally realized what I was born for, why God had seen fit to make me the man I was, to give me the experiences I had and to put me in the place He did.

Childhood is something I think on often. The choices I made then, the things I felt, the way I acted, the things I learned, the hurt and the joy and the pure, raw, unfiltered emotion all made me the man I am today. The heartbreak and the love, the sadness and the joy, all brought me to a place in my life where I realized who I truly am.

Childhood

Swept | Marlon Bell

by James harTley

20 The Alternative

I am drowning

I tried to care but fell into despair

I should be crying but look forward to dying

I cannot be helped by a simple prayer

Acceptance is all I need

The worst thing to feel is rejection

Do not let my beauty mislead

Put away your accusation

I think differently

Open your mind and listen

Do not mock or take advantage of my state, treat me gently

Love me through the destructive thoughts I live in

The way I am might be crazy to you

Your acceptance, support and respect is overdue

Depression by Anthony Cardoso Castan

Spring 2015 21

Spring 1 | Andrea Carrizales

Do not let my beauty mislead.

Spring 2 | Andrea Carrizales

Do not mock or take advantage of my state, treat me gently.

22 The Alternative

a brighTer side | elisa r. morris

Spring 2015 23

Worry and fear took over me for a long time.

The devil had me sick, trying to make me lose my mind.

My mind, such a terrible thing to waste.

I went around with a smile on my face.

But you could never tell what I was going through.

I didnt know what to do.

I made it my daily routine to worry about family, friends, money and every little thing.

Mentally wavering, my confidence was not in You.

But you God, You guided me and told me exactly what to do.

I learned to cast all my cares on You.

Will I continue to worry? No

Will I continue to walk in fear? No

I finally realized that we do not have to question God.

If He said it, He will do it, because He is God.

Anything that we ask of Him, He will do it.

We must say it and not doubt it and believe in our hearts that He will see to it.

Because it says it in His Word in I Peter 5:7.

To cast your cares upon Me, for I care for you

Thats what He wants us to do.

And we will God.

Cast all our cares on YOU.

CasT my Caresby CrysTal Poole

24 The Alternative

ignoring the sea of people milling around him, Trevor lurches forward and plucks the half-finished cigarette out of the gutter. Its smeared with bright pink lipstick at one end and caked with dirt at the other. He sticks the lipstick end in his mouth and, scraping the other end clean, touches his lighter to it. Its too wet. It doesnt light. Cursing, he tosses it to the ground and shoves his way through the crowd, heading for the subway.

That job interview had been his last chance. Hed known that. Alan had been pulling strings and kissing ass for two months to get it for him. So why had he tried so hard to sabotage it? It was the interviewer. Had to have been. The guy was only a few years older than him, but he dressed like hed never left the 80s, with his slicked back hair and smug sharks grin. Trevor had wanted to punch him in his stupid face on sight. The guy had to have known his history, had to have known every little screw-up that led to this point in his life. Even if by some miracle he hadnt glanced over Trevors disgustingly long rap sheet, Alan must have described it to him in fleeting detail, using words like resourceful and inspirational to describe him. Fucking Alan.

Trevor stops at the edge of the sidewalk, staring up at a sky the color of slate as a bus lumbers past, belching up curls of blue-black smog that hang in the air overhead. Its going to rain soon.

Silently considering the traffic before him, Trevor scratches his cheek. Hes shaved for the first time in months, and the itching is beginning to drive him crazy. He fumbles through the pockets of his frayed suit jacket, running his hands over his face and plunging his fingers into his receding hairline when he finds them empty. Hes out of cough drops.

Some asshole in a suit begins to screech into his cell phone behind him, squealing to someone named Edna about how she cant do anything right. Trevor chews the inside of his cheek,

stale cherry cough drops lingering on the back of his tongue. Maybe its better that he told old Gordon Gekko to go fuck himself back at the interview. He doesnt need these people. He doesnt need Alan and his disgustingly transparent pity. Alan is just a waste of skin and hair gel whose only talent lies in his uncanny ability to ruin perfectly good silences. Fuck Alan.

Trevor clenches his hands until the bones creak. The entrance to the subway is just right there, and traffic isnt slowing. He steps purposefully onto the street, deaf to the horns and screeching and unrelenting noise of the world around him. Darting down the stairs, he steps onto smooth concrete and

is swallowed up by the subway.

He throws himself down on the first available bench to

gather his bearings. Some college-age kid is sitting in the middle of it, scowling below his mirror-like sunglasses as he clutches what looks like a laptop bag

to his chest and taps on an expensive-looking phone, a

bulky duffel bag resting at his feet with its strap curled around

his ankle. Trevor scoffs. Sunglasses underground. What an asshole.

Trevor winces as a train screeches to a halt nearby, the sound amplified in the sprawling maze of concrete. Like clockwork, a crowd rushes past in both directions, splitting cleanly around the bench. Sunglasses Kid looks at his cellphone and abruptly stands up, melting into the river of bodies as he presses the phone against his ear and disappears.

Hes left his duffel bag.

Trevor stares at it intently. He eventually sidles over and runs his hand across the weatherbeaten exterior. Whatevers inside is hard and small and rectangular, shifting with a whisper when he presses his fingers down.

He bites the inside of his cheek. No ones looking. Theyre too busy staring at their feet and ignoring each other. Sucking air in through his nose,

Unsung by Caitlin Piper

He walks. He

wanders. He watches. No ones looking. No ones

following.

Spring 2015 25

he loops the strap over his shoulder, walking stiffly up the stairs and onto the street. Staring straight ahead, he fights back the urge to break into a run. He walks. He wanders. He watches. No ones looking. No ones following.

The crowds thin. The traffic quiets. Trevor ducks into an alley and drags in a breath, sliding to the ground as his fingers fumble with the zipper. He rips the bag open, wrenching his neck to look inside.

Its nothing but a bunch of old books. Dime store novels and self-help pamphlets that look as if theyve been through dozens of owners. Sitting on the top, screaming up at him with cheery yellow bubble letters is a hardback entitled Keys to a Long and Happy Life.

With a manic, ear-splitting laugh, Trevor grabs the book and flings it sideways into the wall. Its spine crunches before it claps to the ground, sagging on its pages in a pile of rat droppings.

Panting, Trevor kicks the duffel bag away, sending books sliding as he buries his head in his hands. This is what hes become. A bitter old bastard sitting in a pile of trash and roach shit with $20 to his name and a lifetime of unpaid debts on his addiction-rattled shoulders. Disgusting.

The vibration of his cellphone pulls him out of stupor. He reluctantly pulls it up after its gone still, straightening when he sees the name on the caller ID. Frantically running his fingers over the buttons, he presses it to his ear as the voicemail begins to play.

His breath catches in his throat, and Trevor is completely oblivious to the tangled mass of wires spilling from beneath the mountain of old, beaten books in the duffel less than a foot away.

In the seconds leading up to the explosion that kills him, rupturing his lungs and bowels while simultaneously sending all three pieces of him flying sideways into the street, Trevors eyes grow hot.

In the seconds leading up to the explosion that jars an old building from its crumbling foundation, sending spiraling clouds of dust and rubble in every direction as a passing car is knocked skidding and battered into the center of the road and its drivers eardrums pop, Trevor decides that he might still have a chance.

In the seconds leading up to the explosion that marks the final entry on his extensive rap sheet, that earns him a spot in countless Worlds Dumbest Criminals lists and whose retelling draws a long and hearty laugh out of his father when the police come knocking on the old mans door, Trevor realizes where he needs to go and what he needs to do.

In the seconds leading up to the explosion that transforms him into an immortal laughingstock, a would-be bomber whose only victims were himself and a few pigeons with the unfortunate luck to be bathing in a cloudy puddle nearby, a man whose sole defender would be ridiculed for refusing to look past his inspirational story to see him for who he really was, Trevor knows that he can end the day a new person.

In the seconds leading up to the explosion that damns him, Trevor is sure that he can finally become worth something, that he can finally surpass everyones expectations and become a man worthy of praise and adoration, and beams as the first and final tear spills scorching down his cheek.

boys sinGinG | meaGan Corey

26 The Alternative

The flowers that fall beneath the trees,

Bring the smell of death, that brings me to my knees.

The breeze that gently rolls through the plains,

Like a specter slowly haunting with its gaze.

The denial is through, while the shock sets in

Making way for the anger, to boil within

I stare at the cross that lies under the oak.

My mind, steeped in memories begins to float.

Judgment is upon me, Im going to hell.

For I am my own judge, and jury as well.

But I am not shaken, not even stirred,

For the public eye, the line has always been blurred.

They found her in blood, right next to a letter

Explaining her choice, and why it was better.

The decision was easy, my fury had hit its peak

The hardest part, was practicing her handwriting for a week.

The devil in disguiseby alex Courson

Spring 2015 27

Beautiful Roses | Shelbie Caudle

The floWers ThaT fall beneaTh The Trees.

28 The Alternative

despite the kingdom he had built on the foundations of love and goodness, it was clear the

Lord had a sick sense of humor. Either that, or he was

very anal retentive. For why else would he establish

Hell in the form of a democracy? President Camio the

XIII toyed with this thought as she sipped her morning tea. Then again, she mused, democracy in hell was a

farce; a cruel joke God played on sinners to make them

hope there was still a chance at salvation.

In her two-hundred and thirty eight years as

president, Camio had not once seen justice served.

Rather than vote on the guilt or innocence of a soul,

the High Court of Hell collaborated on what they

thought to be the most ironic punishment. Generally they were rather uncreative: an orgy until they died

of exhaustion for a rapist or being encased in molten

gold for a thief. The latter must have been a favorite of

the judges. There were so many statues of thieves that

demons had to resort to slapping wings on them and selling them to Heaven as angel sculptures.

Any position of power in Hell was secured by a

form of nepotism. God worried that the most powerful

of demons would band together to reclaim their place

in Heaven. So to appease them he created a system to oversee the lowest humanity had to offer. This way

the formal angels could exercise their brutality and

feel superior whilst doing so. As a safeguard in case

they began to feel the need to expand their authority,

a forced reincarnation would be placed on those who

got too powerful. Living out so many of these cycles

mellowed President Camio. She no longer found the

joy in punishing the wicked.

Her change in outlook also affected her

appearance. Most demons hold little resemblance to

their charges, often replacing skin with burnt leather

and hair with tendrils. Instead, she had the form of

a young woman, but with a birdcage where her ribs would be. She could only assume this was another divine amusement; a play on how she felt trapped in

her position over Hell. Lately she had taken to housing

a small, black thrush there. If the faithful wished to

remind her of her position, then she would subvert it

towards a bit of happiness.

The sweet scent of cinnamon tea served as a

respite from the dingy walls of her office. Better to

look imposing and foreboding, her secretary would

say. What rubbish. How was she supposed to get any work done if the atmosphere was constantly dragging

her down? Perhaps she could add a few flowers.

Something beautiful and alive to remind her of the

peace her position was supposed to keep.

After her morning treat Camio went back to

signing the mountain of forms on her desk. There was

no longer a reason to read through each one. Hundreds just like them had passed across her desk before.

Requisition forms for the newest torture devices,

appeals from lower-level demons to be promoted,

plans for optimizing the volume of souls processed,

everything pointless in the long run. Nothing ever changed in Hell. He wouldnt allow it.

A small ball of fire erupted in the middle of

her desk, singeing a bundle of forms and erasing at

least a good half hour of work. From it stepped out a

small imp holding an envelope as big as his body. The creature placed it down and attempted to straighten

out the creases that had been accidentally made.

Pardon me, mistress, but a special case

in a handbaskeTBy Samantha Berry

Spring 2015 29

needs your attention

Camio lightly drummed her nails across the dark stone desk. Nergal, what have I told you about

ruining my paperwork?

The small demon Nergal cowered as it bowed its head in shame, Apologies Madam President, but

Lord Satan said

And you would listen to my vice presidents

orders over mine?

N-no mistress, but he said you would want

this right away

Well tell him that I want you to use the door

next time. She snapped her fingers and forced the imp

back through a similar portal he used to enter.

Truthfully, she did not care much about

whether this useless paperwork was destroyed. However, to let it slide would be an admission of

weakness, one her traitorous vice president would take advantage of.

Still left in the ring of ash was the file that

apparently demanded her attention. Special case,

was what the messenger called it. It really should be labeled as an exemption. Each of these cases fell under

one of two categories; either a child or a pregnant

woman had committed a grave sin and was requested

by heaven to be pardoned. This was merely a formality,

for the Innocents Protection Treaty of 308 B.C.

prevented anyone under the age of thirteen (including

unborn children) from being tortured in Hell.

This particular trespasser was an eleven-year-

old boy who had practiced his cruelty on numerous

small animals before graduating to a boy several

years his junior. His victim was found with the skin

removed from his legs and multiple stones shoved

down his throat. The president scribbled a note on the corner of his dossier ordering it to be forwarded

to the Department Head of Unusual Punishments.

Hopefully this would jumpstart his inspiration to spare

the wardens from carrying out the same stale tortures

that only added to the monotony of her presidency.

Normally the boys case would be weighted by the rehabilitation he would have faced until his

adult life, but fate decided no mortal court could judge

his crimes, and he was in a fatal accident on the way

to trial. Heaven declared that as a child, his soul was beyond the jurisdiction of Hell. As the Lord declared all

children as innocent beings, he could not be tried for

actions he surely did not understand. Camio snorted

at the appeal. Yes, this was clearly a bastion of purity

who had merely lost his way. If she wasnt allowed to

punish him, perhaps they would let her hire him as a consultant.

She rubbed her temples in an attempt to stave

off the headache only responsibility can bring. While it

was amusing to ponder how the child would fare as a

demon, the reality of the injustice unraveled her from

within. Because his evil nature could not be contained until adulthood, he would be given a pass into Heaven,

lording over those whose souls have been trapped in the web of bureaucratic tape.

At present the offending soul had been

automatically transported to Hell. Upon noticing a

child, the gatekeepers would seal it and await the angels sent to retrieve it. Per custom, President Camio was expected to be present to greet them. She beckoned to the corner of her office and a gargoyle

hiding in the shadows stepped forth.

Tell the gatekeepers to hold the soul for

me. Archangel Gabriel sent word that his couriers will be late. Ill keep it here in my office to ensure its

safekeeping.

Yes, madam, the creature replied with a

flourish. He backed into his corner and exited through

another portal of flames, leaving a black mark on

30 The Alternative

the obsidian tile. Why does Hell even bother having

doors?

The solid oak doors of the office were blown

back off their hinges. A retinue of angels followed,

closely surrounding a man in a silky white suit. His guardians resembled floating suits of medieval armor,

held together at their joints by radiant, shimmering

cloth . The archangels appearance changed based on who viewed him in order to make himself as pleasing

as possible. President Camio hid a smirk to herself at

the giant eyeball hovering over an empty suit. By now she had learned to control how her mind perceived him, allowing herself a little humor in such a vile place.

Where is the child? Veins of anger

surrounded the deep golden iris.

Child? Dearest Gabriel, you make it sound

like I took an innocent babe. She absentmindedly

inspected her nails, taking care not to make eye contact. Her bemused look would betray the cool steel of her voice.

As a minor under the age of thirteen years,

he is innocent. According to the treaty, he belongs to us.

And as a child-murderer he belongs to me.

A small jar holding an iridescent orb sat proudly on the

desk. The treaty states that he is immune to torture.

Does it look like hes in distress? She lightly stroked

the top of the lid, and the orb made no movement in

response.

GIVE ME

Sounds of clanking metal interrupted the

seraphs tirade. The black thrush Camio housed began

to throw itself against the walls of its cage. Camio

reached down to where her stomach would normally be and unlatched the door. Disjointed movements

followed the bird as it awkwardly stepped across the

desk, pausing when it came to the item of contentment.

Silence. Its eyes gleamed when speaking, illuminating a deep and sonorous voice. It didnt enter

through the ears, but reached from the soul to wrap

around ones consciousness.

Your Grace! Archangel Gabriel bowed itself

against the floor, with the suits of armor crumpling to

follow it.

I said, silence. The thrush stretched out its

wings and then began to pick between its onyx feathers.

I apologize for my appearance. My son has a prior

engagement that needs my attention. However, your

petty squabbles could be heard across all existence.

My Lord, the great demon caressed the bird

that housed her boss. I was only trying to find another

solution to this issue. Why should we reward a soul

whose malevolence rivals that of my generals?

I created the treaty because I find it

distasteful to inflict an eternity of punishment upon

one who has barely lived a sunset.

Then listen to my proposal. I do not wish to

torture the boy. I just find it distasteful to allow him

into Heaven. My demons are busy enough with the rate human society is falling. It is my last thought to

add to their workload. Instead we should keep him in stasis, or perhaps put him someplace empty. Create a plane of pure nothingness. What better punishment to

give to those who sin for attention? They can stew with

their thought for the rest of time.

Interesting. The creator of everything tapped at the desk, apparently finding it delightful

to play the part of an inferior being. Let us try it. Ill

give it one hundred years. If this plays out the way you

expect it to, we can consider giving it a permanency.

Spring 2015 31

Gabriel, I leave it to you to get this situated.

Try to make the prison as simple as possible. Even the slightest crack could prove thrilling in a tomb of

monotony.

At once! Your trust in me wont be misplaced.

A column of light surrounded the archangel

and his entourage, carrying them off to their most holy

of missions.

Perhaps this responsibility will placate

him. Camio, next time please try not to threaten the

balance of power. You arent the only one who is tired

of your job. My lieutenants are just looking for a reason

to invade your domain.

Ill try, my Lord.

Satisfied with her promise to attempt to

play nice, his Holiness left to help his only son.

The presidents pet collapsed into a heap, its body exhausted from playing anchor to God. Cradling it

softly, Camio placed it back into its gilded home.

Shh, little one. You had a big day.

She reclined in her great armchair, beaming over her victory. It may be small, but has any revolution

ever started with a leap?

Picture in Picture | Michael Tony Neese

32 The Alternative

She gets close enough to diagnose,

But never close enough to touch.

She gets close enough to feel,

But never close enough to act.

She gets close enough to know,

But never be known.

She holds the fire close in her chest

As sparks fly out when her guard is

down.

And that is why you love her,

Because she is only half fake,

Half real,

And you never can tell which.

She will love you till her love runs out,

But never take an ounce in return:

Selfishly selfless,

Because denial feels so right.






But never be known.

She is empathy with a catch,

But never sympathy.

Her fake will fool you.

Her real will woo you.

Her love will confuse you.

Her denial will abuse you.

The worst part is, she doesnt know how

to stop.






But never be known.

She gets close enough to know, But never be known.

DenialBy Michael N. Lay

Spring 2015 33

Bhangra Dance| Kathryn Vestal

34 The Alternative

City Signs | Marlon Bell

Long Bridge | Marlon Bell

Spring 2015 35

Infestacion | Andrea Gonzales

Owl | Nathan Tatom

III | James Moore

Untitled | James Moore

36 The Alternative

Sandra y Juanita | Edith Perez

Groovy| Ilka Chavez

A frontA inside cover Alternative 2015 pgs1-36_040915A back insideA back

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