California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Williams, Emma

65
 “The Daughterland” By Margaret Garcia, is a breath of fresh 
air, one that may be hard to take but once it’s drawn, clarity 
opens doors and windows to a world you once saw differently. 
Garcia shares her reality of Mexican motherhood and of what 
bearing that title entails in a world plagued with COVID-19. 
The poems in this collection speak to the female experience; 
the feeling of witnessing your daughter’s trauma and being un-
able to interfere with it. Garcia writes poetry that feels like 
a motherly hug when we were young, where it was the safest place 
to be. “Baby girl, baby girl // Trying to live in this world 
// Walk on. Walk on // It won’t be long // You will belong // 
Someday– // to yourself” (Excerpt from: The All American Girl 
Initiation). 
 Garcia shows her profound command of language through po-
etry that breaks barriers and shouts from the rooftops words 
soaked in sadness, anger, and understanding. Easily visualized 
imagery and colorful description allows readers to resonate 
with each poem, feel the weight of the words, and allow them to 
soak into our very bones. Garcia has allowed through her poetry 
for those who have not, to experience these things firsthand, 
to be able to see and contemplate, nonetheless, something more 
important than words can describe. 
 
 
 
 THE DAUGHTERLAND - a microreview
EMMA WILLIAMS
L


English

The Daughterland- a microreview

Ohannessian, Sophia

NR
Mother Armenia Defending Her People
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Mother Armenia Defending Her People

Dunlap Berlin, Maria

1!
 I just want to pick off every little loose fiber from his 
fuzzed up cardigan. Pick them off like little ticks and snack 
on them as I go, like those little monkeys I saw at the Atlan-
ta Zoo the other day. Spreading the hairs, exposing the scalp, 
picky, picky, poo. I think he has one in every color. At least 
the fabric is thick enough for the tears of my childhood. For 
the spit of my S’s. Remember drugs? Remember the weed store 
that looked like an Apple store? Sweet Flower, I think it was. 
You could browse the rows of shiny pinewood tables, check out 
the buds, the creams, and the accessories. Now this is all the 
craze. This is the new addiction and escape from our problems. 
The gateway drug to it: depression, anxiety, life. Still, only 
a temporary relief, like a phone call to get out of a bad date. 
But in order to escape your problems, you have to talk about 
them. It was the way that everyone tricked themselves into 
feeling safe and secure. Just take a hit of I’m working through my 
problems! I’m facing my demons, my shadows, my trauma, my nose hairs! Oh, how 
we lust after the opportunity to pay another human being to sit 
there, shut up and talk at them for an hour, or 30 minutes if 
you need that quick fix. Except for the occasional affirmational 
moans to keep us coming back, you just purge your feeling guts 
and feel the dopamine hit on the inhale. On the exhale.
 I can feel the ants climbing my ankle hairs. I can’t sit 
on this couch any longer across from cardigan face. I wonder if 
he’s still listening. I can hardly hear him through the smell 
of his teakwood and tobacco incense, dripping ashes on the ta-
ble in front of us. I walk over to his bookshelf, pretending 
to be interested, though you can actually discover a lot about 
a person based on the curation of their bookshelf. This one is 
built into the wall, which means he had an obligation to fill 
it, not a compulsory pleasure to. There’s the unsurprising psy-
choanalytical texts, of course. A framed degree here, a framed 
degree there. Some kind of spherical sculpture. Actually one 
here. Cement balls there. Just balls everywhere? Black balls, 
balls with speckled paint on them. Balls in a trio, balls by 
CRYING AND THINKING IN A STREAM OF 
CARDIGANS 
MARIA DUNLAP BERLIN
101themselves. Jesus balls of Christ! Out of an uncomfortable reflex, I pull a random book like a slot machine lever: 
Great Essays in Science. Seems pretentious and I take it. I like 
the bend of the softcover. It’s heavy but malleable. The lami-
nation is ripped at the corner and starting to peel away from 
it. Charles Darwin, Bertrand Russel, Oppenheimer, Sigmund 
Freud, (explains the balls) Albert Einstein. It looks old, from 
the 1980s, with its fat inky font, maybe a bold serif, like a 
Times New Roman wannabe, maybe Garamond. Can we know the Universe? 
Re!ections on a Graing by Carl Sagan. I bring it with me to the couch 
and sit. Don’t want to waste my remaining time dilly dallying. 
I glide my thumb over 2 the edge of the book and it sounds like 
a hundred typewriters bustling in the distance with tiny little 
pops at the end of each bar. Cardigan face watches me as the 
smoke of the incense makes baby tornadoes from my book wind in 
between us. 
 He knows the exact angle his head must be tilted to show 
listening. It’s like they keep protractors in their pockets 
in training to get it just right until it’s ingrained in mus-
cle memory. I’ve memorized all of the angles. Ninety degrees is 
neutral, then shifts to the left, his left, to signal that the 
session has begun. An obtuse angle, away from the right shoul-
der, is the cozy angle that shows the sufficient amount of ac-
knowledgement to make you feel heard. Anything less than for-
ty-five degrees and they’ve zoned all the way out and cleared 
their swimmer’s ear. In that angle, each word that comes out of 
your mouth starts to feel distant from yourself, shaky and in-
audible. It increases the heart rate, sends signals to the brain 
to prepare for disappointment and devise a plan to get your 
money back. But there’s a certain a gle of the head tilt that’s 
just right. It’s just enough affirmation to keep you satisfied 
and just enough curiosity to make you want to prove something 
more — to signal to yourself that you’re hitting the ultimate 
climax — the breakthrough. 
 The thought of it brings a smile to my face. I squeeze the 
book in my right hand and it starts to melt behind my knuck-
les. The angle of his chin is almost right there but could use 
a slight adjustment. I know he hears me, but is he listening? 
Just a little tap in the right direction. Maybe a big tap. May-
be a Great Essays in Science to that rosy cheek. I pull  my elbow 
back and raise... 
102
 
 “And that’s our time. See you next week?” he says. 
 “Yep, see ya,” I place the book down on the table, next to 
the stray ashes. A little bit of it gets swept up in the wind 
and scatters. That was a good one. Inhale. On the exhale. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


Crying And Thinking In A Stream Of Cardigans

Van Gelder, Natalie

How Those We Once Loved Become Strangers Again

Green, Christine

NR
 Transphobmagoria
Pace the perimeter of your four-by-four concrete floor, running your hands 
along the bars. Find the bar with a small crack. You may need to run your hand 
over the warm metal until you locate that abrasion you found seven years ago. 
Once you feel the sharp edge, continue to pick at it like you sometimes do the 
boils on your face, puss dribbling over your cheek. Increase the pressure of your 
finger over the spec. Be persistent. You need to get to the inside. Once you 
finally start bleeding, lift your hand up and let the blood form streams down 
your arm. Wait for them to dry. Step to the center of the space, and fold your 
legs, one over the other. Close your eyes. You’ve done this before. Take a breath. 
Then two. Inhale smoke. Cough. Then stop breathing. Stop. Stop. Start again. 
Let the smoke from the open window sting your eyes. Breathe as much as you 
need to now. Feel your consciousness abandon your body. The shape remains 
amorphous, and you can’t forget to consider your audience or you’ll just lose it 
completely. It changes daily, but if you’re not sure what to go with, fall back on 
the basics.
Pick an obvious gender.
Nothing ambiguous. You could go ambiguous, and very rarely you should, 
but most of the time your form will just crumple up again. Classically beautiful. 
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If you go with a woman: something skinny, big breasts, wide hips, and comically 
large eyes (refer to the Barbie doll you never got as a kid). Going for a man 
(which you almost always should except in a few choice circumstances, like the 
time you were driving without your license because you got raped after the 
parade in San Francisco seven years ago. He took your wallet and a cop pulled 
you over on the 5 and wanted to give you a ticket while globs of something 
sticky and white were still drying in dribbles down your leg. It was paying that 
ticket or rent, and whichever you paid you were fucked, but none of that would 
have happened if you hadn’t been a woman in the first place, so ignore this 
entire parenthetical): you need to be strong, lots of muscles but not too bulky, 
tall, imposing, but not so imposing you scare ladies away. Don’t worry about 
your voice. No one hears it.
Once you form, the rest is downhill. Go to college. Doesn’t matter how. 
Drive with your friend who always smells like his pit stains look. Comment 
on the orange sky. Ignore his question. The sun seems so far away, so dim 
through the ashy windshield. He almost yells. Promise you’ll text him later about 
the party tonight. You won’t. You know your avatar won’t last that long. Say 
anything he needs you to.
Flirt with that pretty girl at the front of the class. Make sure you’re a man 
when you do. Remember the day when the decision came down from the 
Supreme Court, how she twirled her hair with her lead-stained index finger 
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and looked right at you, how you forgot and flirted with her when you were a 
pretty little girl with long blonde hair and glasses, how she smiled back and 
tried to talk to you after class. You know she means it, so stop screwing it up by 
meaning it back.
Tell everyone you’re going to the library, but go to the drug store on the 
corner instead. The polluted air is making you hyperventilate. It’s the smoke. 
See the pudgy teen about a pack of Marlboros you wanted yesterday. Count the 
acne scars on his face while he contemplates the effort involved in calling his 
fifty-year-old manager back from lunch just to comply with the law. 
After about a minute, start tapping your foot and pursing your lips. You’re 
not actually impatient. Watch his fingers drum on the counter in time with your 
foot. Give up and leave. You don’t have much time left.
Visit your mother.
Walk in the door and say hi from a few feet away. Don’t hug her. Try to 
answer all her questions in a dozen words or less. When are you going to settle 
down? Stuff the rest of the snickerdoodle in your mouth, as quickly as you can. 
Leave.
Drag your feet along the sidewalk. You don’t need to lift them high, just 
enough to take that next step. Notice your fingers blur together into a blob, a 
blob that flows like mercury creeping up your shoulder. Your entire right arm 
becomes fluid, dribbling in your wake. 
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Start running.
Pieces of you flying in all directions. Some of your fingernails embed 
into the local McDonalds that some mother is suing for negligence. A glob 
of your shoulder sticks in the shiny, blonde hair of a five-year-old girl holding 
her mother’s hand. It creates a snarl in her braid. Arrive at your house, almost 
completely dissolved.
Flames lick the foundation.
Dribbling saliva is smoke floating away. Open your eyes and let yourself 
disappear. Stand up inside the bars again. Cracks. Fissures. Abrasions. Pock 
marks getting more by the day. Metal weakening, orange with heat. Pick at the 
bars. Chip away. Just a little bit more. Even if it burns your thick, dainty hands.
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Transphobmagoria

Marshall , Sierra

Free Time

Arroyo, Robert

Four Poems: "Collector\u27s Items" "Dreaming Catholicism" "The Void Monkeys" and "Wintersong"

Casey, Maria

ike 
saw ike turner 
at rock 
n' roll denny's 
on sunset 
strip two hookers 
in tow makin' 
a oreo cookie 
love sandwich 
we sat smoking 
sober soaking 
up his sound 
slurred and blubbering 
he ate a hot fudge 
sundae with fries 
we wondered 
what he'd learned 
in the joint 
laughing water 
in our lungs 
wondered why 
he went to 
the bathroom 
so many times and 
what exactly 
was in that 
black purse and 
how he could 
afford to 
pay those girls 
15 
Maria Casey 
16 NORTHRIDGEREVIEW 
he signed autographs 
for us and the guys 
from st. charles louisiana 
and he hand delivered 
the messages 
to us himself 
he made his bitches 
deliver too 
he wrote 
'what's love got 
to do with it ? 
not a damn thing' 


Edelman, Barbara

Two Poems: "Lytle Creek, for Wendy" and "Toni Niemenin at Courchevel"

Tracy, Bruce

89 
Bruce Tracy 
The Eye of God 
It's like looking into the eye of God, Billy had told us. In 
fact he was the one who had started this ritual over a year before and 
now we all sat huddled together next to the wooden fence of the 
lumber yard waiting as Alex spread himself across the tracks fifty 
yards away. He was shaking; I could see that from where I sat. My 
best friend Tris sat behind me holding my elbow so tightly that it 
started to hurt. 
"Let go you baby," I whispered as I pushed him back away 
from me. We were the youngest as it was and it was only because 
Billy was my older brother that we were allowed to hang with them. 
Billy was almost a cult god among the kids of Montrose, 
New Mexico. It had been a little over a year since Billy had stayed 
on the tracks until the train was only ten feet away. After he rolled 
off seconds before the train passed, he stood and walked over to 
where we all sat near the lumber yard. He looked so calm, but I had 
wet my pants. I was twelve that year. 
"Sorry," Tris whispered as he pushed back behind me, "It 
just scares me." 
"Shut up," I whispered louder. "Don't let them hear you." 
"Try to keep your friend quiet," Billy said to me and then 
turned to the rest of the group. "He's about to bolt; I can see it from 
here. His body's shaking so hard that I bet he's already pissed his 
pants." There were six of us huddled together. Tris and I were the 
only ones under sixteen and Billy was the oldest at eighteen. 
Across the field in the dark Montrose night, Alex lay across 
the tracks waiting. His body was contorting back and forth spas-
modically. He was getting nervous too quickly and none of us 
doubted that he would bolt. The front light of the train hadn't even 
pushed around Hangman's Curve, which was usually the time the 
guy on the track started to squirm. 
"He can feel it," Billy whispered to the group. "Right about 
now the tracks are vibrating under his body. You can feel a train 
90 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
almost half a mile away." 
In the distance we could hear its baritone whistle. It was 
getting close and we all turned and looked down toward Hangman's 
Curve, which was a quarter mile away and the point where the 
tension really started to kick in. No one had ever bolted before the 
train reached that point. The light from the train softly pushed 
around the comer and then with full force the train followed with a 
scream. It was a powerful sight and when someone was lying across 
the track, it never failed to put a lump in my throat. Alex didn't 
hesitate and as the train reeled around the comer he jumped to his 
feet and ran into the field on the opposite side of the tracks. He was 
screaming and running and after tripping over an old railroad tie he 
got back to his feet and started running again. 
"Pussy," Billy screamed as he jumped to his feet and started 
running in the direction of the tracks. Alex couldn't hear him since 
the train was now roaring between the two of them. "Yellow-bellied 
rodent sucking pussy," Billy said as he walked back to where we 
were all standing. "That train was a quarter of a mile away." 
July afternoons in Montrose were as hot as anywhere in the 
world. Tris and I sat in his air conditioned room watching a New 
Mexico State basketball game on his ten-inch black and white set. 
"That was hot," Tris said as he shot his N erf basketball into 
the hoop attached to his door. "Alex didn't even wait for the light 
to fall on him and I swear when he ran that his pants were wet." 
"How the hell are you going to expect me to believe that you 
could see that far?" I asked. 
"I swear it," he answered as he tossed up another shot at the 
basket. "His pants were as wet as grass in the morning." I didn't 
continue my challenge so he continued. "I'm going next week. I'm 
going to lie on those tracks and become a train stud like your 
brother." 
"Give it up Tris." I didn't bother to even look over at him; 
his statement wasn't worth the effort. "They wouldn't let you out 
there even if you really wanted to." 
"I'm doing it." He stopped shooting baskets and moved to 
91 
stand in front of me. It was his attempt to be intimidating. "I'm going 
to hang on until the train rips the shoes off my feet. I'm going to cut 
it so close that even your brother will bow down to me." 
That was more than I would stand for. "My brother wouldn't 
bow down to take a leak on you." I stood and pushed him back 
against the far wall. I wasn't in the mood to look at his ugly face any 
longer and left. 
"I'm going to do it," he shouted at me as I walked out his 
front door into his yard. "I'm going to be a train stud." 
The heat was a blanket on my back and walking the three 
miles back to my house would have been impossible without 
stopping for a break. The lumber yard was the halfway point 
between our houses and I stopped under the lone oak tree which sat 
in the adjoining field. Steam floated off the tracks, making them 
almost look like they were breathing. I rested my head back against 
the tree and off in the distance I could hear the whistle of a train; 
It was still miles away and not ever being one to resist the 
temptation, I ran across the field to the tracks and placed a penny on 
the rail. I had flattened hundreds of pennies but there was something 
about the experience which kept me doing it. The train was close 
now. I could feel the tracks vibrating as I put the penny down and 
then stepping back, I waited. It was a small train with only six cars 
and a caboose but as I sat in the field only ten yards or so from where 
it passed, I could feel the breeze that it produced. 
After it rolled off in the distance I walked over, picked up 
the penny, and then sat down on the rails. They burned through my 
clothes but not heeding their warning, I lay back stretching myself 
from one side of the tracks to the other. It was power. Lying there, 
even without the threat of a train, filled me with an overwhelming 
sense of power. If this was half of what Billy felt a year before as he 
lay here, then I could understand why he kept coming back. 
A cloud had rolled in front of the sun making the rest of my 
walk home more comfortable. In New Mexico clouds were valued 
as much as the land itself. There wasn't a lot around to duck under 
when the sun became oppressive. The landscape sprawled on 
endlessly with only a few shrubs to break up the monotony. I often 
92 NORTIIRIDGE REVIEW 
thought that the entire world was like that. 
I went straight to my room when I arrived home. It was my 
sanctuary -- a place for no one but God and myself. I was lying on 
my bed reading a Spider Man comic when Billy walked in. 
"Tris wants to do it," he said as he walked over to the pile 
of clothes on my floor and started poking through them. "He just 
called and said that he wants to lie on the tracks." 
"He's too young," I answered but didn't look up from the 
comic book. 
"That's what I told him but he wouldn't give up," Billy 
continued. "Do you think he'll go through with it?" 
"Too young," I said a little too loudly. I wanted to tell Billy 
what Tris had said about his bowing down to him but I decided not 
to. 
"What about you, Little Man, when are you going to lie on 
the tracks?" 'Little man' was the nickname my father had given me 
before he died. Billy was 'Big Man' and I was 'Little Man'. My 
father had died when I was four and the nickname was all that I 
remembered about him. It always made me feel good when Billy 
called me Little Man. 
"I want to," I said and turned to look at him. He was still 
sorting through the clothes on the floor. "I swear I want to be like 
you, Billy, but I just can't do it. I can't do the train." 
He looked up at me when he found the shirt that he had been 
looking for. It was his lucky shirt; the one he had worn that night on 
the tracks. "You don't have to prove yourselfto anyone, Little Man. 
I'll see to that." 
When Friday night rolled around I put on some dark clothes 
and walked over to pick up Tris from his house. We all wore dark 
clothes on Friday. It made it hard for the cops to see us in the dark 
when we would hang out by the tracks. They didn't usually bother 
us but on a few occasions they chased us out of the field with their 
flashlights. 
Tris wasn't looking good when I arrived. "What's the 
matter, train stud?" I asked when he answered the door. "You're 
93 
looking a little pale." 
"Go to hell," he squeaked. He sounded as unnatural as he 
looked. His typically baby pink skin looked as if it had been 
bleached. "Let's just get going, alright?" 
We walked the long route to the field and stopped at the 
only7-11 intownfordrinks. We always stopped at the 7-ELEVEN 
on our way to the field on Fridays. 
"Hey it's Little Man and the Pig," Jack said as we walked 
in. The 'Pig' was a reference to Tris' usual pinkness. "Although 
you're not looking pig-like tonight. What's wrong?" 
Jack had been our physical education teacher earlier in the 
year but had to quit after suffering from a nervous breakdown. The 
breakdown left him working three nights a week at the 7 -ELEVEN. 
"He's going to lie on the tracks tonight," I answered as I 
filled my Big Gulp with Dr. Pepper. "His paleness is almost scary 
isn't it?'' 
"You both go to hell," Tris said as he looked up from an 
adult magazine that he had taken off of the rack. 
"You guys still hang out at the tracks?" Jack asked. "It's a 
stupid way to waste an evening; and put that magazine down Tris. 
You're not old enough to be looking at that." 
"Afraid he might find your mother in there," I answered. 
"We're not all lucky enough to hang out here all night like you do." 
I filled a second Big Gulp with Sprite for Tris and carried them to 
the counter. "Maybe some day we'll take you with us. You really 
need a life." 
"No thanks," he said as he put my money into the register. 
As we started to walk out he called to us, "Hey, you guys be careful. 
Don't do anything stupid." 
The long route took us past the old Montrose mansion. 
Growing up I had been told that Jim Montrose, the owner of the 
mansion, was the man that the town was named after. I thought it 
was all bull. Old man Montrose was a weasel who used to chase us 
off of his lawn with a garden hose. A town couldn't be named after 
a man like that. He had died the same year that Billy had stayed on 
the tracks until the last second. If the town had been named for Jim 
94 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
Montrose, then they picked the wrong man. The house was now 
vacant and as we walked past it Tris picked up a rock and threw it 
up toward the porch. 
"Bet the old man wouldn't have lasted on the tracks," he 
said. The clouds had blown in from the east causing the sky to grow 
darker. "You think it will rain? If it rains I'll have to wait until next 
week. It wouldn't be any good lying out there in the rain. I might lose 
my footing when I try to push away from the train." 
I didn't answer him. It was more than he had said all night 
and I took it as a sign of weakness. I didn't have a lot of faith that 
he would actually go through with this, rain or not. 
When we arrived at the field, I could see that the group had 
already gathered at the fence next to the lumber yard. I couldn't see 
faces, but they were definitely there. Their black outlines dotted the 
fence and there was a steady stream of smoke rising above it. Billy 
never smoked. He said it made people look stupid and for the most 
part I agreed with him. Still there were a few who would light up 
their cigarettes every Friday as they sat waiting and talking. I was 
in a hurry to join the group but Tris kept falling behind. At one point 
I had to grab his am1 and pull him across the field. 
"So the man of the hour has finally arrived," Billy said to 
Tris as we sat down with the group. "Twenty minutes to the next 
train. You going to be ready?" 
"Sure," Tris whispered, ''I'll be ready." 
We sat talking for the next few minutes. Billy talked about 
a girl he had met in school who had just moved out here from 
California. Tris moved to the back of the group as he was talking. 
He looked even paler than before and then without warning just got 
up and started walking away. Alex, who was allowed to rejoin the 
group after his pathetic stay on the tracks the week before, was the 
first to say something. "Where are you going, kid?" 
Tris didn't answer, he just kept walking. I thought about 
following him but I didn't think that he'd want me to. Finally, Billy 
broke the silence. "Let him go," he said. "It's not his time yet." His 
words seemed to take the disgrace out ofTris' leaving. Only Billy 
could do that. 
95 
"What the hell, I'm going to head back home then," Alex 
said as he got to his feet and started stretching. "If I can't watch a 
kid get trampled by a train then what's the use?" 
I stood to stretch while Alex was still talking and then 
started walking down toward the tracks. The clouds had moved 
through, leaving a star-filled sky to illuminate the landscape. 
"Where are you going, Little Man?" Billy called out to me. 
"The tracks," I called back without turning around. 
"You don't need to do it." His voice was tense. I remem-
bered that he hadn't sounded tense the night he had been on the 
tracks himself, but now his voice was definitely tense. "There's 
nothing for you to prove." 
When I reached the tracks I turned back to look at the group. 
They had all stayed next to the fence except Billy who was walking 
toward me. I shook my head and he stopped. I hadn't expected him 
to see me in the dark but I guess he did since he turned and walked 
back to join the others. 
There were still a few minutes left until the train was 
supposed to pass but I lay down anyway. The rails were as cold as 
snow and as I lay my head back against the farthest rail, my body 
began to shake. I tried to control it because I didn't want anyone to 
think that I was shaking from fear but I couldn't overcome it. Lying 
on my back, I looked up into the sky to see ifl could pick out the Big 
Dipper. In the back of my mind I could hear the voices of the others 
yelling overto me from where they sat next to the fence. Their words 
were formless as I set my mind to finding various constellations. 
Then the ground moved. 
It was almost nothing at first with only the faint hum of a 
vibration moving through the tracks and into my body. Within 
seconds the vibrating had increased to the point that it surged into 
my lower back and neck where my body actually made contact with 
the rails. 
I remember Billy saying that you can feel a train a half a 
mile away. It was close and there was no way that I was going to bolt 
before seeing the front light of the train push around Hangman's 
Curve. I would make Billy proud. 
96 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
I couldn't find the Big Dipper but Orion was shining 
brightly. I loved the sky. My eye caught a glimpse of the North Star 
almost in unison with the strong headlight from the train as it 
screamed around the comer. The sound was overwhelming as the 
tracks started biting into my back. My body tightened as I pulled 
myself to the tracks with my clenched fists. I wouldn't run. The 
sound grew almost unbearable as the light from the train raced 
toward me. I tilted my head slightly to see ifi could catch a glimpse 
of Billy. He was standing; screaming. I looked back in time to see 
the light push down on me. The eye of God. The train was on me 
before I could think and pushing myself off the track with my feet, 
I felt a pain in my arm as the wheels screamed past, inches from my 
head. I froze on the ground next to the tracks as the monster shrieked 
past. I had wet my pants and the wind that flew off the side of the 
moving train blew cold against my wet legs. 
As the train continued down the tracks, the silence returned 
to the still night. I was dizzy but found the strength to stand up. It was 
only then that the screams began next to the fence, almost as if they 
had waited to see that I was alive before coming to claim their new 
champion. I saw Billy atthe head of the group as they ran toward me. 
I could barely make out his words as he yelled 'train stud' while he 
was running. It was then that I felt the warmth against my arm and 
looking down I could see where the train had ripped a ten inch piece 
of skin off of my right elbow. The blood flowed down to my fist 
which was still clenched. 
I was cold and my body was shaking. My mind hadn't 
cleared yet and as I saw the group moving closer, I decided to run 
in the opposite direction. My arm was starting to throb as I pushed 
my way through the field. Behind me, I could hear the triumphant 
screams of the others but not wanting to be caught, I kept running. 


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