California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Maar, Nina

73
 The crinkly pink flier in his gloved hands had been typed 
out in Comic Sans. There was a stock photo of a group of people 
sitting in a circle of chairs engaging in a conversation that 
he would never know. To the side of the picture the flier read: 
“For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.” Genesis 3:19
 Life’s getting you down? Come to Trivia Afternoon! The Catholic Church of St. 
Thomas is dedicated to bringing together senior citizens in order to maintain 
community and achieve a better lifestyle. Join Us Every Wednesday @ 3:00 PM
 Over dinner a few nights ago, Bijoux had slid the piece of 
paper towards him without a word. He’d scoffed in return and 
Bijoux had frowned and he knew then that he’d have to go at 
least once just to appease the lovely little fiend he called a 
fiancé. 
 “It’s just something for you to do, Teo, while I’m at work 
all day.” Bijoux said, elbows deep into the soapy water of the 
sink. “I think it would be good for you to not hole yourself up 
so much in the house.” 
 “But I love to sit at home and read. Sometimes I go to 
the diner with the plastic seats and read there. And I do have 
friends.” Galateo replied. “Living ones at that.”
 Bijoux had to crane their neck back to look up at him. A 
set of icy blue eyes tore into him like a chisel. When he first 
met Bijoux, he thought of them as the most beautiful creature 
in the world, the most beautiful mortal alive. But that was the 
thing with mortal people - they had so much energy, so much to 
do with their limited time. Galateo had happily settled into 
his immortality like a well worn couch, molded perfectly to fit 
his aching joints, and everyday it was getting harder and hard-
er to get back up. 
 Bijoux worked long hours as a nurse, which left Galateo 
with lots of free time to nap and read and sunbathe out on the 
back porch and nap and read and sunbathe out on the balcony. 
Bijoux dealt with the immortality thing like they dealt with 
everything else—efficiently and without making a mess.  
 “It’s not like you look young anyways, Teo. I knew 
DUST TO DUST
NINA MAAR 
74
what I was getting into, if I had minded the age gap altogether 
I would have never even given you the time of day.”
 In order to look “like you actually want to be there,” as 
Bijoux had suggested, he stopped by the 7/11 on his way to the 
local church where the meeting would be held. He would buy some 
snacks as an offering of peace and a sign of good fortune, and 
because he did not want to eat the green gelatin cakes with 
pineapple inside them. On the steps of the 7/11 there were two 
teenagers passing a joint back and forth. From inside the store 
came the gentle sound of a radio. Bijoux had done him the favor 
of putting up his hair into a braid that fell over his shoul-
der and he wore a coat over his suit because it was chilly out-
side and old people got cold almost too easily. Perhaps he was 
overdressed. Galateo walked up the steps to the front door and 
pulled it open. 
 “Hey sir, can you buy us some cough syrup?” 
 He turned around to find two sets of inquisitive eyes 
looking up at him. 
 “What?” He asked. The wrinkle in between his eyes deep 
end.   “Cough syrup?” 
 One of the kids took the joint from the other to gesture.  
 “Yeah, you can’t get it if you’re underage, but we are 
feeling kinda under the weather.” 
 The first boy let out a weak cough. He wore bright green 
sneakers. Galateo was not stupid, there was definitely something 
illicit happening here, but he was also not up to date with 
the drug-scene to know what kind of high involved cough syrup. 
Neither of these children looked old enough to buy a lottery 
ticket, much less alcohol or marijuana, yet here they were. He 
thought about it for a moment—remembered Bijoux’s own tales of 
teenhood—and then he shook his head. He turned again and opened 
the door to the store. The two boys dramatically threw their 
heads back and groaned. 
 “Aww come on man!” The boy with the green shoes scrambled 
to his feet. 
 “Wait! Wait! Can you buy us a Sprite?!” The two teens 
trailed behind him into the store, still attempting to get 
something out of him. 
 Galateo veered directly towards the wall of refrigerated 
75foods and drinks. The radio played a janky Spanish tune, and behind the counter stood another, slightly older teen-
ager scrolling through her phone. While the two boys bar-
gained for a bottle of Sprite and the cough syrup behind his 
back, Galateo wondered if he might have turned into one of these 
apathetic children had he been born now and not a millenia ago. 
Texting his friends on his phone, loitering around convenience 
stores—would Bijoux still have fallen in love with him had they 
been the same age? 
 As he walked through the aisle with the wall of beef jerky, 
the door dinged again and from where his head peaked above the 
stands Galateo watched two other men enter the store. They were 
chatting to one another in low voices. 
 The teen with the green shoes tapped politely on his arm. 
The other boy held two bottles of Sprite, and the joint dangled 
from his lips. Galateo held up a finger. “One drink. And you 
put that thing out now, it is not polite to smoke indoors.”
 The boys smiled at one another, eyes turning into red 
half-moons. The one with the joint quickly blowing on it. Gala-
teo turned around, thought for a second, and then turned again 
to the two boys. 
 “What food would you buy for a meeting?” He asked, and 
before they could suggest weed or alcohol he added: “Food that 
old people would like.” 
 The two teens looked at one another and pondered their an-
swer for a second.
 “I think my Nana likes oats a lot.”
  “Yeah well she doesn’t have any teeth. How about one of 
those plates with all the cheeses?” 
 “Oh yeah! A charcutlery board.”
  “It’s charkushe-rey, dumbass.” 
 Galateo held up a hand. “It is actually charcuterie, which is  
an excellent suggestion, but this is a 7/11.” 
The teens seemed to ponder other alternatives once more. Gala-
teo rolled his eyes and turned around again this time to find 
a man wearing pantyhose on his head, holding a gun up at him. A 
harsh voice drifted up to his ears. 
 “If you wanna keep living, old man, you better not move.” 
Galateo blinked twice, he looked back at the teenagers who stood 
behind him somewhere between no idea what was happening 
76
and sudden hyper awareness. Their expressions had changed. They 
looked much smaller now. 
 “It is all alright.” Galateo said. The teens looked up at 
him. He tried to give a reassuring smile, but Bijoux always 
said he looked like he was being held at gunpoint when he did. 
“You have this thing Teo, it’s called a bitchface. But it ‘s hot, so don’t worry.”
 He didn’t feel very hot right now. He looked at the beady 
little eyes behind the semi-transparent film of the pantyhose 
and bit the inside of his cheek. He’d only seen robbers wear 
this kind of garb on children’s cartoons and the silliness of a 
grown man actually putting this on in real life could not es-
cape him. Galateo furrowed his eyebrows and huffed. 
 “If you want to rob and shoot me, maybe you should do it 
like a real adult and take that sock off your face.” 
 The robber took half a step back. 
 Mortals were always intimidated by insignificant things, 
like when others made fun of their outfits and having to look 
up at people that were much taller. Galateo took half a step 
forward. A loud sob came from the front of the store and Panty-
hose Head aimed the gun right at Galateo’s chest.
 “Walk. Or we shoot the kid up-front.” 
 The man with the gun walked all three of them up to the 
front of the store, where another man in a different pair of 
pantyhose held the cashier at gunpoint too. Tears ran down her 
face as she struggled to unlock the register. In between her 
cries she attempted to reason with the men. 
 “We’ve had like three people come in all day. The register 
is like completely empty.” 
Pantyhose Head spoke again. “Get your wallet out old man, give 
me your phone and watch too.”
 Something heavy settled into the bottom of his stomach, a 
massive tapeworm gnawing at his insides. Galateo would not grow 
old. All around him the mortals suffered. They knew Death by 
many names. He left cities when they fell, closed his eyes when 
kings were slaughtered. He buried mortals young and old, climbed 
mountains, drank from rivers, basked in the early morning sun-
light. Argued with historians and collectors. He wandered by 
himself for a while, until he found others like him from time 
to time, briefly and then never again. Would Death show up if he 
let these two lowlifes kill these children? And if he killed 
!these two men, would Death walk in through the door with a smile? The girl behind the register pulled out a handful of 
bills and coins and she placed them onto the counter with a 
trembling hand. 
 Fights had remained a constant throughout his extended 
lifetime. He had not thrown a punch in a while because it was 
not polite to hit old men, nowadays. Though he did believe that 
perhaps society should return to brawling a bit more freely. 
In the history books now he read that the Minoans had been the 
first to invent boxing in the earlier years of civilization, but 
some books claimed it had been the Sumerians. He could not re-
member the name of the man who had initially coached him, but 
he remembered being small and throwing punches at other boys. 
He remembered the feeling of the leather straps in the palms of 
his hands. Boxing rules were different now, when he watched it 
go down on the television it felt nothing short of alien to him. 
There was one rule, the most ancient one, that he had ingrained 
into himself. Victory only came when the other boxer could go on 
no longer. 
 In the back of his mind Bijoux’s voice was nagging him, but 
before any of his fiance’s complaints could really form with-
in his head Galateo strode forward, reached out one hand and 
grabbed Pantyhose Head by the armpit. His other arm wound back-
wards, hand balled into a fist. Under his skin he felt all his 
muscles stretched taut like a bow. When his fist connected with 
the man’s rough cheek he felt as if he’d punched a bowl of pud-
ding, the impact halting somewhere around his wrist - regret 
flooded his brain at once, but he had a fight to finish now. 
 Pantyhose Head landed on his shoulder atop the money on the 
counter, letting the gun fly out of his hand. It rattled some-
where behind the counter to where he could no longer see it. 
Before he had the chance to get back up Galateo grabbed a fist-
ful of his hair through the sock on his head and lifted him up 
again, slamming his forehead onto the counter twice for good 
measure, making the loose change rattle to the floor. It was the 
kind of move that would have gotten him in trouble back then—
and still even now. It had been a long time since he’d gotten in 
trouble for breaking the rules though. 
 He let Pantyhose Head go, and the man dropped to the floor 
at a strange angle. Galateo turned around to the remaining 
robber. The two teens had edged across the far side of the 
store, willing themselves to melt into the wall. Galateo 
78
cared little for modern things like the police force and doing 
time in jail. Time was all he had. He locked eyes with the man. 
“If you take your friend and go we may call this a day.” 
 The other man sneered back at him and lifted the gun up 
higher to aim right at Galateo’s head. Mortals thought about 
Death a lot. Too much it seemed. They thought about how it would 
get them, surprise them one day. Or take a hold of them slow-
ly, painfully. They wished to die without pain, without fear. 
And yet, and yet - when they looked at Death in the eyes they 
thought themselves immortal. Galateo watched the trigger of the 
gun move far too slow. 
 He had been born with a name that he could not recall any-
more. Probably something regarding strength, courage, or the men 
that came before him. Or maybe something sweet, if his mother 
had been allowed to name him. He’d changed his name thousands 
of times over the years, assuming new identities along with 
them. He plucked the name Galatea from a marble statue he saw 
once in a museum, and he went by Teo for the most part. A woman 
made of stone, her skin smooth to the touch, but impenetrable. 
He’d made a great boxer because it was like fighting a wall. 
Bijoux liked to hold onto his arm because they liked the feel-
ing of his bicep. 
 In the summer heat Bijoux made him sit in front of the box 
fan so that he would not overheat, and in the winter he slept 
under heavy blankets to try and stop the heat from rising off 
his body. He kept his hair long because he could only cut it 
with an electric grinder. He’d pierced his own ears on a drunk-
en trip to the power tool section of Home Depot. 
 A gunshot rang then, followed by another. He felt the heat 
for an incredibly long moment and he flinched back. It occurred 
to him that the bullet might have bounced off of him and hit 
one of the children. When he opened his eyes the man in front 
of him lay unmoving on the ground. From his cheek he could feel 
a small wave of heat slowly rolling across his face. Around him 
one of the teenagers cried out. 
 “You shot him! You shot him! Holy shit you shot him!” 
 When he looked up, he found the cashier shaking and crying. 
In her hands shook the gun that had fallen behind the counter. 
He took a deep sigh. Death could not touch you, for the longest 
time, then it would pull tight on your reins for the hell of 
it. In that very moment Death had held them all in the palm of 
79its hand inside a dingy 7/11. She had laughed, and then it had let them go. Had let some of them go, anyways. 
 The boy with the green shoes walked up to him, then 
stopped dead in his tracks when he looked up at his face. He 
mouthed an ‘Oh my god’. Galateo lifted a hand up to inspect his 
face. Right on his cheekbone there was a sizable dent. Like a 
moon crater. When he looked back at his hand his fingers came 
off dusty. 
 “What the fuck.” This time the boy spoke out loud. 
Behind the counter the other one was holding the cashier’s hand 
and phoning the police. 
 “What the fuck are you?” He asked. 
 Galateo opened up his mouth and then he closed it again. 
The teenager waited, a bright fear shone in his eyes. Galateo 
spoke this time. “I…I am…very old…” 
 With the first aid kit that the 7/11 supplied her with, 
the cashier wrapped Galateo’s hand in gauze. She placed a ban-
daid with a dinosaur on the hole in his cheek. Her tears were 
still drying, but she had insisted on wrapping up his hand, 
even though there was no scratch and no pain. Galateo realized 
that this was what Bijoux called ‘going through it’. Life had 
been this and that, and then it wasn’t anything anymore. 
 They all sat outside on the steps this time, while the two 
police officers investigated the store. In his hand he held a 
bottle of Sprite. His coat was thrown over the three teens and 
inside the pocket of his suit was their joint, so that the po-
lice would not ask any more questions than necessary. The three 
teens on the other hand, kept going at him, probably to fill 
the empty air. He obliged. 
 “Will it grow back though or are you just going to have to 
stay like that forever?” 
 “I had never been shot before, but I assume it will heal 
to some degree.” 
 “Wait—you’d never been shot before?”
 “Can you fill it in with… like… wall putty and stuff?”
 “I could try.” 
 “That’s lowkey but highkey hella sick though.” 
Galateo did not know what any of those words meant. “What. Get-
ting shot?” 
 “No- I meant like being made of rock and stuff… but 
yeah getting shot is cool too, I guess. That’s like major 
80
street cred.”
 He remained there until the children’s parents arrived. 
Concern, anger, and relief drifted in and out of their mouths. 
There was some sort of trouble to be had with the store manag-
er, who had left the young girl alone behind the counter even 
though she was not old enough to do a closing shift and was 
currently not picking up the phone. And there was some sort 
of trouble to be had with these two boys who had actually been 
skipping school since the middle of the day. And there was some 
more substantial trouble with Galateo sending a man to the hos-
pital. And there was lots of trouble with the man in the body 
bag on the floor of the 7/11. 
 Galateo gave all three of them his phone number, in case 
they ever wanted to speak to him. Still, he reminded them to 
call at a decent hour, because he was an old man who went to 
bed early. He made sure to give all three kids a strong hug be-
fore they eventually left. After they interviewed him, the po-
lice let him go too. They explained that they would be in con-
tact with him soon. For a moment he had the uncontrollable urge 
to skip town, like he had always done when something happened. 
He thought about how—once you detach yourself from the idea of 
permanence—life became easy, when it always kept going on and 
on and on. 
 If he were to take the bus right now, he could go anywhere. 
Beat up some other guys in a different convenience store. Go 
to every 7/11 in the world and beat up some guy each time. He 
could not explain the dent in his face caused by a bullet to 
the police. Not in believable parameters at least. He could not 
guess what kind of investigation the police would attempt but 
it did not really matter to him. 
 Mortals extended their mortality among one another, they 
shared it like a drinking glass. He could extend his immortality 
to others too, sometimes. And in the grand scheme of things he 
knew that it would not matter, because Death would always catch 
up to them one way or another, but for now it was enough. From 
the pocket of his suit he retrieved the crumpled pink flier and 
gave it a once over again. For dust he indeed was, though it 
remained unclear if he would ever return to it. 
 He ripped up the flier into tiny little bits and threw it 
into the recycling bin behind the store. Tomorrow morning he 
would have a raging headache, an itchy cheek, and a possible 
81trip to Home Depot in search of wall putty, but tonight he 
was only mortal. He pulled out his phone and dialed Bi-
joux’s number. 
 “Hi Teo! What ‘s up? Are you having fun?”
  “I almost bought drugs for a pair of teens and a man shot 
me inside a 7/11 today. I am hopelessly in love with you, you 
know this, correct? I think I am going to take up boxing again. 
When is your shift over? I will go pick you up and we will go 
get dinner. Whatever you want we will have it. Oh, and I have 
half a joint in my pocket.”


English

Dust To Dust

Siegel, Blair

|  102 |
Dawn.
The shiny new Tesla hums at the red light. Its fancy start-stop 
technology makes it hard to differentiate when the damn thing’s 
ever on to begin with.
The driver, probably a 30-something-year-old CEO, is glued to his 
phone. 
His eyes perk up, light’s still red.
Brows frowning, he’s unhappy with his wife, his startup, or both.
To his left the grass begins to shift, awaken, as the motionless figure 
stays planted. 
Instinctively, he feels the light turn green. Off he goes.
Do you see anything?
Late Morning.
An older woman turns the corner. With her are two small dogs; they 
look more high maintenance than I’ll ever be.
She’s in a tennis outfit, though how often she plays is debatable. Her 
platinum blonde hair and fake chest is an eyesore. She boisterously 
yells into her headphones, a foreign language I can’t interpret.
Her black sunglasses remain stuck to her eyes.
She faces the busy street, receiving the occasional whistle and catcall 
as the cars pass. 
It makes her yell louder, the veins in her neck start to rise.
She enjoys it.
Her dog leashes are fully extended; off they go for a sniff. One’s 
even brazen enough for a pee. He leaves a puddle next to the now 
darkened blanket.
D o  Y o u  S e e  A n y t h i n g ?
B l a i r  S i e g e l 
|  103 |
They trot back to their master.
Off she walks, obnoxiously shaking her behind, hoping the boulevard 
enjoys its last glimpse of Beverly Hill’s finest retired. She walks by, 
doesn’t notice the figure, the dismantled home, the stain her scraggly 
mutt left.
Do you see anything?
Lunch.
A group of construction workers parade by.
Fast they all walk, starving from the busy work morning.
Engulfed in their conversations, they eagerly walk up the stairs 
leading to the supermarket.
A shopping cart filled with miscellaneous items block the August 
sun from his emaciated body.
A few more construction workers pass, one notices the cart in the 
corner of his peripherals, looks quickly, sees the rest of the ugliness, 
soon looks away.
He frowns.
Some notice the smell. Though not understanding where exactly it’s 
comingfrom. 
Up the stairs they go.
Some businessmen in suits walk down. All on their phones. They 
don’t look twice. 
Do you see anything?
Rush Hour.
The main street is flooded with cars.
The light is green but the lanes stay stagnant. 
It’s 5:30 pm and the sun is at its strongest.
The breeze makes the 95-degree day a smidge more tolerable, but 
in turn it causes a few of his belongings to scatter around the patch 
of grass.
The side street is congested with dozens of cars. They’re not going 
anywhere anytime soon. The traffic today is particularly bad. Most 
Did You See Anything? |  Siegel
|  104 |
people look at their phones, some stare out their windows, mostly 
checking to see if traffic’s moved from the last time they checked 
twenty seconds ago.
They’re focused on wanting to get home. Wanting to work out. 
Wanting to try that new restaurant. Wanting to open a beer. They 
don’t give enough fucks to really look out the window.
His mousy brown hair sways in the breeze.
His skin is bright red from being in the hot sun all day. Some scabs 
begin blistering. 
Do you see anything?
Late Night.
Almost 3 A.M. A couple drunk guys trickle from the bar down the 
street. They stumble down the sidewalk, hungry.
Giddy, they’re wasted.
Suddenly walking up the flight of stairs to the supermarket entrance 
seems like the biggest task of the night. Instead, they opt for the 
more expensive one across the road.
Oh shit one blurts, accidentally bumping into his cart filled with his 
miscellaneous, but valuable things. 
Off they stumble.
Do you see anything?
The Next Day.
Police cars, caution tape, a couple of coroner cars barricade the 
sidewalk. 
His cart with miscellaneous, but valuable things, are gone.
His sunburned stature, mousy brown hair, are gone. 
The side street is closed off.
The main street is backed up with traffic.
Everyone in their car makes sure to look once, twice, four times.
A couple of onlookers across the street try to figure out what 
happened.
Did You See Anything? |  Siegel
|  105 |
Did you see anything?
Did You See Anything? |  Siegel


Do You See Anything?

goli, sam

|  86 |
Placement
Four feet to my left and six feet below the grass lies a cement 
box containing the pastel pink casket in which my grandmother’s 
body rests—a color and style she selected and paid for years prior, 
which, upon reflection, I realize matched the sweatshirt and pant 
combination she often wore—and tucked into her right hand, a note 
I wrote by candle-light, face flushed both by the glow of the flame 
and an inner swell, the morning of her wake almost one year ago.
And from this plot, another may or may not arise.
Two feet in front of me, sitting on low beach chairs on the steep 
hill of the cemetery, my mother and her older brother converse en 
español about the sandwich shop down the street where he would 
like to take us for lunch. As they chatter on about the variety of carne 
they offer, my sister and I exchange glances in recognition that we 
will have to pick up food elsewhere since they don’t have meatless 
options. As I return my gaze toward my mother, I notice she has in 
her hands an emerald quartz heart, half-wrapped in an off-white 
cotton handkerchief, that I identify as having belonged to her mother.
Regardless of whether or not I have seen these artifacts before, 
I release a deep sigh as I watch her fold and unfold the cloth, clench 
and release the stone, thinking about how those two objects, 
observed together, evoke the spirit of my grandmother and I feel a 
sense of her presence through these representations.
How long can one possibly live? They say one may live as long as 
the last person who remembers them.
I begin to wonder where she purchased the two, whether en 
México or somewhere in her adopted Los Ángeles. Did she pray over 
the heart like she did the two inch gold medallion with El Señor 
Jesuchristo on the front and Nuestra Señora de San Juan de Los Lagos 
on the back that she wore around her neck since as long as I can 
remember, which I now clutch and run my thumb over in my right 
pant pocket? I don’t display this relic to anyone except, on occasion, 
my mother because of the commotion it causes amongst certain 
o n  m e m o r y
s a m  g o l i
|  87 |
relatives. Minerva Villarreal gave it to me herself at a time when she 
acknowledged the fragility of her age and wanted to gift her short 
list of possessions to her kin, at a time when she still contained the 
memories of her life, when she could remember whether she ate 
that day or not, when she still knew where she was, when she still 
knew my name.
In those years, when she remembered, the housing market in 
California had not yet crashed and my siblings and I all still lived at 
my parents’ house on the westside. We would still go to mass every 
Saturday evening and go for dinner afterward as family, because 
even though we knew Sunday belonged to the Lord, not a single one 
of us—save for my mother and hers— would dare wake up before 
ten in the morning. But we did things that way, our way. These days 
the only place half of us find God is on the money we earn to pay the 
rent.
I often wonder how we made it this far—my family creating life 
in America. I don’t mean that I doubted them or am surprised. I just 
can never ask my grandmothers about their stories again. I could 
hear it from their children, sure, but those firsthand accounts have 
come and gone, and here I am now putting together the pieces.
To know what they felt when they arrived, Minerva from 
Monterrey and Karimeh from Bethlehem, and not just that they 
arrived, would enrich the narrative I have of their migration, of their 
realities. I would have an account of their stories, and not a version 
twice-removed from their own truths—the re-telling as described 
by their children. Now we have too many gaps to fill. So to whom do 
these stories even belong, and who wrote them?
They also say that representations of the self, photos and 
possessions, will outlive us. I think about this as I continue watching 
my mother with the emerald quartz heart. After a moment, she folds 
it back up and returns it to her brother.
How can I let her go? I hear him ask but not really asking at all, 
more like insisting in its absurdity. He recounts to us the times his 
friends point out to him how often he comes to visit his mother’s 
grave, as if once a week were too much for a grieving man who 
on memory |  gol i
|  88 |
happens to live only five minutes from the cemetery.
Three feet behind them, I observe my father pacing, not really 
listening to any of the conversation happening around him, and 
looking in all directions for the source of the smoke that has been 
wafting our way since we arrived thirty minutes ago. It smells of 
barbecue and I anticipate that within the next five minutes he will 
suggest that we leave and head to lunch.
Almost on cue, he finds a moment of silence and cuts through it 
like a knife asking if we would like to leave now. Despite predicting 
the arrival of that question, I can barely contain myself and shoot 
him an unapologetic glare, reprimanding him for only concerning 
himself with his stomach and can’t he see we all came to spend time 
together to remember grandma.
Immediately after, I notice him bow his head either in discomfort 
or acquiescence and as I let my frustration dissipate, it occurs to me 
that I can’t remember the last time any of us went to visit either of 
his parents’graves.
I look toward my brother and sister for solace, who have both 
made themselves comfortable on the sarape we laid on the grass, 
feeling somewhat guilty for having reacted with such agitation. 
They stare back in silence, thanking me with their eyes, and I kneel 
down with them, suddenly aware of this familiar scene. Out of the 
corner of my eye I try to assess my mother’s spirit, and even though 
she says nothing, I can feel her relief.
After a heavy pause, my uncle returns to a discussion we had 
earlier, as if nothing had happened, about replacing the coolant fluid 
in my car, giving me clear instructions on how to do it myself. As 
he gets into the technicalities, I notice three coyotes appear over 
his shoulder in the distance. I pay them little attention, reasoning 
that they likely inhabit this land and therefore yield no danger, but 
I underestimate our dog’s senses, and within moments he begins 
growling from under the embrace of my sister’s arm where he has 
been nestled quietly throughout our visit.
My entire family turns in the direction in which our dog now 
snarls, suddenly more alert than they’ve been all morning, and while 
on memory |  gol i
|  89 |
the coyotes remain far off, they can’t help but to grow more alarmed, 
particularly my brother who begins packing up our belongings 
at once. I suggest that the pack doesn’t seem too interested in us, 
pointing out that they probably often encounter humans, and 
eventually we are able to subdue our Jack Russell, which grants us a 
bit more time to devote to our little patch of familial unity on the hill.
Although my mother’s sisters and their families couldn’t 
join us on the first anniversary of my abuelita’s passing, I feel our 
cohesiveness more than I have in years. This isn’t the first loss we’ve 
experienced, my immediate family and I, but something about 
watching and loving a person throughout their life cycle—through 
life, through aging, through palpabledecline—seems to have made 
us all aware of our own mortality—the certainty of losing each 
other, one by one. And when I think back to when I was small and I 
would sneak into the back room of Grandma Karimeh’s house with 
my cousin to find her box of cigarettes so that we could break them, 
and in our minds thus prevent her from smoking, all of our efforts 
seem so futile and I wish in that moment to pause time.
As we make our way down the hill toward our cars, finally 
heeding our grumbling stomachs, one of the coyotes wanders in my 
direction and we make eye contact. We stand there, about fifty feet 
between us, examining each other. After a moment I move closer, 
ignoring the warnings from my family, feeling a budding gratitude 
for this encounter. With eyes locked I crouch down, desperate to 
preserve this moment, and pull out my camera. As I wind the film, 
choose the aperture, and set the shutter speed, the coyote waits, 
never looking away. In a second, I snap the photograph and our 
moment ends, passing so quickly yet feeling more infinite than ever, 
and I file this memory alongside another: a portrait of my abuelita 
erupting in laughter watching Sabado Gigante on the rocking chair 
in the living room of my parents’ house, as she did every Saturday.
Some memories fade over time, losing strength because of their 
triviality, or get replaced by others the longer we move through life. 
Others shuffle around like pebbles in a stream, present but take time 
on memory |  gol i
|  90 |
to uncover. And yet others still embed themselves like the roots of a 
tree, taking hold so deep that they become you.
As I turn back to return to my family, I notice that yards away 
at the top of the hill, in the shade of a tree, the other two coyotes 
lounge with their eyes squinted and panting in the heat, lending to 
the impression of a serene smile.
Displacement
I question why I’m sharing this vignette. Most days, and 
especially during significant moments, I feel the elusiveness of the 
minutes that I live, and then lose instantly over and over. Maybe I 
want to remember everything, feeling ever nostalgic for the now. I 
can say, at least, that’s why I take photographs.
Or maybe, it’s coping.
I try hard to preserve—to remember, to document, to hold space 
for—the stories of my family and my ancestors and my life, but at 
some point I lose certainty about whether I, in actuality, write non-
fiction or fiction. Everything I narrated in the preceding section 
happened. But could I really assert that any of it is the truth?
The other day I found journals I kept as I entered early adulthood 
and as I read the pages, I noticed how differently I remember and 
understand the stories of my own life now versus then. Different 
details stand out, different events have shifted in their significance. 
But aren’t these my stories? Shouldn’t I be certain of my own 
narrative? I’ve been building my identity on them my whole life but 
suddenly I’m not sure if it’s dependent on my ever-changing memory 
of them or of the events themselves.
If any of the stories turn out not to be true, does it even matter? 
At some point they were real enough to make me who I am. Is that 
enough?
What happens to identity once we’ve forgotten? I contemplate 
this often, especially when I think of my grandmother and how she 
understood herself and her life, or didn’t, as her memory faded. 
Maybe she didn’t pay it any attention. But with it went part of our 
history.
on memory |  gol i
|  91 |
By writing down these events, these narratives, these vignettes, 
I’ve transformed them, reframed them, produced a copy of the 
truth. They’ve been composed from memory and filtered through 
a— my—consciousness, which are both fallible. So, does the truth 
only exist in the Now? And if so, why bother with any of it? What am 
I doing?
I don’t know.
Either way, whether it matters or it doesn’t, here I am anyway. 
Writing. Exploring.
Maybe I’ll arrive at some conclusion by the end. Maybe I won’t 
and I’ll keep writingand re-writing the same stories, compounding 
them with future experiences, in future contexts.
It all starts to feel a bit narcissistic at some point. I look to Socrates 
for consolation in moments like this, when I feel self-conscious: “The 
unexamined life is not worth living.”
I shrug, not knowing if that changes anything.
Replacement
I didn’t mean to write this story, or any other subsequent one 
for that matter. I encountered it when I flipped through notebooks 
I’d kept with quotes that I’d scrawled down from books I’d read, 
when I reread journals I’d kept and notes I’d jotted to myself about 
observations and feelings I had, when I reflected on other stories I’d 
written and what compelled me to do so in the first place. I put this 
all together, essentially compiling my thoughts, noticing patterns, 
over the last two decades. Now I am left with a puzzle.
As I look forward, whatever I write, photograph, film, compose—
from now until an arbitrary end—attempt to put it together, to 
reassemble, to see the whole picture. In other words: to reclaim our 
history, to reframe experience and trauma, and to let go.
on memory |  gol i


on memory

Chen, Carrie

NR
I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to be Free
91
C
arrie C
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en


I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to be Free

Ravenswood, Linda

82
LEAVING GAZA WITH A WHITE FLAG
LINDA RAVENSWOOD
Have you seen Rami Abu Jamous’s film of his family leaving Gaza 
with white flags made of bath towels?  In the streets he walks 
with his camera on.  He sees a neighbour ahead also trying to 
leave.  It’s Abu Achmed and his boy on the sidewalk, also with 
a white flag. 
Rami calls out  Abu Achmed!   Abu Achmed is crying.  His son lies 
on cement, 
turned on his face, long and full of colours like a bull in the 
sand after a ritual.  
On the pavement Abu Achmed is rolling and crying.  Rami films.  
All are in prayer.  
Abu Achmed cries in Arabic kan yanbaghi lana 'an nabqaa ! almanzi !"# 
$#%&$ '#" (# #%)* +$ "',#-' which means we should have stayed home. He 
cries a hundred times. Suddenly they shout yatanafas $.#+/ he 
breathes! Abu Achmed lifts up his son to carry him away.   
Another strong man comes to help.  Running in the streets, he 
holds the boy upon his arms. 
Then a reporter says in English the son of Abu Achmed did not live. 
Finally his name is said. Achmed Al Atbash.  
A reporter says, CNN has drone coordinates of the family as they "ed.  It shows 
how they went from their "at, and the brief minutes it took to go around corners under 
the evacuation.  
They did not have guns, only a broomstick and towel, and a 
plastic sack.  
Rami films. A man on the road says Gaza est tombé in French. It 
means the city has fallen. 
A


Leaving Gaza With A White Flag

Kinsella, Adrienne

NR
She Kept Things to Herself
93
A
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She Kept Things to Herself

Leaños, Angelina

8
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Nochebuena

Ackerman, Stu

6 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
Somnambulists 
Many women walk with the yellow, 
wrinkled feet of many men 
who wander the earth in search of women 
Stu Ackerman 
who don't in any way resemble women walking. 
Many men walk with the yellow, 
tired feet of their fathers 
who wandered blindly without ever 
thinking about where their feet can1e from 
(but they were sure they didn't belong on women). 
Everyone's feet ache. 
Everyone's spitting pomegranate pits1• 
No one's particularly happy. 
1 Pomegranate Pits- Persephone, daughter of Demeter (Greek goddess 
of corn), was abducted by Hades and forbidden to leave the Underworld 
permanently by Hades' housekeeper, Todd, because she was caught red-
handed eating six pomegranate seeds in the foyer (apparently a crime in the 
Underworld). Later in life, she unloaded a gunny sack of corn on some guy 
named Triptolemus and sent him throughout the world by flying chariot to 
teach corn and its culture. 


Somnambulists

Dolan, Jeannie

JEANNIE DOLAN 
There is no 
Fatburger 
on Canoga 
& Ventura 
So it's mundane night 
and you're waiting 
waiting for something 
But you can't recall what 
and soon you realize 
you're at a bus stop 
So you must be waiting 
for a bus 
You sit out there 
On Ventura and Canoga by the Fatburger 
and it's starting to rain. 
It's raining hard 
and you reach 
for your umbrella but 
you suddenly come to 
realize that you 
haven't got any arms 
and in fact you further 
find you have no legs 
So all there is to do 
is sit and wait 
in the rain for a bus 
But you remember this is L.A. 
where the bus never comes 
So you shrink further 
into yourself to take 
the chill off and 
pretend you're alive 


There is no Fatburger on Canoga & Ventura

Erikson, Chip

Liquid 
Chip Erikson 
dulled, and 
dependent upon its 
own stickiness; your heart 
oozes from your short 
sleeves, 
flowing, lava like over 
your striped working-
shirt, puddling on once 
shiny black 
shoes, you slip in the mess, 
pratfalling for 
total strangers, 
landing, 
solid 
on your spine, 
numbed feet tell you 
you probably won't be 
taking a bow any time 
soon, 
all this happens when she 
tells you what she tells you, 
and the dull ache is behind 
your sternum-
32 
heartache they whisper 
behind you, 
rooted in the protective 
coating of 
abstraction; 
you're laughing now, 
on this pavement, as you 
start 
hearing their 
whispers 
eventually 
you sit up, 
hot liquid 
stinging your skin, 
and eyes, and 
eve1yone's just waiting for you; 
later, 
while you laugh 
in little, tender screeches, 
they wait 
and you smile, 
knowing you'll 
never get up 
Northridge Review 


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