California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Kodama, Melissa

NR
Music from a Broken Record
Everything is greasy. 
Grease on the gloves, on the plates, on their skin, on the pots and pans, 
and in the food.  Fat drips off the raw meat patties on the grill top and sizzles, 
popping oil onto greasy napkins sitting on the countertop.  Fried potatoes 
gurgle in the oil, while slimy customers complain of undercooked meat and 
melted smoothies.  A salad sits on the greasy bar top and becomes a landing 
spot for flies, as dressing too salty for anyone’s liking drowns the wilted lettuce.  
These sounds reverberate about the hamburger shop like a horrible beat 
sample. The clinging of dishes, searing and popping of French fries, mix the 
silverware-scraping hymn of her morning.
Six hours later, she saunters home through a golden doorframe etched 
with Gods. 
She sits as liquid beads materialize in pools between the pink innermost 
junctions of her eyes. They drain beside a sloped bone
& drip 
upon
dirty
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jeans and graphic tees suffocating the
hardwood.
She echoes stories told on icy nights to a mirror beside an unmade bed. 
Reflecting on two women:
Bachan is a great grandma whose house meant spaghetti and the smell of 
wood. Bachan is gentle laughs, knitting yarn blankets that shelter the couches. 
Reminders to not use straws and fresh mauve nail polish. Bachan is my dad’s 
kiai getting off her chair. Japanese-American woman. Is playing the drums with 
a smile in the internment camp. Pale glassy skin and young eyes in a black and 
white photo. Bachan is rose garden-keeper and a mother who lost her son. 
Cards on every occasion and a kiss goodbye.    
A smile assembles upon an olive toned and unblemished face. The second 
woman appears in her mind and the miserable story scratches at her skull like a 
caged rodent.
 Over 
  And 
   Over  
Huddled in a room six years old 
& confused. Marched from home, 
into a world whose lens is veiled 
by a milky film of 
grey. 
Her father, captured & tiny eyes 
still lost. Currency: 
obsolete in the despair. Lives
struggle hopeless in the wickedness of 
homeland. 
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The innocent suffer in heartbreak. Bartering for life. 
Teeth rotting—she’s hungry. No one knew how 
horrific it was. But we know now. 
We have seen what happened.
We cry.
 She’s distraught at the cyclical nature of man and scrapes a tear wedged 
between cavernous eye bags. PRAY PRAY. There is time and everything can 
be healed in time and through Him, who hears our voices. Clear fluid oozes 
from brown eyes and drips from a pointed cupid’s bow, landing on a Magnolia 
coffee table book.
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English

Music from a Broken Record

Bradford, Halasius

NR
EDGES
FADE IN:
INT. DOÑA CECILIA’S HOUSE - NIGHT
SUPER: “EDGES”
(NOTE: The dialogue is spoken in Spanish and is subtitled in English) 
On an old night table, an old analog alarm clock SOUNDS. It is 4:00 AM. The skinny 
wrinkled hand of DOÑA CECILIA, Mexican, 93, turn off the alarm.
Doña Cecilia is a 4’11” indigenous-looking woman with wrinkles all over her face. 
She moves very slowly, and her spine is curved.
As in slow motion, she sits up on her bed and looks at the floor. Breathing deeply, 
she stays quiet on the edge of her bed and looks across the poor room.
The tiny room is her whole house. The floor is made of gray concrete. On one side 
of the room, there is an old night table next to a small bed. On the other side, 
there is a table with two chairs, a little oven, and a rotten sink full of plates.  
Doña Cecilia uses her hands to push herself and stand up.
DOÑA CECILIA
Ay, ay, ay... Diocito.
SUBTITLES
Oy, oy, oy... my sweet Lord.
Dragging her feet, she walks to the sink and opens the tap. She splashes her face 
with the cold tap water. A rooster sings.
She closes the tap but a sound of falling water continues. As she glances at the 
rotten tin roof, she sees water leaking from a hole.
DOÑA CECILIA
Válgame Señor.
SUBTITLES
Be with me, Lord.
Cecilia draws a little curtain beneath the sink and retrieves an iron bucket. She sets 
the bucket underneath the water leak.
She sets an old kettle over the oven and heats water. As the water boils, Cecilia 
walks slowly to the corner of the room. She draws a curtain and sits on the toilet.
AT HER TABLE - MOMENTS LATER
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Sitting at the table, Cecilia eats a piece of white bread and drinks tea in an old 
plastic cup. She wears a shirt and a large skirt.
Cecilia finishes her tea, stands up and puts on a jacket. She takes an elongated 
suitcase and an umbrella. Then, she looks across the room, turns the lights off, and 
exits.
EXT. DOÑA CECILIA’S HOUSE ENTRANCE - DAWN
SUPER: “LA JOYA - MEXICO”
In the unlit early dawn, it pours. As Cecilia steps outside, she stands on the edge of 
a long concrete stairs and looks down across the poor neighborhood.
Few PEOPLE are on the street. DON JACINTO, 70s, opens the little market in front 
of Cecilia’s house. Cecilia opens her umbrella and, step by step, climbs down the 
long stairs toward the unpaved street.
DON JACINTO
Buen día, doña. Baje con cuidadito.
SUBTITLES
Good morning, ma’am. Be careful getting down the stairs.
DOÑA CECILIA
Gracias Jacinto. Me lo dice cada día. No se preocupe que ya es costumbre.
SUBTITLES
Thanks Jacinto. Every day you tell me the same thing. Don’t worry. I’m used to this.
Don Jacinto smiles and enters the market as Cecilia continues climbing down the 
stairs as if in slow motion.
EXT. UNPAVED STREET - MORNING
In the rain, Doña Cecilia walks on the street. Trying to avoid the rain, a young 
MOTHER, holding a little backpack and the hand of her 7-year-old SON in a school 
uniform, leave their house and run. Doña Cecilia is much slower.
EXT. PAVED STREET - DAY
The rain continues. As the day is growing, there are more CARS on the street. A 
MAN opens his store. CHILDREN run toward their school. After a slow walk through 
the long sidewalk, Cecilia finally arrives at the bus stop.
Tired, she sits on the small bench and shelters herself from the rain. She covers her 
suitcase with her umbrella.
When a bus arrives, Cecilia closes her umbrella and stands up. The bus opens the 
door, and two YOUNG MEN get off the bus to help her.
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One of them takes the suitcase, and the other takes the umbrella. Both help Cecil-
ia in the difficult task of getting on the bus.
INSIDE THE BUS - CONTINUOUS
The bus is packed with wet and sleepy PEOPLE. Cecilia has a hard time trying to 
grab the handgrip, but her tiny body is contained by the packed crowd.
After a couple of stops, people start to get off the bus. By waving her hand, a 
WOMAN offers her seat to Doña Cecilia. Grinning, Cecilia accepts and sits down.
DOÑA CECILIA
Gracias, mijita.
SUBTITLES
Thanks, young lady.
EXT. TIJUANA BUS STOP, MEXICO - DAY
The rain is gone when the bus arrives at its stop. Slowly, Doña Cecilia gets off the 
bus. Someone from inside the bus passes her the suitcase. She walks to the corner 
and gets in a cab.
INSIDE THE CAB - CONTINUOUS
Four people are sharing the cab. In the back seat are a FAT WOMAN, a TEENAGE 
GIRL, and a male CONSTRUCTION WORKER. Uncomfortable with her umbrella and 
her suitcase, Cecilia is in the front seat next to the cab driver, a QUIET MAN.
The fat woman eats some cookies loudly, the teenage girl is absorbed by her cell 
phone, and the construction worker looks out the window. Nobody talks. One by 
one, Doña Cecilia looks at them, but nobody notices her.
EXT. CAB STOP - EARLY AFTERNOON
The cab stops, and Cecilia, very slowly, gets out of the car.
EXT. HUMBLE MARKET ENTRANCE - CONTINUOUS
At the entrance of a humble market, Cecilia sits at a plastic table. She rests her 
head on her right hand as a male SERVER, 20s, comes from inside with a plate of 
food and a juice.
SERVER
¿Lo mismo de siempre, no?
SUBTITLES
The usual, right?
DOÑA CECILIA
Por favor, mijito.
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SUBTITLES
Please, son.
The server leaves the plate and the glass on the table. Cecilia eats and drinks as 
she looks at CHILDREN playing on the street, she smiles.
INSERT - Her wrinkled hand caresses her suitcase.
The server comes outside with a big and thick yellow candle and gives it to Ce-
cilia. She opens just a bit of the suitcase and puts the candle inside as the server 
cleans up the table.
SERVER
Me dijeron que anda tranquilo por allá adentro hoy.
SUBTITLES
Someone told me today it is quiet inside the place.
DOÑA CECILIA
Dios quiera, mijito. Vamo’ a ver.
SUBTITLES
It’s up to God, son. We’ll see.
Doña Cecilia leaves a bunch of coins over the table and tries to stand up. The 
server assists her and gives her the suitcase.
DOÑA CECILIA
Todo muy rico. Gracias.
SUBTITLES
Everything’s very tasty. Thank you.
SERVER
Me alegro. La veo hasta mañana, abuela. Ándese con cuidado.
SUBTITLES
I’m glad. See you tomorrow, granny. Take care of yourself.
Doña Cecilia slightly waves at him and leaves the place. With a tender smile, the 
server looks at Cecilia’s slow pace.
EXT. GARITA INTERNACIONAL - NUEVA TIJUANA - AFTERNOON
Doña Cecilia walks on Blvd. Garita de Otay through the Garita International to-
ward the US-Mexico border.
EXT. CUSTOMS AND BORDER - CONTINUOUS
Doña Cecilia arrives at the border. There is a long line, but she cuts the line and 
walks toward the control point. Cecilia waves at the OFFICER IN CHARGE and he 
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opens the gate, allowing Cecilia to cross.
EXT. OTAY MESA PORT OF ENTRY, US - CONTINUOUS
A border patrol car arrives, and Doña Cecilia gets in.
INSIDE THE CAR - CONTINUOUS
Driving, the PATROL DRIVER looks at Cecilia through the rearview mirror.
PATROL DRIVER
How are you today, Mrs.? Doing great?
DOÑA CECILIA
Yes, yes. Tank yo.
Uncomfortable with the chat in English language, Cecilia looks out the window 
and stays quiet.
EXT. DETENTION CENTER ENTRANCE - LATE AFTERNOON
The patrol driver helps Doña Cecilia from getting out of the car. She enters to the 
Detention Center.
INT. DETENTION CENTER CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS
Doña Cecilia walks across a long white corridor. She passes by a TV showing the 
news. She glances at the TV and sees PRESIDENT TRUMP giving a frenzied speech.
INSERT - Trump struts around the microphone.
Doña Cecilia shakes her head in disapproval. At the end of the corridor, TWO FE-
MALE OFFICERS open a double door, and she walks through.
INT. DETENTION CAGES - CONTINUOUS
Twenty-five CHILDREN, between four and nine years old, CRY inside a cage. The 
noise is DEAFENING. Some children hug others, but some of them prefer being 
apart.
INSERT - A four-year-old LITTLE BOY cries and shouts against the cage. His face is full 
of tears.
LITTLE BOY
Mami...! Mami...!
From the other side of the cage, just in front of the boy, Cecilia takes a chair and 
sits. She lays the suitcase on the floor and opens it.
With curiosity, a couple of children step closer to her. Cecilia takes the big yellow 
candle out of the suitcase, pulls a match box out of her pocket, and lights the 
candle.
When the candle starts to burn, she takes from inside the suitcase a small white 
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acoustic guitar. She closes the suitcase, puts her right foot over, and sets the guitar 
on her leg.
She plays the guitar and sings Mexican boleros. Gradually, the children get ab-
sorbed by the music and stop crying. As the shouting ceases, the sound of the 
guitar and Cecilia’s voice sounds louder. 
BEGIN MONTAGE - DOÑA CECILIA SINGS
-- INSIDE OF THE CAGE -- The children come closer to Cecilia and sit in a semi-circle 
in front of her.
-- DOÑA CECILIA -- With her eyes closed, Cecilia sings with her heart.
-- INSIDE OF THE CAGE -- The four-year-old little boy stops crying as he beholds Ce-
cilia. He gets calm and sleepy.
-- DOÑA CECILIA -- Cecilia’s hands play the guitar with grace.
-- THREE OFFICERS -- Next to the double door, THREE OFFICERS look at each other 
and smile. They enjoy the music as well. 
-- INSIDE OF THE CAGE -- Very calm, the children sleep. 
-- YELLOW CANDLE -- The candle is consumed.
END OF MONTAGE
INT. DETENTION CAGES - CONTINUOUS
Cecilia stops playing and puts the guitar inside the case. She beholds the sleeping 
children across the cage. No one is awake. Misty-eyed, Doña Cecilia grins at the 
calm ambiance.
DOÑA CECILIA
Sueñen con los angelitos.
SUBTITLES
Dream with angels.
Cecilia puts her left hand on her hip and stands up with difficulty. One of the three 
officers assist her.
EXT. CUSTOMS AND BORDER - EVENING
At the border, the patrol car is parked next to the route. A big Vallarta Supermar-
ket truck parks behind the patrol car.
In the unlit route, Doña Cecilia gets out the patrol car with her suitcase and her 
umbrella. The patrol driver helps her with the difficult task of climbing to the cabin. 
The truck leaves.
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INT. TRUCK CABIN - NIGHT
Driving, a friendly TRUCK DRIVER talks with Doña Cecilia. 
TRUCK DRIVER
Próximamente le voy a tener que poner un ascensor para que pueda subir al 
camión, Doña Cecilia.
SUBTITLES
Soon, I’ll have to put an elevator for you to get on the truck, Doña Cecilia.
Quiet and sleepy, Doña Cecilia grins.
TRUCK DRIVER
¿Me va a cantar alguito hoy?
SUBTITLES
Are you gonna sing something for me, today?
EXT. CORNER OF CECILIA’S BLOCK - NIGHT
The truck sounds the horn and leaves the corner. Cecilia walks among the cloud of 
dust stirred up by the truck. She walks the unpaved street to her house.
EXT. DOÑA CECILIA’S HOUSE ENTRANCE - CONTINUOUS
Taking a deep breath, Doña Cecilia gazes up the long stairs. Step by step, she be-
gins to climb it.
INT. DOÑA CECILIA’S HOUSE - NIGHT
In her sleepwear, Doña Cecilia drags the iron bucket full of water and pours it into 
the toilet. Exhausted, she sits on her bed and takes the old alarm clock from her 
night table. 
INSERT - The clock displays 11:35 PM. Cecilia sets the alarm to 4:00 AM.
She crosses herself and lays down on the bed.
DOÑA CECILIA
(under her breath)
Ay, ay, ay virgencita.
SUBTITLES
(under her breath)
Oy, oy, oy... holy mother.
Doña Cecilia turns the light off and exhales hard.
BLACK SCREEN - The old clock alarm sounds.
FADE OUT.
THE END
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Edges

O\u27Mara, Colleen

Carob Tree Blues

Trujillo, Tamara

97 
Tamara Trujillo 
The Garden 
Every day I get down on my knees and pray. 
Crouched in the flower garden, I offer up my hands in worship 
watering seedlings, pruning the leaves, 
giving myself to something that takes time to grow. 
Returning to the earth is sometimes the longest journey 
for a pair of feet with intentions of running. 


The Garden

COLLEEN O'MARA 
OMrdinary 
en 
M Y BOYFRIEND AND I WERE ON A TRAIN LAST NIGHT, SIT-ting and watching the sad-faced commuters and the streaking tunnel lights as they passed by. There was a man who stood to the side of 
us, in the doorway. He appeared to be, at first glance, an ordinary man. But like 
most things in life, on further inspection, he was far from that. He wore a tan 
coat made of soft mohair and his tie was neatly in place. He carried, under his 
arm, a stack of newspapers. Not an odd sight on a commuter train heading from 
Oakland to San Francisco but then I saw his shoes. One, a running sneaker-
the other a black oxford, scuffed and worn. His coat was tattered and stained 
and his eye was cut just at the temple. The left side of his face was bruised and 
I realized that the orange cone standing alongside him was his. He kept it by 
him as we exited the train onto the platform. There he began talking -to us. 
"What is this shit? The whole world's fucked up!" he said in a deep raspy 
voice. The voice of an old bum, or a weathered grandfather. 
We smiled together kindly with uncomfortable grins - the kind that never 
cause your lips to part. He saw us and took us at our invitation. 
"I want you to do something for me," he said approaching us like a used car 
salesman. Speaking to my boyfriend, he said, "I want you to call Dansalla, 
Tanzania at 3 a.m. I know you will. Call there through the British Consulate." 
My boyfriend laughed and making a joke said, "but my calling card's al-
ready at its limit," thinking that this man would take the joke and leave us 
alone. But he didn't. 
"Well okay then," the man said. "You be the operator and I'll be the one 
calling." We all laughed as the roar from the approaching train kept us from 
having to respond. 
He followed us to our seats, cone and all, and sat across from us. "I have a 
CHRIS JURGENSON 
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Ordinary Men 
submarine," he said, proudly. 
"You do?" my boyfriend asked. 
"Yes. I keep it for $5. For cheap. That's a great deal," he said, the used car 
salesman returning. 
"Where do you keep it?" I asked him. 
"It's not mine!" he said defensively. 
"Then whose is it?" my boyfriend asked. 
"You know, anything that can be tied can be untied." He mimed with his 
hand the motion and I saw two frayed ropes being dismantled, loosened, freed. 
"Now, you talk. Ask me anything!" he said to me, leaning back in his seat. 
I looked at the man with his bruises and noticed numbers written on his left 
hand. I wanted to know how his eye was cut but instead I asked, "why do you 
have numbers on your arm?" He grew sober although I could smell the whis-
key on his breath even from where I sat. 
"Because they are my phone numbers and sometimes I forget them," he 
said with a dead face. He leaned down to the side and moved the cone so that it 
sat between his feet. 
"I've been organizing a movement." The light was back in his eyes. He'd 
forgotten about the numbers. "Usually I talk one to one." He was speaking 
directly to my boyfriend now. "Not meaning to ignore you," he said quickly to 
me and then turned back to his male audience. "I pick up newspapers, then 
stack them under just one seat on just one train. Just one train so that they'll see 
them. They'll wonder why only one train and they won't know who did it," he 
said proudly, including us in his conspiracy. 
"Ah," my boyfriend said, playing along. 
"You see, they'll find them, then they won't know." He bent down for more 
newspapers under the seat and added those to his collection. 
"Now, you talk," he said, turning back to me. "What was the name of the 
first boy you kissed?" 
"Todd," I answered automatically and was surprised. 
"What was your first teacher's name?" 
"Mrs. Beckue," I thought but before I answered, his questions began shoot-
ing at me with high force and speed. 
"What do you do? Where've you been? Where are you going? Enough now. 
You be the operator," he said and put his hand up to his ear like he was holding 
a receiver. "Ringy Ding Dingy. Ringy Ding Dingy. Ringy Ding Dingy." 
Just then I noticed all of the people seated around us on the train. They were 
suppressing their laughter, holding their hands over their mouths. 
"Does that mean that I'm in Tanzania?" I asked him, trying to be funny. 
"No, you're here," he said. "The CIA know you're here." His head jerked to 
the side. "If they'd oil this track then the train wouldn't squeak on the curves. 
You see, they used five-feet track but if they'd used four-feet, standard, this 
train could go to Florida, to Mexico, up to Canada." Then they could be free I 
thought. 
"I also think that children could make place mats for the trains, color them 
in, then eat off of them. Merging the practical with the artistic." He sat back in 
his seat again like an old professor. 
"Hey, that's a good idea!" my boyfriend said encouragingly. "You've got a 
lot of good ideas." 
"I know," the man answered. "I'm full of 'em. I'm also full of shit." He 
smiled and I saw his teeth, yellowed and crooked. "Now, really," he said, the 
smile fading. "What do you do?" he asked with the same paternal tone that all 
of my father's law partners use when I see them at the annual Christmas dinner. 
"I write." I said, trying to convince him. And myself. 
"What do you write?" he asked. 
"Stories." 
"About what?" 
"About people." 
"What kind of people?" 
"Ordinary people," I said, looking him straight in the eye. 
He stopped for a breath then went on. "Do you write on bound?" he asked. 
"Word processor," I answered with a smile. 
"You should work on bound," he said authoritatively. Then you can donate 
them to your archives." He went on. "I used to type, you know." He motioned 
with his fingers, making them dance in the air. "I was good too. But they asked 
me what I was gonna be- a secretary?" His tone changed to bitterness. "I said 
'Yes, if I can be.' It's all gone downhill from there," he said solemnly. His 
fingers, that moments before had been dancing, fell into his lap. 
When the train stopped, we gathered our things. He grabbed his cone and 
told us to have a good night. "My name's Paul," he said. "Like the apostle." 
He shook hands with my boyfriend. His hands were covered with grit and 
grime, scarred by the filth of the street. Colored by the stains that had rumpled 
his coat, cut his eye, bruised his face and given him these muddled fragments, 
these small pieces, these tiny morsels. All pulled together, all fitting side by 
side, linked into the semblance of sanity. But there lay the illusion and I noticed 
his cone which stood beside him loyally. 
Street workers place them carefully in cities across the country. From New 
York to Los Angeles, they are meant as a warning, a barrier- something to 
stop people, to hold them back from getting too close to broken pavement, or to 
a deep, dark hole. A hole so dense that once enveloped, there is no escape. This 
man was warning us. 
Too bad, nobody had warned him. 
34 


Ordinary Men

Dunn, Terrence

1969 
I remember when time happened. 
It was either yesterday or years ago; of 
that, I'm no longer certain. But I remem-
ber it; it was a part of my life. 
I wonder what the rest are doing? I 
wonder if they ever got back from that 
place and time, and how they found life 
again, or if they even knew what it was, 
or what it was supposed to be like? 
Reality might have changed for some; 
now no longer able to distinguish be-
tween then and now, between time 
happening and time vanishing. 
The first blast startled us all. We'd been 
sitting on the edge of some rocks, trying 
Terrence Dunn 
to keep comfortable, trying to keep a good view and abso-
lutely needing to keep our excitement low.We'd been expect-
ing it, or something like it, for days. Others had told us all the 
gory stories, so we thought we were prepared.We were wrong. 
I hit the ground first, Chuck and Two-eye followed, Davey 
and C.J. started to go down, but instead changed their minds 
and stood back up. The rest of the squad I couldn't see-- nor 
did I care about. 
The blasts statted coming in steadily; it sounded as though 
they were ripping through the trees above us. I inched my 
head up to look around realizing that we probably weren't in 
any immediate danger; we were very far away from the ac-
tion. 
Nevettheless, I inched it up slowly. Davey was looking 
straight down at me, his machine gun poised and ready in his 
hands, it's hard plastic handle slightly cracked and already wet 
with the day's moisture. 
"What are you doing down there, you idiots! You should see 
this; it's great!" he squawked at us. 
Before I had time to respond, another explosion sounded. 
Again my head went to the ground. From the side I could see 
C.]. holding his gun by the ban·el and tip toeing to get a 
better view over the bushes. Two-eye had gotten up already 
and Davey was laughing at him and calling him an idiot to his 
face. An elbow nudged me from the left. "Come on, it's okay," 
Chuck said to me as he made his way to his knees. "This is 
what we came here for, right?" Yeah, I had guessed so, but I 
couldn't help remembering all of the news footage and the 
body bags, and remembering the people I knew, and remem-
bering how they hadn't come home, how they'd never come 
home. I didn't want to get up; I didn't want to see it. 
"Man! Look at those blasts! How cool!" C.]. yelled. They 
were mortars; I recognized the sound. "This is just like my dad 
56 Northridge Review 
Terrence Dunn 
said it was for him. It's incredible!" C]. said as he turned 
around to see if we'd gotten up. 
Mortars didn't matter to me; grenades didn't matter to me; 
machine gun fire didn't matter to me. My dad told me no 
stories; he'd never said a word. Yet I knew that if I stood up, 
I'd see something that would clue me in on what his time 
spent in some far off land was like. My time would then be 
able to relate to his time. I realized then that I didn't know 
what I was doing there; I should have been back doing KP or 
goofing off playing football or reading a book. My time would 
probably happen sooner or later, there was no need to rush it. 
Again I inched myself up. Peering through the bushes I 
could see the flames rise and the dirt scatter every time an 
explosion shook the ground. These were the vibrations we'd 
been feeling all along, the constant thumping that went on in 
the distance. 
Joining the others I now had a clear view of the entire 
scene. A group of figures had been pinned down on one side 
with m01tar fire hitting only a short distance away. They were 
men; I could see them. They were living, breathing, moving 
like real human beings. These were not targets to be shot at a 
range; these were not stiff bodies to be filmed for the news; 
these were not numbers. These were reality; these were bone, 
flesh, blood. "Would you be scared?" Chuck whispered to me. 
"Yeah, of course. Won't you be?" 
Chuck looked puzzled, "No, um ... well, I guess so," he said 
softly. Yeah, I'd guessed so too, but it didn't matter because 
that day it was only a game for us, as far as we were con-
cerned the next day it could be real. 
The mottar barrage subsided and the squad of soldiers who 
had been doing the firing got up and advanced. I could see 
them crouching and running, moving from tree to tree, head-
ing towards what looked to be a rice paddy, always their M-
16's set and ready, locked and loaded. 
I could almost hear the squad leaders yelling out the orders, 
"Let's go! Move it!"or, "Come on men, let's get them!" This was 
their chance to prove themselves, their chance to learn some-
thing, their chance to learn how to survive. I remembered the 
games we'd played back in the world before we got here. 
Chuck and I had ambushed the enemy so beautifully. We cut 
them down without a thought, laughing hysterically the entire 
time. Then later, we got caught and shot at ourselves. The 
torn knees of my fatigues being the only scars of my heroic 
death fall. 
Again an explosion sounded. The men who had previously 
been pinned down by m01tars had advanced and were now 
out of sight having reached a tree line which stretched out in 
both directions about twenty meters in front of the rice 
paddy. An ambush was about to unfold. 
"Do you see that? They're going to get blown away!" Davey 
yelled. "We should help them!" came from Two-eye. I couldn't 
understand them. Most of their dads had probably seen things 
like this and told them about it's reality; some, no doubt, 
were still seeing it. Davey and C.J. both knew Suzie Hollander 
and] oey Fernandez back in the real world. Both of them 
knew what happened to their dads, yet this was all still a 
game for them. Time here could not be matched with time 
there; the connection was unavailable to them. 
Machine gun fire suddenly filled the air, overpowering every 
movement and sound. Trip flares were sprung, claymore mines 
exploded. The surprise had been unleashed just as the entire 
group had entered the rice paddy. As I looked across I saw 
bodies hitting the ground. Men were twisting, turning, yelling 
in pain, yelling in disappointment. Some were better at it than 
others, as if this was the pa1t they'd practiced for. Their arms 
would fly back in surprise, their backs would arch up, as they 
58 Northridge Review 
Terrence Dunn 
were pulled onto their tiptoes, their helmets flying off into the 
air. Then they would twist their bodies and go limp falling 
onto their sides into the soft leaves or dirt; M-16's bouncing 
left and right. 
"I think I've had enough," I said to Chuck. "We should have 
been back hours ago as it is." I was lying, but I needed an 
excuse. 
"Yeah, I'll go too. I've got some things to do," he said in a 
hushed voice. 
With the ground still vibrating, machine guns still firing, and 
men still falling and screaming, we turned to sneak away from 
our squad. 
"Hey, where are you jerks going?" 
It was Davey; we'd been caught. "Ah ... we gotta get back, 
urn, Chuck has KP to do," I said while we continued to walk 
away. 
"Yeah, right! Well, go ahead! We don't need you guys any-
way!" As Davey said this, his machine gun slowly became 
angled straight at us; then the rest of the squad followed. 
Davey's yellow hair was sticking out the side of his helmet, 
his cheeks were red and blushed, a small mist was coming 
from his mouth, and his eyes had turned ice cold. He'd seen 
something that he thought looked like fun and it'd brought 
out the worst in him. Time for us, the time we had known in 
our old world, then stopped. "Come on men, let's get them!" 
he yelled. 
As Chuck and I turned and ran down the dirt path, the 
sound of their mis-aimed gunfire could barely be deciphered 
from the real battle in the background. Feeling that our lives 
depended on it, we ran full tilt, leaping over rocks and logs, 
smashing through piles of leaves, hurdling bushes, our heatts 
overheating the entire time. 
"What's wrong with those guys?" "Why did they open up on 
us?" "Why did I go up there anyhow?" "Is it my fault I couldn't 
take that sight?" And other thoughts blurred in and out of my 
consciousness. Then, catching up with me from the back of 
my thoughts, time remembered to switched itself back on. I 
knew that I couldn't help what I was doing; here and there, I 
had just leamed, could mean the same thing. 
The squad gave up on us shortly; they didn't want to miss 
too much of the real show they'd left behind. Then, when we 
knew we were in the clear, Chuck and I slowed down our 
pace. After a while the fence came in sight, and then the road 
and the town beyond it. I could see the smoke coming from 
the chimneys, and the smell of fireplaces now filled the crisp 
autumn air. We slowed down and walked now, finding our 
way to the hole that would take us through the fence and 
back into the safety of our neighborhood world. 
"So ... my dad goes over there in January. What about yours?" 
Chuck asked me while climbing through the hole. 
"Urn, Januaty too ... He goes over there again in January," I 
responded. After making it through the fence and down to 
the road, the ground again shaking with the sounds of the 
distant explosions, I tumed around and saw the familiar sign 
which I had been passing each morning on my bus ride to 
third grade. "Combat Training Center- West Point, New York," 
it read. "Januaty," I thought to myself, "He goes back again in 
Januaty." 
60 Northridge Review 


1969

Bear, Shining

Two Fathers 
Shining Bear 
The First 
As I rais'd father onto the death-rack, I looked; 
One in him I knew - the one who did always his duty; 
One I knew not - the one who hid his secret dreams. 
As I lay sojoumer-son down onto his rug, I look; 
One in him I know - the faithful son who does his duty; 
One I know not - the son who lives with secret dreams. 
0 my son, I would not live with yet another stranger! 
Tell your dreams; and if I do not understand 
I yet will honor them as coming from a stream that's dean. 
And dare I tell you mine? If that piece of me I give, 
I tremble thinking of your seeing my young inside 
where smokes keep power songs afresh, and puzzle pictures 
live. 
'Ihe Second 
Father-friend: I see regretted memories now mist your eyes 
when speak you of the grandfather you set upon the rack; 
your voiceless voice says that he told you no dream-sharing 
talk. 
Have his secrets and yours been born into my blood? 
Is that the pow'r commands me walk a separate path, 
that bids me cross the path you'd have me tread? 
My heart beats with but pure purpose; no defiance 
rings my ears when I say "This is how I must walk 
as Manitou does guide." I say, although I dread. 
I claim not wisdom to be call'd an elder of the tribe; 
but I must trust that medicine that deep inside compels 
my feet to walk the dream path - yours and his now mine. 
62 Northridge Review 


Two Fathers

Cho, Susy

SUSYCHO 
After dinner here 
father goes upstairs 
and closes his door. 
Kitchen light on 
my neck, at the counter. 
Your arms of oranges 
emerge first; 
refrigerator shuts in garage. 
Rice warmth 
out open door and windows, 
while peels fall 
heavily on their backs. 
across eye circles 
and hair of a woman in work. 
Listen tasting, 
and arranging 
sections in a flower pattern on the plate. 
Gold miniature 
forks two-pronged 
picked out of drawer. 
You carry these 
on a tray to him 
24 
who is waiting orange scaled palms 
sugar on knife. 
Shadow 


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Music from a Broken Record

Edges

Carob Tree Blues

The Garden

Ordinary Men

1969

Two Fathers

After Dinner Here

Camping

Heaven

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