Adult School Horror by Isabella Szymanski

I walked catiously up the steps and clutched the door knob belonging to the dark gray building.There were crows cawing frantically and an anonymous whistling in the distance. That should have been your first clue to getting the hell out of there.

Still in pure foolishness or just bravery, I turned the knob slowly and the rusty hinges followed so the stubborn door creaked open just a crack. I pushed the door and suddenly it slammed open. The wind howled through the trees. I had a bad feeling about this.

Despite common sense, I stepped inside to reveal a little class room waiting for me. No corridor. No hallway. No anything. Compared to how massive the building was, this room hardly fit ten people.
I discovered why the school looked so large right when I spotted the ceiling. It was four stories high and it lacked any windows. I would have payed more attention to this, but I was too preoccupied staring at this strange figure, arms folded at his lap, staring directly at me. My Adult School teacher.

He had a pallor face and was sickly slender. Slender in the way that he resembled a large snake. He rose from his seat and slithered towards the board. " Greetings ", he whispered in a small voice. " Take your seats, please. "

It was then that I realized there were no other students in the room. I was left alone with this strange man. I looked around the four desks. At first glance you would think it's budget problems. But that wasn't the problem here. I sat myself in the front row... the only row. I seated myself as close to the door as possible, in case I needed to make a run for it. Which I didn't mind at all. I'd rather be sprinting my way home than in this class.
"No," the withered man sniveled out. "Sit in your assigned seat.. " I stared questionably at the desk to my right. He nodded.

I was stationed so close I had to look up to see his head. I was reluctant to look up. He was so thin I could see the ribs prodding out of his shirt. I flinched, thinking they would poke my eye out. He forced a smile. " Welcome class. This is your first day of Adult School German."

German? Was that right? I didn't even take German. They don't even have German in Washington. I raised my hand to explain that he had made a terrible mistake. "Mr... " I trailed off, now knowing his name. Isn't it customary for teachers to introduce themselves on the first day of school? " I never took Ger-- " He gave me a silencing look and scolded me to wait until he was finished talking to the class. ...What class? There was no class. " But-- " He glared at me with small eyes. I stopped in my tracks, but it was too late.
He must have been outraged by my interruption, because suddenly he was gone. I scrutinized the room for him puzzledly. He really was gone.

There was only one door and no windows in this hell of a room. I would have at least heard him go.
Suddenly where he had gone made perfect sense to me. I heard the foot steps, I saw the man departing. Almost as if it had been planted in my head. Almost..

I wanted to leave. Right away. As soon as I was out of my chair and running for the door, I noticed that I was running for the door. The room seemed to have increasingly grown in size. " And where do you think you're going?" The snake hissed, opening it's jaws to reveal a set of fangs.

The Spirit by Mario Ramirez

Dear Holder,
Blast, the Spirit just crashed-my crew mates are nowhere to be found
and the lifeboats, well they have all been aground for ages. Her prow
and mast are smashed yet she remains unabashed-thus we write this
message in this bottle. Life's current, well it isn't smooth and it's
rising fast, and then we hear that drum roll of thunder.
Snap.

Oh how the sky illuminates right before the fall.
It's that anchoring feeling of dismay and despair that has me swimming
up the river, against the tidal waves that cave in around whenever my
head bobs up for air. For those of you who can relate, we know that
it's a crash and not a splash. Like in Super Mario 64, my colorful
life gauge reflects my temperamental standing- but my face is oh so
pallid. Deeper down we dive-I dive, and it begins to deplete slowly,
beeping, indicating that your time is coming to an end; so swim up. I
am not a pro, at swimming I mean, but laps around the pool were
essential to every shitty apartment complex visit; every foaming wave
tempted me to dive under it. The sounds of the ocean are whispers to
me, echoing with the rage of angels, with the rage of demons and
righteously so drowns out the cries of the humans.
This time around however, it isn't the siren. I've muted her sound so
it isn't the melody that keeps me grounded-surely I am confounded.
It's this damn anchor, rooted in the abysmal trenches of depression
fettering my feet, my arms, my soul dragging me back into the
whirlpool... If I had it my way, I'd let the Maelstrom do with me what
it will; I would have it send my frenzied Spirit up into the air if
only to crash back down into the ocean. O' Poseidon, summon the
typhoons and send me back to the shores of Man in the form of an
iminami, let me devastate and obliterate all those who dare call
themselves Kings. The Divine Right is mine, and this sadness, this
stormy surge shall sunder the land and purge the inconsistencies of my
life. That's just me, for now, I'm still the Captain of my Spirit , no
matter how tattered she is and I will fight the waves until they take
my life or they destroy my boat. This is my last bottle, and my last
piece of parchment, please respond with one of your own lest the
anchors drag us down to oblivion...
Sincerely yours,
El Capitan

It Was Destined to Be by Mergina Anwari

"No way!" Natalia screeched. "I'm not getting married!" "I have my whole life ahead of me and this is what you planned for me?" "We are only concerned for your well being and we both agree that the boy we chose for you is perfect." Her father said rather calmly. "How can he be perfect when he wasn't even my choice?" "Now don't be so judgmental Natalia, your father is right and we have already set the date with the boy's family." Replied Natalia's incredibly beautiful mother. "An arranged marriage!" Natalia retorted and I thought you of all people took so much pride in living in the twenty first century.             "You don't need a man sweetheart, you are an independent woman who needs no one but herself for support." Natalia mimicked in what was supposed to be her mother's high-pitched, soprano, of a voice. "I don't understand why you try so hard to be different when the truth is that you are both exactly like your parents, who by the way you contradict all the time." " Natalia this conversation has come to a close." Replied her father quite coolly. Natalia bolted up the massive staircase of her family's mansion with tears streaming down her delicate face. As Natalia cried herself to sleep night after night, she thought of one way to get out of this mess. She decided to runaway to America. At least there she could further her education without being forced into marriage. For the first night in weeks, Natalia fell asleep with tears of joy lingering in the corners of her eyes. Natalia Ali was an Egyptian princess of her time; born from royal blood she had everything she so desired. She lived in the heart of Italy in a colossal mansion. She was the only girl in a generation full of boys. Her parents therefore, adored her and succumbed to her every wish and demand. She had everything she ever wanted beauty, money, and most importantly brains. Her parents only wanted one thing from her, which was to be married to their close friends who were also very wealthy. This was the one area where Natalia had no say and her parents were the ones who would trace the path of her future, whether she liked it or not.   Dean Vassari was your typical, everyday hunk. He was twenty years old with jet-black hair and crystalline green eyes. His gaze was intense, his body even more so. He was standing in the middle of the Italian airport as he had just gotten off the plane from America. "Yes mom I ate something on the plane." Dean told his mother over the phone." Yes I have my passport and everything." "Everything is cleared at home and school." "No I'm not worn out." Dean said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Has your plane already landed, are we late? Replied Dean's mother hastily. "Yes it did and yes you are, as usual." "Wait until you get home Dean, your father and I have a big surprise for you." "What is it?" Dean groaned. "I can't wait for you to meet her." his mother gushed. "Meet her?" "Oh no mom tell me you didn't, you wouldn't, not again!" Dean said irritably. Natalia Ali was an Egyptian princess of her time; born from royal blood she had everything she so desired. She lived in the heart of Italy in a colossal mansion. She was the only girl in a generation full of boys. Her parents therefore, adored her and succumbed to her every wish and demand. She had everything she ever wanted beauty, money, and most importantly brains. Her parents only wanted one thing from her, which was to be married to their close friends who were also very wealthy. This was the one area where Natalia had no say and her parents were the ones who would trace the path of her future, whether she liked it or not.   Dean Vassari was your typical, everyday hunk. He was twenty years old with jet-black hair and crystalline green eyes. His gaze was intense, his body even more so. He was standing in the middle of the Italian airport as he had just gotten off the plane from America. "Yes mom I ate something on the plane." Dean told his mother over the phone." Yes I have my passport and everything." "Everything is cleared at home and school." "No I'm not worn out." Dean said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Has your plane already landed, are we late? Replied Dean's mother hastily. "Yes it did and yes you are, as usual." "Wait until you get home Dean, your father and I have a big surprise for you." "What is it?" Dean groaned. "I can't wait for you to meet her." his mother gushed. "Meet her?" "Oh no mom tell me you didn't, you wouldn't, not again!" Dean said irritably as a pearl. As she glided a waft of freesia came from her dark mysterious locks that cascaded down to the center of her back. The scent hypnotized him and sent his mind reeling.  He stood in some line that she was in and when she was next he heard her angelic voice say something audible yet not clear. He realized he was next and while still in his stupor he hastily turned around and half sprinted as he accidentally collided face to face with her. Her touch left a tingling sensation as he looked into her eyes. She had come knocking on his door yet he was too dazed to answer.             Natalia gasped for air as she stared into the eyes of the most beautiful person she had ever seen. Her hands were gripped to his shirt to keep herself from falling and her nails dug into the hardness that was underneath. She could have let go a long time ago but liked the feel of the cool stone of his chest. Her own chest lacked the sensation of oxygen and so she took a deep breath and unintentionally inhaled his enticing smell. She almost passed out but could not keep her eyes off long enough to do so. He in turn was staring at her in a strange stupor, as if her ordinary self was something extraordinary. When he finally spoke he said something that Natalia couldn't comprehend, her head and her heart were to heavy to think. He said it again and it sounded like he was apologizing. She quickly shook herself out of her daze and responded.  "No, no it's fine, I'm fine." She unconsciously said.  "Are you sure, you're not hurt are you?" He replied.  "Positive, I'm better than ever." "Where are you headed to?" he asked a little too curiously. "To L.A where I plan to attend college, and yourself?" " The same exact place for the same exact reason." "Will you excuse me for a moment, stay right here I just have to clear something." Dean said nervously. Before she could reply he raced off to where flight tickets were purchased and happened to cut everybody in line.  "A ticket to L.A. please" he said, ignoring all the rude stares and remarks coming from behind him. "Yes, I also plan on attending U.C. L.A. because they have a better business education than my previous college, I'm actually just about to transfer once I get home. Dean rambled on the plane. "Wow what a coincidence, same airport, same destination, same plane seats, and same school." Natalia replied in astonishment. "I don't think it was so much coincidence rather than destiny" Dean said. "It was destined to be." "Don't tell me you believe in all that." Natalia said. "Well why not, if it wasn't destiny than what else brought us into each other's lives so unexpectedly?" Dean complied. So they stepped in to each other's lives and changed each other's pathways. Dean transferred to U.C.L.A. where he spent every waking minute with Natalia. Natalia told him why she really had come to America and Dean said that something similar had happened to him. They told each other about their dreams; Natalia's being to continue her schooling to become a heart surgeon and Dean's to spend every waking moment with the love of his life. They promised each other that they would make sure they would help fulfill each other's dreams and ambitions. "When you become a heart surgeon will you operate on my heart?" Dean asked one day." "Why on earth would I do that!" Natalia asked, surprise and anger both in her voice. "Because you walked right into my life and stopped my heart dead in its tracks." Dean replied.  They loved each other madly and did everything together. Everyday their love just increased more and more for one another. Then after four wonderful years they got married. They were happy as ever until one day when Dean got a call from his parents. "Are you insane?" Natalia bellowed. "I can't come to Italy with you." "Well why not, my parents have been calling and waiting for me to visit them for a long time, and I can't refuse them." Dean frustratingly conveyed. "I never asked you to refuse them, I think it's a wonderful idea and that you should go and have fun." "How can I go without you though, do you know how happy my parents will be to finally meet you?" "I understand that but you also know my situation." Natalia said tiredly." With such a small distance between your parents and my parents house, I just can't take that chance of running into them." "So what if you do, they probably miss you terribly!" Dean angrily accused. "I ran away from home, with what face do I approach them with!" Natalia said in between tears. "With the beautiful face that you have." Dean said soothingly as he went to hold Natalia in his arms. "I have never disobeyed my parents and I can't bear to see their disappointment." Natalia said into Dean's shoulder. "Please, for me will you just go." "For you I can do anything." Dean made clear. "So you're going." "Not willingly, but if you want me too I will." "Oh thank you, I love you." Natalia sang. "I love you too." Dean whispered. Dean sulkily left Natalia alone and went to Italy. His parents were unbelievably happy to see him and were angry at the fact that he rarely called or visited them in the last four years. Before he went into the vast living room of his parent's mansion his mother took him aside and told him that they had guests over. "These are the parents of the girl we wanted you to meet almost four years ago but she ran away." his mother said. Her parents are devastated so be polite. Dean nodded and went into the room to greet the guests. After they left Dean went upstairs and got ready for bed. The next night at dinner he asked about why the girl ran away and if it was because of him. His mother said that know one knew why she did it. She said that she had a picture of her and went into the next room to get it. When she handed it to Dean his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets because the person who was staring back at him was none other than his beloved Natalia.

Forward to "The Coliseum" by Severine Richardson

Life, strands of acid. That's all it's ever been. To think that rivers of ink and blood have spilled over the 'mystery' of the trinity.* (Dawkins) The bane of existence. The golden law, the magisterium of life has finally been unraveled within its fabrication. The years following the desertion of Earth became the age of limitless power. We harvested the secret, and we became Gods. Gods of our own destruction: the curse of men.


Our inhabitance on Earth ends in the year 3243. The evacuation only took so many, the dust took the rest…it stifled our lungs. We've been in orbit ever since.


Twenty years later the experimentation began. Our resources were dwindling, and from the desperation we re-birthed the meaning of slavery. The Alchemist created droids, hybrids from various organisms, and usurped whatever remained of the Floating Republic.


These half beings were sent back from orbit. They mine for us, and we test their intelligence, their capabilities and entertain ourselves in their terror. Earth has been nicknamed "The Coliseum". As they worked the human species continued to evolve and became aware of Waves-how to control the illusion of what is. The Manifest, the ones controlling Waves, overpowered the Alchemists and took their place within the developed Hierarchy. They claimed true Creation was found in purest form solely in their practice. Humans could now condense energy into whatever design they please. This occurred in the dawning of the thirty-fifth century.


The current Hierarchy is devised by the pureblooded humans, the Manifest and Alchemists, who lead all. There are then the transmuted humans followed by the transmuted animal droids and serfs. Transmuted humans such as myself have been infused with the DNA of an animal: it marks our status. Although it gives us greater physical capabilities, we are almost entirely restricted from access concerning the art of Manifestation or Alchemy. Both have an Argot. I was after that Argot.


We were censored from the right of truth, so I infiltrated the system. I was caught with the power of eternity in my palms, and that is where my story began.


***


A smirk lingered on my face as we fell away from the station. I had a sore back from being kicked into the shuttle and was being given a dirty look by my escort, but all the same it was there. I cheated. The information was in my head permanently. The one thing the Hierarchy was kind enough to give was a hint of the power of Waves, just enough to control your own body that is. I knew how to manipulate my cells-but I went beyond what we were taught-I could memorize anything. I could retain a book in a way so that I could play back the past in my mind and every little page would pop up with the very secrets they so preciously kept. HA. The situation was anything but funny, but at least I had that. I guess I was a bit drunk off of adrenaline and the situation had me in a hysterical sense of humor.


I was going to earth where the real game's played, I was about to face a world of Hybrid droids that all wanted me DEAD.


Droids are all pawns. Chess pieces. The Hierarchy's been playing with their lives for the past twenty years. It's been a constant technological warfare between the Alchemist and the Manifest, always trying to see who can create the most powerful THINGS. And we use the droids to test 'em all out. They're the subservient race in every way-the Alchemists that create them keep them stupid. Stick an organism in some contrivance or another and you got a drone out of garbage. Beautifully twisted.


The lucky ones stay in orbit, the majority go down to Earth to suffocate in whatever remains of the Dust Years. Give them guns and weapons. Let's see if they can organize the anarchy outside of the mining zones. Let's see who lives. It's Rome all over again, in a sense, just one huge play where each actor meets their separate bloody end…only this is bloodier.


As I got deported in that tiny box of metal I started to sober up. I could here the whistling noise of entering the atmosphere. I turned and made a face at my escort, might as well return the favor, and gave him a one-fingered salute. The hatch opened, and another swift kick in the side sent me stumbling onto the crumbled territory. "Don't be too much of a sweetheart!" I yelled back sarcastically as the door shut. I sat on a rock and started to bash the cuffs against them till I heard the satisfying clang of the metal snapping apart. "No way to treat a lady," I growled, massaging my scathed wrists.


I was getting the bad end of everything, 'cause I wasn't one of them. I was a criminal. And they lo-o-ove criminals. More target practice, no penalties-just a bounty. The prize? You get the next shuttle up to Orbit. Fuck my life. Really. A droid would have to be completely mad not to lunge with a rabid ferocity at anything along the lines of "getting the fuck off this planet".


You can't see a horizon, not really. The region they kindly dropped me in happened to be the one still choking on dirt. I wrapped my face in cloth. Dying by dust has to be one of the more gory ways to go. It slowly fills your lungs and clots your insides into mud. What follows are episodes of insanity, intense dehydration, the coughing of blood and if you're lucky, death will come nice and early stead of dragging on for say…twenty minutes. No thank-you, I think I'll live for now.


The dirt's scolding hot and the air's all parched and dry, I was already tasting some sand in my mouth...I needed to find a legit mask, and soon. This all takes me back to the times I'd watch this world on a flat screen-the images broadcasted everywhere of a place where droids slaughtered one another and grouped into primitive tribes. Everyone laughed; I wasn't laughing. The title on the screen started to flash in my mind, over and over: The Coliseum.


(To my sci-fi friends, wanted to try something a little outside of my comfort zone.)














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"The Garbage Man"


The stench of the house was overwhelming. It was the smell of old clothing, cigars, and garbage. The door swung open, unlocked, and a rush of cold air washes over you. When you step into the house you have to cover your mouth and nose. Heaps of trash so high they had accumulated halfway up the dirty windows and left a filtered, nauseous light to creep into the crevices of each room. The carpet was stained in filth; mire had burrowed its way into the scalp of the rugs, turning them into a moist taupe gray. Black smears of dirt ran down the walls…spiders crawling frantically away from the intruder: you.


Garbage, garbage…garbage. You haven't seen the man so much as glance out his grimy window in days, the garage was shut tight and his bed of flowers were withered. He babied those flowers, you knew. They were all Dahlias. In all the years you've known him they were always only Dahlias. You tread carefully through the house and the stench thickens and reeks of something more.


You have never actually been in the house before. He was a rich man, your neighbor: he had bought three separate houses paid in full, renting them out, and had invested in a small and thriving business. Or, he had until a year ago. He wasn't old, the man, he was in his early forties. You had seen a relative visit only once, his sister, and she was a mean hag that would shriek at anyone that got too near to the front porch. You saw her for two months, then she was gone, and you hadn't seen her since, thank-you.


You find a sealed door you know to be his bedroom. You know this because every other one is ajar, and none have a bed...or any furniture for that matter. A heavy drone is audible from the other side. You turn the old brass handle and give it a gentle nudge. The room is swallowed in darkness so you hesitantly run your hand against the wall and feel for a switch. You touch it and flick it on, snatching your hand away from the surface the moment you do. The light crackled into the glass bulb with a sickly yellow. At first, you think you're looking at a black writhing animal. It moves as a mass, and then you realize they are all flies.


His mouth is open, your neighbor, and his eyes are rolled back into his skull. His arms and legs are rigidly assembled on the bed, the sheets crumpled on the ground. The bed itself is covered in more debris. You find the man's oily fingers gnarled into fists, he's holding a gold watch; it's the only thing you've seen clean and shining in this waste. You think the muffled ticks you're hearing are from it, but you aren't sure you can truly hear past the flies.


Police cars start to pull up an hour later-half of them are there just to see the spectacle of a man that deteriorated in a house less attractive than a junkyard. You've already left knowing you've seen enough. The image of that man flashes in your mind as if an old black and white film were playing. See him dead and rotting. The thing you can't get out of your head though isn't the disgusting state of his life, but the clock, ticking ceaselessly against the flies. It was like those Dahlias he'd kept, the only scrap of beauty in his world. The metal was bright like fire compared to the dinginess of every other object.


You think for a moment what happened in this man's life, then decide you don't care to know.


(Gross I know, I got the idea in ROP when Nahale was telling a story about this guy they found dead in a house piled with garbage. Couldn't help myself, it sounded too dam good...or bad...whatever.)






----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------






Unspeakable


The desire in me is a ghost in my heart, the steps of my past and strides of my future. How can I describe this? Nothing as tender a sense has every touched my soul, and I have no name for it. It's an ethereal emotion, one that may surpass the ponderings of a kingdom in Heaven, because it delves into something deeper-life, breath, and mortal eternity. Unrequited longing perpetually beats in me.


I feel like I lost something somewhere, somehow. Was it some beacon I ignored? Was it some street I didn't walk? Why, why, why? Every time I look at something beautiful and endless and remember memories happy or sad it'll render me incoherent to the world. It's so much stronger than joy and misery.


I'll be standing underneath a street lamp, the artificial light shining in half-radiance when it'll well up out of nowhere like a heart ache. It's a déjà vu of possibilities, so it's a flash of what-ifs. I can barely hear distant laughter; maybe it's something I've yet to find? Warm embraces and faithful promises; can something so amazing really exist? Could I really feel that loved by friends and family alike? Could I really ever feel safe, like the life of a different me implies? I want to say "yes", but all the hurt in my present says no, never, not you. "Prove me wrong" I beg to something, "Prove me wrong". It makes no sense, how can it make sense? I'm still trying to explain the best I can.


This is how time tortures me. It's a dully intense pain. I'm missing something. I feel it all there: the places I will go and precious friends I will meet if only I make all the right moves. If there is a god, seems like he made a promise to me-long as I can guess where to be on the receiving end.


I can trace the existence of happiness in the air-but I can't seem to grasp it. All the people of my future I haven't seen…although I've met them…in such a strange intangible way that it leaves me shaken. They are wisps, all of those memories to come or paths I could have taken, they're all ghosts of my heart.


It hurts me knowing there are only so many roads I can wander. It hurts me just knowing anything in general. It irritates me to think I might've missed the love of my life by a few minutes, a few acquaintances, or a few words. And what if I miss the chances yet to come, what if I met someone and let them slip past me? I can't take it, yet I do. Here I am, still living, and from this anticipation I pursue the situations that might bring me to this bliss. It's so much more than joy and misery. An unspeakable feeling, I'm sure.






----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------






The Past Better Gone


A soft buzz resounded in her ear as the phone rang. Her heart raced, hoping to hear a woman answer. Instead, what she had feared for the past several months finally happened.


"Hello?" He said with a dark tremor. The girl flinched. She hadn't heard his voice for so long, the sound was foreign to her. Before she could bring herself to hang up she heard her own stammer, "Is…is Michelle there?" A curt, "yea," and the phone switched hands.


"Hello?" Michelle said.


"Was that him..?" The girl asked.


"Oh…hon…yea, it was." Michelle recognized her previous would-be daughter-in-law.


She sucked in air and forced herself to keep talking. A façade of joy crept purposefully into her voice. "How are you Michelle? What's new? Oh and I wanted to ask when Jess worked-my mom and I have been dying to go back to the restaurant but I didn't want to run into him. She says "hi" by the way," she added quickly, hoping her nervousness didn't show.


A pause.






She couldn't resist. "Did-did he know it was me?"


"Yea, he did." The mother replied sympathetically. "He says hello."


"Oh…tell him I say hi back…and tell him congratulations."


She hears murmuring in the background.


"I did honey, he says thank-you."


"Okay…okay…"her mouth had gone slack, her eyes were moist. "What about Ann, is she still working there?"


"No, I think she has another job now."


The girl needed to end the conversation.


"…Alright then Michelle, I'll give you a call later this week and show you those photos I was talking about-take care!"


"Love you hon."


"Love you too!"


A sob escaped her lips after she hung up. Her mom reached over and squeezed her hand. "Let's go get some dinner, yea?" The girl nodded feebly, and her mother started the engine.


Stepping out of the car was stepping into deep water. She saw the cracked window of when the entrance door had a bullet burrow into it. She saw countless nights of taking out a trash can at closing time and joking with Ann. She could almost smell the burning tobacco and Shisha drifting in the air. There was music, and laughter, and Joe working the Hookah lounge swearing Farsi under his breath. And there was Jess.


She stared into the dark glass that mirrored her and saw a girl of a different life, one fumbling to tie a bright red apron around the waist and start a long shift. Her hand pressed against the entrance.


The door swung open, and she exhaled. He wasn't here, she told herself, and neither was Ann. The counter was empty, but she knew from her days of working there that a buzzer had gone off in the kitchen. It was probably heavy with steam unless they had finally fixed the washer. It was a dead hour, so only one or two customers were seated and eating.


A petite Chinese girl walked out from the back. Her eyes widened when she saw the girl. "Hey Nicole." The girl said with a grin.


"Hey…how are you doing?" Nicole's eyes said more than her words, they looked as though they were surprised to ever have laid them once again on her previous co-worker.


"I'm pretty good-Joe in?"


"Yea, he's working in the back, I'll go get him."


The girl heard a curse word or two, and a few moments later out emerged Joe himself. A giant smile filled his thin face, crinkling the corners of his dark skin and showing through his brown eyes. "Ayyy girl, how's it goin?" he said in his thick Middle-Eastern accent. His half finger scratched the corner of his chin, the lopsided grin lifting the girl's spirits some.


"It's been going alright, Joe." She replied.


They stared at one another for a moment when the girl's mother walked in behind her. Joe gestured to the girl to follow while her mother placed their take-out orders.


Outside, he lit up a cigarette and took in the smoke, leaning against the tile counter. The girl watched the embers on the lighted tip, and gazed silently at the man. "So how have you really been?" he said, staring through her. The girl looked down. "Do you know what happened…?"


"With Jess?" he snorted, "I was the first to know. That dumb boy." The girl turned silently away. Joe sighed, "Between you and me girl, he didn't want it. She did. And now he's covering her ass pretending he wants it, too. That bitch, she didn't take her pills for two weeks and said nothing-that's how it happened." The girl remained silent.


He looked at her a while longer then started off in a casual demeanor, "You know I know this guy. Eighteen. Blue eyes and bit of blonde hair, about…this tall," he said, waving his hand an inch above his head. "real good guy. I'll be leaving definitely in a couple of weeks, you should meet him, we'll all go out before I fly back home."


The girl smirked at his talk, "You trying to set me up, Joe?" She faltered, feeling a heavy tug in her heart. She suddenly looked up, straight at him, saying with a cracking voice, "It really hurt there for a while…Joe." Then she was hugging him, it took everything to hold back those tears. "It was so dam hard." She repeated. They embraced, he had been like a father to her, and right now he was the only one who truly understood just what had happened.


"I know girl, I know. I'll set you up with a good guy, a good reliable guy." She tried to laugh again, and gave up. "You'll call soon?" was all she managed.


"Promise." And she left.


As the silver Honda pulled out of the parking lot and the sign of the restaurant grew smaller and smaller, she already knew what she was fated to do that night. She would try and sleep, sit up and fall back down until she grew impatient. She'd finally get out and crawl towards a drawer in a wooden cupboard on the far side of her room.


Trying not to wake anyone up, she would inch it out, reach in, and wrap her hand around a cool tin container. The girl would cup the tin close to her heart, kind of afraid to just open it. She finally would.


There were three things inside: a rose, one that dried into an unusual amber hue, a solid gold medallion with her name and date of birth etched into the back, and a fortune saying: "You will overcome many obstacles." There would have been a fourth object, but she had given that back long before. A white-gold ring: a dead promise.


She would sit there in the darkness, letting the light of the moon play onto each of these three objects, seeing the phantom one nestled beside them. She would trace her fingers across the metal, rub the paper between her fingers and dangle the necklace holding her medallion in front of her face. Without thinking, she would touch her throat, where a silver chain would sometimes secure that lost ring around it.


She would forget time, and disappear into a past of hurt: A past where she was afraid of a color and number, where no day felt secure, where she couldn't walk outside in the light of the morning. It was a past where she fell hopelessly in love, where her childhood and dignity died, where her world was run by drugs, weapons and deceit. It was the past that had taken from her a last innocence: thoughtless optimism.


Finally, when the moon was shining on the other side of the night sky, she would decide to place the tin can back and close the drawer. The girl will then whisper a thank-you to her last love for giving her life back-no matter in what way it was done. She would smile at the world, made new before her eyes.


Her dreams of the future had returned to her, the possibilities were again limitless. And she was wiser. Or so she thought. The girl would fall asleep knowing that her pain was her reward, and that when she opened her eyes in years to come she would remember the first time she really knew what "free" was: knowing you don't need a second half. It was like a quote she had once heard: "Men set us free, one disappointment at a time." It never was so true.

SO NOT WORTH IT By Rani Sharan

Alarm clock goes off, it's nine a.m. ah, finally July 24th, the day iv'e been waiting for, for WEEKS! Ok so what should I do, should I curl my hair, put it up half way, put it up half way with curls, leave it straight? OMG im over exatterating, ok now calm down deep breath, fewwwww! Dress dress, where is my dress, ah here it is white his "favorite" color. Ok i know maybe im trying a little tooo hard but I just hope it's worth it! Finally me and my family arrive at the Ritz Carlton at my mom's best friends wedding, but right when im about to get out the car i notice that my curl is coming out..UGHH NOOO, where is my hairspray? Ok so im here now, but where is he? I go sit next to my cousin Melania, she knows exactly everything that's going on my life. "Do you see him anywhere?" "No not yet" ugh that would suck if he doesn't even show up and i think again is this even worth it?

Solidarity by Hayley Fields

She sits there, waiting in anticipation

"It'll be different this time," she tells herself as the boy she loves walks towards her.

He gets closer and closer as her heart beats faster and faster. With each step he takes the hold on her binder gets tighter. He's right in front of her now and she's panic stricken.

Who will start this thing off, she wonders untill she utters a faint "hey.."

He sees her as he walks closer. He's disgusted with all the movements she makes. All the things that made him fall in love with her now grotesque him.  He's right in front of her now, anger bubbling beneath his skin. He's ready to explode at any moment.  Hey? He thinks about how she'll try to win him back and he cringes. He thinks, <i>I'm in a better place now , and repeats it till he gets the courage to speak it.

Words start flying and the tension thickens. Words thrown like hand grenades, meant to kill whoever is in their path. Word by word they are killing each other but in the heat of the moment, they keep going. They take all they have ever know about one another and use it to their advantage.

Silence.

Neither know who got the last word in but it doesn't matter. Each word hurt just as bad as the next.

She starts to cry so he walks away. She's left in sorrow and regret. This talk she so desperately wanted, the one to change things, had blown up in her face. This rencontre had not only made things worse but it had broken the once impervious solider. The salty drops stop rolling down her cheeks long enough to realize tears wont solve anything. She knows its over and her opinion of him will be forever changed. She stands up, regains composure, and wipes the wet from her binder. The tears had soaked down into a picture she always carried in the plasic covering of her binder. It was a picture taken at a party, were they first met. She rips the picture violently and throws them away. Finally, alone and forgotten, she picks up the pieces of her broken heart and leaves the war zone she was still sitting in.

Walking away, he feels defeated. He was so sure of his hatred for her before but now he feels lonely and wrong. He begins to think of all the good times they had, then the word he spoke replayed in his mind. He thinks about what a jerk he was, then her words overcome his thoughts. She was just as insensitive as he, even if she was just keeping  up with his nonsence.

"She'll come back, she always does." He declares arrogantly. His eyes lead him the the staircase where he sees the girl who tore them apart. He smiles devilishly and his spirits rise.  He looks back to make sure she left and he sees her stumbling to her car. The ignition starts and shes gone.  "Good riddons," he utters. In his mind he plays out his next incounter with the forbiddin fruit walking down the stairs. He thens turns around to set his eyes on his Eve, but she is nowhere to be found. He looks around once more to realize nobody is around.  He feels hallow, alone and forgotten. It hits him; he finally feels the feeling she always talked about. His eyes drop to his feet and a familiar mixture of salt and water hit the shoes she got him for Christmas. He wipes his tears and follows his feet home. Nothing to look forward to or nothing to think about except his solidarity.

The Dichotomy of man by Mario Ramirez

Notice the capitalization on man, flawed. Dear Mother Earth, why allow the frozen wastes to thaw for this species? We might just kill you as fast as we kill each other. I pray for you as much as I pray for those around me, and I pray that one day you raise the storm that will allow us to wallow in remorse. Yet in the meantime, let me write more "pointless" trash because the high and mighty keyboard just gets so damn bored (and i'd rather not see your scary ass).

I would enjoy going East 14th on people- but maturity is where it's at and frankly I'm a lover not a fighter. Now I would love to hear what everyone's idea of maturity is. Should we express ourselves through passive means (i.e. talking shit, Facebook blogging [it's the new journal and diary so get over it, and it's a lot more than what you'll ever amount too] x-ing out and excluding an individual?) or should we go full blown out and chunk it? So medieval. Well I think it's just too much funking around for anyone to understand that each and everyone of us is wrong and that the other person is the better one. So I give up; it seems like some of us aren't ready to accept that pride and has gotten the best of all those affected. Greed and pride are the enemies people, not each other.

Yet the dichotomy of man- the contrasting of our hearts and minds blurs and the lines separating fact from opinion, neutrality versus being biased, and lie from truth may be smudged in that fuzzy, grey area of insecurity and self-doubt. It's a deep dark area when it's instilled in our soul that no one knows their way through. So we cling to what we know best when the dichotomy blurs, and that is ourselves-even if it consists of hurting everyone. Yet what of when you aren't sure of who you are? I'm glad I'm going through this midlife crisis now and that the majority of it is over. The only way my dichotomy's constant meshing will throw me off will be with a single person, and that is between me and whomever that person may be. Anyway, when we blur is when we are at our weakest. At our weakest is when the Sins come for us, and they thrive off our drama. They thrive off our ignorance and hatred for the words and actions that fall in the dark and in the light.

If it doesn't make sense, let me bring it down to this- everyone just drop it. Forget the things we said, forget the things we did, embrace the gradual de-escalation of all sides as positive progress, not as signs of submission. Drop it all and don't come at me with "take it like a man" bullshit, tell me how it is because I'll tell you, wether I write it, speak it or act. First off, I ain't down with that machismo bullshit, I'm Mexican and I've seen the darkest things a human may ever do unfold in front of my eyes. Go ahead and think I'm not hard because I never claimed to be. You know why? 'Cus I'm real and not a fake so get with it. Hop off that gangster lean and hop off that "he said, she said" nonsense because those people are just as contrived as each and everyone of us on the inside. I never wanted to say it, but for all the people out there who should grow up and give in, keep your minds and hearts at bay from each other, think before you speak, act before you react, drop your guard before you raise your sword because the only one playing us is life. Now Mother Earth, a storm of swords if you will, pin them all to the ground with your fury and plant the benefits of our doubts as signs of hope (don't ask me what that even means, it just sounds right). Now people of mine, give up just for a night and face the darkest parts within you if only to accept that maybe, just MAYBE we we're wrong. I don't know, but if you find my body in a gutter know that it's because my friendships got blurry, and please publish my notes as memoirs.

Lady Sunshine by Mario Ramirez

O lady Sunshine,
she came my way,
a risking too much,
she begged me to touch so I prodded and she lauded the feel.

Hey, hey, hey, you know that this is just way to unreal.

So let's go away,
to Wonderland,
to that place where the trees don't stand,
the space where the ocean meets the land.
Well I cried me a river, my lady Sunshine,
and I thought of the fine sandy grains ticking,
and I thought I'm protected by the dying rays of light licking
around the edges of your feet-
humming and tapping to the sweet sound of my beat.

O lady Sunshine, did you know that you brighten my days?
O lady Sunshine, did you know that you frighten away-
the bad feelings of decay?
O lady Sunshine, did you know that you lighten up my darkened pathway?
O lady Sunshine, did you know that you tighten up at the words that I say?

O lady Sunshine, we're in the clear my dear,
O lady Sunshine, the worst of the worst has passed along with the things we no longer have to fear.
O lady Sunshine, don't you worry, we'll carry on, Wonderland is just so near from this dark place here.
O lady Sunshine, lend me your love, O lady Sunshine, send me up above, O lady Sunshine, will you spend our time until the very end?

O lady Sunshine, creep through my dreams.
O lady Sunshine, peep through my shutters and beams
O lady Sunshine, that river I cried turned into a stream,
gentle and flowing like the sound of your voice
O lady Sunshine, you know that this was never my choice,
O lady Sunshine, I'm risking my life, O lady Sunshine won't you be my wife?
O lady Sunshine, I'm tisking at the strife,
O lady Sunshine, I'm rife with fear,
that you've mistaken my water for beer.
O lady Sunshine, I'm not so cold, I'm not so bitter,
O lady Sunshine, may I be so bold to say that you don't glow, but glitter?

Well you know that I'm Dark,
and you know that I lost my mind that one rainy night at the park,
And O lady of mine, O lady Sunshine,
I think you should know that you define,
the way I combine the salty tears of brine of mine
and the faulty smears of thine.

O lady Sunshine, I know that you are dying,
O lady Sunshine, I grow just so I can keep trying,
O lady Sunshine, stow away with me one more time,
O lady Sunshine, blow away these fallacies of mine.

O lady Sunshine, I want you to know that in the long run we'll be just fine.

Of BART Trains and Small Talk by Mario Ramirez

WARNING: THIS IS RATED X

We've all been here before. The wait, the period of time between the exchange of hateful words falling down like wingless birds. That's the killer.
Once upon a time, I prided myself in being a decent conversationalist-maneuvering the dialogue so that myself and my counterpart end up having a good time, maybe exchange numbers, maybe flirt a little more. It is possible when you have my charm, wit, and vocabulary- traits debonairly employed by oratorial greats from Cicero to Winston Churchill, from Henry V to Abraham Lincoln. The fact of the matter is you wouldn't be bored around me; until I forcefully annoy the audience or if they hadn't liked me from the beginning. Now bitch, don't expect me to divulge everything, so for the time being, you may know me as the Conductor, for I conduct my meetings, my happy new greetings with managerial precision, it's my job to avoid collision. Call it weird, cold, calculating, even manipulative but still I conduct and if you dare act up, I double sack up; fast to leave a fool double smacked up.
Reiterating what I wrote earlier, my title has been stripped. As of October 19, 2009, I've been confronted by the biggest rail block- a little nuance I like to call small talk. Empty talk, for the sake of the conversation itself has crept over the railings and glued itself to the wheels, to the rail, to the magnet, to my heart, to whatever the fuck pushes thcis train in its circuit. Well she came with a pretty face, a clumsy grace and these thick black glasses, mysterious, promiscuous, sexy- vexing me enough that I needed to turn on my intercom.

"Hey, what's your name?"
She looked up and smiled, as if she knew exactly what she was about to do, something a lot colder than the day outside.
"Fremont.", she quips.
The end of the line I thought, fitting- she'd be the end to any man's desire...little did I know she holstered a .40 cal underneath that befitting blue dress.
"May I offer you a drink madame?", I asked politely, knowing she'd probably dump it out knowing it was something hard.

She said yes, downed it in a quick inhale and from there we rode the rails, the smooth undulating feel of the tracks beneath our cart was just right and I knew I might just find some body. I conducted in a way I hadn't conducted before; for once in my life, I let a stranger inside the control room. Overconfidence. Trust. Honesty. Long, sophisticated talks about how her boyfriend did her in, about how the drugs were out of the picture, talks of how I made this the best damn BART ride she had ever been on. I could see it in her eyes so we went for a long, quick fuck. Rough, nasty, face down in the control panel, ass cheeks peeking out the cabin window, dirty. What the fuck. I lost my mind, I was tipsy, topsy, turning, fucking on the job and moving at incredible speeds to an imminent platform so I pulled out. Fremont didn't take too kindly to that. In fact, she didn't say anything and it was surprising considering I had just heard her lowest and highest and back to lowest vocal pitches.

"Look, give me a minute, I need to steer us to safety, who knows how long we've been at this."

Looking away, she says, "Okay." I liked that so I kissed her on the lips one last time and began to steer.

The Conductor is gallant- the conductor is a gentleman who will get you where you need to be, on time, in your prime, all for a small dime. I felt wrong, undignified not asking her about herself, this lady was amazing.

"So, whatcha (notice the playful tone) do for fun Fremont?", I asked looking at her dressing up for the last time.

"Silly boys. Like you.", she said grinning, massaging my back, my hair, my belt buckle, taking off her panties again.

It freaked me out and turned me on at the same time, and from that moment onward I knew that I might have misconducted. Well, hot damn. I turned around to screw her silent this time- to shut or fill up her fucking mouth and to keep it quiet. I was at my weakest, deep inside her is when she revealed her true colors.

"Bitch what the fuck is wrong with you?! Put that shit down! What the fuck, I'm just a fucking train driver and all I did was fuck you on the BART", I screamed. Fremont had decided it would be...amusing to fuck me. Fuck me with her Glock model 22 (.40 calibers of intense, searing pain). Damn it was hotter than a fucking oven in that room. Gun pointed at my head full of lead, pussy lips anointed, dripping-holy shit am I tripping.

"Shut up. Baby boy haaa. Just keep your dick inside me while I take your belongings." The cunt was robbing me on my train, while doing me, and here I was holding my hands up as if I had done something wrong. It felt so good.

"Fuck your long, exasperated haa Fremont. I hate you, but I kind of love you for having the balls- UGH, to do this. Can you stop jamming that fucking thing into my eye socket god damnit?! I get the fucking point, you are robbing me but damn why'd you have to do me like this- oh my god. Damn baby girl you smell like a goddess, taste like honey, feel like nobility." It was my last chance to get out of this as a man, as a gentlemen, as the Conductor.

"I'm sorry you think that.", she said riding and sliding her hands into my back pockets, pulling out all of my keys, wallet, I.D, trees.

"Please don't take my weed, here, if you really want me undone, just hold on to this string on my sweater. I swear I'll cum undone for you.", I yelled, and that one made her go. Fremont gave in, and she lost her footing. A gunshot went off and the emergency sprinklers turned on in the cabin (what the fuck? no fire...). Noticing this was my last chance to drive this train to safety- and to protect myself and everyone else on board, I took my fist and punched the ho in the face. Did the one, one, two blap on her pretty crystal eyes and I hustled my way around the cabin, ducking her gun butts. Finally, after dancing around naked for about five minutes, Fremont fell down-the gunshot had hit her in the toe. Picking up the gun and aiming at her face, I smiled.

"Not so elusive now huh you stupid bitch?", I said as I debated fucking her one more time at gunpoint- you know, just for revenge and all. "You nut, you are the nuttiest of hos I have ever met, you fucked me while you jacked me. How about I FUCK you now?" For once, Fremont, grimaced.

"Please do." she says, licking those juicy red lips.

I went crazy, lost my charm for a second.
"Nomp, it's bad.", I said and I dipped down, and slapped her twice with my phallus, "Remember me bye."

And I stepped outside the cabin, outside the train, outside onto the platform, ignoring the police, thanking God to be alive, thanking myself that I had not fallen to the devil herself. Breathing deeply, sewing my sweater back together I realized that maybe it was time for a new job.

The Left Hand of the Father by Mario Ramirez

SLASH-
WOOSH-
a chop and a thud
budding evolution of man.
Born from revolution,
I'm obsessed with retribution-
a solution,
to Robesspiere's plan
the resolution to the enigma of execution
and thus they ran,
across the body filled span
to get a head start from the painting I began.

The Reign of Blood or Terror,
I smirk at pallbearers
and I work without error-
Eyes wide open and a face so pale; SLICE.
Lies once unspoken are now out in the open; SLICE.
Cries not token, wails outspoken, bloody bruised and broken.
Thrice is the lucky number to send them to their slumber-
CHOP.
Life severed at the hands of a rope and I hear their dreams drop,
watch the people cope and ignore the body flop,
chronicling their hope as it rolls to a stop.
PLOP.

Looming and cold,
no one knows of the secrets I've been told
or the powers that I hold-
and Behold! For this is my land!
given to me from the Left hand
of the Father,
stainless He is
and painless is my biz,
so the expression wouldn't bother.

Efficient with this mission-
I work ahead,
cutting up a million, I feed them with dread, yet I'm not evil
do not leave victims dead,
they watch the city painted red with the blood that they've bled,
and instead I remain Medieval-
I collect the heads.

What am I?

The Whaler: A Biased View on Contemporary Music and the Looming Threat of the Discordant-Industrial Complex by Mario Ramirez

What is up with music nowadays? I thought art evolved. Being a 90's baby, having money, cars, hoes, and dough dominate the musical scenario (a.k.a the radio at the time in my circumstance) for the majority of my childhood was not surprising. I will not lie and say that it wasn't bumping, nor was it bad, only a tad self-centered and as Tsutomu well put, "lacking class". Due to my age, immaturity (innocence to some), and social standing, the impressions of wealth, fame, and all others sins correlated to the aforementioned simply didn't slap to my G-rated ears. In fact, that message turned me off and the toons played zealously on the radio were lackluster compared to the face-melting solos and shredding riffs characteristic of the 70's-80's hair metal bands and even more so before that; vinyl odes firing up and down my spinal nodes were the final codes barcoded on my musical "label." Not to say that was all I listened to, I also found harmony in cumbias, synths through all genres, west coast gangster rap and of course, blink-182 (I hopped on Cheshire Cat with M&M's). Like the Mac named Dre, I was Too Hard for the F****** Radio and always turned the silver knobs on my pops Alpine down when my CDs weren't at hand; I relished at the notion of perambulating across the sociocultural gaps reinforced by the number of years that each one of us spend on Earth. Subsequently, I grew up with an eclectic taste in music, and whatever sounded good to my ears was all hood for a few years.

Acquiring new musical tastes over the course of my life, I listened to just about anything-hip-POP only tolerable with a girl shaking her monkey all up on my dick (ain't none puns intended son). I was still that average teenage kid with "that loud rap music" to the neighbors despite being able to name every Led Zeppelin album. Whatever. Junior year came along and shit, that guerilla radio sound (thank you Cesar and +), along with Mrs. Osickas' pedagogic powerhouse of prose, poetry, and literary symbolism were catalyzing factors for me at the time. Revolutionary. That's just about the only adjective I could find to describe the knowledge and information I was being assaulted with through sound, paper and pen. I shifted my political orientation, learned that objects (and actions and ideas!) without intrinsic value would eventually crumble to the dust it is fashioned of, and so much more. If any of you have ever listened to a good song, which I'm sure at least 75% of you have, know exactly what I mean. Now that I'm done beating around the bush and showing that I am somewhat musically inclined, let me get to the juice of this bad boy...
Every time I am in Justin's car we listen to the radio because someone stole his iPod and mine having mysteriously disappeared didn't help either. They play okay stuff I thought. Yet after flipping through the four preset buttons, I heard the Hotel song three times, Ice Cream Paint Job four times (the remix only twice mind you), the Jay Z song (I believe) with the annoying wailing bitch in the background TOO many times, and every single similar Weezy/Drake collabo known to man at least 8 times. I don't mean to be rude or disrespect any of these respectable art-sleazts, but hey, I get it. I understand you love to fuck your bitches and hit your switches. I also understand that when you signed the dotted line, all your originalities were left to fuck it and that the four fifteens will rattle your bucket from Europe (European Idiots) to Nantucket. And speaking of whaling (Nantucket was a center of the whaling industry), I understand that every chorus will feature a bitch or a dude drugged up on auto-tune wailing about failing, mailing, or detailing their car, dough, or girl, almost as if whaling a whale for all 'tis worth. Your attempts at music are unavailing, please shift up the focus; I'm in a recession and "it ain't all about economy so the fact that all these wack mc's are making g's don't bother me". I have seen your videos and despite having all the eye candy in the world, I'd rather have my stomach whirled up by a makeup less girl. The power -well it's tempting, but the fact that you abuse it to wield more ice or reach impossible highs is ridiculous. Fishing out the rubber, oil and fat of these strange discordant toons isn't enough. The Discordant-Industrial complex capitalizes on our wanton need for music; radio stations with low standards, negative connotations with deplorable sexual innuendo as well as illustrating extremely derogoratry terminology towards several social characterisitics, and support of inebriating substances and illicit activities. The musical composition itself is like a Deggrasi episode or high school all over again but on crack and in real life. Ah bright light anyone? Reread the bold, run-on sentence (and accompanying remark) before the last and find the correlation-that such music has transcended it's social renderings and is being not only accepted but applied by the youth of today in a conforming manner. No wonder the pregnancy and dropout rates are escalating. I s'pose it all has to do with other crazy teenage nonsense but i'm over that since I'm 18 (*nudge nudge, wink wink*).
"So druuungh i feslz masefl swwurrrin ma wurs."
*Shit slap though.
I suppose hyphy shit does fall under this category. However, hyphy artists, in my opinion derive their inspiration from their environment and keep it real. Extremely watered down versions of Tupac? No, just some people who want to be on the block with their kinfolk trying to have a good time. All in good fun, and that's what music is right? Fun.
I don't know where I'm going with all this, but that's just how I see music lately. Fuck the radio because I won't ever learn from it, and you're right, maybe it could make me dance, but that tweeter static still doesn't stand a chance against Illmatic. And now my children, this is only the intro to the song I'm working on so stay TOONED.

"Honestly, my number one policy is quality
never sell my soul is my philosophy
High velocity, lyrics like Nastradamus make a prophecy
I told you cats a long time a go it ain't no stoppin' me
I bomb your set that's not a threat its a promise
Got everybody ridin' on my wagon like the Amish
But still I never claim to be a big rap star
So no matter who you are its still Allahu Akhbar
Better believe this, most rappers can't achieve this
I'm bad to the bone but x-rays can't even see this
See I'm strategic I letcha money talk bullshit walk
While I keep it rollin' like parapalegics
Whoever's on the microphone let it be known
You in danger, I got next(necks) like the Boston Strangler
You ain't never heard an emcee speak like this
And Rodney King ain't never felt a beat like this."

The Bucket of Water by Mario Ramirez

I don't even know how I feel. I feel happy to the point where I'm confident enough to try something new and reach out of my comfort zone. The good times are killing me. It is not a good condition. Maybe I compare my happiness to others, and when I see theirs charting off the meter, the jealousy envelops me. That however is the least of my worries. I worry about the paradox. Hiking, sweating, and possibly bleeding your way up the plateau of elation was half the battle. Darling, it's beautiful and picturesque and hell, if my camera had batteries I would photograph every inch of the view for you and your friends. Yet it's running on empty. And now that I've camped and milked the spot for all it's worth, I realize I've got to go downhill. I'm clumsy and awkward and don't trust my perception, hand-eye coordination and every other skill utilized when it comes to focusing. This is the hard part- moving away from what is GOOD. Trees are in my way, and the snakes cry for not treading on them; but if the fauna and flora don't kill me, my silly side-stepping and shortcutting will. Lend me a walking stick; let me know that I'm not too far away from death and shrugging it off would definitely send me off the sheer face of that cliff, or this one, or the next.

Halfway down the path and I've seem to have misplaced my foot inside of a tree root. Fuck. There eye go, a-rollin' down the hill. If you didn't hear the ankle snap in four, or my noggin' whack a rock full force, it might have been a bit comical. Actually no it is lol. I'm laughing at it right now and maybe that should make me sad. Well hey it hurts like a mother fucker, but don't get me wrong- this is a lot faster then any careful, calculated stepping. It happens, but I'm afraid I did not see you on the way down. Fucking Jill, we needed that bucket of water for developing these pictures. Oh well, I'll see you in the afterlife if I don't make it from this plunge.

The Oculus by Mario Ramirez

On any given day, at any given moment, I'll get a quirky look and the most typical of queries: What's it like to be blind? Well I wouldn't know because I have never been there. If visual acuity were scaled from one to ten, I am a 6.5. I can see. Close up. Even then I have trouble. It saddens me; I hate my glasses. It's not so much about looking like a square, but that they don't help as much as I need them to. Preposterous says my optometrist, ridiculous say my-let me find the right word, associates. Sorry, lol. Anyway, it shouldn't matter because you don't care. I need my glasses to let me know what's heading my way. Yes, it is getting spiritual and allegorical. I can't meander my way through life only avoiding what is big enough to make a difference. And I definitely can not afford to hit any more damn speed bumps or potholes. Dear Congress and Mr. President: fix my fucking roads as soon as possible. Yup, I understand your laughter. I guess it's the American thing to do, rely on those with money and power to fix our maladies. The worst thing about glasses is having them be perfect the first three weeks. It was amazing, as if Mother Earth decided to convert to Blu-Ray just for me! Then I dropped them-on gravel the first time. Ouch, but still no biggie. I continued to don them, now on the daily because Stevie said they looked good; I listened. Big mistake. The black rimmed, ocular devices are crooked so my perception has forever changed to one of lopsided squints. Squints? Yes squints; the glass or cheap plastic itself acquired so many scratches and dinks that I'd be safer off looking through a shitty kaleidoscope. So much for the permanent High Definition. My Blu-Rays were skipping not one, but all beats, and the horse I rode in on can't handle the obstacles in the road. That leaves me fucked, depressed, and just a tad bit stressed. I don't know what to do about it- it's on my agenda so I suppose that it will be addressed, eventually. For now, I'll settle with being ocularly disadvantaged, I'd rather be confined to permanent darkness then seeing what more destruction the Homo Sapien has wrought.

Doing Too Much: A Rant on Tattoos by Mario Ramirez

What compels the individual to permanently ink themselves with a name? Tattooing has been around since the development of ink itself, and has existed as a distinguishing mark applied to the body for various reasons, all differentiating on a series of levels, be it cultural, personal, or even forced. Yet before I rant; know I have nothing against the practice. In fact, I've taken the time to design my own, not to flaunt my artistic prowess, but to simply be the master of it. There is no higher elation in the world than the one provided by the fruits of your own labor, and creating something so aesthetically and emotionally pleasing will yield the aforementioned sensation. Taking this into consideration, I must present an inquiry to you all: how many times have you seen kanji, tribal tats, or the most ridiculous of all, a name, displayed on skin? That was a rhetorical question, and if you don't know what that means, you may as well stop reading this now. Pause, filter, recycle.
First is the kanji, katakana, and hiragana. What the fuck do you know about Asian culture and when the fuck did you study typography (not calligraphy)? Kanji, katakana, and hiragana are not letters nor are they aword necessarily; it is a logograph representing a grapheme. Confusing? A logograph basically equates to a hieroglyph. Now that you're rolling on my ball again, let this sink in: you are not worthy of such a symbol on your body. Why? These symbols have been around for at least a millennia; have been studied and dexterously refined through intensive practice, and have transcended above representing sheer sounds. So what the fuck does it matter if it's tatted on me you may ask? It matters because it's degrading to the culture and only strengthens the typical, ignorant American Asshole stereotype negatively stamped on us since at least the end of the Second World War. I won't even get into detail about how much shame you bring to millions of people worldwide with that 名誉 (honor) on your fucking neck, I'll just ask you another question: when did that legless, 7 year old Chinese girl ever matter to you? Was it the Sichuan Earthquake or was it the way she wrote help?
Second are the tribal tattoos. This one doesn't even need a damn paragraph. Get that shit fucking covered for you are no Maori warrior nigga and you will never be able to spear someone through the heart you fucking prick. No matter how elaborate, it is still ugly on your baby, shoe clad skin. The only people worthy of these are the actual tribe members or a hard line gangster (you've seen Gangland and you know what I mean).
Lastly, the name. I thought about it, and it appealed to me at first. What better way to show my genetically acquired disposition that is pride? We Mexicans sure love to be ostentatiously obnoxious:

Ramirez

Not only am I one holder of the millions of Ramirez surnames out there, I am also a nobody. I am not afraid nor ashamed to admit it for I know I'm on my path to make a difference. To be brutally honest, you don't fucking matter. With over 6 billion people on the planet, we have become exceedingly overpopulated and one less Ramirez would only help us as a species. It is quite irksome to know that despite the fucked up situation the world is in, there are MANY people out there who revel in such frivolity and pretentiousness. That you will spend hundreds of hard earned cash to embellish your body with something that everyone will forget. Who am I to say such a thing? No one, just a humble kid whose intentions and ambitions are quite clear. So although my logistics may be incorrect, and my reasoning may be biased, I still have more say than you will because someone will read this and say: hey that makes sense!*pauses to read more* When someone reads your name they'll say: hey, that's cool *continues walking*
I guess what I'm trying to say is, if your a nobody like me, get out and change that! Do it yourself however, otherwise it's doing too much.

"A name is the blueprint of the thing we call character. You ask, What's in a name? I answer, Just about everything you do."

Her! by Mohammad Khalil

The first day of freshmen year when I came to Washington High School I SAW HER! She was beautiful butterflies in my stomach a small chill crawls up my spine. Does she notice me, does she know I exist in this world. I started feeling on my cheeks to see if I have a clean shave or not and that was when I didn't have a handsome beard like I do now. I start to approach her like I am a lion and she is my prey but I start to loose feeling in my legs and start to walk funny. I get close and all I do is give her eye contact, and the second she looks at me I turn away because I was frighten. Every day of my life since that day I kept my mouth shut and all I did was have eye contact. Too scared to say something or to do anything.. Damn I am a fool and a coward. I look at her she looks at me and I am not sure if she even notices me or even knows my name. Know one knows about her but me sometimes my friends would mention her and how they would want to do whatever they wanted to do, oh how that would get me angry and I would ask them to "quiet  down you FUCKS." Its not respectful behavior, they would look at me weird and just ignore me or sort of change the subject. I have always wanted to talk to her but every time I am around a beautiful girl such as herself I would start to studded and twitch and get all my words twisted. I know what I am about to say is corny but here it goes anyways, "I would always daydream about her getting hurt or falling and I am about to catch her like a hero and then she would finally notice me." But I know nothing like that would ever happen like this.  So I am screwed with the regular coward approach plan. When will I ever talk to her maybe never? Will I ever get a chance in the future maybe not, Will I regret this definitely. I am probably going to live with regret for the rest of my life.