Quarantine Collaboration

# *R-Temis* ~~By Tiara Barnette~~ Reporting Agent: Merrill Fennick Suspect: Carlisle Aberdeen / Age: 45 Classification: Warlock Reason for reconnaissance: Suspected of running an illegal potions and ingredients business from his basement. Aberdeen has barred his home from visitors, claiming his wife and child have fallen ill to R-Temis. An anonymous tipper suggested otherwise. 11:00 p.m. After spending a week observing the house and corroding a small area of the barrier surrounding the grounds, I was finally able to enter the home of Carlisle Aberdeen. It was a one-story building made out of red brick, with six windows and a front and back door. Blackened vines crept along the walls, emitting a dark smoke that smelled like licorice. A diagnostic spell declared it to be free of toxins, so I determined the vines were simply for an aesthetic purpose. At the stroke of midnight, Aberdeen’s wife exited from the back door to take her nightly (illegal) euphoria potion. She wasn’t wearing the Council sanctioned R-Temis prevention wristband. Using a cloaking spell, I slipped past her and escaped notice. The inside of the house was as I imagined it to be, and looked innocent enough with moonlight flooding in through the windows. Connected to the back door was the kitchen, with its brick walls and stone flooring. Empty. The dining room connected to it was also void of people, though running my hand over the mahogany table and chairs revealed that it hadn’t been void for long. Scouring the rest of the first floor revealed a closet and bathroom, an office with magical sensors I didn’t dare mess with, and a large living room. All empty. There were also three bedrooms, and my C-Coin allowed me to see that Aberdeen’s daughter was in one of them. Her bedroom was locked from the outside. There was no visible sign of the entrance to the basement, but I could feel the hum of magical energy beneath my feet. I settled myself in the corner of the living room to wait. [[There was an enormous painting of the Greek goddess, Artemis, along one of the walls, and the energy was thickest there->Savannah, Georgia]]. Aberdeen’s wife reentered the house and sat on one of the brown leather couches. It was right next to my hiding spot. She flipped idly through a potions magazine, but she kept looking at the corner I was in, as if she knew I was there. After forty minutes of watching the wife flip through a magazine and straighten an already clean room, she went over to the gramophone and put on a jazz record. She then stood in front of the couch and clasped her hands in front of her. The painting of Artemis swung open. Carlisle Aberdeen stepped through, carrying a large box. He handed it to his wife, who set it on the coffee table, and kissed her cheek. He then made his way to his office and let himself in, shutting the door behind him. The box was lined with bricks. Nestled inside were several vials of R-Temis, enough to make an entire town fatally ill; or wake the dead. It had all the visual appeal of fire, the flickering orange of the plasma, the harsh shadows cast in the gaps between bricks. Aberdeen’s wife hummed thoughtfully and flicked her hand at the box. One of the vials floated up and onto the surface of the table. She picked up the box and carried it to the back door, which she once again left open. Taking a hint, I carefully picked up the vial and put it in my pocket. 1:15 a.m. I slipped out the back door and watched the wife hand the box over to one of Aberdeen’s henchmen.

# *Savannah, Georgia* ~~By Keonna Kinshasa~~ It was around midnight and Donna could hear the night cicadas and grasshoppers buzzing loudly into the hot, sandy countryside. She and the rest of her squad were at the entrance of a Cul-de-sac and stared at the crappy warehouse shacks in a circle that Donna knew the whites were inhabiting. She could feel the tension within her group, of the approaching confrontation, clashing with Savannah’s calm idyllic slowness that it expressed especially when the full was out and the night was black and inky. The leader of their group, Bois, hopped out of the front of the group of jeeps parked a few hundred feet away and walked over. He was dressed in the same night black outfit as everyone else, which went well with his dark skin. The only difference was that he wore an army jacket and a red, green, yellow headband around his large cotton like afro. “Alright team, we're here. Our community have been suffering for days since the pale ones took all of our supplies. It’s been 2 weeks and already 3 of our doctors have fallen ill. When our black doctors fall ill, who will be next to help the sick ones? Will the whites give us doctors? Will they help our people? No. They’ve only taken and will continue to take if we let them. Black people are the number one demographic other than Asians dying from this disease. It’s time to act.” After those words hung into the air the tension changed from tension to anger towards the whites. And courage. The following actions were based on protection for their people. Nothing could go wrong with intentions like that, thought Donna. Janet, a member of the crew who was the most experienced other than Bois, ululated loudly in rebellion. “Lets get back whats ours!” She whispered fiercely. Bois ordered everyone to go, and they started heading towards the only, and the largest house in the whole cul-de-sac. The Abners. *** After about 20 minutes of picking the lock, Donna was able to unlock the padlock on the shed behind the Abners house and smiled. Her training was clearly working. After she keyed the large padlock finally, everyone cheered and the men pushed the heavy cellar door wide open. Looking behind the group, Bois closed the door and they all went in. The shed was large and spacious and there were many products inside. There was an enormous painting of the Greek goddess, Artemis, along one of the walls, and the energy was thickest there. Thousands of bottles of hand sanitizer. So many rolls of toilet paper and COVID-19 disinfectant. An amount of N95 masks and ventilators that Donna couldn’t even calculate. She was so shocked at the amount of products there was. And with every product, there was a yellow sticker reflecting the new price, often in the hundreds. Donna was disgusted at the Abner’s obvious intentions to either hoard the products or sell it for a ridiculous profit. They had to put a stop to this. Janet looked around at the expansive product filled room while Bois called the members who stayed outside to quietly bring the moving trucks. “They must have been stealing from other races or countries. Because only about 1/3rd of the hand sanitizer and masks and ventilators is ours. All of the normal disinfectant is ours, but none of the covid specific disinfectant is ours. I suspect they may even be hiding medication, but I’m not sure where. Maybe in the Abner house.” “Well we can look while we pile everything else in the car. We should take what’s ours and give everything else away.” Donna said while hurriedly looking in cracks or crevices or holes in the wood where there could have been a compartment at. Janet agreed. “The trucks are here everyone. Lets start piling this shit and leave quietly. If we can avoid violence, that would be best.” said Bois. Everyone started piling the products heavily into the bag and moved it to the trucks. [[It was a win. Or at least that’s what it seemed like->What are you gonna do with it?]].

# *The Grasslands* ~~By Ashley Tejada~~ We had not been found yet, nor did we want to be. David and I were in the grasslands, and we had come across a tiny home. We were hesitant about the larger homes previously, but the fact of the matter was a tiny home suggested fewer people. We figured fewer people was the safer way to go; if needed, we could fight them off. We were standing at the back door when David was able to see a woman through the window upstairs. This was the closest we would get to a convenient opportunity to go inside. [[Hopefully, the majority of the family was upstairs->Off-balance]]. We used a new method of getting in. The General was a genius, and had pursued a novel metal mixture that allowed for a quiet break in. You would heat up the metal, push it into the keyhole where it would then liquidate and fill into the shape of the keyhole. Within seconds, it would harden again, and you would be able to twist the door handle as if it was with the original key. We had entered through the kitchen and I walked towards the sink. There were shelves above it—holding a variety of dishes. Each dish was polished clean, and the seam where the bowls met were perfectly aligned, on top of one another. The silverware was sitting on a towel to dry, but the forks were perfectly set in rows of 5. It was clear the enemy was intentional and calculated. David walked towards the living room, and he saw a large painting hanging above the fireplace. This painting was composed of different sized Russian flags. The flags appeared to be standing tall and blowing in the wind. I questioned in that moment if the residents to this home were just extremely patriotic, or potentially held a government or military position with the enemy. We looked at each other, and on either account, we knew the General would be satisfied with our discovery. David walked towards the stairs. He angled a mirror at the bottom of the stairs that way he was able to see up without attracting a resident through their peripheral vision. In the corner of the mirror, he saw a stuffed moose head hanging in what was assumed to be the master bedroom. He watched the inhabitants stroking the moose as they loaded their guns. They were talking back and forth. They were taking photos in front of the head while switching out different guns to hold. Over the course of an hour, they stayed in that room. They spoke in a language we could not understand. I began to tiptoe towards the stairs. I grabbed my own mirror and did the same. In my mirror, I could see into the other room where there was a child who was standing in the center. It appeared that she was about thirteen years old. I watched her hitting a single bag that hung from the ceiling. She was jumping off of her bed to punch it with all of the might she had, and she would stand atop a chair and kick it every once in a while. David looked at me. His eyes insinuating that we leave. We had a lot to talk to the General about. It seemed that this family had military abilities. The only question was, were they of military background, or were they just experienced with fighting to that degree? I had hoped it was option A, for if they were just experienced citizens, I feared their strength, but more importantly, I feared what the General’s mindset might shift to.

# *Off-balance* ~~By James LaBelle~~ At 23:56, my partner and I parked outside our target’s house. The disguises and stolen car seemed unnecessary. The streets were empty all through the neighborhood anyway. The house itself was two stories and nondescript. It looked strikingly similar to many of the others around it, though it had decorative stone instead of a front lawn. My partner opted to stay outside and check the perimeter. We still did not know exactly where in the house our target was. There was a rickety metal gate in front of the house that was no higher than my thigh. It was one of those folding enclosures used for keeping pets contained, but seemingly repurposed as an entrance. I peered through the opaque glass of the front door, but it was completely dark inside. Unlike most of the other houses we had observed in this neighborhood, this one had a keypad. Thankfully, it was an old model and easy to crack. I could not stop it from letting out an audible beep and click upon opening. Hopefully, the majority of the family was upstairs. I stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind me. The house was mostly silent, though I could occasionally hear a creak and groan emanate from somewhere in the house, seemingly of its own volition. I glanced over the living-room while waiting for my partner’s response from his search. The walls were lined with two couches and two padded chairs, all mismatching with one-another. In the corner, there was an old organ that looked like it had not been touched in years. Other instruments sat on shelves or in cases behind the organ, all of them with a layer of dust coating them. The kitchen was considerably more organized, with granite countertops and gray wooden cupboards. Most of the appliances were either brushed-steel or black in color, and the black vinyl floor was thankfully silent, unlike the rest of this house’s structure. Various canned goods were piled haphazardly in the hall pantry alongside jars of home-made preserves. A sliding-glass door that led outside to a patio would make for a much quieter escape. Why my partner neglected to inform me of this was beyond me. My partner informed me via radio that our target was on the second floor. Light still shined through this one window, and my partner could see the target was still awake, sitting at his computer desk. His desk was positioned right by his bedroom door, which would make it too risky to try and enter. Even with his focus on his computer, he was bound to see me enter. We were hoping to catch him asleep, but he looked too focused on his work to be tired anytime soon. I would have to wait until the time was right. At roughly 2:35, I heard movement upstairs, and my partner informed me moments later that the target was laying in bed. It seems he fell asleep with the lights still on and his laptop open next to him on his bed. I figured that this was probably the best opportunity that I had and decided to make my move. What I didn’t account for was the missing bannister. The first step I took up the stairs, I reached my hand blindly out to grip the bannister, only for my hand to flail in open air. In that moment, I glanced to the side and saw small holes gouged out of the wall where the bannister probably used to be. I was off-balance, and set my foot down too firmly on the carpeted step, which emitted a loud groan that undoubtedly could be heard throughout the rest of the house. Immediately, I heard barking from upstairs and the sound of paws rushing across the floor. I glanced a blur of white fur contrasting against the darkness of the hallway before I turned and ran into the kitchen. Figuring there was little point in keeping silent now, I hurried for the glass door, threw open the latch, and tore open the door. I managed to close it behind me just before I heard the dog’s claws skitter across the floor. [[I looked behind me, and there was a medium-sized dog whose bark was definitely deeper than its size would suggest->Residual Evidence]]. Its paws scraped against the window and it barked happily up at me, seemingly eager for attention. I didn’t have time to wait around any longer, though. No doubt the rest of the family was awake. This mission was a failure. I would request another attempt now that more information is known about the target’s house. Consider the possibility that the target may already know of our presence considering his irregular sleeping habits. I have no doubt that the lock, bannister, and staircase were deliberately tampered with to act as an alarm-system. I could easily bypass all these measures if given another chance. Note from Commander E.: It seems that our intelligence was provided an incorrect address and identity. This was a civilian house and the real target has evaded capture. Thankfully, our operatives were incompetent, or this could have turned out much worse. No further actions against this address and its owners are necessary.

# *Residual Evidence* ~~By Julia Amonette-Hinke~~ There were moisture rings on the coffee table. It was the first thing I noticed. Don’t they know they are supposed to use a coaster? Savages. I cringe a little as I notice the stains. Partial rings on top of solid rings, the broken lines screaming at me. Next thing I noticed was that the handle of the door was sticky. It was a latent sensation, but I could still feel the memory of the thin film of substance against my hand. I imagined cleaning it. To wipe away the grime, and black hand stains. To see the metal shiny instead of the dull sheen of residue. [[My grandmother always called them hot spots->Attention Splits]]. They can be found on door handles and in doorways, or along walls. The place where the hand rests to subtly steady the feet while turning a corner or entering a hallway. On doors, somewhere near or above the handle, where the left hand presses the door open as the right hand turns it. Also, along the lower parts of the door jams. Especially if you have a cat, or a dog. The slow secretion of human, or animal substance, that creates residual evidence that someone or something lives here. Really lives here. This is no model home decorated for a magazine. This is someone’s lair, a den of sorts. The hot spots are almost worse than moisture rings. There is a bookcase across from the door, a thick blanket of dust covering the top shelf. That hard to reach place that often gets forgotten when dusting. A cluttering of trinkets and long forgotten decorations littered the shelf. The Santa Claus salt and pepper shakers, next the Easter Bunny candle votives, next to a faded Big-Gulp cup. Have they no decency? It is neither Christmas nor Easter, and that plastic cup looks old. Probably full of BPA. A mélange of books, intermixed with magazines, unsorted, with the titles sometimes upside down makes a pit in my stomach. A shiver slithers down my spine. I take a breath and hold it. The smell hits me next. That smell of musty old furniture, and dishwater from the kitchen sink. A hint of cat litter, and most of all that nauseating olfactory reminder of humans. I try to breathe as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room. Everyone’s house has a smell, and the funny thing is you can never tell what your smell smells like. It is inevitable, human beings are smelly animals. The only way to truly know what it smells like, is to leave it for a few days. When you come back, that dank hovering scent, that musk. That is yours. This place smells of old spaghetti sauce, dust, and sour milk. I touch my face mask, wondering if it will keep me safe. There is something crunching underfoot as I step forward. Then something sticky. I do not bother to look down. Instead I am suddenly grateful for my shoes. Imagining the grating, dry feeling of the dirty floor, paired with the occasional shriek of rubber against the sticky linoleum. I feel sweat being to trickle down my back. It takes only a few moments to sweep a floor, just several seconds to wipe away the sticky spots on the floor. An hour in this place would tell me these are not people of whom live here--they are merely pigs. Bottles are strewn in the corners of the room, pizza boxes, and bags of trash line the hallway. As I move through the living room, I spy the tattered plaid couch. Or maybe it was flowered? Either way it was tattered and old. It looked like it came from an alleyway somewhere. That sad sagging couch from the side of the road. Dark, ominous stains riddled the cushions and the pillows were lumpy, some spilling out tuffets of white polyester filling. Suddenly a sound from behind. Was that the door I just heard? I looked behind me, and there was a medium-sized dog whose bark was definitely deeper than its size would suggest. I did not wait to find out the animal's temperament before running quickly out the front door. Mission aborted.

# *Attention Splits* ~~By Natalie Balen~~ Time: 7:41 pm. Temperature: oddly Floridian. Humidity: see temperature. The sun is just starting to set outside, you can see the slight purpleing of the sky as the sun starts to go down. The room is occupied by me, as well as 3 other 20 something year old girls, they all have blonde hair although I suspect they don’t all come by it honestly. The room is the odd in between temperature where it used to be really really hot but now it’s starting to cool down so you’re not sure whether you should put on a jacket or not. The room rotates slowly through a glow of various colors, their origin being a strip of LED lights sling over the large glass window which looks out onto the street. I am sitting on a comfortable L shaped couch with one of the blondes. Another is sitting on a large plush bean bag on the floor, the third reclines in a comfortable looking easy chair closest to the front door. While the main door is open the metal cage door behind it is locked shut. To my left is a wall with a sign painted with the name of the house redacted surrounded by a ring of multi colored christmas lights. Outside this spreads a web of alcohol-labeled cardboard box panels. There is a large rectangular screen in the middle of the wall across from the couch, in fact every piece of furniture in the room is oriented toward this same bright rectangle. They take turns rotating through various streaming services, taking their pick of which awful reality show to binge watch that day (I think this may be to fulfill their need for social interaction, or maybe they just miss seeing wild people at bars). However this isn’t the only screen in the house. From the easy chair and the bean bag the small reassuring glow of a smartphone illuminates the thousand yard stares. To my left, the girl has impressively managed to split her attention between a phone and laptop screen. There is a glass coffee table right in the middle of the room which I would consider the single largest safety hazard in the whole house. It consists of a clear glass table on top of two narrow metal squares which hold it off the ground. Making it difficult to see especially in the odd faded lighting of the room. Its corners are exceptionally sharp and at just the height where it hits you in the uncomfortable divet below one's kneecap. [[I'm not sure if the occupants of this house have a sick sense of humor, or if they meant to punish intruders in the dark->First]]. But either way it's dangerous places like that, the kind of area in your home that is just asking for trouble. My grandmother always called them hot spots.

# *virgo moon* ~~By Keonna Kinshasa~~ Today is 420. A national holiday that I have been celebrating all day. But, today was weird, honestly all of the days since this COVID stuff has been happening has been weird. I’m kind of floating between wanting to do work and doing it and getting things done and just being this perfect person (that was my old name) by having a part time job making money planning for the future and doing school work and transitioning and another part of me just wants to sit down and relax and watch tv and smoke for 8 hours. And like being in the middle of these two feelings has me always anxious and on edge because I feel like I should be always doing something. A lot of times I end up doing nothing because of it. The past couple of hours I have been reading different books for my classes and doing homework and smoking a bowl all the while. Every time I do homework, I feel like there are weights being tied around my wrists and brain lol. Like right now i’m thinking about gathering motivation to keep to working on my other classes. The only thing that actually helps and gets me up is waiting until the last minute to do things haha. I’m also still feeling anxious and on edge too because I have to drive my car to the mechanic tomorrow. I have really terrible car anxiety and driving anywhere makes me nervous and scared. I have no sense of direction and I always get turned around when I use GPS. Just having 5,000 pounds of pure metal at your control really freaks me out. And then interacting with other cars on the road, I just feel really small and threatened. And because I don’t have much experience, I’m constantly questioning myself or unable to make decisions in the moment. It really makes driving hard and I’m just ready to get over it because in San Diego driving is really required. I’m going with my friend tomorrow and I’m going to pray intensely tonight because I have gotten in situations before where something could have happened and I don’t want that tomorrow. It makes my driving so much worse. After I’m done with my homework, I’m gonna go back to taking dabs and watching supernatural so I’m hoping that and the fact that my friend is driving with me tomorrow will makes things better. And I actually feel better too knowing that I’m going to pray on it. Another aspect of my mood has been questioning. I hate where I am right now in life. [[I feel like I’m between everything, in a grey area when I was a fan of absolutes->I/you]]. I have no clue where I’m gonna move out to, I haven’t started applying for jobs yet...I don’t even know what city I want to live in post grad. I know Southern California but I don’t know which city. My boyfriend also hasn’t even bothered to see me in a month after I asked him in a few times so I have no clue if we're good or not...everything is just really weird and undefined now. And I don’t know if you know astrology but considering I have a virgo moon, having things out of my control and undefined is literally the last thing I want. I hope definitions and clarity find me soon.

# *I/you* ~~By Brian Ffrench~~ [[I’m a sleepwalking cyborg trapped in the reoccurring daze of a daydream->FoulPlay]]. More of the same—More of the same. Motivation is fleeting. Technology is a constant distraction. My mind no longer has anywhere to wander to. Journaling has never appealed to me much, but it is interesting to journal without the privacy that a journal provides. My days are now a smorgasbord of time and energy and thoughts and staring at blank documents waiting for the words to dance across the screen, but my thoughts remain hidden and untranslatable to the language of computer keys. Time is unorganized. Some days I let Karen Dalton’s voice take me to last spring and I can see the fallen leaves and the barren trees and I can feel the rain on my fingers as the wind carries our laughter out across the bay and if I was where I feel I am then I’d be where I am not—here I am but I am no longer certain where here is or where the spring has gone. Gone too is the feeling of waiting, gone is the need for certainty. Certainly there is certainty in the confusion of now. I wonder if leaving my bedroom to go into the living room will inspire new ideas and a more cohesive journal—it does not, but the change of scenery is refreshing. Focus is a funny direction for a journal to take and five years ago I was living in cigarette butts and disease, so not all that much has changed and I don’t have all that much to write to me from five years ago expect that I/you shouldn’t expect all that much to change in five years. Bowie was right: I never thought I’d need so many people, what a surprise. Five years from now? Who knows if we have that long. And who knows what five years from now will look like. More of the same—More of the same. This pandemic has made me reconsider what it means to wait. All around me is unfamiliar noise—it encroaches on my thoughts and surrounds my brain with frequencies I haven't heard in years. This is the first time in around five years that my family has all lived together under the same roof and productivity is now a relic of pre-pandemic times. Writing is now a floundering experience—searching and fighting for inspiration, motivation, and a clear mind—none of which are obtainable in these times. Yet I am not only interested in production and productivity. There are days where I float in space and enjoy the privilege of this floating. The thoughts still linger, but coffee and music hover around me while I remove myself from the unfamiliar into a space made of me. Words do not flow, but they do not have to. They will come. Or they will not. Either way I will wait. There are more important things going on and there are other ways to locate myself. I’m a sleepwalking cyborg trapped in the reoccurring daze of a daydream.

# *Quarantine Collaboration* WHAT IS THIS? [[READ THE EDITORS' NOTE]] ~ [[virgo moon]] by Keonna Kinshasa [[I/you]] by Brian Ffrench [[FoulPlay]] by Melanie Taing [[Putting a Name to a Face]] by Julia Amonette-Hinke [[Some Trapped People]] by Christopher Newman [[Maury]] by Matthew Farris [[“Thank You for Loving Me”]] by Maricris Mateo [[“Lonely” in English]] by Melanie Taing [[Dalgona & Mole]] by Carolina Mejia [[By Daylight]] by Tiara Barnette [[Skunk]] by Carolina Mejia [[Buoy]] by Ashley Tejada [[Flowers for a Child]] by Maricris Mateo [[The Grasslands]] by Ashley Tejada [[Off-balance]] by James LaBelle [[Mission]] by Sarah Goergens [[Residual Evidence]] by Julia Amonette-Hinke [[Attention Splits]] by Natalie Balen [[First]] by Amanda Redikop [[PBR]] by Brian Ffrench [[Polaroid]] by Alondra Contreras [[Conditioned Air]] by Matthew Farris [[R-Temis]] by Tiara Barnette [[Savannah, Georgia]] by Keonna Kinshasa [[What are you gonna do with it?]] by Matthew Farris [[Dear Sedona]] by Julia Amonette-Hinke [[The Hero’s Journey]] by Melanie Taing [[Kind]] by Sarah Goergens [[Manifest(o)]] by Xiomahara.Solis [[Erupt]] by Ashlee Wigness [[Harley]] by Xiomahara Solis [[Even Better, My Meandering]] by James LaBelle [[Technicolor Dreams]] by Brian Ffrench [[Taste Like The Color Red]] by Xiomahara Solis [[Cogito Ergo Sum]] by Alec Estus

# *Foul Play* ~~By Melanie Taing~~ I don’t have much of a vantage from where I am, wedged underneath the bed frame in the master bedroom, a result of hurried panic. [[I was thrown off schedule->Some Trapped People]]. The suspect entered the room eight minutes earlier than anticipated. She was supposed to have been drawn out of her home temporarily for at least 15 minutes, giving me time to sweep the master and slip out of the disengaged back door by the time she makes her way back from the front doors. Something must have gone wrong. Why hadn’t the other operatives warned me? I hear clacking against the marble floors of the hallway in the distance before I see a streak of sunlight spray against the floor through the open door. Then into the light comes a sweep of a burgundy silk robe, underneath of which would be a black chemise and… heels? They’re Valentina Garavani pumps, the same red as the night gown and lined with studs. Anastasia Crawford was strolling around her estate during quarantine in $5,000 heels. She has good taste, I give her that. I watch her pace around the room for a few seconds through the corner of my eye. She finally walks over to the armoire less than a yard away from the right side of her California King mattress and swings the doors open. I know this from scoping the details of her seven-million-dollar estate the week before. The armoire is mahogany and vintage, placing it at around $8,000 at face value. Deep inside of it, hidden behind a faux wall will be a steel safe, the contents of which make Ms. Anastasia Crawford the third wealthiest heiress in the country, whose riches (and venereal beauty) are the most coveted. I hear the succession of clicks as Anastasia Crawford opens her safe through mechanisms that only she can maneuver. Fingerprints and eye scans privy to her DNA and hers only. She takes something from the safe then shuts the armoire doors. I hear her clacks fade as she makes her way to her gargantuan walk-in closet. To put on something more suitable, I surmise. The door gently clicks open. I feel the tension in my shoulder blades return. The soft patter of shoes step into the light, and I see that they are dark brown oxfords. Mens shoes. Feet that belong to Ms. Anastasia Crawford’s lover, Mr. Dominic Leblanc, the soon-to-be heir of his own multi-million-dollar estate in Marseille. He stops momentarily in front of the armoire, then walks toward the walk-in closet. I gently slide my left wrist up to my face to check my communication device, but it’s dark and doesn’t respond to my movements. It’s been jammed. Something has gone wrong. I hear a scream from the closet. I reach for the .22 caliber glock that’s strapped to my waist and get ready to roll out from underneath the bed frame when I hear laughter. “Nicky, stop it!” It’s Anastasia’s voice, but she doesn’t actually sound like she wants whatever is happening to stop. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be back for another week.” “I missed you too much to wait another week, ma chérie.” “But what about the estate?” Both pairs of feet emerge into the light and shuffle lazily toward the bed frame. “I had the boys stay behind to settle it. I’ll be back in a month to finalize things, but for now, I am needed elsewhere.” Anastasia giggles again as she is levitated and rolled onto the mattress. Dominic’s feet disappear next. The couple wrestle on the mattress, their movements contorted with more laughter as clothing and shoes fall onto the floor. I shut my eyes and try to drown out the sounds. I’m surprised when Dominic returns to the floor after a few minutes. He stands still for a moment before slowly putting his clothes and shoes back on, taking his time to tie his laces. “Nickeeeey… Nick…” Anastasia doesn’t move from the mattress. Her words come out slurred and slow, as if she was having a difficult time pronouncing her lover’s name. Finally, she manages to slide off the side of the mattress and onto her feet, her movements like those of a sleepwalking cyborg trapped in the reoccurring daze of a daydream. The doors of the armoire creak open, but Anastasia slumps onto the floor. Something has gone wrong.

# *April 14, 2020: Putting a Name to a Face* ~~By Julia Amonette-Hinke~~ Sometimes I wonder why we are here to begin with. What does it mean to be, truly be, a human being? Today, I had a job interview with a local grocery store. It was my first job interview in four years. The Novel CoronaVirus essentially reduced my income to nothing in two short days. I went from being a successfully self-employed, free-lance worker, that was consistently booked solid, to nothing. The resounding echo in my bank account, and the dreaded feeling in my chest, were just reminders of how delicate this capitalistic monolith called America really is. [[Thank you: I needed a reminder that I am “non-essential.”->Some Trapped People]] This also reminded me that big corporations were the only structures to remain long against the tides of financial duress. Yet again, the giants prevail. And here I was, at a giant’s feet. Trying to make someone like you—to build their confidence and trust in you during fifteen minutes of prescribed questions—is a strange thing. I have always felt this way about job interviews. A tingling sense of nervousness pervades the usual confidence in one has in their own abilities. It's like being accused of doing something you did not do, and feeling guilty simply because someone believes you did it. But here is the juicy part. Thanks to COVID-19 I had to wear a face mask. They also wore face masks. And yes, we had to sit six feet apart. Try convincing someone you are trustworthy, hardworking, dependable, and likable, without your facial expressions. Pulling appeal simply from sound is difficult. We are after all just animals— we socialize and communicate with more than our eyes and voices. Much like reading tone into a text, you can read it anyway you want; and from there assume what they are feeling, not just saying. Try feeling confident that someone really likes you, or that you like them, without seeing their face. The slight eye wrinkles, the smile, what they do with their mouth when they talk, or when you talk—so subtle and so important. It was like driving with a blindfold. I was confident that there was movement. I was operating some sort of interaction, at some sort of velocity. I had moved them; I just did not know where. I did not get hired. They had twelve interviews after me. Twelve more jobless, faceless, people reaching with their eyes. Answering the same mundane questions with their voice, their desperate sense of survival, and most of all a glimmer of hope. If nothing else, I am glad someone somewhere got the chance. And in some ways, the lurking sense of rejection aside, I am glad it’s not me. I never wanted to work at a grocery store to begin with.

# *Some Trapped People* ~~By Christopher Newman~~ Quarantine Day…what? I’ve lost fucking count. Trying to multitask today. 60,000 words into the new novel, I’m trying to figure out a way to bring this bitch into the barn. My trusty subconscious came up with a nice little twist last night. I spent half the morning tossing those ideas onto the page, looking to see what might stick. The other half, I intermittently spent looking at rental listings. Can’t think of a crappier time for my landlords to tell me they want their house back. Made coffee. Returned to my writing cottage to drink it and stare at my computer screen after checking FB to see that two of my classmates have accepted friend requests. Nice! Some of those ideas I prodded into motion this morning had grown spines, and so I got busy ordering them into line, quick, before they collapsed from inattention. Suddenly, I know how this book will end, maybe a hundred or so pages down the road from here. I even have a proposed last line, which I know is too cute and that I will undoubtedly shoot in the head a few weeks from now. But for now, it’s making me smile. At noon, I programmed the first of a handful of hopeful listings into my GPS, masked-up, ran the ragtop down and rolled out to scout. First house was a possible, the second, a wreck, third, totally inappropriate, the fourth I couldn’t find. Drove home and reported back on my progress to my housemate, who was baking cinnamon cookies. [[Some trapped people read, some watch TV, she bakes->Maury]]. Constantly. Bread, brownies (we threw a tried-and-true inebriant into the last batch), cookies, cakes. I have gained nearly ten pounds since lock-down commenced, back whenever that was. I’m thinking about how good I still feel after that drive I took to the desert yesterday, just to get my ass out of this chair, get myself a little visual stimulus and burn some of that good, cheap gas. I’m still surprised by how green everything was, driving through Julian and Ranchita. Evidence of all the rain we got last month. This time last year, it had already gone mostly brown. I’m also thinking about what I’ll eat for dinner tonight. Tostadas? Got tortillas, leftover ribeye from steak night, Saturday, cheese, lettuce, avocado and black beans that others in my isolation circle think too spicy. Too bad for them. Lucky for me. Signing off. See you again manana en la manana. Please God, don’t let me eat any more cookies.

# *Maury* ~~By Matthew Farris~~ 4/17–19/2020 When it comes to having a routine, normalcy is a funny thing to keep in check nowadays. [[Free time has generally increased yet energy levels have decreased, and no amount of caffeine or working out has been able to counteract the effects of staring at a screen for a continuous 10-13 hours a day->“Thank You for Loving Me”]]. In the morning, I have my 4 hours of online work. Then afterwards I have my 3-5 hours of Zoom for class. And then of course I have my daily entertainment time for 2 hours. Oh and then of course there is my time to watch the news for 1 hour. AM and PM has no real meaning any longer, that’s how my days are split up. Unless of course it’s a day off from work and class, in which case there is a different method for differentiating between morning and night while not leaving my bed. Maury being on TV acts as the central divider. AM is going to mean “Amid Maury”, when Maury is on TV, and PM is going to be “Post-Maury”, after Maury is done for the day. Three shootings yesterday alone, now only treated as mere ticker tape. Seen it, done it, done. One of them was only a half-mile away from me. Helicopters shout above me day and night, looking for people I have not seen. Yet I question how anything exists beyond my eye line. I guess staying inside too much will do that to you. On paper, my life has gone the exact opposite way that the world has gone. I am working only half of my hours and yet I am getting paid as if my schedule hadn’t changed. I have more time to make music and I get to be alone at home a lot more. At my core, I sometimes enjoy doing absolutely nothing. I feel like I could do nothing forever. After close observation of this, I realize now that I enjoy doing absolutely nothing when it is a voluntary decision. A decision that comes with weighing the many things I could be doing and still deciding to do nothing. When it is a necessary decision, I enjoy it less. A lot less. And I am not sure why. Prior to such drastic change, I had been working 2 part time jobs, totaling about 40 hours per week, in addition to taking 15 units. As a night owl and as someone who had just turned 21, I had trained myself to only go out on Saturday nights and with a lot of practice I had formed a strict nightly routine of going to bed at 11pm latest (aside from Saturdays). I had little to no free time, yet I felt I was thriving. I was successfully balancing essentially a full-time job on top of full-time school on top of maintaining a social life. It feels weird for me to say, “Things were finally starting to click before the virus hit, woe is me” in the presence of so much tragedy. But I feel stagnant now. The hours pile up in front of the screen and I can’t move. I passively watch Florida open the beaches back up, I watch local protesters gather downtown with no masks to prove some kind of misunderstood point about “freedom”. I sit and watch. (To be clear, I am not bored enough to watch Maury yet. Once that happens, quarantine will have reached a new level of desperation.)

# *“Thank You for Loving Me”* ~~By Maricris Mateo~~ April 19, 2020 I’m slowly losing my mind. Nah, I’m kidding. Or am I? Darn it! Staying at home is awful. I’ve been playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons for three weeks but that’s already gotten boring. I never in my entire life would have thought of doing jigsaw puzzles to pass time. My entire family started working on two new jigsaw puzzles this month. I don’t even like jigsaw puzzles. The last time I tried completing a jigsaw puzzle of Alice in Wonderland was over a year ago. I lasted twenty-six minutes before giving up. Jigsaw puzzles are like a magic potion that magically give you an intense headache. I’m going to stop with the jigsaw puzzles. Next week on Tuesday I have a ten-minute presentation in one of my English classes, so that’s making me nervous now. I’ve taken some communication classes, but speaking in front of my class is still nerve-wracking. Brother told me that whenever he gets nervous before a presentation, he would have a glass of beer to calm him down. I don’t like drinking. I can’t wait for Tuesday to be over, then I can finally wind down and focus on other things. (Breathe, darn it!) I’m glad that my small vegetable/herb garden bed is doing well this month. I guess this is the only thing that I like about staying at home 24/7 (but I really wish this would end soon!) - I’m able to tend to my vegetables and herbs. I also need to start cooking some green onion pancakes. The rain last week - or was it two weeks ago? - anyways, thanks to the rain, my green onions grew a lot. Oh, my rosemary grew, too! There are other herbs that are growing well. Crap, I forgot the names of my other herbs. Note to self, never ever throw the name tags of the herbs. Anyways, I decided to oven dry the harvested rosemary, and it came out well. Maybe I should try the natural way of drying rosemary in the near future. Oh, and pill bugs suck even though they’re cute. They’ve been chewing on my sweet mint every night. Why don’t they eat the spearmint next to the sweet mint? This is war. Maybe I’ll try the beer in a can method to get rid of those annoying pill bugs. I wish I could sleep in the backyard. [[I’ve always wanted to camp alone->“Lonely” in English]]. I can’t take another day of listening to my old man singing Bon Jovi’s “Thank You for Loving Me.” I used to like that song, now it’s like a mosquito that won’t die no matter how much insect spray I douse it with. He sings it in the bathroom, in the bedroom before sleeping, to a woman I don’t care about, in the kitchen, in the living room, and everywhere in the house. (I’m losing my mind.) I’m going to make some green tea latte.

# *“Lonely” in English* ~~By Melanie Taing~~ Dear Chester, I woke up this morning at noon, feeling more willing to get out of bed for the first time all week. The pressure behind my eyebrows seemed to have subsided enough for me to not want to fall unconscious. Too bad it was short-lived. The killer combo came back around 4pm today on the way to Stater Bros. Two Tylenol later, and I still can’t shake the pain or fatigue. I’m pretty sure I’ve been infected with the virus. I mean, Terra and James only suffered from headaches, and they both tested positive. I’m not sure whether I should be concerned over the possibility that I have it, or grateful that the symptoms are not as bad as they could be. I definitely know something is wrong, considering my morning cup of caffeine doesn’t stand a chance against this overwhelming fatigue. And I keep waking up in the middle of the night with a dry cough. I’m used to that—it’s usually just a result of my GERD, but it’s left me alone for a good awhile. Ethan seems to be dealing with a pretty severe cough. Today, he started complaining about a migraine. All I want to do is sleep… We got boba today. Learned that the owners of the Sharetea in Murrieta are Khmer. I’m genuinely surprised. What are Cambodians doing in this part of town? Seriously assumed my mom’s family were the only ones. There’s this amazing drink that I had from Vanitea all the way in Chula Vista. [[It’s strawberry green milk tea, simple but so delicious. Something about the way Vanitea makes it. High quality tea? Milk?->Dalgona & Mole]] I’m constantly trying to replicate the drink at other shops back in east SD with custom orders, but nothing seems to compare. Considering making the trek down south once this madness blows over just for the tea. Wow. Is that what it’s come to? Mom dyed my hair today. It wasn’t exactly what I was imagining it to be, but maybe it’ll look different in the sunlight tomorrow morning. [[(Who am I kidding - tomorrow afternoon. I’m not waking up until noon again)->By Daylight]]. I called Yeay today while mom was bleaching my hair in the backyard. She asked me if I was feeling any better. I lied to her and said that I was. That the Tylenol she gave me was helping. She told me to wait a bit longer before coming home. But that if I wanted to, I could go home. I asked her, but aren’t you lonely? She said she was. Mostly Khmer, “lonely” in English, but that she has Jehovah God. Mom and I tried to keep our laughs quiet. It was funny, but sad, nonetheless. Times like this make me think about Kong a lot. I wouldn’t have to worry so much about her being lonely if he were still around. They took care of each other. Probably better than I could ever take care of her. I just finished day nine of my 30-day yoga challenge. And now, the headache is back… —Your #1 fan

# *Dalgona & Mole* ~~By Carolina Mejia~~ I wake up at 12pm as usual or even later. Since the quarantine days have started my sleep schedule has messed up even more, but I don't mind it. [[I usually don’t sleep until 5am or 6am->By Daylight]]. I was a night owl to begin with. Now it's another level. Sometimes I stay up doing homework (although rarely). Most of the time it’s scrolling through social media, binge-watching shows or expanding my hobbies such as creating art through the procreate app. Today was similar to other days, I didn’t get to sleep until past dawn and woke up late. But, although my sleep schedule is weird, I have been productive and managed to get a lot of things done. Today I completed my last assignment for one of my classes, so I am officially finished with that class. I made the famous Dalgona coffee to keep me energized. That coffee is too aesthetically pleasing and addicting! I can’t get enough of it. I might not need to spend my money on coffee shops once we’re done with this quarantine. I already know how to whip out a Dalgona. Then I went on to finish my latest art project on my procreate app. Creating art is a stress reliever for me and makes me feel productive while enjoying it. I also tried other mediums of art such as acrylic painting and watercolors. Watercolor is such a beautiful medium. I managed to finish several flowers such as peonies, tiger lilies and clematis. Later I was lured into the kitchen by the smell of mole and other Mexican dishes. Thank God for my grandma and mom, who love cooking, I seriously don't know what I’d do without them. I have spent all this time with my family and I’m really glad we all get along well. There haven't been any fights whatsoever. On the contrary, we’ve actually bonded even more and have been able to catch up with my brother whom I rarely see because we’re both too busy with school or work. After devouring delicious food, we gather around the living room and enjoy the latest show we’re binge watching on Netflix. I do occasionally miss going outside to restaurants, hanging out with my close friends and especially traveling. We are humans after all, so no matter how introverted someone is we’re bound to miss that human connection and interactions. But I actually don't mind staying inside much and it’s not as hard for me - I’m an introvert to begin with. At the end of the day I am left with a satisfactory feeling that I was able to feel productive and enjoy free time, something I hadn't felt in months. Honestly, school and work were taking a toll on my mental health for a long time. And, as weird as these circumstances are, they have given me time to take care of myself and enjoy the things I love to do. These times have also given me the opportunity to grow closer with my family and bond with them. I won’t take this time for granted, and will make the best of it. But I know my experience isn't the same for everyone. Everyone is going through this experience very differently and I do wish them the best in all aspects.

# *By Daylight* ~~By Tiara Barnette~~ I watch as daylight begins to seep through my window blinds and think about how messed up my sleep schedule has become. Before, I had to consider the time it takes to commute to the school campus via trolley, but all that planning’s gone now. Now here I am, still awake at dawn and someone’s fucking rooster is trying to cocka-doodle-doo the neighborhood down. It’s not like I’m not making an effort. I’m in bed at least—have been for the past three hours—but now I’m on Kindle book number two and I feel awake as ever. I’ve gotten into the bad habit of refusing to sleep until I finish the book I’m reading. It got even worse once on-campus classes shut down. I’ve been on edge ever since I started playing a horror game earlier in the night. I don’t normally play those as I scare easily, but I needed the reprieve from schoolwork. And - as I’m supposed to be staying at home - the closest I can get to social fun is playing games with my friends. My phone buzzed and my hands were shaking when I finally set down my controller, having died from too many encounters with Ghostface. It was my mom, telling me to look out my window. Our backyard was pitch black. Another message: “I think someone’s in our backyard.” Images from the horror game I had been playing flashed through my mind. I turned off my light and my computer monitor. I peered out the window again but my view was limited, even though my room is on the second story. Nothing out of the ordinary. There was a lone van parked on the curb behind the wall separating our backyard from the street, but it didn’t look like anyone was in there. [[I thought I saw something move in the darkness of the yard, but it could’ve just been the plants moving because of the breeze->Skunk]]. Or an animal. That made more sense than someone poking around our backyard. But my mom turned off the television and darkened the entire house, to keep watch. One time she made me go downstairs and I almost fell. She refused to let me turn on the light. She kept using a clicker to turn the lights in the backyard on and off. On and off. Looking for movement. Seeing her fear made mine bubble beneath the surface. I was tempted to snap and tell her I could just step outside, but I held my tongue. There was no real desire to open the doors to the backyard. Visions of Ghostface floated along my mind. Naw, I wasn’t going to touch those doors. Once my stepfather came home, my mother finally settled down. And now that the morning rays are here, I feel even better. But I know I won’t be able to sleep until this book is finished.

# *Skunk* ~~By Carolina Mejia~~ I crouched down next to the entrance and signaled with two fingers where the entrance was to the rest of the team. There didn't seem to be any commotion inside the house nor any noise, which made the mission that much more complicated. All the dots lined up to this place but I was starting to doubt if this was even where he resided. Either that or he has someone living with him that has poor taste in aesthetics. As I went further inside the house trying to find hints that this was the correct location or perhaps even stumble upon the enemy, I thought I saw something move in the darkness of the yard, but it could’ve just been the plants moving because of the breeze. I double checked the yard just in case, and sure enough there was something moving. I bent down to take a closer look and noticed two small glowing eyes staring at me. From the strong odor that I could smell a mile away, it was definitely a skunk. He scampered away quickly and I moved to the sliding glass door. As we quietly entered, I felt the sharp contrast of the interior with the exterior. The mansion seemed cold and dark from a distance, with the golden gates being the only color that stood out. Yet when we snuck inside we were welcomed with the smell of fresh-baked cookies and other sweets. [[The living room was dimly lit by neon lights that were bent and twisted into words such as “dream”, “shine” and “smile”->Buoy]]. I rolled my eyes at the words and lowered my gun. I guided my way to the kitchen and the warm cookie smell was stronger. There was a platter of fresh baked cookies and two empty cups next to it, but no one in sight. Suddenly I heard very light thumping noises upstairs, the footsteps were growing closer to me as the suspect came downstairs and I quickly hid in the huge pantry next to the kitchen. As I looked around the pantry, the marbled floor and glass cabinets it showed how wealthy these people were. The suspect found his way into the kitchen and as I slowly peaked through the door I caught a whiff of the strong smell he left behind. It almost smelled like the skunk odor but it wasnt that. The guy picked up the platter and headed to the living room where a woman joined him. I was stuck in the pantry for another hour and watched as they both chilled on the leathered couch, they devoured cookies and other snacks while watching The Irishman. When I heard the woman complain for the hundredth time to change the movie because of her boredom, I thought, I’ve had enough. I signaled my team through the walkie talkie to complete the mission.

# *Buoy* ~~By Ashley Tejada~~ I don’t like sharing my feelings too often, but quite frankly, there is value to authenticity right now. Times like these will be written about in a history lesson, so if I continue to lie to myself, I’m a disservice to society. Maybe I’m a disservice to myself at the moment. [[I’ve been denying and submerging the panic that I feel->Flowers for a Child]]. The virus itself doesn’t scare me. It’s more the fact that there is no buoy to our society right now. No buoy, no tie ropes, no gas. I’ve never liked the idea of uncertainty. I don’t do well inside for long periods of time. But I can’t decide if being outside, and lonely, is any better. I am not normally this negative at all. I like to paint, draw pictures, and lay out in the sun. It’s just been dreary here. I’m not sure what to make of that, but my internal voice is only amplified through the cloudy weather. Despite all of this, it’s only fair to reflect on the things I miss most. Hopefully, once life returns to normal, I’ll be able to feel a larger sense of gratitude for the privileges I once had. Considering that it’s summer, I hope I’ll be able to go to the beach. Matter of fact, I’d like to take a road trip down PCH with my friends and see just how far I make it. Maybe I’ll plan it out in detail. Maybe I will spontaneously get in the car as soon as quarantine lifts. Maybe I will stretch it out over a few days. It’s nice to think about. To be honest, I am not even a big fan of the beach, but once I am restricted from something, I only begin to want it more. Once things start to return to normalcy, will I still want the things I don’t have now?

# *Flowers for a Child* ~~By Maricris Mateo~~ 4/27/20 It’s quiet here. Too quiet. At three-twenty in the afternoon, I maneuvered to the second floor of the house and noticed the grey colored carpet. There were dirty footprints of what looked like boots on the stairs, and I couldn’t help but follow the steps to the second floor. I paused by the stairs and looked around the living room. White walls and a glass door leading to the patio where it overlooks a canyon. I looked to the side and saw a green pool table with snacks and black binding folders scattered all around. By the wall was a computer desk with a Singer sewing machine and a pink flowery cloth laying on another small black table. There were so many arts and crafts around the computer table that I doubted that any belonged to the enemy. [[Probably a child, but there wasn’t any intel on the enemy having a child->The Grasslands]]. I stepped forward and saw several homemade masks with different styles of flowers on a brown coffee table a few feet away from the pool table. Hmm, I’m sure that this isn’t something that the bastard would do in his free time. I turned back to the pool table and saw three unopened packs of water bottles. There was also a portable burner with opened packets of instant ramen. Spicy flavor. The light coming from the windows and the glass door was too bright. This place looks like an ordinary home, and there wasn’t anything dangerous that could harm my team. Looking around once more, I thought about the enemy handling the quarantine well, but I was wrong as soon I spoke these words. I turned around, holding my communicator to call my leader when I heard a cough. I paused and looked to the small hallway where a door is closed. I heard the cough again. I held my gun and slowly moved to the door. The door clicked open and I stepped in. Another cough. I’d been denying and submerging the panic that I was feeling. Another cough. There, lying on a twin bed with flowery bedding was a little girl coughing…dying. Fragile. Weak. There was no light in her eyes. *** I returned to the base by five o’clock and observed the enemy for an hour. He was composed and answered all the questions that were asked of him. But every now and then he would gaze in my direction. The last ten minutes he was asked who the child was in his home. The enemy said that the child appeared at his place a few months ago. He didn’t know anything about the child, and that he was glad that my team took the child. He didn’t want to be bothered with taking care of a homeless child. But his expression suddenly changed when he was told that the child died on the way to the hospital. His jaw tightened, back straightened against the black chair, eyes staring at me once more. I looked at the videos on my side and the camera that was focusing on the enemy’s lower body showed his hands clutching the end of his red t-shirt until his fist turned white.

# *Mission* ~~By By Sarah Goergens~~ 6 May 2020 I slide in through the window, brushing the blackout curtains aside with my hand as I make my way noiselessly into the room. Jesus. It’s filthy in here. My upper lip curls, an impressive thing to be able to do under a face mask. [[I cringe a little as I notice the stains->Residual Evidence]]. The couch looks like it has seen its fair share of frat boys puking on it--the once-brown suede couch now has a spotted effect to it. I hear a snuffling sound coming from behind me and whip around, terrified of who --or what-- I might see. A sleepy old bulldog lays on the ground, his wrinkly body flattened against the cool tile like a pancake. I smile in spite of myself and give him a pat on the head. It’s not like he’s going to do anything to me anyway. I make my way down the hallway, wincing at the smells of Natty Lite and salami that seem to permeate the house. I sneak past a group of three boys, playing some video game with a gratuitous amount of violence. I really wouldn’t expect anything else. Another boy sits on another couch, somehow more disgusting than the previous one. This seems to be their living room of sorts--not that anybody would really want to live here. Honestly, have none of them heard of interior design? Every item of furniture looks like it was picked up off the side of the road. Even the TV stand, which in its prime likely cost hundreds of dollars, is covered in water rings and is missing a drawer. It’s like they have no regard for anything. Ironically, immediately after I come to this conclusion, my eyes are immediately drawn to a decidedly racist flag proudly hanging on the ugly brown wall. I guess I called it, but it still feels like a punch in the gut to see something so horrible being celebrated so proudly. As I lurk in a closet probably once intended to hold linen, I mull over the idea of empathy. I feel like I know the difference between right and wrong, but it is easy to doubt myself sometimes. I’m sure they believe wholeheartedly that their actions are right and mine are wrong, but it’s absolutely bonkers to me that somebody who goes to the same place of learning as me could have ideas so vastly different from mine. My thoughts are interrupted by the slam of the large wooden front door, followed by some raucous laughter. I am horribly reminded of a group of hunters returning back from a kill. I get a very Gaston a-la Beauty and the Beast vibe from the tall, large man who strolls into the living room. He takes off an obnoxious red hat and runs his fingers triumphantly through his greasy-looking brown hair. “I think it’s safe to say we’ll be headed to the beach tomorrow,” he laughs as he kicks off his sand-covered flip flops. I feel my eyes widen instinctually. Aren’t we in the middle of a pandemic? I suddenly realize: they were part of the protestors. I need to escape. Fuck the mission. I’m not letting myself get sick. I sidle out of the cupboard as I hear them gloat about the hot girls they flirted with up at Huntington Beach today. I almost completely eat shit as I sprint as fast as I can back to the window where I made my entry. I give the old dog a sympathetic pat before jumping out.

# *First* ~~By Amanda Redikop~~ I got dropped off in a surprisingly nice neighborhood; the kind that you would expect to see children running and playing in, while their parents talked to the neighbors about the latest gossip. Now the neighborhood was anything but lively since the quarantine. Neighbors waved from a distance; faces adorned with masks when they did step foot outside. No time for gossip now. I leaned up against a tree that seemed to be in someone else’s yard. This is where my commander wanted me to start? I guess it doesn’t matter, since the family wouldn’t be outside to notice anyway. I looked at the paper my commander gave me stating the targets routine on this Wednesday. Right now he was going to be leaving to head to the store. The target across the street caught my eye as he stepped out of his house closing the door behind him. He adjusted his mask as he walked to his car. I looked around as he backed out and left his driveway and crossed the street. I got to the door which was, unsurprisingly, locked. But I knew better than to give up there. I went around to the right side of the house and saw my entry point: an open window. It was rather warm outside, and it was still mid-morning. The poor soul probably thought leaving this window open was a great idea. I smile as I remove the window screen and climb inside. I put the window screen back, and standing in the living room, I look to my left and see the front door. I walk over to it and turn around to survey the room as a whole. The living room had a flat screen TV attached to the wall; with gaming systems on the coffee table beneath it. The beige couch looked rather new as I walked over to see what kind of games were on the table. Mostly puzzle games and mystery games. I make a note of this and go to the kitchen. The sunlight came in from the windows brightening up the entire kitchen. I opened the fridge to see very few items. The table in the kitchen was small, and seemed like it was set for only one person. I left the kitchen and went back into the bedroom. It was a little dim due to the dark curtains that were covering the window. As I stood in the doorway, I was able to see that this person was surprisingly clean. The bed was made, and everything was lined up nicely. The pictures on the wall were all in a straight line, and even the papers on the desk were stacked nicely and kept straight. I walked over to the desk to see books and some papers with some writing on them. I looked at the time on my watch. 11:40. The notes suggested the enemy would be back around this time. I put everything back the way it was and walked to living room. Sure enough, I saw the enemy walking back towards the house with bags from the store. I walked back into the bedroom and went into the closet. A cliché spot to hide, but, hey, this was my first assignment from the commander. I heard the door open and close and heard him walk into the kitchen. The refrigerator door and the cabinets opened and closed as he put stuff away. I heard footsteps head towards the bedroom and saw him sit down on the computer. He logged in and it looked like he was looking up maps and places to go. How? I thought. He can’t go anywhere in quarantine. I squinted as hard as I could, but I couldn’t really see what he typed up. All I could see was that it was someplace surrounded by nature. Planning a vacation already? As he did this, he continued to scribble things down on the paper. He sat there for a good while writing down whatever information he found on the computer. As I stood in the closet, which was actually a good size, I noticed how put together this person was. He pushed his chair back and rubbed his face. “Ugh I cannot stand this. There’s nothing to do, and the only entertainment, if you could call it that, is going to the store.” He walked over to his bed and laid down; his right arm slung over his eyes. Before long I could hear snoring. Already? I slowly opened the closet door to leave the room. I looked at the sleeping mass on the bed and then at the writing near the computer. This is the “enemy” my commander was worried about? I didn’t see a threat here. Before I leave, I push the papers on the ground. For what reason I am not too sure. I know not to leave tracks to be traced back to me, the slight fear the person gets from knowing someone was in their space should be enough. I quietly walk out of the room and back to the window where I came in. I removed the screen again and looked outside to make sure no one was outside. This time, though, I accidentally dropped the screen on the floor in the living room. Immediately, I heard noise coming from the bedroom to the living room. [[“What are you doing? Who are you?” The man shouted. I froze->PBR]]. My first assignment was not going as planned.

# *PBR* ~~By Brian Ffrench~~ Despite entering the target’s house at 3pm, the inside is almost pitch black. The grey sky outside peers through the windows, casting a shadow over the living room. Rain can be heard falling on the trampoline in the side yard. Inside the house, silence ricochets off the buzz of the TV—a game of stalled Mario Party the only light within the house. Empty cheap wine bottles line the perimeter. I tiptoe my way around and over them slowly, taking every precaution not to send the shattering sound of broken glass throughout the listless house. The residents may be out on the balcony for a smoke break. From the 2001: A Space Odyssey and Royal Tenenbaums posters on the wall, they’re most likely smoking American Spirits. That gives me some time. Moving into the kitchen, dirty dishes litter the tables and countertops. A skateboard props up the broken door of the dishwasher. I reach for the handle of the refrigerator and get a glimpse at the bright inside when I hear footsteps and laughter from the stairs to my right. Panic courses through my being. I must act quickly. I cannot be seen. The once muffled footsteps are now echoing off of the wood floor; the faint laughter now boisterous and encroaching. Another sound now invades the room, that of blinds knocking against the window sill. It’s open. Cat-like I dance across the kitchen, lift up the blinds, and squeeze my way out of the open window. Rain collapses on my head as I make for the trampoline. The net is slippery and uncomfortable from the rain, but I can spy on the residents through a window in the living room without being seen. Six college juniors resume the game of Mario Party. For the next half-hour a series of ruckus games commence as I quietly wait for a break in the action. But it seems that there will be no end to the Mario partying. I am covered in rain and exhausted from the mission. Desperation kicks in. I hop off the trampoline and make my way adjacent to the front lawn. At the top of my lungs I scream, “Free JUULpod delivery!” An avalanche of collapsing GameCube controls is succeeded by a stampede of six boys as they fight their way towards the front door. I sprint through the side yard and slip through the window. The target is the only thing inside the refrigerator. A cacophony of angry voices resounds from the front porch. I grab the target and slam the refrigerator door. [[As the front door squeaks open, I glide through the window and stumble onto the grass. Crouching down so as not to be seen, I slowly make my way towards the street->Polaroid]]. After an hour of waiting, I can finally make my escape. The rain has not stopped since my arrival in the house; it falls steadily upon the pavement as I walk down Ashley Street. I will be at the location within the next hour, the target has been secured: a 6-pack of PBR.

# *Polaroid* ~~By Alondra Contreras~~ “Are you in her house now? Did the code for the door work?” “Yea it worked and where the fuck else would I be Andrea?” “I told you it’d work. I knew they wouldn’t bother changing the code. How does it look Mari? Does it still look like how I told you?” [[“Well, it looks cold. There’s furniture in here that looks like it was designed to tell me I’m poor. The whole house screams minimalist wet dream->Conditioned Air]]. You weren’t exaggerating when you said all the walls and floors are marble white and everything else in here is black. Are they vampires or something Andrea?” “Um, yea. Remember we don’t know exactly how much time you have so just run upstairs and get my picture please. I saw Elle leave her house about fifteen minutes ago. Her room is going to be the one at the end of the hallway on your right.” I don’t think I’m inherently a “bad” person, but here I am breaking into Elle Denning’s house during a quarantine. I would not have been pushed to do this if it weren’t for the little queen herself threatening Andrea. Why would she even bother to do this to her? She has everything. Elle could probably fit my entire apartment in her posh museum of a room. She’s even a single child - like, how much more attention could you fucking want. Her parents gave her this abysmal house so she could live on her own. This entire place felt like it was just unnatural. Even as I walked down the hallway there was no semblance of warmth in this place. I just need to get this picture and get the hell out. Andrea had told me that Elles room had a balcony and attached to it was a set of stairs that led down to the backyard. The balcony was going to be my way out. How could Andrea and Elle have been friends? Andrea says the friendship probably only happened because they were neighbors and it was Elle that showed interest in her first. I think it was Elle’s parents trying to make a new business connection since Andrea’s dad owns a prominent tech company. It wasn’t till freshman year of college that they stopped talking to each other and I don’t know why. I just know that whatever happened had traumatized Andrea. She can’t even be in the same room as Elle and had started showing signs of being a bit suicidal. I told her that I’d do anything to help her and didn’t have to know what happened. Her room looked just like every other part of the house. The marble on the walls and floor would reflect any light that entered the room into my eyes. I didn’t even see a bed or any form of decoration that would signal that a human lived here. Well, at least a human with a bit more of a personality. What the hell is wrong with these people? I opened her closet only to find another room that looked like an entire luxury department store. Andrea had told me that Elle had a box hidden behind the fur coats that was filled with memorabilia of their friendship so she knew the picture would be in there. I pushed the coats aside and instead found a filing cabinet. It was filled with large yellow envelopes and each one had a different name on it. I found Andrea’s envelope and opened it up. The first thing that caught my eye was a lilac colored letter. I know I shouldn’t be nosey, but I just wanted to read the first sentence. It said “This feeling – this torment that you created – it’s grief that comes in waves, grueling, stealing appetite and sleep alike”. Um, okay maybe I shouldn’t be reading this. I hadn’t realized that there was something on the back of the letter. It was a polaroid picture. I couldn’t believe what was in the picture and I was just trying not to vomit my insides out. My body started to shake uncontrollably and my mind attempted to block out what I had seen. I felt a vibration next to my thigh, it was my phone. Andrea had been spam texting me this whole time. Elle had arrived home. I could hear the clacking of her heels coming up the stairs. My legs instinctively bolted towards the balcony, but there were no stairs. I had to jump there was no other option. I wasn’t going to let myself get caught up in whatever monstrosities were going on in that picture. When my feet hit the floor I could feel my right leg shattering. My adrenaline had kicked in and began numbing away my pain. I slowly walked and dragged my right leg towards the right side of the house. There’s a gate that exits out to the driveway. At least that’s what I remember Andrea telling me. Tears started gushing out of my eyes when I saw the gate. My trembling hands pressed the code into the lock and the gate opened. I was finally out.

# *Conditioned Air* ~~By Matthew Farris~~ I remembered earlier today the rays of the summer sun embedding themselves underneath my skin. Even my bones felt hot, as beads of sweat collected at the top of my forehead and above my mustache after just a couple minutes of being outside. I turned to my brother and shook my head, indicating my misery in such heat. He nodded his head back at me. He felt my pain. Our A/C has been broken for nearly 3 months, with no incoming signs of repair. I yearned for some temperate relief. Before going back inside from my backyard, I looked through a slit of the tall wooden fence to peek at their house next door. It’s dual-pane windows gleaned back at me. I imagined the cool air dancing circularly throughout their residence. I remember longingly saying to my brother, “It looks cold.” He looked at me and then slowly turned his head to face our neighbors’ house. He upwardly nodded at it and then nodded downward at me. I nodded. While acknowledging the risks, we had almost instantly made up our minds. I enter their home from the back. The dining room faces me, which I could see through the glass panels against their backyard. The glass sliding door to enter their house had been left unlocked. It was as if they were taunting us with their comfort. I quietly slide it open and I am met with gusts of cold, 70-degree air. My breath leaves me as my eyes widen. I hadn’t felt such a pleasurable sensation since mid-April. Although I was confident that their house was too big for them to hear me, I am as quiet as possible when walking further inside. I immediately notice that there’s furniture in here that looks like it was designed to tell me I’m poor. The whole house screams minimalist wet dream. A wall of solid marble, barren of any paintings or pictures, faced me as a single ornate table with 4 glass chairs is positioned in the middle of the room, nothing around it. It looked like they had never even eaten here. My focus again turned to the smooth marble wall, which I press my hand against. Cold. I laid my back on it and felt as if I had plunged into an ice bath. I couldn’t wait to tell my brother. I re-open the backdoor and motion for my brother, who was peeking over the fence, to hop, as I had done. In slow motion, I see him make it halfway over and then promptly hear wood loudly creek. The fence paling that he had latched onto snapped directly in half with a loud *crack*. I immediately see a light behind me turn on and hear loud footsteps. I frantically look for a single piece of furniture to hide under. Close by, I find a large couch, which I slide under. [[I watch as three of them come downstairs in silk pajamas. They quickly open the door and search for any sign of an intruder->R-Temis]]. Based upon their lack of urgency, I figure my brother had made it back over to our side. Still trapped, I watch as the three contemplate extensively what could have caused the disturbance in wordy, elevated tones. After a long debate that turned into a venting session about how the neighborhood had “gone downhill”, they begin to return to their rooms. I quickly make my escape and use the half-broken piece of wood to support my ascension back over to my side of the world.

# *What are you gonna do with it?* ~~By Matthew Farris~~ I don’t think there is a singular ‘most important’ lesson I have learned in life. Rather, my general philosophy on life is an amalgamation of everything I have experienced and observed. That said, if I had to give someone the most important thing I have learned, it would be dependent upon who that person was. If I were speaking to my younger self for instance, I would encourage him to follow his passions and live empathetically. It will come in handy many times in his / our life. [[Do not let the dullness of the menial harden your soul and your creativity->Dear Sedona]]. Otherwise you may not major in your favorite subject, you may not write music and stories, and you may fall into the mental rut that you often fight to escape from. I distinctly remember my close friend and I talking about our futures in our second semester of college. We were both 18 at the time, working minimum wage jobs to get some pocket money to go to the movies and out to eat. We sat across from each other, the energy of unexplored life radiating amongst the summer night as the waiter in our dimly lit ramen spot brought us our bowls. The midnight moon beamed through the window that we sat next to, clearly illuminating the concerned expression on his face. “What are you gonna do with English? Teach?” I still remember the disdain in his voice. “Yeah maybe.” I shrugged my shoulders, noticeably less invested in the conversation than he was. “Maybe? What else would you do with it? What else could you do with it?” His eyebrows furrowed. “Maybe write. I might also do something with music. Writing, making music, it’s what I’m good at. [[Something creative y’know?->Erupt]]” “I know, you’re good at those things and what not. But think about how unlikely it is that either of those careers makes you any type of money. If I were in your position, I’d learn how to code. That’s what I’m learning right now. It’s really not hard and you could work 40 hours a week max and make enough money to live how you’d like.” I felt myself getting pulled emotionally into countering what he had just said. My stomach tightened as I anticipated an ensuing argument. “Well maybe I’d like to live freely instead of living lavishly. Have you ever thought about that? I wanna be happy in whatever I do and not just sit at a desk for 8 hours a day.” I said it a little more forcefully than I had meant to. I looked him in the eyes, waiting to see if his tone would escalate as well. His furrowed brows had tilted outward, seeming to indicate some sort of pity. Instead of replying excitedly, he slightly exhaled as he calmly stated, “Living freely means having money.” I thought about the implications of what he suggested. I said quietly, “Living freely is being happy.” He paused for a second, looking like he was restraining himself from replying. He forced a half-smile as he shrugged and we finished our food. As I sit at home, I reflect upon our conversation from time to time. I’m in my last semester of undergrad, still majoring in English. I currently work at a high school, providing freshmen that have disabilities with some extra support. I get by. I’m in my last semester of undergrad. My friend graduated a semester early and immediately got a job at a security company writing code making six figures at just under 23 years old. I haven’t asked him whether he still believes in what he said at our dinner over 4 years ago. I thought about the things he might have, the things I probably won’t have. With money those things may come, but you know the one thing that doesn’t always come? The happy.

# *Dear Sedona* ~~By Julia Amonette-Hinke~~ My Dearest (Favorite) Niece, [[Life has a funny way of teaching us everything we need to know->The Hero’s Journey]]. All in due time, the path that is meant for you will reveal itself. If there is anything I have learned about being alive, it is that life is way too short to worry about the things you cannot control. This includes so many things, including people. The bottom line of survival for most animals is selfish. Never expect selfless behavior from a human being, you will only be disappointed. The hardest lessons I have ever learned are because I expected someone else to throw down their sword for me; either because they said they would, or I assumed they would because they loved me. Know this about courting a lover: chivalry is dead and anyone that wants to take you to bed will say anything to get you there. Our current culture does not hold people to their promises, and nothing lasts forever anymore. Everything is made to break, including your innocent, proverbial heart. Everything is mutable—a bit like quicksand. Do yourself a favor and never stick around with the hope it will get better. Some things are just out of your control, so do the best you can to navigate this strange opportunity in life. Love and sacrifice go hand in hand, that is love of the unconditional variety. It is rare and hard to find. Never expect it from anyone (except maybe your parents—you have been blessed with good ones so revel in that privilege). As a girl growing up in a modern, less binary culture you will be granted privileges I never had. You will get to look however you want and will not be forced to epitomize deranged images of starving women in a magazine centerfold. You will get to choose who you love, boy or girl. You will also be faced with roadblocks I will never understand. These opportunities that open to you come with great competition. In my own life I have let others push me down. I have suffered heartbreak and weathered conflict that I never deserved. I have allowed the opinions of others to stifle me. Their versions of reality reduced my dreams from glimmering pillars of possibility to mere shadows of a memory. If there is anything I can offer you from my thirty-two years of life, it is this: love yourself first. Because you, my dear child, my beautiful innocent ray of sunshine, have everything ahead of you. And above all things you deserve happiness. Do not let the dullness of the menial harden your soul and your creativity. Auntie Julia

# *The Hero’s Journey* ~~By Melanie Taing~~ The magic number is three. The hero must make three attempts to reach her goal. She will face obstacles, each more challenging than the first, but on her third attempt, she will succeed. This magic number, as I learned in my independent studies in writing the short story, provides the tension that makes for an engaging narrative, and though this number may change in more complex plots and forms of fiction, the underlying principle remains the same; in every great narrative, the hero must face obstacles in her journey before she obtains her goal. That was what my AP Calculus teacher, Mr. Winn, taught me back at Crawford seven years ago when I was holing up in his classroom afterschool for the three days leading up to the “big decision.” I was to decide if I were to commit to UCLA or UCSD, the main factor essentially being whether I was to stay home or face my fear of navigating the unknown outside my home. I had cried myself to sleep every night leading up to that decision. I had to accept the “call to the hero’s journey,” Mr. Winn told me. But how will I get through it? The universe always finds a way to bring us the weapons that we need along our journey. We just have to be patient. How convoluted, I thought. But Winn had been right. So right, that it was scary. By the time I entered my third year as an undergraduate, I had withdrawn from UCLA and returned to San Diego twice, each as a retreat from hostile living situations, a life-altering car crash, and depression, and each time with a sense of dejected pessimism. It had taken exactly three different attempts to find my footing before I truly felt I had made the right decision. The first was battling depression, and despite having the most expensive meal plan at a school ranked number one for the best food in the country (until this day I still dream about the Genova pizza from Café 1919), I wasn’t eating. Sometimes I’d go through a day with one bowl of Nongshim noodles that I’d make in my dorm because I couldn’t get myself to dine at the dining hall in a corner by myself again. The second attempt was the beginning of sophomore year, when I shared a room with someone from my high school. We were more acquaintances than friends, and really, I should have been worried each time someone from my high school would offer a high-pitched “why” when I told them we were rooming together. Those two quarters ended in a disastrous confrontation—and by confrontation, I mean my roommate cursing me out at a public lake because I had changed my mind about rooming together the next year. (She said I was being selfish for waiting so long, but this was in March and we needed a place by August). I couldn’t bear another quarter in that toxicity, so I moved to another room in the same building. I found myself surrounded by complete strangers yet again. The third and final attempt was after the accident. My housemate was driving us to San Diego and wasn’t looking at the road when the car in front of us slowed from 60mph. Even after the whole ordeal, she refused to give me her information when I needed to see a chiropractor. Whatever you decide to do after is your problem, she texted me. I had completely lost my faith in people. I was a swirling whirlpool of pessimism and disillusion. But as they say, the third time’s the charm. I decided to audition for a minor role for a cultural production with the Cambodian cultural club on campus, and it changed my life. I had finally met people that I shared common interests with, and perhaps most importantly, a shared heritage dripping with the ravages of a genocide. I moved in with fellow club members (all boys, but the best Mario kart competitors). Through the club, I had learned what it meant to be Khmer. I did research on the intergenerational transmission of trauma amongst Cambodian genocide survivors and was privileged with a campus-wide award (and a nice $700 check that I had planned to use partly for Disneyland). I directed two cultural productions, the second complete with original Disney-inspired music sung live (the first time in 22 years) and maxed out the 530-seat capacity in Schoenberg Hall. Our tiny little club that barely managed to survive each year hosted a $15,000 production and had to turn people away. People that had driven in traffic all the way from Long Beach. Just a few months later, a cultural producer contacted me about wanting to adapt my play for a film. None of that would have happened if I hadn’t kept going back. At the culmination of my undergraduate career, while donning my white tassel for the Bachelor of Arts, I rose before the dean of Humanities at UCLA as he spoke. When we need to understand the fundamental nature of truth and what we can know, the despair that comes with loss and heartbreak, and the joy of love, we call a humanist. [[When we need to find the meaning in our lives to move ourselves forward in a meaningful and understanding way, we must be humanists->Kind]]. That’s when I realized those were the weapons that Winn mentioned. That to slay the dragon of our hero’s journey, we must trust in our perseverance and our resilience to move us forward. That as we progress through our journey, we can become our own teachers, our own weapons. That is the most important piece of advice I could pass on to anyone. Convoluted? Maybe. But then again, life has a funny way of teaching us everything we need to know.

# *Kind* ~~By Sarah Goergens~~ I’ve spent a stupid amount of my life disliking myself. I still struggle with it. It’s hard to overwrite years of being told how to look, act, and behave--all areas of my life where I don’t feel like I really fit in with anyone else. [[Some days I feel like a spectre: I float through life, untethered, flitting from one meaningless interaction to the next->I/you]]. It’s hard to be present when your mind is so caught up on telling you all the ways you’re a letdown. In short, I have depression. Not that this really makes me unique per se--some 3 million people in the United States are diagnosed with it--but it certainly does make me feel isolated from my family. [[It even makes me feel isolated from You sometimes, even though I know You love me unconditionally->Manifest(o)]]. I sometimes tell myself Your life would be better without me. I feel like a dead weight who just hangs on Your back and absorbs any positivity that comes Your way. This parasitic relationship doesn’t sit right with me, imagined or not, so sometimes I picture cutting myself loose and freeing You from myself. These thoughts, along with my isolation, kept piling up over and over again and kept getting louder and louder, and eventually, I had to get help from someone. I started going to her in August, and to be completely honest, I was terrified. I had no idea what to expect--I half-expected her to laugh in my face and tell me to just stop being sad. Obviously, that sounds ridiculous in hindsight, but at the time, it seemed to be a very real fear. But she was kind and quiet and really seemed to understand me. Her office reminded me of a grandma’s kitchen: there was a small lamp in the corner emitting a golden glow over assorted toys and books scattered around the room. Motivational posters hung on the wall telling me to Believe in Myself! and Remember to Choose Kindness. As I sat down on the well-worn couch across from her armchair, I noticed a candy dish on the table next to the armrest. I grabbed a Mento. Delicious. She was sweet and we talked about my life and how I got to this point. She started light--school, work, etc--before delving into the deeper stuff. I told her about the mental war I seemed to fight every single day. She sat back in her chair, took off her glasses, and said: “Be gentle with yourself.” I was shocked. That wasn’t really something I had ever considered. My whole life, I had taught myself how to hate everything I did. But now, I was able to just… be kind? I walked out of her office and rays of sunlight filled me with warmth as I stood outside, letting what I had just learned sink in.

# *Manifest(o)* ~~By Xiomahara.Solis~~ I’m not doing much. I’m just creating a whole new world in my head as everything else around me closes down. This stay-at-home order is reminiscent of my whole life so it’s nothing new for me. I've always been stuck at home but that's what taught me how to live through books. I guess the only reason it’s been difficult for me to stay home is because I got to taste what life is really like last year. I’ve been thinking about what to do for my next adventure. I’ve come to the conclusion that I want to live like Jack Dawson from Titanic once again: “With air in my lungs and a few blank sheets of paper.” [[I want my bohemian lifestyle back->Erupt]]. But for now, I’ll dream about it. To have a crazy adventure, I need to manifest it first. I'm writing down everything I'm wishing for. 1. I want to live near mountains. This is to imagine myself in the land of Ingary. I'll get to pretend the mountains I live nearby are the mountains Howl's castle walks through. 2. For better or for worse, I don't want to meet any Americans on my trip. I've had enough of them. Most of them are either racist or rude. 3. I want to eat good cheese. I want to drink delicious sangria. I want to drink good cider. 4. I want a new adventure where I get to explore a whole new town. I wanna see a whole new part of the world. I want to stroll around gardens once more and pretend they’re my friends. 5. I wanna bask in the sun during my naps and I want to explore the streets at night under the moonlight. 6. I wanna feel safe out at night once again. 7. [[I want to prove that I am my own hero->The Hero’s Journey]]. This time I'm bolder and stronger. Things might get harder but now I know myself. I've grown into my name. I know what I stand for and I won't let people disrespect me. I am a wild one. I hope the world is ready for me. This time I’m not holding back. Also, I just turned 23. [[My birthday is on 4/20->virgo moon]]. I'm gonna celebrate it the best way I know how: having a dance party with myself in my room. I get to be serenaded by Selena Quintanilla, Charli XCX, Hayley Kiyoko, Bad Bunny and my favorite Disney songs. I think this is going to be one of the best birthdays yet. I still can’t believe I’m 23. It feels like my 22nd year of life didn’t happen even though it was the most eventful one. I can’t wait to drink really good Piña coladas.

# *Erupt* ~~By Ashlee Wigness~~ 4 May 2020 [[Throughout my life, I have been struggling to accept the reality of who I am and live life on my own terms->Harley]]. Raised by a single mother who always wanted boys and got a girl instead, I tried to live life according to her terms. During my youngest years, I had an affinity for all things girly. I loved dressing up with my cousin, playing Barbies with my grandfather, and singing along to a Mary Kate and Ashley cassette tape that I carried around in a plastic hot pink “speaker”. As I grew older, I started to notice my mother’s comments. Each time I did something girly, she would sigh and say, “Everyone thought I would have a boy.” So, one day I just decided to stop. I threw out all of the girlie toys, started wearing only grey and blue, and took up a sport that I was utterly terrified of. All for her approval. For a while, I convinced myself that I liked it all. Despite not knowing how to swim until the age of seven, I became the ninth fastest open water swimmer in the nation by 15. [[I came to believe that being girly was high maintenance and unfeminist. And the only way for people to genuinely care about me was to become one of the boys. So I was the girl who broke her nose six times and reset it herself in the middle of the ocean->The Hero’s Journey]]. The girl who would be willing to cliff jump, harpoon 200lb swordfish, and hike 10 miles into Marine bases to see abandoned nuclear missile silos. By the time I was 21, I had stripped away all of who I was and replaced it with someone else. Instead of being outspoken and climbing on top of tables in a ski lodge to sing my favorite song, I became soft-spoken and flushed whenever I needed to spoke. I replaced aspirations to be a chef who grew their own food and designed their own clothing line, with dreams to be a fisher. Rather than going to the woods as a kid to mix berries and leaves together to make medicinal witchy concoctions to save animals, I learned how to hunt with a bow and arrow and how to catch fish with my hands. I flushed out any sense of creativity from my soul and followed orders. My blood that once ran hot and pink turned icy and blue. During my 21st year, I decided enough was enough, and I left. I took up salvage in my boyfriend’s grandparents’ home for a year. There I reflected on who I had become and tended to my wounded soul. I relearned what it was like to genuinely be me. I figured out what I cherished and what set my soul on fire. I taught myself how to do makeup, how to style hair, put an outfit together, speak in a higher voice, and reintroduce a bounce in my step. I hadn’t realized how much I changed until I started putting myself back together; how much damage had been done by just living for another person. Despite putting myself back together for a year, I still didn’t feel whole. I couldn’t figure out what was missing. Why couldn’t I get back to the same feeling that I once had as a child? That feeling when you’re so excited about life and so happy that you feel your heart is going to erupt through your chest. Then, one unassuming summer evening I was pulling up to the Mission Valley Target, listening to my favorite podcast and I heard a line that has run through my brain every day since. Creativity is the architecture of your reality. It is the process and product of planning, designing, and constructing your life. In that moment, I realized that I had wiped out all creativity from my life. I had been following what other people told me to do and how to think. Never creating a mind of my own and a sense of identity. Over the last year, I have been working day in and day out to live creatively. To indulge in all of my interests, not shove myself in a box, or let other people dictate who I am. I have created a life that works for me and allows me to help others. [[Each day we are all growing and learning. Each day is a new opportunity to begin again and define who you are->Even Better, My Meandering]]. Take time to draw up your blueprints; to identify who you truly are and what matters to you most in life. Incorporate small elements of what you dearly love into your life and watch how your life will change. It will start with small glimmers of excitement when you wake up and realize you get to do something that makes you happy today. You will realize that more and more passions will begin to pop up in your life like little button mushrooms. They will be small and unassuming but bring a sense of great happiness and innocence to your soul. As you keep constructing your life, it will soothe your soul and make you a stronger person. [[Soon enough, you will have a strong foundation and will be able to invite people in, and you both will bask in a common passionate light->What are you gonna do with it?]].

# *Harley* ~~By Xiomahara Solis~~ [[Throughout my life, I have been struggling to accept the reality of who I am and live life on my own terms->Even Better, My Meandering]]. But I did this in consideration for you. Alright, it’s more like a confession but only because I worked with you for so long, that I had to write this down. You and I both knew it was coming since you know what type of person I am. I fell in love with her. She owns a dachshund and she’s always talking to this weird beaver thing that she keeps next to her night stand. She’s crazy I tell you. But I guess you have to be crazy to live in Coney Island. Okay so I did more than just one hour of observation. I hate getting lost so I went in really early to set up the cameras. As I watched her eating a sandwich in her bed and then [[as I saw her sunbathing by the roof of her house (she’s really pale), I started to lose myself in her->virgo moon]]. To wonder how it would be like to hang out with her and her friends. To imagine myself close to her. I saw her post something about starting a Gang of Harleys. (Do you see where I’m going with this?) She said she’s looking to clean up the streets of Brooklyn with her gang. (What she’s doing sounds so much better than this job.) I’m writing this to tell you that I’m done. I’m out. I’m writing this to tell you she’s better than you’ll ever be. To taunt you. Come find me.

# *Even Better, My Meandering* ~~By James LaBelle~~ When I was in high school, I aspired to become a physical therapist, so when I started college, I chose kinesiology as my major. While science was an interesting and fun subject for me, I struggled in mathematics. It seemed that no matter how long I spent studying or how thoroughly I worked through problems, there was always some small mistake that I made which sent me back all the way to the beginning over and over again. Taking those classes felt like running into the same wall repeatedly, hoping I’d find a way through eventually. I also took classes such as Jazz, American Literature, World Literature, and World Music. These courses became a sort of escape from all the stress and difficulties I was having in my major. I still faced plenty of challenges in these areas; I was not a great musician and literary theory was a foreign concept to me. But struggling through a difficult section of sheet music or attempting to interpret a difficult passage in a book felt so much more rewarding in the end. For four years, I went through this same pattern of trudging my way through my major and taking some comfort in the arts, but I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere. I started feeling like I was stuck. I was feeling constantly stressed and anxious, and it was getting difficult to just put aside my feelings and keep trying. I was chatting with my dad in his truck one day. The subject of school inevitably came up, and out of the blue, my dad asked me “Are you happy with the way you’re going?” Out of surprise, I hesitated. I settled on answering “yes” and leaving it at that, but It felt like the hollowest answer I could give. On a separate occasion, after I talked about some of the difficulty I was having with classes, my mom asked me the same exact question. This time, though, I couldn’t come up with an answer. I couldn’t just say yes again and change the subject. All I could do is be honest. “I don’t know.” I thought admitting it would be painful. I thought it would mean that everything I did up to that point would suddenly mean nothing. I thought I was failing myself and my family by not staying committed to the path I set myself on. But what I felt was relief. All the stress, frustration, and worry that I had been burdening myself with suddenly felt just a little lighter, like some of those problems were lifted off my shoulders. It was true. I didn’t know where I was at, and I didn’t know if I could be happy with continuing on the way I was going. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. In the following weeks, I was continuously bothered by those conversations I had with my parents. By then, I knew I wasn’t happy with my choices, but I didn’t know if I had the time to change to something new. One day, after classes, I decided I would visit a counselor to figure out how far along I was with my current major and set myself back on track. I had a specific goal set in mind: Ask the counselor where I was at with my major and figure out which classes I needed to transfer. Then, put all my focus into finishing my major and move forward with my life. I repeated those goals over and over in my head as I sat in the waiting room. After a long wait, the counselor invited me into his office and asked me what I wanted to talk about. Tentatively, I responded: “I want to check my progress on my major… And I’m considering switching majors.” The counselor smiled at me and said, “What majors are you considering?” And in what felt like seconds, I was walking out of the office no longer focused on kinesiology. We didn’t even talk about my progress on that path. Instead, he interviewed me a bit on my interests, and comparative literature stood out from the short list he produced. Even better, my meandering around meant that I had already completed a majority of the prerequisites and was only a few classes away from transferring to SDSU. I still think back on how dramatically things changed for me after that day. I was much happier and felt like I could put all my effort into my learning. Thinking over those past years, I don’t regret any of the decisions I’ve made. Even the courses I took before making the change have not gone to waste. I learned a lot of things about myself and my limitations through those courses that still follow me through everything I do. As of writing this, I am taking my final classes and will be graduating. It’s taken me much longer than I anticipated, but I still feel that I made good use of my time. In this year that I am again stuck in place, only this time because of quarantine, I’m still finding a way to move forward. Most importantly of all for me, I learned that it is okay to fall off-track and make mistakes. Each day we are all growing and learning. Each day is a new opportunity to begin again and define who you are. Even if the way you go doesn’t lead you to where you need to be, there are still things you can learn along the way that can help put you on the right track. Every mistake, every wrong turn, is an opportunity to reorient and improve. And who knows? Maybe going off the path can open a new, better way you wouldn’t have seen otherwise. While I was writing this piece, the song “Up To the Roof” by the Blue Man Group came to mind. I guess I’ll leave that here as a little song recommendation.

# *Technicolor Dreams* ~~By Brian Ffrench~~ I had these wonderful technicolor dreams—maybe that’s where I learned it—no couldn’t be—the dreaming hasn't stopped, just the technicolor aspect—is there anything to learn from dreams? Well, I’m not sure—this may be something that is up for you to decide. When I was seventeen I had nowhere else to live but in my head. With disease and concrete all around me, there wasn't much of an external life to lead. I had decided that childhood was a myth. This was right around the time that I no longer had technicolor dreams, just dreams in third person. I was my own spectator. I still am. The dreaming hasn't stopped. The first non-technicolor dream I had was on a night I slept under the trees in the park on Jefferson. I was watching myself sitting on a sectional couch in a red tinted room not dissimilar in lighting and tone from the room in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, although I had not seen the movie at this point. On the couch with me were DMC, my father, and Adolf Hitler. My father and Hitler were watching a nature documentary on the end of the couch while DMC, who was seated next to me, would not stop glaring at my side profile. After taking time to examine the situation, I turned to meet DMC’s gaze, “DMC, what are my father and Hitler doing here?” “Why are you asking me, this is your dream,” DMC responded. I quickly awoke and got up from under the tree where I had been dreaming. I was met with rain and darkness. From this point of not dreaming, I did not sleep for four days. Something about this surreally jarring dream had a horrifying impact on me; I felt that I had in some way changed. Paranoid and alone, I wandered around the disease and concrete of the city these next four dreamless days. On the fifth day in the back alleys behind the Goodwill near the liquor store I’d steal booze from, I came across a plastic baby doll wearing purple onesie pajamas sleeping face up on the concrete. That night I made my way back to the park where I had last dreamed, the plastic baby doll, newly named Mary, in my arms. The sound of rain colliding and then disembarking from the tree branches above me provided a soothing ambience after four dreamless days. The second non-technicolor dream came on that night. I was aimless and paranoid, with Baby Mary in my arms. All the people occupying the rare downtown sunshine were staring directly at us, particularly at Baby Mary. A woman shrieked, informing the downtown occupants that I had stolen her baby. There was nowhere to run. I tried to show these people that I had not stolen anyone’s baby. That I couldn't have stolen anyone’s baby. Baby Mary here was just a plastic doll wearing purple onesie pajamas. But these people were seeing something that I could not. They spat and cursed at me. The sky turned red and suddenly these people were carrying torches and pitchforks and now I was being chased out of this unfamiliar downtown, like something out of James Whale’s Frankenstein movie. We had not run far when Baby Mary and I had reached a set of high cliffs I have never seen before. The flames and spikes would not stop shouting, they would not stop encroaching, there was nowhere else to run, and Baby Mary and I had no choice but to jump off these cliffs. Just before splattering all over the water that lay before us, I awoke. [[Seeing Baby Mary in my arms in the darkness of the disease and concrete of the city that lay beyond the cold park, I knew that childhood was a myth->Flowers for a Child]]. And I learned that one must love to survive, and must know when it is time to leave a place for their survival. Baby Mary and I got up from under the tree to leave the darkness of our childhoods.

# *Taste Like The Color Red* ~~By Xiomahara Solis~~ Okay, so you know how most Young Adult books are about privileged white kids? And how in those books there’s always this cliched moment where the white kids go out to stargaze with their friends? Which finally leads them to realize that they’re just a speck of dust in the infinite universe? And when you read those books, you say to yourself, [[I don’t need to stargaze to realize I’m insignificant—I’m a Mexican girl born in America. I don’t even belong anywhere. My existence is always being questioned->I/you]]. Or is that just me? If you can’t relate to this thought...I guess what I’m trying to say is that I want to pretend I’m a privileged white kid who has to stargaze to realize they’re insignificant. For me, being insignificant is simply common knowledge. I want to stargaze without feeling like I'm a waste of a life. Every time I look down, I remind myself of how inconsequential I am. I don’t want to feel that way when I look up. One night, I decided to look up though. What I saw wasn’t what they tell you in the books. Imagine this: I’m drinking umeshu. It’s Japanese plum wine but the bottle I’m drinking tastes more like cherry wine. If anything were to taste like the color red, it would be that bottle. Summer is about to start—I can feel it in the air. It’s hot even though it’s already dark outside. It’s eleven p.m. I’m surrounded by friends at a park. We’re all drinking and talking shit about random things. I’m laying down on the ground with my friend Tugsu. The pavement is comfortable. It’s better than a bed. We’re looking up at the dark sky and stargazing as we both pass the cherry umeshu around. Someone sets up their portable speaker and selects their playlist. “Summertime Sadness” starts playing and everyone in the group starts singing along. As Lana sings, I stare into the stars even harder. That moment becomes the quintessential moment of youth: I’m just a speck of dust in an infinite world. But I feel so alive and my presence here matters. I get to live in the moment. Somebody else could be where I am but they’re not. I’m the one experiencing the moment. The zooming in and out of the universe has been done by others many times but this time, it’s happening to me and instead of feeling insignificant, I feel a passion for life running through my veins. It’s a moment every book mentions but it’s uniquely my own. I won’t die. I’ll live forever. How could I die in a vast universe filled with infinite darkness? I’m too young to die. I still need time to ask someone to kiss me hard before they go. Perhaps it will happen soon. It is summer and it is nearly time to go home. When I looked up at the sky, I realized [[there had to be something there, there had to be some reason to exist->Cogito Ergo Sum]]. The universe sings the glory of my existence.

# *Cogito Ergo Sum* ~~By Alec Estus~~ The old man stared at the 4k fireplace video streaming on the TV. [[It had all the visual appeal of fire, the flickering orange of the plasma, the harsh shadows cast in the gaps between bricks->R-Temis]]. The smell of bonfires from his youth was a distant memory to him. How he would stay near the fire for hours until his clothes smelled a certain way that only smelled good to him. The room had a faint scent of lavender from the febreze air freshener, haphazardly dangling from the electrical outlet. The man knew that it had to be jammed back in the socket, but by that point, he had already sunken too far into the couch. “Boy, get in here.” When there was no response, he called out again but put so much strain on his throat that he started hacking phlegm. “Yes.” The boy was probably 12 or 13 by now, the old man could never remember. The calendar in the corner of the room was from a few years ago and the faint light from the TV made it too faint to read anyway. “Did I ever tell you the meaning of life?” The old man coughed again and finally dislodged the phlegm from his throat. “You never brought it up.” “Well it’s important.” The old man slammed his fist down on the armrest of the couch. The old man’s eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep. The febreze air freshener fell out of the electrical outlet and shattered on the floor, drenching the room in the unmistakable scent of lavender-adjacent chemicals. [[When the old man was the boy’s age, he realized that there was no way to tell if anything was real or not->virgo moon]]. He realized that the only way he could tell that there was a world outside himself was through his senses, senses that could be tricked by his brain. Perhaps that was not the best thing to think about at that age, he later thought to himself, as he watched the boy on his hands and knees, cleaning the lavender residue from the floor with a wet paper towel. There had to be something there, there had to be some reason to exist. The boy finished cleaning up the broken pieces of glass and plastic from the ground and took them to the trash can in the other room. “What’s the meaning of life, anyway?” By the time he returned to the room, the old man had fallen asleep again. Without an answer to his question, the boy turned off the tv and walked upstairs. The truth is, of course, that the boy did not care what the old man had to say about the meaning of life. If the old man was wise from his age, he certainly didn’t show it. This, the boy thought, was the fate of everything. Maybe it would be easier to think with that goal in mind. Maybe if nothing mattered, he wouldn’t have to do anything. As he spent the next three hours doing homework, he wondered what the point of all of it was. He wondered why he had to pretend to care about Algebra and history when all he wanted to do was write and draw and maybe play a little music. Of course, those things weren’t real. He could invent a whole world with a million fleshed-out characters and it would still be words on a page or strokes of micron ink in his sketchbook. Maybe just being there to create it, being there to enjoy it, made it real.

[[< BACK TO CONTENTS->Quarantine Collaboration]] # Editors’ Note: The idea for the Quarantine Collaboration came in early April 2020. The lockdown in California had been in place for two weeks. Hospitals and morgues were filling or filled or overflowing. Offices, schools, places of worship were ordered closed. Kids as young as two were encouraged to ‘play’ with their friends through the two-dimensional, flickering screen. Nearly all social life had ceased. By April we felt the effects of relentless change and growing uncertainty. Conceived as an outlet for the fear and isolation endemic to that moment, the Quarantine Collaboration was first put out to a class of creative writing students at San Diego State University. It was inspired a bit by The Decameron (a series of stories told in rotation by a small group hiding out from a plague), and a bit by a crown (of sonnets), and maybe a bit by the endlessly looping stories and images that quickly filled up our early days in isolation. Three prompts were given to writers in three phases: to write about a day in your life; imagine you are on a recon mission of “the enemy’s home”; and tell a loved one the most important lesson you’ve learned in life. In the second and third phases, writers were to read previously submitted pieces, and then use a line from one of those to be a jumping-off point, or an ending point, or incorporated into the body of their own piece. The resulting stories—the majority from college-aged writers—show the starkness of life under lockdown. The sleeplessness. The boredom and frustration and anger. Under lockdown we play Animal Crossing: New Horizons and Dead by Daylight and watch Netflix “next episodes” until dawn. We try to meet deadlines. We forget to exercise. We forget to eat. We lose track of time. We lose our jobs. We apply for new jobs and attend interviews in masks. We apply for unemployment. When all normal activity is suspended, we bake. We gain weight. Maury is our sundial. TikTok is our embrace. We watch the bank account. We absorb from the ether a rising panic. We start to lose our minds. We start to lose our patience with loved ones. Over Lego bricks. Over coffee. Over the bank account. We apologize. They’re still the only people we’ve talked to in days. We pray intensely. We lose loved ones. As Ashley Tejada states:“There is no buoy to our society right now. No buoy, no tie ropes, no gas. Times like these will be written about in a history lesson, so if I continue to lie to myself, I’m a disservice to society. There is value to authenticity right now.” The pieces here are both art and artifact from this unsettling time in human history. Though fear is present in many forms throughout the QC, so is hope. And a collective call for life. —Corinne Goria & Russell Quinn [[< BACK TO CONTENTS->Quarantine Collaboration]]