Just a quick announcement that my short story "Pilgrim" was included in UCLA's online literary magazine, Westwind, for their Winter 2014 issue!
http://www.westwind.ucla.edu/journals/winter-2014-2/pilgrim/
Monday, June 16, 2014
Friday, May 16, 2014
Unrequited Canyons
This is my first published poem. I had submitted it to Sigma Tau Delta's first ever poetry contest in April 2014, where it was judged and hand-picked by award-winning poet Patty Seyburn. Aside from the prestige and recognition, I will get an opportunity to read at the next Sigma Tau Delta event with Patty Seyburn, as well as "acknowledgement" in the next 2014 issue of The Northridge Review.
Of dusty footprints and stray hairs
Shed across the carpets and gray chairs
Of an empty Flagstaff airport.
Scatter these across the Grand stretch
Of your conjoined, communal womb,
Tracing out the cracked and craggy lips
Of your North and South Rim. Perhaps one of them will catch on
To the coattails of a meandering breeze
And carry itself to the birds’ nest
Outside the window of that Sedona house,
The one I saw reflected back at me
In the aperture of a bad camera,
Blurred between the rays of a waning sun
Where a pale face hovered, smiling. Arizona, I send you my love, wrapped
In a sheath cut from my left ventricle.
Lay it beside its brothers -
I’ve sent three others ahead of him -
And plant them deep and narrow
Into the wintery breast of Oak Creek,
Where familiar Tempe fingertips
Will tend to it - a mother, a matron. A piece of me for every piece of you,
Delicately plucked from the scarlet stems
Of the pale sprite’s young plumage -
I promise to pay it all back,
Every mouth noise and skin scent
That I kept clutched in my pants pockets
And tucked away in the cubbyholes
Underneath my chewed-up fingernails. Arizona, I’ve dug a grave for myself
Among your snow-laced shrubberies
For the day I lay upon your coarse dirtbeds
And become the blanket you wear year-round.
I won’t be there for a long time, I think -
I’ve got too many sets of good shoes
With me, still waiting to be worn out -
But a new pair means I’m only getting closer. Maybe you’ll remember the tips of my toes
When I sink them into your navel,
Or recall the shape my shadow makes
As it swept over clay adobes and mammoth bones,
Or maybe, when I touch down on the graying runway,
It won’t be you, but your sprite child instead,
Waiting for me to spill out of the terminal’s mouth
Like a word longing to be heard.
Pilgrim
This is my first story to ever get published. I made my publishing debut in April 2014 in my school's literary magazine, The Northridge Review. I had submitted this story to several places back in Fall 2013, so in addition to being selected for publication in the Review, this same story also earned an Honorable Mention in Glimmer Train Press's November 2013 Short Story Competition for New Writers and Finalist placement in Cargoes' fiction competition at Hollins University. Recently, this piece was selected for inclusion in the upcoming 2014 issue of Westwind magazine at UCLA.
Pilgrim
This is Billy on paper.
Billy is just like you. He has hair and skin
just like you. He wears clothes just like you. He has a home and a car and he
went to school, just like you. He walks on the same sidewalks you walk on. He
shops at the same stores, and stops at the same traffic lights. He even watches
movies and likes his coffee made a certain way, with a particular amount of
sugar and creamer. From just about every angle, Billy doesn’t seem much
different from you.
But Billy is not quite like you. That’s what
they say, anyways. Billy can’t be like you. Billy is different.
Not that Billy really looks any different
than most other people, nor does he act any differently than other people. But
he’s different, no doubt about it. Why is he different? Well, that’s just what
they say, right? They say he’s different, so he must be. Maybe you’re just not
seeing it quite right. But you will soon enough.
This is Billy on duty.
The crack of dawn sees Billy and his comrades
getting ready for the big day. They wearily tug on their clothing: heavy,
cumbersome garments blotched with ugly shades of brown and beige, wrinkled from
months of walking long stretches without rest and crouching down into holes for
hours at a time. They wear the same kind of boots: rounded kettle bells wrapped
in leather and lace. Their choice of headgear, cast-iron mixing bowls colored
the same filthy hue as their clothing, makes their weary heads weigh ten pounds
heavier. Aside from the chatter of shuffling bed sheets and footlockers, not a
single word is spoken.
As the first of the morning’s radiant fingers
start to poke in through the crevice between the drab gray curtains, Billy
stops what he’s doing and kneels down, facing the direction of the sun. He bows
his head down to the floor, arms stretched out ahead of him, unaware that at
this very moment the entire barracks has become unstuck in time, and the eyes
of every single person in the room are now transfixed on him, like onlookers to
a circus sideshow.
Everyone is thinking the same thing. Everyone
but Billy, that is.
A single suspended second stretches and
stretches until it finally snaps forward to catch up with the flow of time, and
all is normal again. Billy is back on his feet, and everyone is dressed and
headed to the armory. They load themselves up with shell magazines, explosives,
and hand radios. The faithful ones tuck miniature bibles and wooden crosses
into their vest pockets. The brave ones slip combat knives into their belts and
boots. The scared ones pray and grab bigger guns. They are all thinking the
same thing: I hope I don’t need to use
any of these.
Billy tucks a scrap of paper into the bottom
of his left boot before slipping his foot in. He figures if the old wives tale
worked for loose change, it could work for a good book, which was much more
valuable. He was never one for superstition, but a little luck never hurt
anyone.
Faithful men pray. Brave men brag about their
dick size. Scared men brag about their dick size loudly. Billy reads books.
Only Billy has seen the paper’s contents: it
is a page torn from a copy of A Farewell
to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. It had been sitting in his footlocker since
deployment, and after a week of no one asking about it, he took it for his own.
Most of the words on the page have been scratched out by pen, with the
exception of a single passage that reads:
“The world
breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those
that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and
the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will
kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”
Billy finishes the last loop on his laces and
stands up to make his way towards the door. As he begins to walk forward, a
squad mate roughly shoves past him, causing him to bump into the frame of his
bunk.
“Watch where you’re going, towel-head,” he
mutters under his breath to Billy.
This is Billy at home.
Billy remembers 9/11 the same way you
remember 9/11. He remembers what he was doing when it happened. He had just
come home from his morning run and turned on the news. As he poured himself
some coffee, a breaking story showed footage of New York just moments after the
planes crashed. “An attack,” they called it. He remembers how he felt when it
happened. Shocked. Awed. Confused. A little sore from the run. He remembers
tuning in to the news every morning on his drive to work, and then again on TV
when he came home. Every statement from the President, every last second of
footage, even the zealous rants of conspiracy theorists, it all became like a
daily mantra for him, a constant reminder of the inhuman “Why?” that he
couldn’t hope to answer.
He remembers what the President wore when
they outed Al-Qaeda as the culprits behind the incident and announced that they
were preparing to mobilize. Azure suit. Cerulean tie. A weary scowl. A
miniature crumb on his upper lip from the blueberry pancake breakfast he had
that morning. He remembers thinking how improperly sloppy the President looked
with that crumb hovering just above his grim words.
He remembers how strange it was to see his
friends and co-workers down at the office not long after that. As he walked by,
the lively conversations concerning sports and weekend flings by the water
cooler ceased. Documents were wordlessly dropped into his In-box without so
much as a “Hello.” People were suddenly too busy to have lunch with him. One
day, after he finished eating, he came back to his desk to find a typed note
that read “GO BACK TO IRAQ YOU FUCKING TOWELHEAD.” His boss sent him home early
and told him to get some rest.
Billy stopped watching the news and listening
to the radio that day. He shaved his beard and tucked his turban to the back of
his dresser drawer. A sense of moral duty and spiritual guilt kept him bowing
to the sun each morning, however.
This is Billy in bed.
It is springtime, but Billy can’t tell the
difference after being out in the desert for so long. Every day feels like
summer. The sun beats down on him from the ass-crack of dawn to the shit-fall
of night. Days blur and congeal together like the contents of a discarded MRE,
left opened and unfinished. He hasn’t bathed in days. He hasn’t had a good
night’s sleep in weeks. He lies doe-eyed in his bunk, the harmonious din of
snores and grunts billowing around the room like clandestine buzzing clouds.
He quietly masturbates to the picture of his
girlfriend taped to the underside of the top bunk, recalling the sweet perfume
of her skin from the last time they made love. On the night before his deployment,
after they both came, she shed tears of ecstasy and anguish, curling up in his
arms and begging him not to go.
“Don’t throw your life away for a country
that hates you!” she said. And yet, here he is, millions of miles from home,
and he is just as hated now as he was back then.
His hand is dry and chafes him with each
stroke, but he keeps going, pushing himself through the pain like he was taught
to in boot camp. He climaxes silently, turning onto his side and wiping himself
off on the white shirt he wore yesterday. He is rendered numb by the mixture of
endorphins and norepinephrine coursing through his veins. It is a fleeting
high, but it is enough to ease him into sleep just for tonight.
As his eyelids begin to droop, he glimpses
the calendar hanging on the wall across from his bunk. It is March 20. Today is
his birthday. And it is fucking springtime.
This is Billy on foot.
One day, Billy finds himself chased by a
group of angry men wearing matching “God Bless America” t-shirts. Feet slap the
concrete like hits on a snare drum. The guttural boom of Billy’s beating heart
pounds rhythmically with each step he takes. Crazed yelling echoes through the
air like hunting horns heralding the bloodhounds’ approach. Even as he ran for
his life, Billy couldn’t help but feel like he was an action movie star, and
some fucked-up composer was secretly scoring the entire chase sequence.
He rounds a corner and dashes into the
nearest building, pressing himself against the wall and out of sight. He waits
for the yells and trampling advances of his assailants to pass before he dares
to peek out the glass display windows. A sudden “Can I help you?” piping up
behind him causes him to yelp and turn around.
A bulky, clean-faced man dressed in brown
fatigues sits behind a wooden desk, his face slightly flushed from the warmth
radiating from outside. His head is neatly shaven into a buzz cut, and as he
stands up from his seat, he reveals a tall and muscular build framed by large
arms and thick legs sheathed in heavy leather boots. A brass-plated name-tag
reads, “Hartman.” His eyes survey Billy curiously. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Billy looks around. Posters of a
ferocious-looking Uncle Sam and soldiers in mid-salute line the walls. Large
signs reading “There is strong. And then there is ARMY strong!” hang from the
ceiling. There is an American flag perched in the corner by the door. He blinks
in confusion.
“Where am I?” Billy asks.
“The recruiting office,” Hartman replies.
A pause. A breath. “…sorry for barging in.”
“It’s no problem, son. Those guys giving you
trouble?”
“We had a…disagreement.”
“’Bout what?”
“Well, they wanted me to leave the country. I
didn’t.”
Hartman’s brow furrows. “Why’s that?”
“Apparently, I killed all those people.”
“People?”
“The ones in the Twin Towers.”
The hollowness of Hartman’s thousand-yard
stare seems to deepen as he continues to look upon Billy. He places his hands
in his pockets and strides over, stopping within a few feet of him, his stare
never breaking. He begins to walk slow circles around the room, his head
turning to maintain his gaze upon Billy. All the while, Billy stands perfectly
still, as if one wrong move would send him back into the cruel world outside,
where the hounds were waiting to eat him alive. He finally comes to a halt in
front of Billy. “Well, son, how ‘bout you let ol’ Uncle Sam help you with your
problems?”
Billy is confused, but willing to listen.
Unbeknownst to Hartman, Billy sees him as a sign from above that he can be
changed, he can be redeemed, he can belong. Unbeknownst to Billy, Hartman sees
his coffee-colored skin, wavy mop of dark hair, and lanky physique, and doesn’t
see a terrorist at all. He sees another set of dog tags.
This is Billy after work.
The ASV ride back to base was alive with
jubilant laughter and raucous shouting. The operation was a success. A village
was shelled. Buildings were raided. Terrorists were blown to hell. Another zone
secured thanks to the boys in brown.
Billy sat wordlessly against the back door,
ignoring the nudging of shoulders and exclamations of how many towelheads got
iced by whom. He stared out the window across from him, watching the vermillion
glimmer of a burning village flicker away in the distance like a fading star,
framed against his squad mates’ faces reflected in the glass. He is the only
one in his squad to return with no spare shell casings left. No explosives left
either. Even his hand radio was lost in the chaos of the sortie. His torn page
from Hemingway is still tucked inside his boot, though it provided no relief in
this moment.
Tom, seated to his left, clapped him on the
shoulder and said, “And this guy here, this guy is a BEAST!”
“Yeah, how many of them camel jockey fuckers
did you git?” Dick chimed in from his right. “Musta been at least 15 or 20!”
Harry, who listened on from the opposite end
of the crew compartment, shook his head, muttering “Naïve little fucks” under
his breath. Tom and Dick didn’t seem to hear him.
“Hell, he got one for every shot!” Tom
bellowed, reaching over and playfully shaking Billy by his vest. “Look! Empty!
Not a single bullet left!”
Billy remained silent.
“Aw c’mon Bill!” Tom clapped his shoulder
again. “Say something! What’s the matter? Cold-blooded killer’s too cool to
talk?”
“Watch out, Tom! If you piss ‘im off, he’ll
blast the shit outta you too!” Dick held his right index finger up to his head,
cocked his thumb back, and mimed blasting his own brains out. “BLAM!”
“Hey! Tom, Dick. Let him be.” Harry’s voice
pierced the air like lightning, and boomed like a cannon blast. All eyes turned
to him, then towards the front where Billy sat.
Tom chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Hey,
lighten up, Harry. Just jabbing his ribs a bit. Really though, how do you go in
guns blazing and not have anything to say about it?”
“Clearly, he doesn’t wanna talk about it,”
Harry remarked gruffly. “Otherwise he’d say something.”
“Hey, he did
kill a lot of goons,” Dick piped up. “That’s why we’re here, right?”
Harry sighed in exasperation. “Billy, don’t
let these little shits get to you. You don’t have to say anything.”
“Well, surely he’s got something to say!” Tom clapped his shoulder again. “C’mon, Billy,
give us a nice little speech, in honor of our victory tonight!”
At this, Billy pushed Tom’s hand away, his
charcoal gaze blinking back into reality and slowly sweeping between the three
of them.
“Victory?” he murmured. “What victory?”
This is Billy on break.
Although it has been two years since he had
been discharged, Billy still can’t sleep at night. His mind cannot escape the
thought of little Leyla, standing scared yet defiant in the scope of his rifle,
screaming in a strange tongue at him. Leyla, who had charged at him,
brandishing a stick in her hand. Leyla, who arched gracefully across the air as
the shell passed in between her eyes and out through the back of her head.
Leyla, whose eyes retained that same defiant look she had in life, even as a
corpse. Leyla, whose wild screams echoed through the hollows of his head every
time he closed his eyes.
Her name wasn’t really Leyla. That was just a
name Billy gave her. Leyla’s story would never be told; Billy had erased it
from the world. He would need to fill the gaps in himself. Leyla, who was a
bright young student with a knack for mathematics. Leyla, who woke up early
before mommy and daddy to bow her head to the rising sun. Leyla, who was the
most beautiful girl in her village. Leyla, who was definitely not a terrorist.
Perhaps the gaps were better left as gaps.
This is Billy back on paper.
It is the first day of training. In an
unusual twist of directive, the military superiors have decided to begin with
an introductory training segment entitled KNOW YOUR ENEMY, reasoning that the
urgency of the imminent threat at hand required a reevaluation of how to
properly condition their troops for maximum performance. In order to defeat
their enemy, they must be aware of who exactly is their enemy.
Billy is seated alongside his future squad
mates in the mess hall at Fort Benning, which has been cleared of tables and
filled with rows of folding chairs. A large projector screen has been set up
before them, and once the last few seats are filled, the doors are shut and the
film reels are sent spinning. An image flickers onto the screen, showing a
still frame of a teenage Iraqi boy dressed in khaki shorts and a powder blue
t-shirt. He is staring straight at Billy, eyes wide and defiant, as if he were
peering through the screen right at him. He has Billy’s hair, and Billy’s nose,
and Billy’s eyes. The picture bears a time stamp, partway cut off by the bottom
edge of the projector screen. The date reads 03/20/1993.
An unseen narrator begins to speak:
“This is the enemy. He may look like just
another little boy, but don’t be fooled, soldier. That’s how they get you. The
enemy is just like you. They have hair and skin just like you. They wear
clothes just like you. Some of them have homes and cars and have gone to
school, just like you. They walk on the same sidewalks you walk on. They shop
at the same stores, and stop at the same traffic lights. They even watch movies
and drink their coffee made a certain way, with a particular amount of sugar
and creamer. From just about every angle, they don’t seem much different from
you.
But the enemy is not like you. The enemy is
different.”
The Purpose of Writing
This rather snarky piece was what I submitted as my aesthetic statement for my final project in the English program at CSUN. It has been about 5 months since I turned this in, and although some of my opinions and feelings on certain subjects have shifted since then, the core sentiments have stayed the same. It's always important to ask yourself, "WHY do you do what you do?"
The
Purpose of Writing
Imagine,
if you will, that you’re sitting in a bar on a particularly slow Friday night,
blowing off some steam after a long week of the old nine-to-five. You’re
absentmindedly sipping your rum and Coke when some ballsy fellow casually
saunters up to the stage, full of whiskey and confidence, itching to take a
crack at the open mic. Before he cues the sound guy to start the karaoke track,
he decides to tell a joke to lighten the mood and get the audience into it. All
eyes are on him. He begins, “Hey folks, you’ll never guess what I saw today…”
He goes on about something a lady did in a supermarket which he found amusing,
and right when he finishes the last word of the punchline, he is met by
silence. Dead silence. The crickets aren’t even chirping. The bartender has
actually stopped wiping off glasses to stare at this guy blankly. The guy’s
face droops solemnly, as if it were made of wax and the stage lights were
slowly melting away his enthusiasm. He proceeds to deliver the worst rendition
of “Don’t Stop Believing” you’ve ever heard, and after the first chorus you
turn back around and ask for another round. The night goes on.
That’s how I feel sometimes when someone asks
me, “What do you plan to do with a writing degree?” As I fumble through my
explanations, I suddenly feel like Bad Punch Line Guy.
I’ve
been doing this writing thing for over two years now. If you were to ask me in
freshman year of high school where I saw myself in the next five or six years,
studying English would not be my first answer. As a kid, I had dreams of being
a dentist so I could score all those free toys they give you after cleaning.
When I got a bit older, I saw Jurassic
Park on VHS and decided archaeology was the thing for me. Then I hit high
school and shit got real. I studied animation and graphics design for the next
four years, then seemingly threw away my chances at a real career by taking up
music theory and composition in junior college only to fail entry auditions
into CSUN’s music program twice. I bounced between a major in Communications or
Creative Writing before settling on the latter, figuring that if I was going to
get a degree in liberal arts I might
as well make it for stuff I was already good at, which was creating art and
thinking too much. Creative Writing seemed like a good fit for me.
It
wasn’t until my first semester into the program that something zinged with me. Maybe it was the way
that my mind was suddenly opened to new ideas and new way of thinking. Maybe it
was the sheer amount of amazingly interesting books I was exposed to, from the
Renaissance all the way up to Ben Loory. Or maybe it was the reality that what
I discounted as merely “liberal arts” was in fact the very things that made
life worth living. Art. Emotion. Wisdom. Fantasy. Liberation. After 6 months of
steeping myself in books and theory, I was hungry for more. Over the next few
semesters, I wrote stories and papers, participated in workshops and
discussions, and read more books in two years than I ever did in the previous
twenty-one years I had been alive. Nerdy was good. Smart was good. Clever and
witty were good. And believe you me, I was very, very good.
I’m
closing in on my final semester at CSUN. It’s been a pretty wicked and wild
ride so far these past two years, and I’ve enjoyed every moment of it. But all
throughout my academic sojourn, and even now, I’m incessantly hounded by those
same goddamn questions, like a flies buzzing around my head. “Why do writing?”
“What can you do with writing?” Or even worse, the short and emphatic response
of “Oh, that’s nice.” You don’t even get a chance to explain yourself with that
one; they’ve already made up their minds about you.
I’ve
had to leaf through a few pages and really paw at my brain about this one. Why
do we write?
I hang
out with a group of guys that I’ve been friends with for years now. This
eclectic ensemble is composed of people majoring or working in engineering,
computer science, political science, and information technology. And then
there’s me, the English major. As you can imagine, when it came to anything not
involving video games or a movie we just saw together, it was rather difficult
for everyone to stay on the same page, even more so for myself. “Hey guys,
let’s all talk about this book I just read! Doesn’t that sound fun?” We love
each other and are very respectful of each other, but when it comes to
practical careers, their brutally honest opinions would probably rank my
current path pretty low on that list. Bless their little hearts.
It was
precisely that sort of social environment that really encouraged and motivated
me to think about that haunting question. “Why do we write?” All our grade
school English classes had nearly driven away our desire to even pick up a book
of our own free will. We were burnt out on vocabulary exercises and spelling
tests. And if there wasn’t a movie based on it, we sure as hell weren’t going
to read it. So why bother writing?
I came
upon the answer to that question years ago in high school, but I didn’t realize
it until much, much later, during my final year at CSUN. One day, I was
watching a TV show called Legend of Korra
with the gang. It was one of those fantasy-type programs that was chock
full of sorcery, exotic creatures, and epic adventures, just the sort of thing
that gamer nerds like us would appreciate. There came a part where the villain
attacked the heroes with a platoon of machines forged from platinum, and it was
at this point that there was some dissent among our engineering friends.
Apparently, platinum is so rare in our universe that there’s no feasible way
one could mine up enough of it to make an entire army of combat machinery. Yes,
despite all the magic and made-up monsters in the show, they drew the line at
earth science. The show immediately lost all credibility as a work of
entertainment because it violated an aspect of the real world that was
ultimately irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.
It was
then that I recalled something I had read in junior year of high school, a book
called The Things They Carried by Tim
O’Brien:
“The
thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others
might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and
language combine to make spirits in the head. There is the illusion of aliveness.”
Not to sound like a total O’Brien groupie, but I carried that
nugget of wisdom with me for a long time. It always seemed to echo itself
during those moments where I sat down and asked myself, “What am I doing with
my life? What good is writing? How is it any more important than math or
science or business?”
I’ll admit, it is hard to justify it sometimes. There’s
probably not much money to be made from it, unless you’re lucky. It’s tough to
stand out and get noticed; writers are a dime a dozen, just like musicians.
There’s more security and practicality in being a doctor or a scientist. Our
society has been oriented towards technological progression and information
accessibility. Where does the artist fit in to all that, and why do they
matter? The simple answer is one that is not my own, but a quote: “Without art,
the earth is just ‘eh.’” And it is true. What the writer may lack in
practicality and wealth, he makes up for in enrichment and catharsis, in
provoking and enlightening, in sharing and experiencing. Where would movies and
TV shows and radio be without the artists? The very fabric of culture depends
on us!
All materialistic thinking aside, the real answers required
some honest-to-God soul searching. Why do I
write? Why does Justin write? No matter how many times I asked myself that,
it always came down to the same answer: I write because I’m a writer.
What does an artist do? An artist captures life and packages
it in a way that is pleasing and memorable. The page is my canvas, the pen is
my brush, and life is my muse. I write because it is something that is a part
of us and all around us. Our lives are stories. Our experiences are stories.
Our perceptions are stories. It breathes life into the stagnation and stillness
of our existences. It causes us to look back, look around, and even turn away.
It makes us feel. It makes us think. It makes us aware. I look back upon the
times that have shaped me into who I am. Heartbreaks and break ups. Parties
where I drank too much. Eavesdropping on the yelling and swearing that boomed
outside my room. The wheels in my head turn. The hands start to move. The pen
begins to scribble. All of sudden, those moments are transformed. Heart wisdom
and growth. Laughter and jubilation. Lessons in love and family. The reader is
right there with me. They can feel what I can feel. They see what I can see.
And they can learn and grow, just like me.
O’Brien talks in length about how the story bears more truth,
more brevity, than reality ever will. Stories outlive the moments that they
draw from. Stories are recalled, recounted, remembered. Stories bring the dead
back to life, and turn back the clocks. Stories keep alive the moments and
memories and experiences that are otherwise lost to history. Often, story-truth
is truer than happening-truth. If that is something that we can truly live by,
then it important now more than ever that our stories continue to be scribed
and told.
It is how we survive. It is how we thrive. It is how we live
forever.
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