2024 Arcturus Online Gallery

The sky is painted orange by the sinking sun; its light sweeps across a barren, empty plain. Empty, save for a lone rock standing defiantly against the light. As the sun gets lower, the rock’s sharp defined shadow grows longer and longer, until the outlines blur and there is only darkness left. Stars can be seen far away, but this world is pitch black. Will the rock be lonely by itself in the dark? Does it fear the absolute stillness of this existence? Does it care? No. It’s a rock.

What was once empty is now crowded with towering trees, adorned with vibrant green filigree. Even the sun struggles to penetrate through the canopy overhead. The ground is a carpet of green, and the air is thick and humid. Shuffling, buzzing, and clicking can be heard all around. The world is alive. But where is the rock? Oh there it is. It was hard to recognize, with its little green beard. Even it wasn’t able to escape the encroaching life. There are even insects burrowing in the ground underneath. Does it mind its new tenants? Would it like a shave? No. It’s a rock.

Much of the mighty greenery from before has receded. Replaced by colossal dinosaurs. Some are fleeing while others are chasing. Some shake the ground beneath them with each step, while others soar through the sky, flirting with the sun. I’m sure such powerful creatures will last a very long time. One of the giant flying ones is now perching on the rock. Is the rock racked with worry of being crushed by those talons? Perhaps it wants to be carried through the skies? No. It’s a rock.

All traces of the past are gone; buried under layers upon layers of time and ice. The only familiar sight left is our rock, still half trapped in frost, basking under the sun. You don’t seem to be looking so great there, still half frozen. You even have a large crack running down your side. Was it a result of water, ice, and changes in temperature? A loud crack rings out from our rock. Now there are two rocks. Does it feel less alone now? Was that painful? No. They’re a couple of rocks.

Thousands? Possibly tens of thousands? There are so many rocks huddled up in a wide line that it isn’t even worth counting them all. Besides, only one of them matters. There it is, under a tiny pocket of water near the edge. It looks nothing like it used to before. Its little sibling and its wounds have washed away long ago. When this place was still a great river, it must’ve eroded our rock down to its very core. So small and vulnerable now. Small enough that this burly man is able to hold it in his hand. He lifts our rock into the air, between two calloused digits and holding it up against the sun. At this moment, from this perspective, our tiny little friend is eclipsing the omnipresent light that was always there. How do you feel, finally breathing after being in the water for so long? To have your foot leave the ground for the first time?

“Hey, did you find something good?” asked another large man, carrying heavy prospecting tools while approaching the first.

After a moment of inspecting, he then placed our rock on a nearby workbench and lifted a hammer. The ensuing crack can be heard echoing throughout the surrounding valley. What remains of our rock are mere crumbs and dust; its ashes being blown away as the man brushes it off with the same hand that carried it a moment ago. 

“Hey, be careful. There could’ve been something in it.” he said, putting the tools down nearby.

“Who cares dude? It’s just a rock.”

Our first language in the house was always shouting. Something coming off someone’s  chest from earlier in the day. Dinner turned into debate, then an argument. My mom pushed  everyone off the deep end. She picked out every possible flaw in your appearance, ability, and  self-perception to use against you, then began the next day as though nothing happened. I left as  soon as I turned eighteen. If I remained with her one more year I wouldn’t get to see the next.  

Still, this sense of obligation, not love, anchored me to her. I put distance between us, but  still kept a line open. This year she spoke of reunion, of bringing the family together to celebrate  what I achieved. Of course she’ll undercut me, talk of how she “raised me right.” Still, I figured I  owed her one last chance since she put food on the table all those years. Her text read we would  eat at 3 p.m., but the sun still reflected over the snow covered roofs when I pulled into the  driveway. Upon entering the house, she greeted me with a wide embrace, and a receipt appeared  in my hands.  

“Hey, Jonathan, love you!” She said, resting her hand on my bicep. My hair spiked at her  words.  

Looking at the grocery list, a list of chores for me to do were scribbled on. She never said  the L word unless there was something she needed from me. My mom directed me to the box of  old table decorations in the far corner of the room. The tablecloths, once a white floral pattern,  were now stained a slight yellow, mimicking an evening landscape. A few gnats fled the scene as  I lifted it to my face. It’s like the very home rotted when the youth left. The secondhand smoke  retreated into the fabric as the smell of turkey came barreling out the oven. Mom loomed over,  clasping her back, tears falling and steaming into the air.  

“God damn it!” Seems the theatrics started early, “no one ever helps me with shit!” I  wouldn’t defile myself trying to prove her wrong. 

Stains caked the table, encompassing all the colors of autumn. I degraded myself with the task of  cleaning. Afterward, I draped the linen over the blemishes, topping it off with a brilliant  silver candlestick. My mom could only huff at the display I created. Gratitude was not a  language spoken in this house. I plopped into a chair toward the end of the table, with sunlight  warming the back of my head. I leaned back and kicked my feet onto the table. At least my  winter break could begin. But my retirement was cut short by my own stupidity. I crossed the  point of no return and plummeted back. The wooden chair splattered across the floor. I survived  with only a few cuts. My mom barged in, fury welled up in her eyes.  

“Now you see where that stupid shit got you!” She hunched over me, spit flying out onto  my face. “I’ll get the broom.”  

I laid for a moment, stunned with embarrassment. My mom dropped a broom and dustpan  on me. I got up to clean, keeping my body slouched to avoid eye contact. She supervised me from the kitchen door frame.  

“Jonathan, you’re not sweeping right,” she pestered.  

While the mess on the floor is mine, she seems determined to make one out of our  relationship. I swirled the dust around in a circle just to agitate her.  

“Give me that! It’s a wonder you can wipe your own ass,” she began hurriedly sweeping  into the dustpan, leaving behind more than I did. Her voice suddenly became softer, “how’s  college?”  

Now came her pathetic excuse for bonding. My mood was soured now, she could get this  information from me when I let the rest of my family know during dinner. I guided my mother  through her maze of questions away from anything about myself. The first rule of vampires was  to never invite them in. The kitchen sprawled onto the table as she moved in the dishes, never  once breaking the stream of questions piling onto the floor. The crinkle of the aluminum synced  up with the cries of my stomach. The steam of mac and cheese wrapped around my face and  moved my lips.  

“Anything I can snack on while we wait?” I interrupted her—wrong move.  The pile of questions which trailed out her mouth ignited. The heat from the kitchen now  erupted in front of me.  

“What, you want me to make more?” She barked. “Come home and you already wanna  empty my fridge.”  

Being kind now was getting me nowhere. I left and grabbed a bag of chips from the  pantry in the kitchen. My mother scoffed and flipped me off.  

“Better make that count,” she grumbled. 

Though the cries had ceased I crunched on every chip. The clutter of the kitchen now  sprawled onto the table. My hands struck at the aluminum coverings, undressing the food before  me. I felt entitled to an early plate. My mother struck my hand. The wrinkles on her forehead  now pushed down like tidal waves. Her lips morphed into a box and her teeth were barred. She  shook her head, berating me with insults.  

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Jonathan? The rest of the family isn’t here yet. Are  you crazy? I never raised you like this. You‘re certainly not gonna starve. That’s so  disrespectful!” Her screeches rattled the floorboards.  

My face got hot and my teeth grinded together. My mother shook with anger, but she  didn’t dare approach me. I leaned into her, a smirk on my face hoping to test her. I got as far as  to feel the breath from her shouts on my face. A smack ran across my face. Shock ran through  her face for a second, before returning to her ugly snarl and berating me for coming so close.  Now I knew there was no point in staying. My hand jetted out of my pocket to the table, and  flipped the table into the air. Macaroni began to rain onto the ground.  

“Fuck you! I do everything for this family and you just ruin it!” She cried, tears trailed  down her face.  

I drafted several scripts in my head in case she started something with me. But the mess  of words, touching on every moment since birth didn’t matter anymore. Every word would be shot back at me. The job of being a normal mother for her meant I owed her my life. I offer no  dignification by justifying myself to her. I simply grabbed my shoes and left out the front door.  My mother opened the window, shouting, “I no longer have a son!” She continued to  rave and scream at me until I pulled out the driveway.

10 years passed since I last saw you. I talked to mom, and she urged me to forgive you. Forgive the fatherless childhood I lived in. Forgive the pain you left behind. Forgive you for the painful words you yelled, stamped forever on my body. I start my drive to the beach to see you one more time, and the flashbacks flood my mind. A monsoon flooding my brain, unable to breath. I remember going fishing for the first time, cheering me on as I reeled my first fish to the beach. The sparkle shining in your eyes as you hugged me tight. The time when we would spend countless hours swimming in the pool. Even with the good memories, the bad memories fill the black spaces in between.

Watching you spend countless hours passed out on the couch, yelling at me for not watching my brother when he stuck a key in the socket. I was only 4. Blaming me for drinking all the mink in the fridge as if we couldn't get more from the store. The countless times receiving phone calls from jail asking for money. The memory of mom locking me in the car is engraved in my mind. She kept me safe away from you. Each bang on the window, screaming to unlock the car remains planted. Mom sat on the front porch begging and crying to not unlock the door. She couldn't come closer in fear of being struck again. Tears ran down my face, confused if I should unlock the door; thankfully I didn't. Suddenly a red light appears and a horn honks in the distance. I slam on the brakes. Looking around nervously scared, not knowing if I ran multiple lights while spacing out. 

I remember the tar-like substance found in the kettle on the stove, smelled of hot mold. You were so worried about your next hit you never put your family first. I sigh heavily at the thought. I wish I didn't care half as much as I did. My attention snaps, my heart beats faster, the ocean is finally in view. Turning the corner, I see you remain sitting on the bench, exactly where we last saw each other. 

I ponder how long you were sitting on the bench waiting for me. A stranger looking into the distance, a foreign body waiting at the beach. I sit next to you and stare into your bright blue eyes, the sparkle shines in disbelief that I came. Dad always said he wanted to talk to explain how sorry he was, but I never believed him. I never felt ready to speak to him until now. My therapist asked, "If he died would you regret anything?" Laughing, brushing it off as if I wouldn't care, he remained dead in my mind. I didn't understand what he meant until now. I always imagined screaming at the top of my lungs until all the air was released, but nothing came out. Sitting in silence feeling your embrace, I feel your grainy tan coarse skin touching me with every step I take in the sand. The sweat and salty smell coming from your clothes hides the gas smell coming from the boats. The wind blew rapidly, and I heard a whisper in my ear, "I missed you; I love you."

We walk slowly in silence down the beach. Your hands push my hair to the side with every breeze that passes. Not knowing where to start, I hesitate to tell you that I bought a house and I learned how to replace a toilet. The terrible breakup I went through where I needed your guidance. The dream of having a father figure in my life, who replaces the toilet or scares the away the boy makes my heart race full of anger. With every hopeless thought, I stand up straighter and confident to show I could do it myself. I did it myself. 

As we continue to walk the world stops, time ticks longer; everything freezes. I noticed you walk slower now, and you can't go far. I slow down to let you catch up. There is a log not far from us; we take a break from walking and sit down before you fade away. As I sit, a crab emerges form the sand and sits still, staring into my eyes. Your skin would always get red in the summer because you refused to put sunscreen on. Not only was the crab as red as you, but his hard shell and soft inside resembles you.

Another gush of wind blows drying the tears running down my face. I look up and stare at your bright blue eyes and say, "Dad, I forgive you". The sparkle shines bright with a grin shining from ear to ear. My feet press firmly, digging a hole in the sand questioning what our life could have been. Could we have been closer if I responded to your messages sooner? I look up at the sun getting lost in your bright blue eyes. The sun is shining, you wrap your warm embrace around every inch of my body. A seagull squawks behind me causing me to wake up to reality.

Suddenly the sun starts to set, and your bright blue eyes start to close. The sparkles get duller; I look quickly to my right where you sat, and your presence disappears. The fire that burnt inside me starts to cool down, creating a relief I've never felt before. The world gets a little darker around me, but the fire still leads my way. I cherish every sunset to feel your love hold every inch of my body one last time. I now know you couldn't love me the way you wanted to, I accept it, I understand, and I forgive you. 

I start to walk back to my car, taking each step slower desperately hoping for one last hug. As I drive away, the bad memories fly away while my hair blows in the wind. All that's left is the moments I hold on with you. Wishing for a second chance. 

As I sat there eagerly eying my latest creation, the shadows danced around the tan walls  of my art studio, created by the sun's warm light peeking through windows, creating a brilliant  orange hue. Even the marble flooring appeared to radiate light itself while my colorful matte  paintings strewn across the walls, highlighted my artistic prowess. For good reason too.  

The world renowned art critic, Senora Pobre recently commissioned me. Apparently she  seeked up and coming artists to showcase and start the grand opening of her husband’s  prestigious gallery. The Unrealistico Exhibition. This was a one in a million opportunity.  

My thoughts abruptly ended after hearing the sound of heels reverberating across the  hollow staircase outside my studio. At that moment my studio doors vigorously swung open.  Senora Pobre. Upon entering the room her nose furled up, no doubt because of the metallic  smells the paint emitted. A smell I thankfully became mute to. The clutter of different size  shelves, each housing the tools and paints of the trade seemed to only dissatisfy her taste as her  expression turned sour before she turned towards my art.  

Senora Pobre’s dagger-like azure eyes pierced through the flimsy canvas that my art sat  upon, analyzing my craftsmanship in agonizing silence.  

She broke the moment with a critical comment, “There's too much clutter. This doesn’t  match the exhibition at all.”  

Hearing such insolence in her comment left me dumbfounded and at a loss of words. I  thought the assignment required me to show off creative freedom, or was I a fool for believing  so?  

“Of course, I’ll start again!” I chimed, but my sheer lack of enthusiasm bled through, for  Senora Pobre simply flicked her shimmering blonde hair in the air and gave me a disgusted look  while exiting the room.  

I reluctantly dragged my feet to the back corner of my studio where I kept a small stack  of canvases neatly placed for all my projects. She's a damn fool. I reminded myself in an attempt to relieve my anger and focus on painting again. A futile attempt in all reality, she commissioned  me. Messing up would mean losing this momentous opportunity. Or worse. My reputation.  

After depleting myself of most of my supplies and breaking a brush, I finished the second  piece. The trash in the garbage bin towered past the rim but despite this dilemma, I found myself  unable to resist gazing at the art piece in awe. I followed Senora Pobre’s instructions to the letter  and to be fair this art piece came out more stunning than anything I made before. I regret my  

harsh criticism of her style, maybe she carried more merit than I originally assumed. After all,  she is one of the world’s most famous art critics, and her late husband owned the largest art  exhibition in the country, so that must mean something.  

I quickly called Senora Pobre over and once again heard the familiar sound of heels 

climbing up the stairs. Yet again the doors to my studio slammed open with enough force to  make me jump.  

Without hesitation she walked in, glared at me, turned, and retorted, “Make it two people. It has  to be perfect.”  

Every bit of sentinemet I felt about her nearly vanished immediately.  

“Fine.” I murmured back to her. Senora Pobre did not appreciate my attitude, and  appeared hurt at my reluctance over her opinion. However she clearly liked the shocked look on  my face, because she snickered afterwards, leaving in a rush, her heels announcing she was  leaving with every step.  

Could she be making fun of me? I mean what did this lady even know about good art?  She's the one who needed to hire me for her exhibition in the first place. I reminded myself of  how prestigious the commission was, got my act together, and clutched another canvas from the  back. My paint shelf. however looked awfully barren, with only a few bottles remaining and  another yet another broken brush.  

Working on the third art piece became a battle of wits and cleverness. With my paints  supplies dwindling and my forearms aching from painting, I would need to be resourceful. I  never expected one of my projects to become such a demanding endeavor, but in the end here I  stand. With no paints, two broken brushes, and a new found lack of respect for modern art.  However after managing to salvage that third piece using my fingers and a simpler art style to  cut down on paint, I finished. 

Even before she entered the studio I could feel the cold sweat of fear rolling down my  sideburns and hitting the marble floor with a soft plop. Looking down at the reflective drop, I  saw the shadows of a monster approaching me, looming over my art with a menacing stare.  “Did you even listen? I will lose everything my husband created if this fails!” she yelled  at me. She continued rambling about professionalism, but by now I reached the end of my  patience.  

“YES, are you even fit to be an art critic? Because your opinion SUCKS!” I vented out,  without considering who I was talking to.  

“Ok you know what, I’ll hire someone else... again!” she snarled back.  

Immediate regret set in. There goes the greatest commission of my life, fluttering away in  the wind because I lost my temper, “Look, I’m sorry, give me one more chance, I think I have  something. Please!”  

With a single finger in the air, she announced “Last chance,” before storming off and  flinging the doors closed.  

“Shit,” I muttered to myself, how would I save myself now?  

I clearly lacked the supplies needed to even muster up a fourth attempt and with it, my  one in a million chance to make it to the artistic big leagues. However as grabbed yet another  blank canvas, I came upon an epiphany of sorts. By this time I realized that I did not care  whether or not my art made it to the exhibition anymore, I simply wanted to make a stance, and I knew this art piece would drive the lesson home.  

So after calling her over, hesitantly, for the last time, she walked in, a pretentious look on  her face. I presented her with my final coup de grâce, my last “art piece”.  A blank canvas with my signature on it.  

Immediately her eyes lit up like a child’s and she exclaimed with passion,”I love it! I can  feel the potential of young artists oozing through it! Their future can be anything just like this  blank canvas!”  

I couldn't believe the words coming out of her mouth. After all the pain and struggle I put  into the previous examples, this blank canvas impressed her the most? I meant for it to taunt her  restrictions of creativity, and how it ruins the actual creative process, but instead it is praised for  it? I felt my respect for her and anything she stood for depart from my body. The moment she  paid me, I told her to leave so I could make real art. Also if that art is any indication of the  exhibition's quality, then I dread paying a visit when it finally opens, but let that be a problem for  another day.  

Finally peace.

In the flickering yellow light of the gas station over on Pine  

you said three words, “I love you.”  

You said them in a nonchalant way,  

like I was expected to know what to do with that,  

like you’ve said them a thousand times before.  

I wondered, briefly, if maybe you had said them a thousand times before,  but in your head, to yourself, and just never aloud to me.  

I must’ve been right because your face quickly contorted.  

Shock, embarrassment, uncertainty;  

trust me, I was feeling the exact same way.  

We both know you didn’t say it in a best-bros,  

couple of buds out for a beer,  

drunk “I love you, man!” kind of way.  

You said them in a years of pining,  

can’t breathe around you, intoxicated by a touch kind of way.  

Maybe you are drunk.  

But on something other than alcohol.  

We stood there, staring, and you became  

something of a deep ocean pressure.  

If I dive too deep, trying to understand  

you’ll snap, and my brains will go splattering down  

onto the gasoline-stained cement.  

It’s out in the open now, so you repeat yourself.  

You say three words, “I love you,”  

like saying them again will cure my silence.  

But all I can do is pray that the yellow light flickers out entirely,  

giving me a chance to slip away.

National Poetry Month's 2nd Place Winner, 2024

I can't help but feel I failed him somehow.

We were young, but he was my brother

and as anyone with a brother will tell you

when you can't save your brother, your only thought is how you could have done more.

And although I could not have saved him in any way that mattered

not even if I were older or wiser

I can't help but wonder if my brother knew

that I would have killed a hundred other brothers for him. 

If he knew that for him I would have stormed and shaken the heavens.

That for him I would have stolen all the stars. 

They taught me how to be brotherless for the first year,

when I was younger and dumber,

but not for the fifty to eighty after that,

and I can't help but wish they'd just taught me linguistics instead 

if I'm just going to be clueless about being brotherless anyway.

For if I'd only known how to say it all back then

how to pour fifty to eighty years of love onto paper,

maybe he would have known in detail

just how many other brothers I would have killed to keep him.

Personas Son Como  

Palabras, Entangled  

El mismo abuelo  

Those of us, sostengo  

Closely, parientes  

Men, cognate and kindred  

No greater a sin did  

Good men accomplish than  

Separate us, como  

Flores regadas a  

La sombra, enredade.  

*Words from the poet: My relationship with language has always been one of fascination. I love  English literature, but I found it was just one piece of a larger, more intricate puzzle. I started  studying linguistics on my own, and then my relationship with a few close friends I met through  my volunteer work put me in a position to tutor English for refugees. As I was discovering my  love for this process of teaching and learning new languages, it became apparent to me that while  I was learning at my own pace, with enjoyment, so many are learning because English  apprehension in the U.S. can be the deciding factor in a person's survival. 

People are like  

Words, entangled  

The same grandfather  

Those of us, I hold  

Closely, kindred  

Men, cognate and kindred  

No greater a sin did  

Good men accomplish than  

Separate us, like  

Flowers watered in 

The shade, entangle  

*Words from the poet: Everywhere in the world, including the U.S., people have a native  language that often has to take a backseat for the sake of making it here, whether that is financial  success or just staying alive and free from poverty. Teaching ESL is my life's purpose, but it  must be conducted in a way that preserves the cultures and languages of native people across the  world. This means teachers must actively learn the language of their students, teach adaptation  and not assimilation, and forever abandon the phrase "broken English". English is not superior; it  is a lingua franca and can be used to enrich, not to colonize.

National Poetry Month's 1st Place Winner, 2024

I remember the beautiful sound of Adhan that I used to hear five times a day

I remember the laughing sound of children in the hallways of apartments, I remember

walking under the long lasting trees on the sunny days coming back from school,

I remember the sounds of singing birds birds early in the morning to awaken us for Madrassas

I remember those days when we used to run away from the garden after chopping roses,

I remember those cold days when the city used to sleep under the blanket of snow,

I remember standing in the line for buying fresh warm Naan from the bakery when the winds 

were blowing,

I remember I was best friends with happiness, shouting with laughter, 

I remember the fresh smell after the rain, as if playing with my best friend, happiness,

I remember never wanting to say goodbye to the heart of Asia,

I remember I carried my beautiful box of memories with me, I remember my tears writing

the story of immigration, I remember not knowing how much I loved you until I had to leave

you, my homeland.

National Poetry Month's 3rd Place Winner, 2024

A full moon looms over the horizon.

The pull heady trapped in your orbit.

The buzz of a glancing touch

like the gentle rush of water over smoothed

pebbles prickle your skin.

You wait, caught in the cycle

anticipation, it's own aphrodisiac,

engorged today, wains tomorrow.

It lingers like smoke in your hair

after the fire is doused.

Eradicate/Obliterate/Carry away

this craving

I don't even know

when it began

It crept in

like a crook

Intruding my thoughts

Fueling erotic feelings

I pray

Unhitch my heart

Set my psyche free

untethered

But if you can not

I ask

Behold me earnestly

As I am.

You have to look at Medusa straight on to see her. And she's not deadly. She's beautiful  and she's laughing.  

—Helene Cixous 

I once heard an analogy about skepticism  

a dozen baked brownies and one filled with poison,  

from a woman with her head tilted and an eyebrow raised  

asking me if I’d look twice.  

As a kid, I heard stories  

of bulbs flickering as lamps  

smashed against walls fizzled and died out.  

Clumps of hair between clammy fingers as an aunt,  

a sister, a daughter, “fell” down the stairs.  

Echoes from eons-old words bounced off hollow walls  

I told myself I'd never be like them.  

I cupped my hands against my ears as they bled.  

My feet crunched broken ceramic and I squinted to see through black smoke  in houses tyrants tried to burn down on their way out the door.  

It’s a man’s world, and all men  

are wolves in wolves’ clothing – “Not me,  

not me! Not all, not all!” I once heard  

an analogy about skepticism from a woman with her head tilted  

and an eyebrow raised asking me if I’d look twice  

at crossing to the other sidewalk on an evening run, saying  

excuse me hands-free from a lower back on a Saturday at the bar, 

27 

at being a passive bystander to those men.  

If only one sets the fire but nine do nothing  

all ten still burn.  

I hang my head at pink pepper sprays dangling on every keychain,  

swinging back and forth like a noose for the idealistic “not me, not alls”.  

Delegated drink bodyguards clasp hands over solo cups,  

as phone calls with no one sound into an empty parking garage.  

I watched my dad and learned the tide that could be turned  

when one stood against. Said “I love you” in rooms where  

trusting was making a miracle.  

I watched him bled on by cuts made by a knife he didn’t hold.  

I learned mountains could move by holding tissues with white knuckles  

and the way the echoes grow faint when someone opens a window and lets in the breeze.

I hope to find the stillness

of the water inside myself.

The cool toned cool water.

I hope I find a peace

as peaceful as lily pads

drifting along my surface.

The water only just

disturbed, the feelings

rippling in quiet understanding.

I hope I am one day

made up of soft greens and pinks

instead of rage reds

and devastated blues.