Stella Pfahler’s poem paints the view of traffic, dust, and country landscapes outside a car window.
Flash by in rows, repeatedly.
Stifling, the scent of false industry
Sweats along the country roads.
A mirage of a farmhand straightens up.
Sprawling road kill. Shreds of tires, unassuming.
First shards of LA, and anticlimactic.
Cars congregate-stop and go-
Shadows lengthen, the highway’s hum turns to an unforgiving lull.
You are forced to imagine the fragile ecosystems
A state line is crossed. Street signs change,
And people with them.
Because everyone has forgotten napkins.
In the morning: Rolling hills turn to mesas.
Heat rises in waves of invisible striving toward the sky.
Faceless horizons turn to dust.
By Stella Pfahler
Stella Pfahler is a Bay Area native who attends RASOTA for Creative Writing. She is a circus freak, enjoys surfing, and she plays the saxophone.
Art by Fiona McDonald
Fiora Elbers-Tibbits describes the cliché Sunday dinner in her brutally honest and satirical prose piece, “Sunday Dinner.”
The family comes bubble wrapped, prepped to eat over synthetic discourse.
Prayer first. The future’s passed around; patrons pile on the collection
plate. The oven is hot and the timer cheats. Women leap at the beep,
unrehearsed in their assembled domestic burst. Another spring chicken:
underdone meat, dry like chalk. She’ll learn. The men are robust with
compensating promises, raises and grease simmering at the table, lingering
green outside the confession booth. They lurch. A bubble pops and the
curtain drops. Chairs adjust, scrape back singed skin. Faith and heat
A senior creative writing major at Walnut Hill School for the Arts.
Art by Florence Liu