A xenon taste left on my tongue,
An electric scent, a terrifying sound.
The veneers on my smile smell like my cheerios
That I pretend to eat every morning.
Oracle oriented thinking laid out on the table,
piě *left*, nà *right*, piě *left*, nà *right*,
I think to myself, an ancient tradition:
I could only hope to understand the mysteries of.
I wish my grandmother (man vecsmāta) would sing again
Aijā žūžū floods my auditory memories.
The blue light she’d shine,
just for the safety of our Troopers.
By Joseph Felker
Art by Diana Ryu
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