\]

LETTERS + STROKES

ROOM EIGHTEEN

JILLIAN BURFORD - MAX FRESHOUR - SIENNA LASTERCARA RACIN - SIERRA REAUX-MCNEIL - NILE MYERS

SARAI REED - HELEN STEINECKE - MALIA WILLIAMS-HAYNES

“A total fricking rock star from Mars, and people can’t figure me out”-CHARLIE SHEEN

SIENNA LASTER -2

CARA RACIN - 4

SIERRA REAUX-MCNEIL - 6

MALIA WILLIAMS-HAYNES -10

SIENNA LASTER- 12

SARAI REED /

HELEN STEINECKE -13

NILE MYERS - 17

MAX FRESHOUR - 20

JILLIAN BURFORD - 25

COVER ART:

AURIELLE CATRON

ROOM EIGHTEEN - ISSUE III

CONTENTS

3

There was no escaping the pulse of the bass. I locked the door and it was still in the room with me. I could see my reflection in the mirror that hung above the sink. My hair was out of place, skin slick with sweat. I ran the tap and splashed cool water on my face. It helped, but not much. Every corner of the house was hot. I looked around for a towel, and not finding one, I awkwardly ran my wet hands across my shirt. There was a ripped condom wrapper by my foot and I could feel my nose crinkle in disgust. Carefully, I stepped around it. There was a knock on the door.

“Uh, yeah, one second,” I yelled, looking at myself once more in the mirror. I ran my hand over my hair, and straightened my shirt. The shirt my boyfriend had always said was his favorite. I ran my fingers through my hair in a weak attempt to give it some shape. Again, a knock, more impatient this time.

“Come on!”I took a deep breath before reaching for the knob. As my hand

closed around it, there was yet another knock. As I brought open the door, I came face to face with a girl. As she saw me she raised her eyebrows, looking my outfit over almost as if she pitied me. I really wished I hadn’t worn this of all things. She smirked, pulling at the hand of a boy standing behind her. I stepped out of the way as they pushed past me, my heels barely across the threshold as the door closed.

I walked back down the hallway towards the party, carefully stepping over the legs of a number of couples sitting on the floor with their backs slumped against the wall. I was swallowed alive as I stepped into the living room. Most people were dancing, others just loitered. Every face, a new face. I longed for the familiarity of my friends. I’d arrived at the party with my boyfriend. I don’t know how he actually talked me into coming, but the second I walked up the front steps towards the house, I knew I’d made a mistake. Before the door opened my boyfriend kissed my forehead softly, held my hand and assured me it would be fun. He let go of my hand as we walked in the door, and he was greeted by people I had never seen before. He didn’t introduce me. After a moment, he told me he was going to get us a drink. I hadn’t seen him since.

As I tried to push past people, I could hear the “Have you seen her before?”, “Who’d she come with?” “Probably has the wrong house. This definitely isn’t her part of town.” “Wait, she came with him? She doesn’t look like his type.”

And I knew each comment referred to me.

CARA RACIN

PARTY

5

I tried to find my boyfriend in the sea of people, but it was almost impossible. I stepped from the living room into the kitchen. There was a group of boys standing by the counter. They turned to silence as I entered the room. I tried to smile, not wanting to appear nervous. The way they stared I assumed they weren’t used to seeing a girl like me. I looked around, trying to think of why I’d needed to enter the kitchen in the first place. One boy, the shortest of the bunch, cleared his throat.

“Drinks are out on the deck. There’s a blue cooler.” He gestured towards the screen door. I nodded as if a drink was what I wanted. I turned and went outside. The night air was cool on my skin as I was greeted by the smell of cigarettes and weed. There was my boyfriend. He was sitting with a group of people on lawn chairs smoking a joint. When he saw me, he began to cough having inhaled too quickly. He seemed surprised to see me, as if maybe he’d forgotten I was even there. As he struggled to stop and fully regain his composure, he gave me a nod before looking back to his friends. He showed no real sign of knowing me the way he did. Usually when we were with our friends, he’d get up to give me a kiss, or beckon me over to his lap. Never this. But these weren’t our friends. They were his community. They were looking at me. Despite the cold air, I was growing hot. They were all staring. Just staring. It was as if they didn’t know quite what to make of me. It was at that moment I realized that I’d had enough.

I turned around, throwing open the screen door. I passed the same boys from the kitchen as I ran into the living room, pushing through the crowd. Some girls whispered as I passed, “look at her hair,” “why do those people always have some kind of attitude?” “those girls always think they can get away with wearing those clothes.” At that moment I felt as if I might suffocate if I didn’t get out soon. It was as if I was walking through an unfamiliar forest of limbs, pushing past the branches of arms and legs. Really, I couldn’t breathe.

I flung the door open, slamming it behind me. I breathed quickly, adjusting to a smell that wasn’t alcohol, sweat, or smoke. I began to walk from the house. I could still hear it. There was no escaping the pulse of the bass.

SIERRA REAUX-MCNEIL

LOSSI had not realized how numb I had become until last night. That feeling

after you get a filling, when you know you are in pain, a discomfort that you can’t feel. A pain deferred. I thought it would kill me to experience death like that, like a knife to the heart or a bullet to the head. The experience itself paralyzing. I knew it hurt, the wind had been thrown from my lungs yet I couldn't feel myself gasp for air. I stopped and I remembered last night. In slow motion the tears fell, they were heavy and inconsistent.

I can’t remember what happened that day but I was laughing as I walked in the door; that sort of quiet chuckle one has with themselves. I took a breath before I walked in, anticipating a blow up from my mother, given the text she sent urging me to hurry home. I slowly turned the nob preparing for her to be waiting with progress report in hand.

the part that killed the most was i couldn't feel my heart. no great force crushing my soul. no butterflies fleeing the dark clouds. nothing. i ran upstairs and dry heaved. sat on my bed and saw her crawl across the room.

Midway into the foyer, I dropped my bags and looked into the living room. Seeing my mother’s eyes, I knew, at that point, it wasn’t my report card. The quiet smile inside was crushed by the weight of the air in the room. My stepfather sat stoic on the couch, my mother adjacent to him in the large brown chair, the playpen in the center of the room.

I wish I hadn't seen her in the pen lying there; lying there like concrete, heavy and cold. I wanted to hold her, pick her up and breathe life into her again. I couldn't hear anything, my head hurt and my ears were ringing. ‘We’re going to cremate her’ my mother said. I was still too horrified to respond. I had thoughts of picking her up, taking her to the ocean edge and just allowing her to float away. I thought: How dare we cremate her? Disintegrate her in fire? She would hate that.

i just wanted one more peach flavored kiss on the cheek. one more tight hug between small soft palms. i remember feeling warmth on my stomach like how i did on those rare times she would sleep with me through the night.

6

I walked through all the places in the house she had been. I looked at the walls and hung the memories in the right place. The wall on the stairwell had my childhood artwork, I would hold her close and tell her I could have been Picasso. I’d bounce her in my arms and point at the charcoal drawing of my still life. I made my way down the stairs stopping at the step that squeaked under heavy footing. I could see her there. I would avoid looking at the floor in the living room, as if the pen was still there. I could have shown anyone the exact spot on the tarnished wooden floor where it once stood. I remember hearing someone say a parent should never have to bury a child. And now I knew what it meant to do so. We all gave birth to her personality, her sympathy, her impatience; her fearless attitude and her mischievous tendencies. Even her picky appetite. I remember the first night mom brought her home. I set her up with pillows on my bed so mom could get some sleep. I’ve always called her “the little person”, and over the months she had gone through a few nicknames. I don't know how she got accustomed to being held, head resting over my shoulder, palms clutching tightly. Always feeling the need to scoot herself up close to my chin.

7

I laid on my bed and stared at the ceiling as I counted the cracks to keep my mind busy. The voice inside my head was silent. Nothing in my room had moved; my dirty clothes had been thrown over my cheetah print shoes. There were two holes in the sole from when I’d left incense burning. I looked at my loft bed where we would lay and watch the light reflect off the light fixture; it looked like spirits coming through the windows. Looking at the graffiti I had adorned my bed frame with over the years took me back to when I was younger. My curtains were mismatched, one white linen the other opaque turquoise, decorated with beading. I think they say a lot about me; what that is exactly, I’m not entirely sure.

its been three days and i keep seeing her, out of the corner of my eye. i almost want to cry when there is no one to greet me at the door. my mom would come to the window with her because it always took me a while to open the door. she would then meet me in front of the radiator and greet me with warm coos and eager eyes. i think i miss that the most, the looking into her eyes and feeling loved unconditionally. whether or not my dreads weren't done, whether or not i had on sweatpants or heels, whether or not it was two a.m. or eight at night. i could never understand why she preferred i was standing when holding her, she would cry whenever i sat down. maybe she just liked the feeling of being tall and seeing things from a different perspective.

After school I walked to the park and sat on the bench, the weather was nice enough. My boots made a crunching sound against the dry wood chips. The bright yellow slide reflected the sun rays and the playground seemed warmer than the rest of the world. It was one of those rare places where I felt like everything was going to be okay. I walked over to the swings; black rubber and iron chains were all that kept me grounded. I sat for a moment just to get a feel for the swing before I took a few steps back. I dug my feet into the wood chips to ensure I had an efficient take off before letting go. I concentrated on pumping my legs back and forth until I could see over the houses. Butterflies formed in my stomach and I felt that familiar feeling of a smile on the inside, until, that is, my eyes got wet.

i’ve become accustomed to being alone, it feels more natural than it did before. i never had an issue doing things by myself but company has always been preferred. i think i take solace in walking places by myself, its when my subconscious really starts to narrate my life, and it doesn't seem so annoying as of late. Losing a sister is like separating with a part of yourself unwillingly. i feel closer to her while alone, sitting in the park as introspective thought runs wild through my subconscious. i almost feel like she is still here.

9

It was Friday and I was late to school again. I had hit the snooze button on the alarm clock one too many times. I ran around my room lifting dirty clothes like rocks, searching for papers and lip gloss. After throwing together decent school materials, I rushed to brush my teeth and wash my face, skipping over the eye liner. I knocked softly on my parent’s bedroom door before tip-toeing in and whispering “I’m ready.” My stepfather mumbled his “Okay” from under the bed covers. As I ran downstairs to prepare something decent enough to call breakfast, I heard the stomp of feet, a sign my stepfather had risen. As we rushed out the door in discombobulated symphony, I lingered on the step a moment so that he could go into the garage to smoke his not so secret cigarette. I closed the garage door behind me and plopped my bag into the back seat. It was silent in the car as we pulled off.

I replied to my friend’s text messages in-between bites of lukewarm buttered toast. He flipped through the radio stations and occasionally moved his fingers to a bass line. We were stuck at the lights before school when he asked me if I was okay.

“Yeah,” I said “but I miss her.” He turned his head and said “Yeah, me too.” We both understood

what this moment was; we were both people of few words. My mom always said I took after him. I found myself putting aside the previous animosity I had for my stepfather. I guess there was something about seeing us all grieve as a family that made him - us - more human. After a while you stop trying to see someone as a person; you fill in the blanks as you see fit and create a caricature of them. You pencil in all the bad and angry parts and forget the ones that make us what we are.

MALIA-WILLIAMS-HAYNES

ONE CITY

10

= Ward one =

Welcome to Ward 1, where the only

thing that outnumbers the restaurants are

the rats WARD 2YES, I’M IN THE

LINE FOR CUPCAKES

ward FOUR

HEY! OVER HERE

ward 3

why raise your kids when someone else can do it for you?

11

ward

where Trindadhas got nothing to do with sun,

5

sand& sea

WARD 6

OUT WITH THE OLD...

WARD 7

WARD EIGHT

“SAVE ME A PIECE”

She has no name. She writes her memories down on small sheets of paper, crumples them up into a ball and places them in the center of her palm. She holds them there, telling herself that when she is ready she’ll put them into the jar beside her. She believes memories are worth holding onto, even the bad ones. Today, she opens the jar and shakes it, allowing the crumpled notes to fall like snow. She picks up the ball of paper closest to her and simultaneously begins to unravel both it and the memory attached to it. The word “Family,” is scrawled in rushed handwriting and she recalls a visit to the amusement park, Great America, late last summer. She shakes her head at the thought and brushes her fingers through her hair; it is a memory that nauseates her. She remembers leaving for Great America with her friends and arriving back home to have her mother launch herself at her with a belt. She can divide the good from the bad memories with a single stroke, the former shared with friends, the latter with family. She drops the note and grabs another from the floor, this one is written in pink glitter pen, “Friends”. She recalls taking pictures of her friend, Barrett, as she swung back and forth from a thick tree branch, and how she nudged her friend Kat on the arm and laughed at a joke she once told her mother. Except her mother didn’t laugh, she did not so much as crack a smile. Any joy attached to the memory dissipates at this point, as though her own smile is dependent on that of her mother’s. She stoops to pick up another memory, “In and Out Burger,” she reads and starts to reminisce on the large greasy burgers and fries she shared with her little cousin. Her cousin was only a year younger than her but she enjoyed calling her little, it made her, in turn, feel bigger and mature.

The girl drops the note and bends over to pick up another. She picks up a small purple note. It is sticky and she fumbles with it in her fingers. She recognizes the folds and creases on the note, she unfolds it and begins to read.

The girl reads, “Moving to Washington DC.” Tears start to well up in the corner of her eyes. She balls the memory up in her fist and squeezes it until her hand turns red, she throws the note to the floor and falls back onto the bed. Resting her head on the wall she listens to the music her grandmother is playing in the adjacent room. The girl pulls her sleeve down and wipes her tears away, she puts her hand on her forehead. The girl realises she misses her mother’s voice. She stands up and grabs the pieces of paper that say “Friends” and “Family” and puts them together. She reads, forming new words from out of her messy handwriting, and she realises that new memories are there to be created.

SIENNA LASTER

JAR OF MEMORIES

SARAI REED

THE EIGHT ESSENTIAL PEOPLE YOU WILL INEVITABLY

ENCOUNTER ON THE METRO ILLUSTRATIONS BY HELEN STEINECKE

1. TWO SEAT TINA

While Two Seat Tina may be friendly and approachable, you don’t want to make the mistake of getting stuck between her and a window seat. Her plush shoulders may entreat you to nap, but I guarantee you, you will miss your stop.

2. SIR PARDON ME

Sir Pardon Me is all politeness. He reeks of quality upbringing and good manners, but he cannot res is t the temptat ion of a m i s i n f o r m e d s t r a n g e r o r provocative conversation.

3. THE “GIVE HIM HIS SPACE”

This person is obviously quite under the influence... of what I am not sure.

4. “SHOULD I GET UP OR STAY PUT?”

This person looks like they ride often enough to handle standing up for a few stops, but you can’t b e s u r e i f t h e y c o n s i d e r themselves elderly yet or are in their fifties and in denial. If you get up, you risk insulting them. If you stay put, you might look like a jerk.

18

5. BABY PHAT

There is nothing as beautiful as the bond between mother and child. Especially when the two are clad in matching Baby Phat apparel and mother is dragging child down the platform by his elbow, a stroller tucked under her arm and a sidekick in her other hand. “Be a good boy and carry Mommy’s over-sized Gucci tote bag, Junior.”

6.YOUNG LOVERS

“Hey! This is the thirty six, not the Motel Six. Do us all a favor, get off at the next stop and get a room.”

7. IS HE FOR REAL?

Who knew Lady Gaga had a protruding gut and receding hairline?

8. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

If your opt for a nap as an alternative to observation, you will encounter none of these people. This is my personal preference for traversing the city.

Sweet dreams.

(Sarai Reed)

17

NILE MYERS

ADIMUHer mother came into her room that morning

and she looked at her with a sense of bewilderment. In just hours she would begin her first day at school in a new country. Her mother told her to make the best of it. Her mother had always told her to make the best of everything. To make the best of the humble offerings she was used to back home. To make the best of the situation whenever placed with relatives, as she had been for a number of years before being sent for. Even the plane ride she would take alone to the U.S. was something she was urged to make the best of. Her mother leaned over and kissed her softly on the forehead, just as she did when she came to meet her at the airport, the traces of her cheap perfume lingered on her daughter. She shuffled out of the doorway and in the direction of her room. Adimu could not sleep after this. She struggled with her legs and arms to push her body away from her bed. She made the bed up and put her glasses on. She pulled the sheets back, folded the top of them and then put her comforter at the foot of her bed.

Adimu was adored back home in the village she was raised, at school she had been revered. She would oftentimes be excused from class to attend the Principal's quarters where she would either help to fetch water from the well or help to organize important files. Most times the Principal would talk to her about the importance of education, and schooling abroad. But there was the occasion where he would probe her for her thoughts on boys and what she liked to do on the weekends. On those occasions he would feed her, and give her pieces of chocolate, hugging her when she left to return to class and ensuring that his hands would linger on her backside for just a little longer than necessary.

* * *

18

Adimu walked toward the bathroom, her bare feet shot through with cold on the linoleum floor. She flipped the light switch and stared at the reflection of her ghostly self. Full but pink lips, huge blue eyes, pale skin and soft blond hair. She searched through the bathroom cabinet for the sunscreen prescribed for her, and after brushing her teeth she showered and vigorously applying the lotion. She returned to her room and dressed into the burgundy polo shirt and khaki pants that would be her school uniform for the coming years.

While on her way to school she thought of Abasi, a boy who back home in the village she would find waiting for her at the end of school. From there he would follow her to her family compound, giving her stolen mangoes and reciting poetry on how beautiful he thought she was. She never paid him that much attention. He wasn’t in school and was known as a young thief in the village; her uncles would never consider him a worthy suitor. She would look down at the ground as he talked, watching for lizards and potholes. The last time she saw him, he had lingered outside the compound for longer than expected. Her uncle emerged and shooed him away. He had turned and asked Adimu who the boy was. She denied having ever seen him before and in that moment it was as if the deities themselves were listening because she did not see him again.

* * *

19

On the bus, a young child stared at Adimu as she looked out of the window. As if she felt the eyes themselves climbing upon her, Adimu turned to look at the girl and saw fear. Such emotions were ugly things to bear with naked eyes, so Adimu looked away. “Mommy, mommy,” she heard the girl say, “look, a ghost.” Foolishly, Adimu looked about her for this apparition that the girl spoke of. She thought the sight of the young girl’s index finger bearing towards her was a funny sight to behold, and as the young girl tugged at her mother’s coat Adimu affectionately pulled a face and giggled. The young girl’s mother softly scolded her daughter and turned to Adimu ashamed, “Sorry,” she said, “she’s five.”

The bus stopped, the doors opened and a short man entered. He asked to sit beside Adimu, but unsure of his question and struggling to make out the words behind his accent, Adimu stayed silent. She remained that way as the bus grew crowded. She began to feel the eyes of many, burning into her back and face, most of them wearing the same uniform as her; khaki pants and burgundy shirts. It felt as though everyone was not only staring at her, they were also talking about her. Under her breath she began to mutter curses in Swahili. She caught the eyes of one boy who reminded her of Abasi, he smirked and burst out in laughter as he turned away from her. As if contagious, his laughter caused others to erupt on the bus, and the more uproar Adimu heard, the more it frustrated her. She rose when the bus came to a halt, but knowing she was new in the city, she resisted the urge to get off. Instead she made her way to the front of the bus. Was this her welcome to America? She began to tear up at the thought of what the coming days meant for her. The uniformed students eventually made their own way to the front. One girl put aside her reticence and asked “What are you?” Her question followed by yet another eruption of laughter. Not knowing how to answer, Adimu pulled her hands away from wiping her face and said: “I’m Adimu.”

She closed her eyes and let herself slip away from the bus to where the sounds of drums steadily grew louder and she could feel moist dirt under her toes. It was warmer now and she could feel hands at her feet. She was home again. They were singing her name. Her people. People like her. Her eyes were damp and her lips stretched across the entire village. Her mother held her hand and raised it in the air. The chant was ‘Adimu’.

MAX FRESHOURESSAY: A BRIEF GUIDE ON THE HISTORY OF

INDEPENDENT ANIMATION

25JILLIAN BURFORD

LA COLORA Mami grew up the middle of seven children with one younger sister, two younger brothers, and three older brothers. From the moment of birth, she was the pariah of the family; the outcast, the black sheep because Carla was the only Santana Ramirez child with flesh as dark as a ripe mango. Abuelita’s family came from nearly puro Spanish decent with close to no drop of Taino or African blood. Abuelo, on the other hand, came from Puerto Rican Taino parents, but recessive genes kicked in and his hue went to Mami. While Mami was the smartest of the Santana Ramirez children, all of Abuelita’s terms of endearment went to the others, as if Mami didn’t exist. Mi luz, my light. Mi amorcito, my little love. Mi corazoncito, my little heart. But Mami was la colora, the colored-one: Abuelita’s underhanded way of saying “You’re too dark to be my child.” The year was 1966 and Altagracia Ramirez Lopez and Ernesto Santana Pea were expecting their third child. They were living in Cerro Gordo, Bayamón, between Don Lalo’s bodega and the local medicine woman/midwife Dona Inca, a small, frail woman with skin as fair as dulce con leche and veins like the rivers of Puerto Rico. Altagracia, a petite woman (even with her swollen womb) with piercing green eyes and flowing, raven-colored hair, rubbed her seven-month-old belly and prayed to Atabey, the goddess of fresh water and fertility, for a safe birth and beautiful blessing. “Altagracia, you’re going to have a beautiful baby girl, you know,” Dona Inca smiled a toothless smile, placing a steaming bowl of sancocho in front of the mother-to-be. “How do you figure, Dona Inca?” Altagracia looked up from her plate of black beans and rice. “It’s all in the belly. Niños sit low, niñas sit high. Your face is fat and your chichas are huge! You’re having a girl, mi amor!” Dona Inca rubbed her belly with excitement. Altagracia rubbed her swollen belly and spoke with a whisper to her unborn daughter, “You’re going to be beautiful, muñequita.”

Altagracia left the Dona’s house with a smile across her face; her dimples grapefruit-pink in the Borinken sun. As she walked out into the busy streets of Cerro Gordo, she held her belly; careful to avoid the borrachos strewn about on the streets with their bottles of Patron and Bacardi and Medalla. She tip-toed around sleeping strays and piles of garbage until she reached her doorstep. She pulled her key from her smock’s front pocket, turned the rusted doorknob, and stepped over the salted threshold. She hung the small silver piece on the hook her husband hung beside the door and kicked off her dusty chanclas to trade them in for comfortable slippers. As she began to head to the small room she and Ernesto shared, there was a knock at the door. Altagracia mumbled an “ay bendito” under her breath and shuffled back towards the door. “Yes? What is it?” Altagracia snatched the door open quickly and eyed the woman standing before her. She stood with a sleeping baby in her arms in tattered clothing and no shoes. Her hair muddy red and kinky and her eyes a breathtaking silver against her scarred chestnut flesh. “Please, senora, help my baby. She is only two years old and starving. Her name is Sayra,” the woman spoke with a cry. “Where is her father?” Altagracia stepped onto the porch and quickly shut the door behind her to keep the woman’s air outside. “Working in Don Mago’s tobacco field. My husband, he works very, very hard, but we struggle. All I ask is for your help, senora.” Altagracia examined the woman and twisted her upper lip in disapproval of the woman’s approval. She stepped back from the woman as far as possible and held her belly to protect her baby girl from the poor woman. “Why did you come to me?” “I heard that you helped the Riveras with their money issues and helped take care of their baby when they couldn’t afford to keep him anymore. Senora, all I ask is for your help. Please.”

Altagracia stood in silence momentarily with one hand on her belly and the other on the doorknob behind her. She gripped the doorknob and the moldings pressed into the palm of her hand. She stared down her nose at the brown woman and her brown baby, ignoring the twinkling silver of her iris. The woman held Sayra up towards Altagracia; she stirred in her mother’s arms, but never opened her eyes. She studied the milkiness of her own flesh against the baby; she was disgusted at the thought of cradling baby Sayra, feeding baby Sayra, and kissing her when she cries. She twisted up her lip and opened the door behind herself. “I cannot help you.” “Senora, please.” “I cannot help you or your husband or your baby,” Altagracia stepped back into the house and spoke from behind the door, “Please leave.” “God will punish you for your selfish ways, bruja!” And with that, the door closed with a slam and Altagracia turned up her face in disgust.

It was a muggy November day when it happened. Altagracia’s body moved with tremors and she screamed with every bit of her being. With Ernesto and Dona Inca at her side and her sons at her sister’s, Altagracia pushed and pushed and pushed as the Dona instructed. “Push, amorcita, push!” Dona shouted while waving a palm branch over Altagracia’s belly. Altagracia writhed in pain and glanced out the window. A crow landed on the cracked window sill of the small home. It squawked and flapped its ugly, black wings with ferocity. “Shoo, shoo!” Ernesto charged at the bird to scare it away. The crow simply flew away to the tree outside and continued to squawk. Altagracia’s once pale skin now as red as paprika, she screamed and shouted until one last push. “Ay santo dios...” Dona whispered. “What? Let me hold my baby girl.” Ernesto and Dona Inca examined and cleaned the baby girl before placing the baby girl into her mother’s arms. Altagracia’s smile melted into a scowl at the sight of the brown baby girl in her arms; her flesh a cafe con leche brown, her hair as curly and dark as the night, and her eyes as hazel-green as could be. The room became heavy with silence. “What would you like to name her, Altagracia?” Ernesto held his wife’s shoulders and looked down at his newborn daughter. “I don’t want to name it,” Altagracia looked away from the baby in her arms, “You name it.” “What about Delsa?” “No. I don’t want to name it after my mother.” “What about Carla?” “Fine. It’s nice. We’ll call her Carla.”

ROOM 18 - ISSUE #3- MAY 2011PRODUCED BY THE LITERARY MEDIA & COMMUNICATIONS DEPARTMENT