Looking for authors, poets, and visual artists for our Spring publication! Open to all artists and writers in the Bay Area! Deadline: February 27, 2019. Submission guidelines here.
MK Chavez is an award-winning author, co-founder/curator of the reading series Lyrics & Dirges, co-director of the Berkeley Poetry Festival, a fellow with CantoMundo, and a Fall 2018 guest curator of the reading series at UC Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive.
Join us September 19 for a free and open to the public poetry reading poetry reading on Mission Campus in Room 107-108 from 6:00pm-8:00pm.
Clara Davis was born in Redondo Beach, California and moved to San Francisco for college. She is in the process of completing her BA in studio art at CCSF and SFSU. She has been shown in multiple local galleries and currently works in a shop fabricating and installing public art.
“I have been drawing most of my life, and have been passionate about art most of my life. The only other thing I may be just as passionate about is music. So in this piece I decided to meld the two passions by creating this portrait of one my musical influences.”
Joaquin Ceniceros born and raised in the Bay Area, Hayward more specifically.
Maya Archer-Doyle graduated from CCSF with an AA and a certification in Library Technology and from Mills College with a BA in creative writing. “I grew up in San Francisco and continue to live here despite everything.”
by Lelonnie Taylor
(an excerpt) This is the first story in my creative non-fiction anthology, “Child Who Hurt You?” The full story will be released on my blog, this Christmas.
I saw the back of his head and fell in love.
It was the only thing I could see when I cocked mine over my shoulder after hearing a collective “OH SHIT!” followed by the instigative chatter surrounding a fight.
It had to be around 11:45 a.m.; lunchtime at Trevor G. Browne High School was typically rowdy–with gang fights, spirit rallies, and the bustle of young gossip.
It was partly cloudy, but the sun shined a blinding pastel yellow. In its ray his hair was coffee: silky, black, with reddish amber highlights revealed when cast in the right angle. Tied in a low ponytail, it poured past his shoulders in soft S’s stopping half-way down his lanky, 5-foot-4 frame.
His skin was lit tobacco: spotted mahogany with a soft glow, dressed in a white tall tee, and silver Starter basketball shorts, to be acquired by me the summer before junior year.
I elbowed through the thick crowd of bystanders and yank his ponytail.
“Can I fucking help you?!”
“I don’t need help with anything, but YOU can walk me to class.”
He slowly grinned, took my hand and we made our way to Algebra 1.
The only thing anyone could see for the rest of the school day was my teeth.
After the final bell, I meandered with the rest of the herd to the bus station at the mall two blocks from campus. I was looking to kill time since it was early-release, and my mom didn’t pick me up til at least 4:30.
I was looking for that boy.