Kathleen Marasciulo

Of herself and her life, Kathleen writes: “We are all lucky enough to be unique individuals, and it’s a gift that no two people are exactly alike. What makes me unique is my colorful personality. I am very ‘chameleon-like,’ in that I am able to easily adapt to my given surroundings. I also have a heart that stretches beyond my body and is full of overflowing love. I treasure love and naturally gravitate to positive thoughts and energy. I enjoy meeting new people and have even been told that I am a great listener. I find myself fascinated by the wonder of the world, and people surely add to the beauty and uniqueness of it. This is especially true considering [that in] the vast scheme of things, we humans are just a small part of the enormousness of this home we call earth. With my colorful personality comes a love of writing, reading and listening to music. I’m proud to be an English major at West graduating by fall next year. I’m grateful to be a mom of two beautiful boys and a wife to my beautiful wife. We all happily reside together with our dog Trixie, our cats Scout and Dasher, our two turtles, two toads, four fish and a frog.”

Other Work:

Don’t Look Back

(297 words without title)

"He smelled of gasoline and cigarettes and his voice was dry and agitated."

You could see that the black nail polish on her fingernails was worn and chipped as she pressed her small hands up against the wall adjacent to the alley. She wasn’t sure what he wanted or was going to do to her, but she listened to his instructions so far. “Stop moving around,” he instructed. “I’m not exactly comfortable here,” she screeched. Then she felt the cold barrel of his gun push up against the side of her neck and he asked if that was better. The thoughts in her head were racing around as pellets of sweat dripped from her hairline as she got increasingly more and more nervous about what was going to happen next. He smelled of gasoline and cigarettes and his voice was dry and agitated. “What do you want?” she demanded. He burst out into hysterical laughter that was both shocking and nauseating, and she could feel the unsteadiness of his hand as the gun moved haphazardly around her neck and head. “Stop it!” she cried as tears mixed with sweat ran down her face. “Oh, shit lady, I’m not going to shoot you, just stop moving around and as soon as my bros get back we’ll be out of your hair,” he said in a rather disgruntled tone. “Just let me go now! I don’t know anything! Let me go! I want to go home!” she cried. Suddenly her world went black, and she was in and out of consciousness, lying on the ground. She was afraid to move. Am I alone? Am I wounded? Is there blood? She could hardly open her eyes, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. “Hello,” she managed to utter, but there was only silence. “I want to,” she said, and her world turned black.

Light Bright

(278 words without title)

" This moment is etched in my memory and will be there forever just like a tattoo."

My eyelids were lifted open by his gentle little fingers. Then I heard his soft voice speak ever so sweetly, “Light bright mama, light bright – it’s time to wake up.” My eyes barely focused on his two-and-a-half-year-old face with huge blue eyes that took up half of it, as they stared into my just woken eyes. “Yes, baby,” I said. Part of me was really annoyed with being woken up so darn early, but I complied because he wanted my attention and he wanted to be with me. We cuddled and he would gently rub the hairs on my arm in comfort. I so badly wanted to drift back into that deep sleep I was in just moments ago, but how could I? My child wanted to connect with me in that moment in time. He was awake and needed his want fulfilled. His name is Marino, and he’s my second son. This moment is etched in my memory and will be there forever just like a tattoo, and I’m so very grateful for it. He’s nine now, but has never come back to wake me up in this way since. He has come into my room and climbed into my bed, seeking comfort from the arm hairs he has grown to enjoy numerous times, and still even finds comfort there now. But the time when he was two-and-a-half years old is now just a faded memory that only I remember; he was way too young. He will continue to grow and seek comfort elsewhere and soon no longer want my attention; much like Eddie, my 11-year-old son.

Editor: LinckeN@WLAC.edu | West Los Angeles College | 9000 Overland Ave, Culver City CA 90230 | www.wlac.edu
Production Mngr: Michelle Long-Coffee | Web Design: Clarissa Castellanos