Written and edited by Ruby Lee Schembari
What you’re about to read are snippets of writing from various projects I’ve worked on. Some have never seen the light of day until now. Some of these stories have a connected narrative while others don’t. It’s best to look at each piece as an individual rather than looking at it as a cohesive narrative-driven story.
Thanks for reading!
One Day in Primm, Nevada (last edited 10/03/26)
Just past the California state line, sits a peculiar little place called Primm. It’s an unincorporated town in Clark County, Nevada, made up of a few gas stations, casinos, retail stores, and fast-food locations.
After weaving in and out of Arizona and California all morning, I decided to head to Primm to beat the heat before driving through Vegas to the Hoover Dam and down to Lake Havasu.
I pulled into one of many gas stations located in Primm and refueled the 2013 Ford C-Max my Aunt let me borrow for the trip. It was a teal fuel-electric hybrid SUV, the ideal car camping vehicle because the interior was large enough to fit a queen-sized air mattress. I loved that thing.
Once the car was filled, I decided to spend an hour waltzing around Buffalo Bill’s Resort & Casino. As I walked towards the casino entrance, the smell of cigarette smoke intensified with each step closer. My nose twitched when I swung the door open, and a thick veil of black haze wafted out into the desert air like a dissatisfied customer in a rush to leave.
Upon entering, all five of my senses were aggressively violated. The air felt thick from concentrated cigarette smoke. Looking into the casino floor from the entrance was like looking into the mouth of a deep, dark cave that had flashing lights from video poker machines shooting out. Curiously, I stepped into the darkness.
As I walked in deeper, I noticed that a lot of the counters and slot machines were covered in a thin grey layer of ash. Initially, I thought, “This isn’t the worst place I’ve been to,” but the deeper I wandered, I began to realize how depressing this place was.
Everyone inside had bloodshot, sunken eyes that looked as if they hadn’t blinked in days, and their skin was pale and lifeless.
Underneath their eyes were massive black bags, perhaps from the use of uppers, overpriced alcohol, and the lack of sleep. I’d estimate that each gambler spent at least six hours out of the day staring aimlessly into a screen that teased them with the idea of rich, fruitful dreams that came with slim chances of happening.
They all knew this, yet they tried their hardest regardless of how rare it was to strike it rich in this barren wasteland. Rarely did I see anyone look away from the screens of the gambling machines in case they missed their big victory and a dopamine hit.
I don’t think anyone even noticed me. I was invisible, a ghost among the addle-brained cattle who sold their hopes and dreams away for a pack of smokes, wild turkey whiskey, and a gram or two of methamphetamine, which was to be savored over the course of a wild weekend.
While depressing, the general theme and decor of the casino are rather nice. It’s all Western-themed. And in the middle of the casino stands a large fake tree with a 360-degree bar below. I guess there was an indoor roller coaster you could ride, but I think it was out of order when I went.
I eventually found myself in the casino gift shop, which had the typical tacky knick-knacks that one would buy after spending a weekend there, just in case they forgot where they had lost a few thousand dollars.
However, I did find a decently priced coffee mug as a gift for my friend.
As I was standing in the checkout line, I noticed a tall, slender, sunburned man holding a messy sleeping bag. Underneath his stained coat sleeves was a Nautical Star tattoo that had faded from too much exposure to the sun.
“How can I help you, hun?” said a pale, dirty blonde woman behind the counter. “Could you wrap this mug for me? It’s for a friend,” I said.
She began to glance around the counter space for gift wrap, but after a few seconds, she gave up and said, “I don’t have gift wrap, but I have something else that won’t be fancy.”
The guy next to me chuckled and began to look at me. “That’s fine. How’s your day going?” I asked. “Eh, same old, same old; it’s hot out,” She said as she looked at the man.
“I hear that,” the man sighed with a chuckle. I looked over at him and asked, “How are you?”
He smiled at me, revealing that several of his teeth were missing. The likely culprit was methamphetamine.
“Not so good. I’ve been stuck out here for a week without a car or a place to sleep,” He said, looking away. “Oh, that’s too bad. Hopefully, you get out of here soon,” I said in a hopeful tone.
“Yeah, I want to. My car got stolen by this guy I know, real scum,” he said with a hiss. “I gotta get back to New Berry Springs, but first, breakfast,” he said as he raised a bag of chips and a Pepsi.
As I walked away, I couldn’t help but feel sad for him. I couldn’t imagine what it was like to be stranded in a place like this, where you’re all alone on this tiny little strip in the middle of a highway of despair.
I walked as fast as I could towards the casino exit. I wanted to get as far away from this place as possible.
When I swung the door open and stepped outside, I saw what looked to be a John taking a skimpy-ly dressed prostitute back to his hotel room. She was wearing a white see-through dress with white heels. It was hard to tell where the dress began and where it ended because of how pale she was.
The two of them together looked rather sickly, and anyone with half a brain could figure out what they were up to, for these were not newlyweds on the run.
After everything I had seen within that hour, my realization of what hell is became clear.
Hell is nothing more than an hour on the casino floor…
Midnight Run (edited on 10/03/2026)
The wind howled through my window as I sped down the beaten road out of Tombstone. The bright summer sun, as furious as ever, tore down into my windshield, scorching my unprotected skin. With every second, my heart beat twice as fast, and with every racing thought, I drove faster.
Time itself melted away in the heat until it was nothing but boiled-down remains wasting away in the desert sands. I could see the vultures circling, waiting to pick it all away.
I could hear the gnashing of their sharp beaks as they tore into my mind with their razor-like talons. I could hear screaming coming from every inch of my vehicle as it blasted through the desert, thrashing around the road like a rabid shark on the hunt.
Blinded by bleeding eyes, I drove aimlessly until the sun set, ranting and screaming out of my window into the suffocating darkness.
The road hardly talked back; it listened as we rode along into the night.
Nearly half the trip from Tombstone to Lake Havasu was engulfed in pure blackness, and the only light I saw was the occasional headlight or the stars that burned brightly in the night sky. The moon was bright and full, lighting up a clear path to where I was going, anywhere but here.
All I could hear as I steadily crept into the black abyss was the howling desert wind. The night air was cool and felt soothing whenever I ashed my joints on the car door.
After 4 hours of driving, my eyes were red and sore. My body ached, and my stomach grumbled for food. Anything sounded good; I was so desperate for a meal that I would have eaten the greasiest or saltiest slop late-night dining offers.
It wasn’t until about 1 AM that I reached Lake Havasu.
The Town of Eternal Sunshine (edited on 10/04/2026)
From a distance, shrouded in darkness, Lake Havasu City beamed like a beacon of hope.
However, it wasn’t the sun shining; it was thousands of blinding lights that soaked the city streets in neon hues of pink and blue. You’d think that at this time, most people would be at home, sleeping or doing something quiet to pass the time until it was daylight, but the streets were far from quiet and sleepy. People roamed about, hopping from bar to bar, searching for something to pass the time. Large SUVs hauled lake boys and girls around, cutting corners and blaring their music as loud as possible.
In the night air, large desert moths danced to the sounds of humming motorboats skating across the lake and people partying on the beaches. The occasional sound of gunfire, or perhaps fireworks, wedged itself in between the hums and cheers, never quite allowing silence to peek through.
When I reached my hotel room, I ripped my sweat-stained clothes off, cranked the AC, and crawled into bed. When I closed my eyes, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to be in my own bed listening to the occasional snore from my dog, Rosa.
A little tear crept from my eye, slowly rolling down my cheek as I drifted off into a deep sleep.
Even in my dreams, I was haunted by what happened earlier in the day. All I could think about was that fight.
It was about 10 AM when my eyes first opened, and the sun was already hot and furious. I quickly packed up my things back in the car as fast as possible, for I wanted to get the eight-hour drive ahead of me over with.
8th Hour
Every hour on the road from Lake Havasu City to Santa Cruz was long and agonizing, with minutes feeling like hours and hours like days. I found myself glaring ahead in the distance, dreaming of being farther and farther away from where I was running from, and with each mile past, I felt freer.
Usually, I try to drive a slow but steady pace so I may observe my surroundings and take in the beauty of the open road, but at this point, it all blurred together in an ugly mess as I raced up I-5. Every stop was carefully thought out so I wouldn’t have to spend more time on the road, and bathroom breaks were scarce unless dire.
In fact, my old water jugs were turned into emergency pee jugs, which may have spilled once or twice. When I pulled into the driveway of my house in Santa Cruz, the clock struck 4:15 PM.
When the car stopped, I stepped out and looked to the sky. I stood there underneath the California sun, breathing in the warm summer air and the scent of home. I took a deep breath and sighed. I was home, safe, and alone. There was no more ground to cover, no more barren highways, no more trouble to think about.
When I walked through the front door, I was greeted by the sight of an empty house. It was quiet and still, like it had been for the past week. When I walked into my living room, I dropped my bags on the floor, peeled my disgusting sweat-stained clothing off my body, and rushed to the shower.
As the warm, soothing water poured upon me, the desert grime and dirt washed down the drain alongside any troubles on my mind.
It was over, no longer something I had to run from. I was home, and that’s all that mattered.
Euphoria (edited 10/04/2026)
The evening sky swirled with hues of bronze and gold as I drove down the empty side of a coastal highway with the sun setting behind the mountains. On the other side of the highway was a sparkling stream of white light slithering past me. My vision swiveled around as the treeline and road became a massive wave of darkness.
With the sounds of trance pouring from my speakers and the vibrations of the two-ton automobile that I was driving, I became one with this mystical fall evening. I was lost with the fairies, lost on this great American highway, and caught between the thin lines of reality and this psychotropic-induced sense of euphoria.
And now, as I sit by the candlelight, I write and send to you, the reader, a sealed envelope of nostalgia.
A SLICE OF PARADISE (last edited on 10/12/2026)
Pineapple on pizza is a culinary conundrum that has sparked passionate disputes and split pizza aficionados worldwide. This divisive topping has sparked intense conversations, and we’re here to present the varied viewpoints from the Cabrillo community.
Sam Bass, a 36-year-old student support specialist, is a staunch pizza enthusiast. “Pizza’s a big deal for me,” He declared. Intrigued by his passion, I broached the most controversial question: pineapple on pizza, the topic of heated dinner-table debates across America. Bass admitted being open to the idea, but it took him a while to warm up to it. “I feel like the straight ham and pineapple tomato sauce thing doesn’t really do it for me. There needs to be a spicy and sweet element to balance things out,” he explained.
Bass, originally from New York City, moved to California a decade ago, and his taste buds evolved. “I’m not a pizza purist; I grew up with New York-style pizza, so that’ll always have a special place in my heart,” he confessed. But Bass isn’t the only one who appreciates the tropical fruit on top of America’s favorite guilty pleasure. Jasper Elvers, a 20-year-old sociology major, is also a fan. “I’ll eat my pineapple on pizza in peace,” Elvers declared.
While Sam Bass and Jasper Elvers may be on one side of the spectrum, there are those, like Dante Luke, who stand firmly against the idea. “I would say I’m pretty against it,” Luke stated, his tone leaving no room for doubt. Luke, a plant science major, may not like fruit, but he does enjoy vegetables on his pizza, like roasted broccoli. But Dante isn’t the only person who dislikes pineapple on pizza.
Nick Rowell, a 42-year-old political science professor, also doesn’t want a slice of that action. When asked how he felt about the combination, Rowell replied, “Major thumbs down, unacceptable under any circumstance, pineapples do not belong on pizza; it’s a criminal issue.”
While I may disagree with his opinion, I do appreciate it. That is part of food’s beauty in our society, not just the flavors but the thoughts and feelings surrounding it. Nothing is more entertaining than hearing people speak their minds about what they love or hate, for it’s a mutual lust for flavors that brings us together.
Note from the editor: I honestly forgot that I even wrote this tiny article about pineapple on Pizza. It was actually one of the first pieces of writing I put together while attending Cabrillo. This is before my initial professional debut in Good Times Santa Cruz in the spring of 2023.
About A Girl (Last edited on 10/13/2026)
One late, cold winter night, I was lying in bed scrolling through social media. I stumbled upon a rather attractive young woman with a much more attractive, inspiring story of freedom and exploration. This girl’s name is Sailor. She’s 19 years young and is living a bigger, bolder life than some forty-year-olds I know. My first initial question when I called Sailor was why? Why do you live in a van? Her response to me was that she had nowhere else to go, so she bought a van and decided to live in it. However, she said she could have gotten an apartment, but she didn’t want to be tied down. Travel was at the forefront of Sailor’s mind. My follow-up question to Sailor was what about van life was appealing to her. She paused for a second, as if to process a lot of good experiences to choose from to answer my question. Sailor explained that she liked to travel and liked constant change in life. Sailor and her girlfriend, Kayleigh, who’s 20, are on the golden road to unlimited.
Sailor had bought the van when she was 18 years old last summer. After spending a year living in her van, she said that the high point of her time was opening the van door to freedom each and every morning. She enjoyed the fact that she could park anywhere in nature and hang out. However, the high points were not enough for them to keep going with the van. Sailor said that the low points of the van were how cramped it was, and how expensive it was to maintain the van. Sailor had also expressed annoyance with the lack of twenty-four-hour parking in Santa Cruz.
Of course I had to ask an all-auspicious road guru a question that’s probably on your mind: “Do you miss living in a house?” Sailor said that she sometimes misses showering every day.
Note from the editor: This was one of the first profiles I ever wrote. Long before I attended Cabrillo, long before my time as a professional journalist. This is the piece of writing that made me realize I could learn to do it properly if I was taught to do so. I had a lot of good mentors through the years. Some I miss more than others. I edited this a little bit but wanted to keep its original composure somewhat intact. Just to show how much I’ve grown as a writer. OK, EGO TRIP OVER!
Olde American – Holy City (Last edited on 10/13/2026)
What was once religious cult land is now a decaying notion of the past, a simple reminder of how not to be. What’s left of the infamous Holy City is a long rectangular building with dusty, unwashed walls and boarded-up windows. Beyond its rough exterior, the site offers a look into the past of a Christian cult. William Riker, the Holy City’s former owner, is genuinely damned and depraved.
In 1919, the Holy City was built by Mr. Riker and thirty of his followers, yet a hundred years later, it was officially classified as a ghost town by the state of California. Riker had gotten the idea from hearing the voice of “God,” instructing him to build a holy communion. The Holy City had no church despite being a Christian cult. Services were held in Riker’s home, where he would preach segregation of sex and race with a sprinkle of white supremacy. The Holy City also had a twelve-pump gas station, restaurant, soda stand, penny peep show, observatory, zoo, barbershop, and shoe repair.
In 1924, the Holy City got its own radio station. It wasn’t until July 7th of the same year that it went on air under the call letters of KFQU. In December of 1931, KFQU went off the air. The Holy City had its license renewal denied because of “irregularities” in January 1932. Throughout the early to mid-thirties, the Holy City and surrounding neighborhoods peaked at almost 300 residents. However, by 1938, the Holy City was beginning to die. With the construction of Highway 17 in 1940, the Holy City began to lose business because it was no longer the main route through the mountains. At the end of the Great Depression, many of Riker’s followers began to find work elsewhere.
Nineteen years later, the Holy City was dead, and Riker lost the rights to the land. Shortly after that, a mysterious fire destroyed most of the Holy City. There is only one building that survived. In 2006, the Holy City was back on the market, and it wasn’t until 2016 that it was repurchased. It was bought for $6 million by Robert and Trish Duggan. Robert Duggan has been described by the former Scientology executive Mark Rathbun as the “Largest financial supporter” of Scientology. Scientologists now own the Holy City.
A large cloud of dust washed over my car as I pulled in front of the last remaining building of the Holy City. It was a warm October day, and the sun shone down upon the earth with its fiery rays of heat. I hopped out of the car with my camera and stood there, unsure of what I was about to find. This was my first expedition, and I was alone, so naturally, I felt a little anxious. I glanced each way on the road next to me to see if anyone was coming. I didn’t want people to see me and think I was trying to break in. Once the coast was clear, I began to poke around the remains of the Holy City. The walls were covered in thick layers of dust, and cobwebs hung down like banners of age. It was clear no one had been here in some time, except maybe squatters and vandals, and even then, I doubt they would clean the place up.
The front end of the property was relatively safe to walk around. It was dirty but explorable.
I slowly walked along the front hallway of the Holy City, taking photos as I strolled. Eventually, I reached the end of the dusty old hallway and found myself standing on the right-hand side of the building. To my left was a chain-link gate with a sign in the middle that read “KEEP GATE CLOSED AND LOCKED,”. I quickly glanced around to see if anyone was watching me, but I was alone. I ran towards the gate and peered through the holes of the chain-link to see if there was anything of interest, but all I could see was a big open field. I turned away in disappointment and began to walk back to my car until I noticed something in the corner of my eye. It was another gate that led to the back end of the property. I cautiously approached the gate and peered through the mid-rails to get a better look. There was another long outdoor hallway that looked almost identical to the front. I pulled back and looked around for a way to climb over or under the fence, but after a few moments of observation, I decided to crawl under.
All over the ground were shards of broken glass. I moved carefully, for I didn’t want to risk getting poked or cut. Steadily, inch by inch, I managed to get to the other side of the fence without getting cut. I stood up and began to look around while dusting myself off. I took a few steps forward to get familiar with my surroundings. The walls were dusty and covered with crude graffiti, and the floor was covered with broken glass. To the left were boarded-up windows and locked doors, and to the right was a fence covered in thick blackberry bushes. Somehow, the back hallway felt longer and, in a way, colder despite the fact that it was in direct sunlight.
I took my time exploring the rear hallway, observing the crude artwork on the wall. As I got closer and closer to the dark end of the hallway, I noticed the temperature dropping gradually.
When I reached the edge of the darkness, I turned on my flashlight to see if anything was there, but it was empty. I turned off my light and stood in the darkness in silence, trying to embrace it, but I felt as if I wasn’t alone. As soon as the light was off, I felt as if some dark entity stood there with me, quietly observing, anticipating my next move. I walked slowly backward with my back to the light. I knew in the logical side of my mind nothing was there, but the thought of the unknown scared me. When I reached the light, I turned around and headed towards the gate as fast as possible. I could feel whatever was lurking in the shadows piercing through me with spiteful eyes. I crouched down and slithered out of the opening as fast as possible. When I was on the other side of the gate, I turned around to see if anything was there, but nothing was. As I turned around to walk towards my car to leave, I felt a cool breeze gently touch the back of my neck, perhaps a reminder of the cold within the darkness.
Olde American – Evergreen Cemetery (Last edited on 10/13/2026)
Nearly two hundred years ago (176 years as of 2026), the Evergreen Cemetery was built as a gift from the Imus family to Santa Cruz, California. The cemetery is divided into five sections: the Grand Army of the Republic section, the Freemasons’ section, the central section, the Evergreen extension, and the Chinese section.
In 2014, the Santa Cruz Museum of Art and History constructed a Chinese-style gate to honor Santa Cruz’s early Chinese immigrants (fishermen, railroad workers, servants, and farm workers). One of the earliest recorded burials, according to Wikipedia and Santa Cruz ghost hunters, was in 1850, when a child named Julia Arcan died in Death Valley. The most recent burial there, according to www.findagrave.com, was in 2002, a woman by the name of Clara Eugenia Grensted Jenkins. Clara was born on January 28th, 1911, and died on February 23rd, 2002.
In 1955, a flood occurred on Christmas Day and left the cemetery in poor shape. Over time, the cemetery became overgrown with plants, and gravestones cracked and collapsed. It wasn’t until 1973 that a woman named Renie Leaman led an effort to restore the Evergreen Cemetery. Nowadays, the Santa Cruz Museum of Art and History takes care of the cemetery, with volunteers who regularly maintain and oversee the property.
It was a calm November day, and a gentle fall breeze whistled through the dry leaves on the trees. As I walked up to the entrance of the Evergreen Cemetery, I observed the intricate design of the arch above. The arch was painted green with metal flowers and leaves. In the center of the arch read “EVERGREEN CEMETERY,” and above were two golden dandelions that looked like eyes staring out into the distance. Perhaps to show that life and death are intertwined, and both just as beautiful as the other.
Beyond the entrance were multiple rows of weathered graves. I walked up the main pathway, slowly making my way to each section. I would stop occasionally and observe the graves, reading the names of those who lay below. At some point, I stumbled upon what I like to call the Arnold Bunker. The Arnold Bunker is the final resting place for the Arnold Family: Mr. Edward Arnold, Mrs. Harriet Arnold, and their infant child. The bunker door was sealed shut with a thick green metal door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. When I finished observing the bunker, I explored the rest of the cemetery. In the distance, I could see people bringing flowers to each gravesite. It gave me great peace and comfort knowing that people hadn’t forgotten about the Evergreen Cemetery and still came to pay their respects to those who had long passed.
Some points of interest are:
♥Arnold Bunker
♥Chinese-style Gate
♥Heath Cage
There isn’t much to be careful of at the Evergreen Cemetery. It’s a relatively safe place to be, especially during the daytime. The only thing I would be mindful of is the RVs that are parked out front. I would wear comfortable walking shoes because there is a lot to walk around and see. There are a lot of graves you can stop and pay your respects to. Volunteers regularly maintain the property, so you shouldn’t have any issues as long as you are being respectful. There is no need for a respirator, as all points of interest are outside.
Olde American – Sonoma Developmental Center (Last edited on 10/13/2026)
The Sonoma Developmental Center was originally opened on November 24, 1891. Although the developmental center has stood on the same plot of land (for 135 years as of 2026), it has changed names and locations several times. In 1918, dozens of patients died of Spanish flu, resulting in hundreds of unmarked graves throughout the property.
In 1909, California was the third state to legalize compulsory sterilization. According to Wikipedia, “Compulsory sterilization, also known as forced or coerced sterilization, is a government-mandated program to involuntarily sterilize a specific group of people.” By 1918, Fred Otis Butler became superintendent of the Sonoma Developmental Center. He firmly believed in sterilizing the mentally challenged and that it benefited the individuals and society as a whole. Fred Otis Butler is believed to have sterilized more than 1,000 patients within his career.
During Butler’s tenure as superintendent, the Sonoma Developmental Center acted more as a “revolving operating room” in an attempt to expand beyond itself. The Sonoma Developmental Center admitted people solely for sterilization and release. According to research done by Paul Popenoe, between the years 1922 and 1925, 25% of the women sterilized fell into this category. This aggressive behavior is likely the reason for Sonoma’s high number of sterilizations. The Sonoma Developmental Center has been said to sterilize more mentally challenged patients than any other in the state.
Fast forward to the 1960s, when the Sonoma Developmental Center began conducting dangerous tests and trials on patients. Testing within a mental institution relieved the compensation and consent required for research. One of these experiments was radiation dosing. This resulted in countless injuries and deaths, which are still being investigated. In 2015, the state announced the closure of the Sonoma Developmental Center, which closed its doors on the 31st of December 2019.
It was late October of 2022 when I visited the Sonoma Developmental Center. As I approached the main road of the Sonoma Developmental Center, the sun began to set in the west. When I got closer to the entrance, I noticed a tall cinder block wall ahead. Bright green ivy climbed up and over the walls, reaching for anything to grasp onto. I watched as the wind gently moved through the leaves.
Behind the wall sat a lonesome playground, yearning to be played on once again. The playground was old, much older than me, and it was slowly rusting from years of lack of maintenance. All along the walls of the playground were childlike paintings, like snails and butterflies, now slowly faded from years of exposure to the sun. I slowly walked towards the paintings to get a closer look, but halfway to the wall, a strong headwind blew, causing the rusty metal swings to start swaying. They creaked and groaned as the wind pushed them. I stopped dead in my tracks and watched. The swings swung for a few seconds longer, then slowed to a dead stop. I looked up to the sky, and the sun gently caressed my face with a warm touch. I decided it was time to move on from the playground.
I walked out of the playground and walked along a long outdoor corridor with a pergola above. The sunlight showed through the holes of the pergola, making a checker pattern on the floor. Every few steps I took, I would look into the windows of the building next to me.
Every room was a different classroom, most of which were empty. But there was one room that stood out the most to me. It was mostly empty except for a few oddly placed chairs that had thick layers of dust on them. They looked as if no one had sat in them for years, sitting idly by as time flew by.
At the end of the outside corridor was a giant grass field, and at the end of my vision lay a concrete stage hall. It was pink and somewhat ominous. At the back of the stage was a darkness that lingered in the shade of the sunlight. I climbed up on the stage to get a closer look, but the air felt colder, colder than it should have been. To the left and right of me were doorways that led to small rooms with no light. In one of the rooms was a rusty white trash can with a rusty needle in it, accompanied by some gloves. The other room was pitch black, and I didn’t dare to enter, for I felt piercing eyes staring out at me from the darkness. The damned lay dormant within these walls, and I wouldn’t want to anger them.
Points of interest:
♥Outdoor playground
♥Playground walls
♥Outdoor stage
♥Wright Cottage
The S.D.C. is a relatively safe place to walk around and explore, and I urge anyone reading to explore this place before it’s torn down. I would recommend wearing comfortable closed-toed shoes, as there is a lot to walk around and see. Safety equipment like respirators, gloves, or eye protection isn’t necessary because most points of interest are outdoors. You won’t be able to explore most of the buildings as the doors are locked, and it isn’t worth breaking in. The SDC is regularly supervised by security guards and groundskeepers, so as long as you aren’t causing issues, you’ll be okay.
Olde American – Old Gilroy (Last edited on 10/14/2026)
It was a hot May day. The sun beamed down upon the golden rolling hills along the 152 in California. “Ah yes, the golden road to unlimited; we’re pursuing the American dream, my dear friend,” I told Shasta.
He looked over at me, unsure of what I meant, and shook his head. “Yup,” he said quietly. Silence hung for a few minutes, and my mind wandered. I could imagine living life among the golden hills. Days spent basking in the warm summer sun with wine-soaked teeth. I’d wake up every morning and gaze upon the golden hills. I rushed along the highway, faster and faster by the minute.
Out in the dusty farm fields of Old Gilroy stood an old white farmhouse, falling apart. Around the house stood various little shacks that had mounds of trash inside. Shasta and I stood outside of the house, bracing ourselves to enter the house.
“Are you ready to mask up, Shasta?” I asked him with my respirator on. He reached inside his bag for his mask and put it on. He then looked over to me and gave me a thumbs up. We slowly approached the front door and knocked. We waited for some sort of response or noise, yet the house stood silent. We swung the front door open and stepped in.
The first room we explored was an old kitchen. The cabinets had been raided, and thick cobwebs were draped over them. I could imagine the everyday scenarios of life playing through my mind like an old VHS tape sitcom. I saw a wife prepping dinner in the kitchen as the farm workers finished their days off with a setting sun. I imagine a life much simpler, a life of working for what you need and leaving the rest. Frightening in the eyes of modern-day society, especially a capitalistic society.
To the right of us was a long hallway that led to multiple different rooms, all in different states of disrepair. At the end of the hallway was a flight of stairs that went to the second floor. “Shasta, there are stairs over here,’’ I yelled out. “Best if we avoid going up; there could be trouble,” I said. Shasta shook his head in agreement. We both turned around to walk away until we noticed a living room to the right. Inside the room was a large stone fireplace, and across from it were two giant glass windows looking out onto the farm fields. We approached the windows, looking through the dusty window panes. “Look over there to the right. There are two shacks,” I said. “Oh yeah,” said Shasta in a monotone voice.
We exited the farmhouse from the back door and walked towards the two shacks, springing with eagerness at every step. “HOLY SHIT,” I said loudly as I poked my head through the doorway of the shack. The front door was missing, and the inside of the shack was a putrid mess. The walls had been stripped of the wallpaper, and there was bird shit caked to everything within reach.
The floor was a nasty orange shag carpet with bits of trash and glass woven within the threads. It’d be a bad place to walk around without shoes. All around the room were various things like smashed-up furniture, ripped-up pieces of paper, a tipped-over fridge, and a book called The 1986 Writers Market.
Above us lurked a giant hole in the ceiling, with dozens of little pigeon eyes peering at us from above. They sat there, cooing at us from the darkness. Light peeked through the roof boards, barely revealing the birds in the darkness above. They began to flutter around the more and more we walked through the house. “Angry Pigeons,” I muttered. “Let’s head back to the car. I’m starting to get thirsty,” Shasta said.
“Alright, let me take a few photos, and we’ll get out of here,” I said as I snapped a photo of the room we stood in. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun began to beam its glorious heat rays upon us. It was a dry, desert-like heat with no breeze. The only way to stay cool was sitting in the AC or drinking an ice-cold beverage; even the shade was hot. I opened the trunk of my car, grabbed two cups, and poured Shasta and myself a lukewarm drink of Kansas City Sarsaparilla. I handed Shasta his glass and lit a cigarette. Shasta looked down at his drink and then at me. “Salut,” he said. “Salut,” I replied with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. I lay back in my warm car and looked up at the opal blue sky. The smoke from my cigarette danced in the summer air.
Note from the editor: Shortly after my 21st birthday, this little piece was written. I remember fondly purchasing my first pack of cigarettes that day. It’s interesting to see how much I’ve changed in just three years.
Never published or completed – Measure Z story 09/20/2024 (Last edited on 10/14/2026)
Soda drinkers of the City of Santa Cruz are up in arms about the new proposed measure that will be on the November Ballot.
Measure Z, if passed, would impose a tax of two cents per fluid ounce of sugar-sweetened beverages, like Coca-Cola, that are distributed in the City of Santa Cruz. According to the Fiscal Impact report, the tax would be paid by the distributor, not the consumer, and would include a small business exemption for businesses that make less than $500,000 a year.
According to the same report, the City would generate an estimated amount of $1.3 million in revenue within the first full year if the measure were to pass, and it is not expected to add any significant amount of new administrative costs to the City.
The funds generated from the tax would be deposited in the City’s General Fund. They would be used to support essential City services, including public safety, recreational programs for all ages, and maintenance of City facilities.
According to City Council Member Shebreh Kalantari-Johnson, there are multiple organizations like NAACP Santa Cruz and the Community Action Board that support Measure Z.
“We also have endorsements from local business owners, even if they don’t have an exemption from how we’ve written this measure,” She said.
“They understand the impact is minimal in terms of their business, and it could be significant in terms of health outcomes for our community, so we have a wide range of support,”
One of the local businesses that Kalantari-Jonson said supported the measure is Book Shop Santa Cruz and its owner, Casey Protti.
“I am in support of the Measure, as I was one of the signatories on the ballot language,” Protti said.
She explained that the reason she supports Measure Z is because of an issue with equity.
“I really feel that we need to do more to support the health of our children in our community, and being a mom to two teenagers, I know how hard that can be,” she said.
Protti expressed that she feels like it’s a way of promoting healthy options while also sourcing revenue for the City to supply positive activities for youth to do in Santa Cruz.
When asked what she would say to persuade an undecided voter, she said that it both helps with long-term healthcare costs while also providing better services to the community.
“I think that because there’s an exemption for small businesses, it’s a smart way of providing positive outcomes in our community,” she said.
“And what I see in our community is that there’s a broad array of people supporting this effort, ranging from healthcare providers to local government, youth advocates, and small business owners,” Protti said.
“Then the people who are opposing it are these mega-corporations that are coming in and dropping tons of money into our community on ads.”
However, mega-corporations like Coca-Cola and PepsiCo aren’t the only entities that oppose the measure; there are local business owners who also oppose the measure, such as Christopher Choi, the owner of M.G Sushi located in Midtown Santa Cruz.
Choi worries that if the measure passes, it will hurt his business. He explained that it’s already so expensive to eat out in Santa Cruz, and with the slight increase in beverages, he worries no one will eat at local restaurants.
Yet, Choi isn’t the only one worried about their business being affected. Over at Oyuki Sushi & Peruvian Cuisine, the manager, Maynor Lopez, thinks that life in Santa Cruz is already too expensive.
“It’s already so hard for people to live here, and people already think it’s too expensive,” he said.
Lopez expressed that he’s worried that the measure could persuade tourists not to come to Santa Cruz and eat because of the raised prices.
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