Special thanks to our staff and judges Professor Lopez Bell
Editors Audrey Davis Davaughn Frazier Jade MacDonald Braxton Robinson Sabrina Kennedy
Selection Committee Acadia Grantham
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Congratulations to our Creative Writing and Art Winners... Prose First Place: “The Orange Cat” by Kiana Tuckett Second Place: “The Funeral” by Tayler Hodges Third Place: “Defeated: A Braid Story” by Katelyn Davis
Poetry First Place: “Skin” by Adam Sellers Second Place: “Worth” by Tayler Hodges Third Place: “Welcome to Bipolar” by Trinity Pendleton
Photography First Place: “Wander Lust” by Jarib Pott Second Place: “Chimney Tops” by Braden Hoskyn Third Place: “Flying Football Player” by Leah Matney
Painting and Drawing First Place: “Theme of Death” by Kristy Lee Second Place: “Micro Scales” by Tori Franklin Third Place: “Cracking With Wonder” by Ariel Guilfoyle
Graphic Design First Place: “Lucky” by Anthony Flores
Cloth, Textile, and Ceramics First Place: “Equality Dress” by Danielle Fant 2
Directory
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“Flying Football Player” by Leah Matney.........................................................................5 “Marching Band” by Cailyn Martinez.............................................................................5 “Theme Of Death” by Kristy Lee.....................................................................................6 “I Laughed, Then I Slept” by Kristy Lee..........................................................................6 “Graveyard” by Acadia Grantham....................................................................................7 “A Trance State Of Mind” by Jasmine Morales................................................................8 “A War In My Mind” by Jade Ensley................................................................................8 “Portal World” by Jarib Pott............................................................................................9 “Reflection” by Davaugn Frazier......................................................................................10 “Self Reflection” by Makayla Rogers...............................................................................10 “Skin” by Adam Sellers...................................................................................................11 “Coffee” by Adam Sellers...............................................................................................12 “Drowning” by Amaya Tipps.........................................................................................13 “Picasso Still Life” by Crystal Metcalf............................................................................13 “Tranquil” by Zehr Gibbs Barger...................................................................................14 “Healing The Broken Heart” by Riley Gall....................................................................14 “Stack House” by Davaughn Frazier...............................................................................14 “Marshall” by Gracie Comer............................................................................................15 “Untitled” by Braden Hoskyn........................................................................................15 “Connecting The Dots” by Andrew Hazell.....................................................................16 “Down Courageous Street” by Kendell Johnson..............................................................17 “Chimney Tops” by Braden Hoskyn...............................................................................18 “The Orange Cat” by Kiana Tuckett...............................................................................18 “Another Damn Poem About Dying” by Brianna Moffit.................................................22 “Skyline In Chicago” by Riley Gall.................................................................................22 “Welcome To Bipolar” by Trinity Pendleton...................................................................23 “Double Arches” by Jarib Pott.........................................................................................23 “Untitled” by Carli Knight.............................................................................................24 “Cracking With Wonder” by Ariel Guilfoyle...................................................................24 “Worth” by Tayler Hodges.............................................................................................25 “Beauty In Nature” by Tori Franklin..............................................................................27 “Pay Attention” by Catt Varela-Ruiz..............................................................................28 “Touch of Luck” by Davaugn Frazier.............................................................................28 “The Thing About Sisters” by Emma Vaughn.................................................................29 “Not Just A Hobby” by Zehr Gibbs-Barger....................................................................30 “Water Silo” by Audrey Davis.........................................................................................30 “Sitting Inside Cessna” by Audrey Davis.........................................................................31 “Hellbent” by Tyler Rice................................................................................................31 “Branching Veins” by Brandon Abranches......................................................................32 “Stop” by Marcus Orta...................................................................................................33 “Micro Scales” by Tori Franklin......................................................................................33 “Hazy Skies” by Tori Franklin........................................................................................33 “Bailey” by Davaughn Frazier..........................................................................................34 “Parts of Me” by Sharnel Friedrich...................................................... ...........................34 “Colours” by Catt Varela-Ruiz........................................................................................35 “Views” by Ant Flores.....................................................................................................35
“An Afterthought” by Jade MacDonald...........................................................................36 “Faint Memories” by Braxton Robinson..........................................................................36 “Lucky” by Ant Flores.....................................................................................................37 “Snaking Paths” by Brandon Abranches..........................................................................38 “Frozen Drapings” by Brandon Abranches......................................................................39 “My Darkest Hour” by Chandler Adams.........................................................................40 “El Venado” by Jarib Pott................................................................................................40 “The Equality Collection: Closeup 1” by Danielle Fant...................................................41 “Wrapped In Truth” by Danielle Fant.............................................................................42 “Cloud Dress” by Danielle Fant......................................................................................42 “Wander Lust” by Jarib Pott............................................................................................43 “The Unbroken Plate” by Jade MacDonald.....................................................................43 “The Funeral” by Tayler Hodges.....................................................................................44 “House of Lies” by Sabrina Kennedy...............................................................................45 “Defeated: A Braid Story” by Katelyn Davis....................................................................46 “Forest Fire” by Marcus Orta...........................................................................................47 “Soul Sestina” by Audrey Davis.......................................................................................49 “Seated Piano Man” by Audrey Davis..............................................................................50
In Memoriam
“Rock To River To River” by Pat Verhulst........................................................................51 J’son Pitts and Daniel Hudgens........................................................................................53
Special thanks to our guest judges Cary Gray and Kate Kelleher....................................................................54
In memory of our fellow students: J’son Pitts and Daniel Hudgins
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“Flying Football Player” by Leah Matney
“Marching Band” by Cailyn Martinez Andante, the speed goes as we delve into the music Booing as the other team gets a touchdown “Concessions are now open,” the announcer says Driving to away games to see my friends play Empty bleachers on the visitors’ side Football games and Saturdays; Busy, busy, busy Grinning for the parents to take our pictures Heading to the field at eight in the morning for practice Incompetent referees throwing flags at our players Juggling the responsibilities of knowing our music Kicking the ball and turf flying in the air Looking for my friends by their jersey numbers Marching enthusiastically following the tempo from the booms of the drums Not understanding how these games work Overall loving our performance Pushing through the heat and the pain Quietly reciting a prayer before the game
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Rubbing my tired eyes before an early rehearsal Shivering during the freezing games Trying to find change for a hot dog Unanimously complaining about our hot uniforms sticking to us Very studiously looking at our music Wrangling everyone for a group picture Xylophones being pushed onto the field for halftime Yapping sounds of people on their phones Zooming through the fight song after every touchdown. “Theme Of Death” by Kristy Lee
“I Laughed, Then I Slept” by Kristy Lee
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“Graveyard” by Acadia Grantham Tell me why I have the urge to listen to songs that remind me of you when I cried about you just last week. Why I feel the need to make a playlist so I have something to scream along to when I’m hurting. Thoughts of you make the roads blurry and the windows foggy late at night when I waste my gas just so I can feel free. You still grasp me tightly, even though I have no idea where you are. You could be my neighbor or across the country; Either way, You still make breathing harder. I still can’t go back to that place. It was something we loved, Somewhere where we could express our passions. Now I can’t even bring myself to walk my dog along those paths. Every time I pass your neighborhood, my chest seizes. I half expect to see you walking Max down the sidewalk. For you to look up at just the right moment, Even though you have no idea what my car looks like. For you to scratch at the surface of my newfound happiness… and crush it. Shatter to break, as it’s been said. That’s what you’ve always been best at. You take other people’s lives and hold them in the palm of your hand. You shake them like a snowglobe, for your own entertainment, and watch them slowly lose hope. The snowflakes settle and all is calm. Gingerly, you raise the glass to your lips, Savoring the power you hold so dear. Then you drop it, Almost like it was an accident. They scramble to try and pick up the pieces, But the shards cut their fingers And soon their blood, sweat and tears have become part of their life on the floor. I hate that you hold space in my head. You of all people deserve it the least.
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“A Trance State Of Mind” by Jasmine Morales
“A War In My Mind” by Jade Ensley What wise words could be found behind such shrill eyes? The irises themselves were quite beautiful. A soft butter brown with flakes of green and amber near the center. What worried her most was the exhausting emptiness they held hostage. The blues and purples piercing through the puffy, pale skin beneath her waterline. So what heinous thoughts lay hidden behind her solemn, sinister eyes? Hope. She’s drowning in a sterile white tub and has been for a freckle in time; Despite the anguish of her head being forced under water, she finds solace in the small bubbles of oxygen that has formed in the strands of her swaying, blonde hair. But at the very last, miniscule moment when her lungs can’t bare any more breathless seconds And the flicker of the fluorescent lights begin to fade She hears a whisper: “Breathe”
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Said so softly like the silky surface of a calm sea. And so she does. She gasps for air beneath the surface of the water, and to her surprise, it does what she needs. She feels her diaphragm expand as the sweet oxygen spills into her pink lungs, and she pulls the heavy hand from around her throat. Launching from the lukewarm water she searches every corner of the room to finally meet the sinner behind the hand. And yet again, the shock shivers through her soaking body as she comes breath to breath with no one other than herself. “War can play tricks on the mind, just breathe” she taunts seductively through her soft smirk. And the girl knows that her battle for brain function had only just begun.
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“Portal World” by Jarib Pott
“Self Reflection” by Makayla Rogers The mirror blurs the curvy frame that stands before it. Like a neglected flower she is weltering away. Why can’t she see her reflection? The voices on the inside continue to caterwaul for transformation. As the murmurs of others leap forth with pragmatic statements. Why can’t she see her reflection? The abdomen howls for nutrients as it has been abandoned. Now the bathroom has become her escape from the blurred frame. Why can’t she see her reflection? She is now trapped inside a habit of self-control. The clothes once so tight now engulf her. Why can’t she see her reflection? The mirror no longer blurs the frame that was once there. The wilted flower has diminished down to the roots. Why can’t she see her reflection?
“Reflection” by Davaughn Frazier
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“Skin” by Adam Sellers My Name is Adam. And I have skin. Skin for miles. My skin is special. It’s special because it’s mine. Mine only. I call my acne-filled forehead a volcanic field. One touch and my head will erupt. Gross I know, but it’s my forehead. I call my thighs the beach. Waves have left their mark. But the forest of hair covers them in a warm embrace. They are my thighs. I call my chest the DIY project. Because it was shrunk and put back together. Copied and pasted. To my liking only. It’s my chest. I call my arms an art piece. Once covered with lines from my red pen. Have now transformed into a canvas. I can cover it however I want. They are my arms. I call my body a rare gem. It has been tarnished. Picked at. And been abused. But it still shines. My body does not define who I am as a person. My skin does not deserve the storm it has been through. My body still stands to this day.
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No matter how bad the touch. No matter how bad the scrape. No matter how bad the cut. My skin is mine. Not yours.
“Coffee” by Adam Sellers There was a point in time where I would not drink coffee. My coffee maker sat dormant. Not working hard at all. No creamer in the fridge. No whipped cream in my mugs. No flavor of vanilla, caramel, pumpkin spice, or peppermint. Just bland, tasteless water. Water was the only thing that would fill up my cup. Because coffee reminded me of you. And how it was the only thing you would drink. No water in your system. No coolant, Just heat. A cup for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. None for me. When we would drink coffee together, you told me about sugar. How sweet it would make my coffee. Just like you. So, I started adding sugar. My coffee became infused with you. And anytime you would get a Frappuccino, I would do the same. I was so infatuated with you. So addicted to you, That when you left, coffee was not on my menu anymore. No home brews. No coffee house lattes. No Starbucks shit. Coffee and you consumed my existence. To the point that the taste was you. The smell was you. The feeling was you. Coffee was your addiction, and you are mine. And one day, both became so addicting. I now make or buy coffee every day. To make my days filled with you.
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Memories. Jokes. Your smile. Your laugh. All because of one drink. That brought us together. Who knew. That a drink that can be made hot or iced. Could make such an impact. On two people who were once in love? So, any time I take a sip. Of that iced coffee. That I get at the quaint little coffee shop. Near my dorm, I think of you.
“Drowning” by Amaya Tipps I am drowning in these expectations put upon me Trying to stay afloat in this endless sea I tried to flee this unsightly fiend But as I turned around it was just me A constant presence that puts me down This fiend knows no bounds It pushes, it shoves, it taunts Until I have no other choice but to drown As I descend further into this murky sea The voices of those I hold dear Can no longer reach me As I am surrounded by darkness I realize it is now me and this fiend Who I now know was just a broken part of me
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“Picasso Still Life” by Crystal Metcalf
“Ghost Stories” by Jade MacDonald I could’ve sworn I felt you with me the night we stayed up for the sun, slowly memorizing the hills and valleys of your voice and how it creaked like an old wooden floor. Your words circulated through me as I lay there listening to you talk about the spectral. With your hand in mine and your heartbeat in my ear with my head against your chest; I felt the excitement, the fear, the mystery. I couldn’t help but watch the smirk in your eyes, lighting up every time you spoke. Your lips curled around the words describing the details of the house from your childhood. How lights flicked on and off and doors swung open with unpredictability. You opened your mind up to me like a door that night too, Turning on the lights in your head to welcome me into your thoughts. But I had been able to picture the ghost clearer than ever in that moment. You were all of it. The storyteller, the boy, and the ghost. As the illusion of the night fades away, the hand that was once holding yours now holds my phone and the heartbeat I heard so clear was only ever my own. The flashes of light I saw were not your eyes at all but our messages and as I slowly fall asleep, I can’t help but wonder if maybe the scariest ghost story of all was you.
“Stack House” by Davaughn Frazier
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“Marshall” by Gracie Comer
Untitled by Braden Hoskyn
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“Connecting The Dots” by Andrew Hazell 1 “Wait up Tim, you’re walking too fast.” Tim is excited to be out in the desert for the night, but his girlfriend, Jessica, isn’t so sure. Tim is a professor of Astrophysics at Purdue University. He rarely gets out to Arizona to look at the stars, instead he spends his days gazing at papers to mark. It is his first-time taking Jessica out to star gaze and he couldn’t be more excited. 2 A hooded man walks past a dim street light. His shoes leave uniform ripples in the puddles. His ripped jeans, that are too long for his legs, are soaked up to his ankles. The man peels back a banana he just pocketed from an LA CVS. He pushes a cart filled with his only worldly possessions. He’s leaving the downtown area and is passing through the rich part of town. 3 “Would you like a refill sir?” “Yes Bob, bring me a margarita, and two more for the ladies,” Clarence says captivatingly. Clarence lays poolside most of his nights. His LA house is his favourite of his four. Clarence is a venture capitalist; he has made his fortune investing in startups from a young age. He is clever, handsome, and has a way with people. He was born in the suburbs of London, England. He was an orphan and never knew his parents. He managed to battle his way to the top of his class just to drop out of high school in order to move to New York. 1 “Come on Jessica, we’re almost there, just a couple hundred more meters” The moonless August night brings a slight chill and as they arrive at the top of the mountain. They stop and take in the view as if seeing the stars for the first time in their lives. “This is amazing, I have been waiting so long to finally be able to come out and see this. Can you point out any constellations, Jessica?” Tim asks. “Not really,” she replies reluctantly. “There is Orion, with his belt. There is the big dipper, and the little dipper.“ “Oh cool.” “But wait, the little dipper has an extra star, that’s not supposed to be there.” “You mean the one that’ moving?” 2 As he passes the last streetlight the man senses a disturbance in the air. He can’t put his finger on it exactly, but something isn’t right. The wind picks up, a few leaves spiral in a tornado-like fashion. The man checks behind himself, as if he were checking for a tail, he senses his old military reflexes kicking in. 3 Last week Clarence completed the building of his ships that would not only colonize the inner and outer solar system but pave the way for interstellar travel. Clarence raises his hand holding his peculiar shaped glass, as Bob, his butler, pours more margaritas. He lays his head back and closes his eyes. He finally reaches a moment of peace in his long day when he hears screaming.
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1 The star goes from a slow crawl to moving faster than a shooting star. It streaks across the sky west, leaving a long trail of light behind it. “That was no star….” 2 As he turns his head back around, a blue dot catches the corner of his eye. He turns back, doing a double take to check it out, but it has already crossed his field of vision. A tic-tac shaped object streaks across the sky and comes to a sudden halt. The object is white with a blue light at the front and back. The object adds a third light to the bottom that slowly grows. The man lets out a noise, something resembling a moan, a groan, and a screech. He turns his head and runs, leaving his cart. 3 Clarence doesn’t even open his eyes and he can already feel the light reach his cornea. A large tractor beam hails down upon him. He looks at Bob and Bob looks back at him. As if now floating weightless on the air instead of the water, Clarence, and his pool floaty defy gravity as they are pulled up into the opening bottom of the tic tac. Clarence can only think “Who or what is flying this UFO and what do they want with me?” Let’s just say, Bob never poured another margarita.
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“Down Courageous Street” by Kendell Johnson
“Chimney Tops” by Braden Hoskyn
“The Orange Cat” by Kiana Tuckett Flash. The light coming from my iPhone lit the small concrete porch in front of me. Atop a fading welcome mat sat a clear plastic to-go bag reading “Chili’s” in bold red font. Once the camera flash turned off, and I could see the scene in front of me illuminated on the screen of my phone, I pressed the button reading “complete delivery” and turned to quickly make my way back to my car in the midsummer moonlight. Keeping my head on a spindle, I looked around cautiously amidst thoughts of my mother preaching that I should not be out this late alone. These thoughts subsided, however, when I became quite suddenly aware that I was not completely alone. The stranger in question had two rounded eyes that held my gaze attentively, as it peered at me from underneath a shiny blue sedan. Not wanting to scare the creature, I offered a silent nod and walked swiftly towards my car. Once I was just a few steps away from reaching my silver Subaru Forester, I could feel its eyes still upon me. I looked back to find that it had made its way out from under the car and had begun to close the distance between us. I continued walking even as I passed my car, hoping it would scamper off, but it followed me more closely with every step. Once the figure was close enough that I could clearly see its outline in the dark of the night, I bent down to get a better look at it, frowning when I could see each and every indentation of its ribs. Afraid that it would either get run over or starve, I began to head back in the direction of my car, trusting that it would continue to follow behind me. As I made a final step and reached my hand out to open the driver’s side door, I felt something soft and fibrous brush against the inside of my calf. Glancing down, I saw the creature’s short, striped fur, the color of a desert sunset, occupying the space between my feet. I opened my car door, picked it up without any obligation, and placed it in the passenger seat next to me. I had found another orange cat.
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I was six years old when we found Fozzy: a scrawny tabby cat, who had been chewed up like a dog toy. He was hiding under a bush near a busy sidewalk. How many people had walked by his little body without knowing? Or caring. His furry little arm was bald, showing patches of red and brown where striped, orange fur used to be. They said it would have to be amputated.
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My mother left San Angelo Veterinary Hospital that day with a doctor’s supply of gauze and needles, and that stubborn look she always had when she wanted to prove somebody wrong. She became a full-time caregiver to that furry creature, gently caressing him as she unwrapped and rewrapped his soiled bandages twice a day, sometimes more. In the time that his battered flesh was free of any bandaging, she had to give him a daily shot. It must have hurt, to have a needle pierced through his already raw skin, day after day, without knowing that it was helping more than hurting him. Yet, he must have known my mother was helping him. He never hissed. Never growled. He never even tried to bite or scratch her. The most he would do was let out a quiet, high-pitched whimper when he could no longer handle the pain in silence. This went on for more than a month. My mother never skipped a treatment, and Fozzy never wavered from his calm compliance. Soon, orange fuzz began to replace the sparse spaces on his arm, and the gauze that once covered it started to disappear at the same rate. I watched him often, as his fur grew and grew, reminding me of my Scooby Doo chia pet that sat in the sunroom of our house. We returned to the veterinary hospital almost two months after we had left. Fozzy could walk, with nothing but a slight limp as remembrance of his wounds. His fur had grown back, and the skin underneath was light pink rather than bright red. The vet staff gawked at him, astonished. “I would have never expected such a recovery,” the veterinarian confessed. “He’s practically back to normal; he should be just fine, save the limp. That may linger on, but, oh my, this is miraculous.” I was thirteen the last time I saw Fozzy. We had been forced to move in with my stepdad—he and I—and it was the first time our house had a built-in doggy door. I expressed several concerns regarding this; the Georgian woods surrounding our new house were home to many creatures much more daunting than a tiny house cat. Though I persisted, my criticisms were deemed as a hormonal teenage attitude that apparently had no place in the new family dynamic that I had been thrown into. To cool my heated remarks, my mom would reason that Fozzy was happier this way and would be perfectly fine. After all, he would reside in the house from dusk until dawn each night, before heading back out each day in routine with the rising, morning sun. Most afternoons my mom and I would come home to see Fozzy standing watch on the roof. Upon seeing us, he would make his way to the edge of the roof and scale the connecting wooden fence before hopping into the overgrown grass to greet us as we exited the car.
One afternoon, three months after we had moved in, Fozzy wasn’t on the roof. Or in the backyard. Or the house. I remember the swoop of flashlights in rural darkness, the sound of his name bouncing off a hundred trees, and the way my heart raced faster each time I heard a sound in the woods, never belonging to him. The house was empty without Fozzy. I found myself alone living with familiar strangers in a place that held the door to the death of my cat. I blamed the house. I blamed my stepdad. And even in her heavy grief, I blamed my mom too. Six months later, when Fozzy was considered less of missing and more of a memory, we found Kodha. My stepdad played disc golf at a local course where he saw a small cat scavenging for scraps of food left by previous disc golfers. With my mother’s permission, my stepdad brought him home. His fur was orange, like Fozzy’s, just a little lighter.
Kodha ate anything and everything that was placed in front of him. Finally, a few months later and several pounds heavier, he learned that the food wasn’t going to disappear. And soon enough, he was the one greeting us on the roof as we drove home each afternoon. Shier than Fozzy was, he would run a safe distance away when we exited the car, but sometimes he would slowly creep back to me if I knelt down for long enough, holding out a hand as an offering for chin rubs. As we entered the house through the back door, Kodha would scurry in through the doggy door, wary of being left behind. While Fozzy had purely been attached to my mother, Kodha was a true family cat. I was able to lug him to my room in the late evenings, get him to curl up by my side, and sometimes I could even fall asleep before he would scamper off to my mother’s bed where he would reside until morning. However, he was more than happy to cuddle up on the couch with me during the morning cartoons, so I long as I continued to pet him without a moment’s interruption. Four years later, as I shoved last minute knick-knacks and trash bags of clothes into the back of my silver Subaru Forester, awaiting their new home at Mars Hill University, I quickly realized Kodha would be one of my hardest goodbyes. For the first time since we found him, I would be leaving. And without him, for the first time since we lost Fozzy, I would be alone. Yet, as I headed for the front door, Kodha scurried along next to me in tandem with my steps, only stopping once we reached the entryway. As I left, beginning to close the door behind me, he let out a quiet, tender meow, assuring me that he would be in the same spot when I returned. I was nineteen and more than halfway through college when I found Odie: the orange cat that had been hiding under the shiny blue sedan. Upon bringing him home, I gave him a bath. Amidst his semi-successful efforts to escape my grasp, I scrubbed adamantly at his dense, orange fur, trying my best to rid him of the fleas that burrowed within his pelt.
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Grumpy due to his wet coat, I attempted to appease him with an entire can of chicken pâté that he eagerly devoured in an expression of forgiveness.
Three months later, when the idents of Odie’s ribcage had been replaced by a plump, round belly, I was readying myself to leave once more. Yet again, my car was filled with knickknacks and garbage bags of clothes. But this time, Odie would be coming with me. Rather than sharing a dorm room, I would be living off campus alone. I had signed my lease two days before I found him, and though I had fantasized over the idea of having my own place for quite some time, anxiety still swarmed me as a single signature brought these dreams into reality. Like an omen of fate, Odie came, calming my nerves with the promise of company in our new home. The ride up to the mountainous western North Carolina consisted of Odie disappearing into my backseat pile of possessions and popping his head above the masses each time I called his name to make sure he was still there. Halfway through, we stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts for his favorite treat, a pup cup, where he happily made his way to the front seat to greet the hand holding the tiny cup of whip cream. We settled smoothly into our new place, and as we developed a routine of Odie cuddling up to me before I fell asleep each night, waking me each morning with a few taps on my cheek, and waiting by the door as I left for and returned from class, I realized that I now had a cat that was purely mine. Just as Odie had moved into my first apartment with me, he would be the cat to witness so many firsts in my young life. My first real job. My first home. Maybe even my first child. As this routine continued, and Odie’s furry orange stripes were always the first thing I saw each time I got home, I realized something else, as well. No matter how many more firsts Odie would witness. No matter how many firsts Fozzy or Kodha had already witnessed. I just hoped I would always have a little orange cat waiting to greet me when I got home. And if there was, I knew I would not ever really be alone.
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“Another Damn Poem About Dying” by Brianana Moffit Strains of wild Music calling, Aqueous currents of thought flow rapturously, Silver in the sky, silver in my hands. It speaks to me, the love in its voice Breaking my pride down… Despite my fear. I am so confused, so scared. The river takes me into its everlasting arms. Do not steal me, ethereal beauty Let me watch just a little while longer I know I must go, Despite my fear. Wind whispers gently in my ears, “Can you not see, my darling, my love?” You belong to us, and us to you! We cannot live without you any longer, Come with us, my heart. Despite your fear! Therefore, do not take me from them, When it decides finally I must pass, Into its loving embrace, beyond all I have loved more than I could ever deserve, And I will not fight! I have no fear.
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“Welcome To Bipolar” by Trinity Pendleton Welcome to bipolar Have a look around We’ve got depression in a stroller Mania in a crown A week of needing to be coddled Happiness being throttled Oh, what fun it is to ride this coaster Of many emotions Depression with piles getting grosser Reacting with explosions Stuck in bed until the end of October Wishing it was all over The coaster of emotions rises up a hill Things begin to get clearer A life that through love now finds it a thrill Changing hair so someone sees her Watching as the coaster sits up top and still Hoping emotions do not spill Only for it all to begin all over again Welcome to bipolar Depression is a great friend and then We are out of control Staying at a one then jumping to ten Waiting for our yen
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“Double Arches” by Jarib Pott
Untitled by Carli Knight
“Cracking With Wonder” by Ariel Guilfoyle
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“Worth” byTayler Hodges Why are you so hard on yourself? I watch the question suspend in the air like a balloon And I think of what answer to give that is pointy enough to rip it out of the air. Why am I so hard on myself? How do I tell him that it started in 3rd grade? When the boys berated me about my body When they introduced me to a word that I know too well Fat, obese, overweight No matter what word they use They all sting the same The age of 12 When the doctor dared to use the word “diet” He talked about my weight as if I didn’t Already know that I was different The bullies made sure of that To this day I hate going to the doctor It’s not due to a fear of phlebotomists Or the stench of sanitizer It is the guarantee that He will comment on my girth. He does it every time. I came in to be treated for strep He points to the scale in the corner I came in to talk about my anxiety He admires my abdomen
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Each visit feels like I am being Scolded for getting a bad grade in science Except I am graded on the number that is shown on the scale The numbers creeping down Are rewarded no matter What I had to do to get them To trend downward. The worst part is that It isn’t just him who feels that way. It is different when a doctor Or a bully is the one who belittles. But how can I ignore it When it come from familiar faces Family I watched her. She had been starving herself But when she stepped on that scale The nurse congratulated her It didn’t matter how pale, placid And sickly she seemed All that mattered was that The numbers on the scale Went down. It only cost her Her decency When did weight become The sole indicator of worth?
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I am hard on myself, But those are only the physical reasons. How do I begin to mention the others? I see the question bobbing in the air I watch as it reaches the ceiling and settles Among a sea of other questions I can’t Bring myself to answer. Because Sometimes it is best For things to be left unsaid.
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“Beauty In Nature” by Tori Franklin
“Pay Attention” by Catt Varela-Ruiz We say we’re blessed Though if we’re being honest We’re anxious, depressed, and stressed. But you believe it’s my professor that needs to be impressed. Go back, read that again. Are you paying attention? We’re absent in class We have missing assignments And can’t wait for the weekend to pick up a glass. But you believe that 3.14 is going to save myStop, read that again. Are you paying attention? We eat less, sleep less, and work out a lot We’re the number one seller of the self-love act That in the past you have bought. But you believe that my priority should be what I’m being taught. If you must, read that again. I hope this time you pay attention.
28 “Touch of Luck” by Davaugn Frazier
“The Thing About Sisters” by Emma Vaughn When I was little, I never would have expected that you of all people would become my saving grace. I have never really been one to believe in God or grace or whatever it is. If I could make anything into a religion, I would make our relationship one. I honest to God think there were times growing up that I hated you. I don’t know if I ever knew what the word hate meant though. I think I wanted to be you or be just like you. You were always so smart, always made straight A’s. In elementary school you always made threes or fours on your end of grade tests. I remember we always got a prize after our EOG’s. I got a bag of Twix one time, I failed my EOGs, but she told me ,“You tried your best Emma, and that’s all that matters.” She was so proud of me for trying but she was proud of you for passing. It was different. You and I were so different growing up, but now I can’t think of a single person in the whole world who is more like myself than you. Caroline Elizabeth, you and mom have the same middle name. I used to get jealous that my middle name wasn’t Elizabeth. I wonder if you know that one day, I will be just like you. We are 20 and 22 now. Eighteen months apart from each other. People always said when we were little, we would love each other so much once we got older, we would be the bestest of friends and I never believed them. I mean, I obviously see their point now. They were right, without a doubt, you are my soulmate. My emotions are overflowing when it comes to you, or our mom. Sometimes I think about how our dad left us and the events leading up to it. I remember the exact night we went down to Nana’s house to start staying with mom. You knew what was going on, but I didn’t. Dad didn’t go down to her house with us, he stayed at home, and we went there on the weekends. I don’t know when that happened, maybe 5th or 6th grade. Looking back at it, I don’t really remember much. I remember my freshman year of college I had to go to therapy. She would ask me these questions about how I grew up and there is so much of our childhood that I have just blocked out, she tells me that it is probably repressed trauma. He doesn’t live around here anymore, he lives in another state, probably 6 hours from here. I am okay now, I used to not be. Anytime he decided to show up it would send me into a downward spiral into a long depression. I never knew how you were feeling though, you always seemed so strong, so quiet when it came to your emotions. I used to get mad at myself for not being in control like you were. Now I don’t think that you were in control. I think you repressed anything you felt, unless it was joy or happiness. I look back on young Caroline and my heart aches for you. My heart hurts knowing all the pain you kept inside your heart, and how hard it must have been being the strong one, taking care of your emotional wreck of a little sister.
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Dear reader, Do you want to know the worst part about our dad leaving? When he does decide to show his face a year later and ask me to go eat dinner with him, and I tell him no, I feel guilty. The guilty conscience eats me up. Why am I the one who feels guilty when I haven’t heard from my own dad in 8 months if not more? “The phone works both ways,” “Won’t you text your poor daddy once in a while.” It’s bullshit, I know, but I can’t explain it. It literally makes me hate myself. Tell me why I have to reach out to my own dad to hear from him. A child should never have to be the one to reach out to the parent, it isn’t my responsibility to form a relationship with them. Especially if they are the ones who left. I know so many people need to hear this. The worst part too, is when people who have no clue how horribly he has affected me say things like “Well he is still your daddy.” I genuinely am left speechless. If you have never had a parent leave you, please keep your mouth shut. Sincerely, Grace
I know it sounds like I had a terrible childhood, but it was far from that. My mom, Alice, is a literal angel. After my dad stopped coming around as much, she raised us on her own. She had two girl teenagers, who I am sure drove her crazy most days, but she did damn good raising them, if you ask me. Alice works at the hospital; she works for a non-profit that does so much for our community. I can only hope that one day I am able to influence people the way she does. I think a lot about how she felt. My sister and I were so young when she and our dad split up. I wish I could’ve been older so that I could have helped her. I want to go back and be her friend when she didn’t have any. My heart hurts for my mom. My mom who raised me to be strong and independent, my mom who made sure I had everything I ever wanted or needed, my mom who ensured my sister and I had the greatest childhood ever, despite the complications, despite the hell I am sure she had to go through. It was honestly probably spring semester of my freshman year before we even got close, and I don’t even remember how it started. We just clicked and then after that we were best friends. I wonder always what it is like being an older sister, I think about that a lot. Do you ever feel like a mom? You are my older sister and I feel so protective of you. I honestly don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you or if I lost you. God, I think they might have to put me into a mental institution. But who would’ve ever thought we would make it here? Together. You are my best friend and my soulmate. You have saved me in more ways than I ever thought possible.
“Not Just A Hobby” by Zehr Gibbs-Barger
“Water Silo” by Audrey Davis
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“Sitting Inside Cessna” by Audrey Davis
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“Hellbent” by Tyler Rice
“Branching Veins” by Brandon Abranches
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“Stop” by Marcus Orta Please Just Stop Just Stop with the messing, Man this Shit got me stressing. Do you think this is funny? These words Are not a blessing. Please hold your Pride. I Know your Heart aches Deep inside, and you won’t Break through the Ceiling. I see your Pain down Deep inside, but you can’t Hide from the Feeling, that you are Feeling Deep inside. C’mon I Know you are Reeling. Know it’s in Me you Can confide. Show yourSelf and start Healing. Let’s be real No more Hiding, concealing. Your ruse is ruined. Your guise is gone. Your mask is transparent. Yet you try so hard To pretend and pretend But the joke is over so Stop now, let it end. ‘Cause Your Comedy. Cannot Hide. The Hurt. Guess what? No armor is thick enough No net is wide enough No shelter is tough enough To stop the pain. Or to cover the callous. To close the wound. To stifle the sound To keep the silence. To muffle the voice. But you have a choice.
Don’t fret. Chin up. Headstrong. I won’t be gone for long. And I hope that you’ll see I love you, Rosalee, Unconditionally. We’re, in an endless sea, What we believe to be. I hope that you’d agree.
“Micro Scales” by Tori Franklin
Stop cowering in fear. Live a little. Grow this year.
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“Hazy Skies” by Tori Franklin
“Bailey” by Davaughn Frazier Fifteen minutes in and it’s hard to keep steady. Everyone made it sound so easy. I don’t think I could have ever been ready. The steep hill has my calves feeling deadly, lips stale from heavy breathing. My legs, both left and right, feel like spaghetti. Peer pressure is the cause of this beating. If it were my choice, I wouldn’t have awoken. I don’t think I could have ever been ready. I look over to check on my pal, Freddie. Blue in the face, hands on his waist-I don’t think he could have ever been ready. Twenty-five minutes more to go and they still say fifteen. I don’t know if they’re with me or against me, but, like, seriously, pick a team. Under the glossy, sweaty skin is disgust because of no view. I came for no reason. Peer pressure was the reason for this hike, and I don’t think I could’ve ever been ready.
“Parts Of Me” by Sharnel Friedrich
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“Colours” by Catt Varela-Ruiz If tomorrow our sky is no longer blue… We can paint it new Through the uncertainty of our days So, I will look for you. If tomorrow our trees are no longer green… Just know it’s you I have seen And that is what I fear But still, I will look for you. If tomorrow our honey is no longer yellow… My heart will always be mellow Even through the trouble Continuously, I will look for you. If tomorrow our flame is no longer orange… I hope our love we can exchange While we still remain Restlessly, I will look for you. If tomorrow our blood is no longer red… I will finally let go of what is dead And meet reality herself Till then, I will look for you. Because of this, I pray our sky will be blue.
“Views” by Ant Flores
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““An Afterthought” by Jade MacDonald I’m sorry I put you second when you should’ve been first. I ignored the voice that you never had and when you found the strength to speak out, I didn’t let you. Your cries were replaced with gentle “I’m sorry’s” and “I’m okay’s”. I’m sorry I used your bloodied fingers and cracked skin to wrap the bandages around the wounds of others. Your lungs no longer breathing, your heart no longer beating unless they do so for someone else. I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way to fix you or speak up for you. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to turn the world off. You smiled and laughed to stop the staring and now everybody is looking and aching with the regret that they didn’t see this coming. But all along I’ve watched, and I’ve seen, and I’ve chosen to ignore. I’m sorry you felt like this was the only way out. The blade now rests firmly in your hand and the pills lay sprawled across the counter. The phone line hums in sorrow for the breathless words at the end of the line. A last call for help goes unanswered. It seems nobody heard you because you still didn’t speak.
I’m sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.
“Faint Memories” by Braxton Robinson All I need was you But the odds weren’t in my favor Could it not have ended any better? Do I have to feel this sting ? Every-time I look at you Faint memories play in the background where they stay frozen Hibernating from the surface Inside one of our old running Jokes, that never failed to Keep a smile on your face Like a sunflower in the golden sunshine Making life simple again, when we thought Nothing could change what we had Oh how we were wrong Pictures we deleted in anger Quoting lyrics of heartbreak
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Ridiculous arguments and Stupid mistakes we made at the worst Times of our lives turned everything Ugly and just like that, it all Vanished before our eyes Why were we so naïve? Could we have ‘Xceled through this? You said we couldn’t, and we left it with Zero effort and zero chances.
“Lucky” by Ant Flores
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“Snaking Paths” by Brandon Abranches
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“Frozen Drapings” by Brandon Abranches
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“My Darkest Hour” by Chandler Adams In my darkest hour, I am alone, I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, I appear fine to everyone, Great grades, Great attitude, Over achiever, Funny, nice, caring, In reality, I’m trapped, I am drowning, Slipping away ever so slightly, I turn to my Paper Mate pencil and Barnes and Noble notebook, And I write, Scared to open up, scared to feel like a burden, In my darkest hour, I cry tears of pain and sorrow, Careful to tuck them away when I go out, Walking with a heavy heart but showing a smile, Very few ask me how I am doing, And when they do, I don’t have the heart to tell them, I am in my darkest hour.
“El Venado” by Jarib Pott
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“The Equality Collection: Closeup 1” by Danielle Fant
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“Cloud Dress” by Danielle Fant
“Wrapped In Truth” by Danielle Fant
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“Wander Lust” by Jarib Pott
“The Unbroken Plate” by Jade MacDonald When something breaks, it is never truly restored One clumsy encounter with the fumbling human hands can cause more damage than you think The ceramic dish that once was whole separates violently on the linoleum floor Microscopic shards slide out in all directions as the same hands that damaged, work to fix I am a broken plate When something breaks, it is never truly restored The pieces can be glued back but the cracks in the foundation will remain The plate forms a memory of the shock of the impact It tremors in its own acquired vulnerability I am a broken plate When something breaks, it is never truly restored I am a broken plate that was not handled with care The hands that broke me mended me too, but they didn’t make me whole But His hands, with the same clay that crafted me, patched up my brokenness I was a broken plate When something is rebuilt, it must first be broken It is true that I am not who I once was Some of my pieces have been replaced and some hands are hesitant to hold me But His hands never tremble and instead have made me whole I am an Unbroken plate
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“The Funeral” by Tayler Hodges I stood at the back of the crowd on the mushy, sodden grass. The smell of fresh turned dirt and rain mingled, as I watched them lower the casket into the freshly dug hole. Only one question remained; how am I going to take this secret to my own grave? It was Derrick who told me that his friend Nathan had died. Derrick had said something about how he had died from blunt force trauma. They found him in the alleyway behind his job. He was feet away from making it to his car. “That sounds gruesome, I am so sorry,” I said. It is true that it sounded like a gruesome way to die, but I wasn’t sorry that he was dead. Nathan worked at a local coffee shop. It was my favorite coffee shop, but I couldn’t go there anymore after what he did to me. All it took was waiting in my car across the street to figure out what days he worked, and when he got off of work. I watched him come into work laughing with his friends. Nathan was my friend once. He was the kind of friend that always made jokes. The jokes were funny… until they weren’t anymore. Everybody knew that he always joked around, but his jokes were different when he was alone with me. I tried to tell Derrick about the jokes, but he didn’t believe me. His friend had been nothing but pleasant to him, so why should he believe me? I watched as Nathan walked out of the coffee shop door, locking it behind him. It was kind of ironic that a guy who joked about rape so much, didn’t walk around with a sense of caution when the sun set, and the world was dark. I skulked behind him in my black hoodie, as I watched him waltz down the sidewalk with not a care in the world. I knew that he parked his car around back behind the coffee shop, so I decided that I had to get to him before he could make it to his car. Only a dark alleyway separated Nathan from his car, and me from spending my life behind bars. Something told me to stop at the corner before entering the alleyway. As I stood peering around the corner, my phone began to ring. Leaving my ringer on was a rookie mistake. I mean, I am not a murderer after all. I silenced my phone, but when I looked back up Nathan was not the only person standing in the alleyway. At the other end of the dark corridor stood a hooded figure. The only thing about him that caught my attention was the bat he held down by his side. “I promise I will pay you back,” Nathan sputtered as the hooded figure grew larger in my vision as he crept down the alleyway. Nathan began to back away down the alleyway, but he couldn’t have known that I was waiting on the other end for him. He turned to run, but he didn’t get very far. My foot connected with his ankle, and I watched as he landed spread eagle on the concrete. I turned in the direction that I had come, and I sprinted away as fast as I could. I couldn’t help but hear the crack of the bat and the moans that erupted as the bat connected with Nathan’s body. The sound of dirt covering the casket brought me back from my stupor. I looked up in time to see a hooded figure watching me from across the cemetery.
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“House Of Lies” by Sabrina Kennedy All my life I wanted to find my biological family But I never wanted to know my parents. Caring is not enough when I know they’ve betrayed me Damn, I wish I never knew. Eventually I’d find out the truth, that For my mom, drugs and alcohol were her greatest loves. Getting high was more important than her children’s Heartache and pain and suffering they lived through. In her mind, she loved us with everything she had, and then a Judge took us away from her. She used drugs and alcohol to Kill herself five years before I could meet her. Liars like my dad are everywhere in the world. He Made the decision to abandon his only daughter. No “I’m sorry” or “I wish I could have done better” Only saying “this is DSS’s fault for getting involved” to my face. Practicing what you preach is not your strong point, so Quit telling me you love me and would do anything for me. Real love is being there through thick and thin, it’s Sacrificing what you have so your daughter can live a blessed life.
These are things I was not brought into this world with Until my wonderful adoption, with a mom who gave me everything.
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Victory is only mine when I hate the dead and curse her name, When the tears fill his eyes after I’ve said my disowning peace. They are Xactly how I thought they would be. Years of wondering and now knowing leaves me with
Zero fucks to give.
“Defeated: A Braid Story” by Katelyn Davis I. When we were kids, we always played doctor. Fake broken bones that could be fixed with regular clear packing tape, gauze was tissues, and regular old safety scissors would work for surgery, right? II. My first CNA job was rough, I had never seen so much death in one week before. The older people slowly deteriorating in their beds, they all needed help eating and bathing, like they were children in adult bodies. III. Watching young adults, my age or slightly older, come into the hospital with infections caused by dirty needles. Heroin addicts being brought in by police for treatment before being taken away is insane. I. As children we didn’t realize just how painful and gross a broken leg looked. We could just doctor it up with some tape we found in the basement. Temperatures were checked with cerulean blue sparkle gels pens, and boom, in and out in 15 minutes or less. As children we were oblivious to how serious healthcare is. II. Long term care is another world. In one room you have John Doe walking around and dancing to his wedding song with his wife, in the other room you have Jane Doe taking her last breath and going to see her husband for the first time in 13 years. III. Hospitals are full of a million different things. Babies, death, infectious diseases, surgery, blood, trauma, psych, and that one man who has 27 tattoos that’s scared of an IV. Treatment takes days, even weeks, one man has been there for 52 days and will not be making it home. One man watched his daughter walk down the aisle on FaceTime, and COVID wreaks havoc on an entire tower. I. As children when we got sick mom and dad took care of us, if we scraped our knee we got a band aid, an arm bruise meant we had too much fun outside, and the only time our lips were blue was from popsicles and blue cookie monster ice cream from the corner store. II. Watching the elderly woman in room 264 as her breathing slows and her lips turn a shade of purple blue that I had only seen on flowers and the end of Breaking Dawn Part 1 was the moment I grabbed her cold frail hand and sang to her as she passed. No family around to be there for her. III. Running across the unit with a clipboard and a code cart behind me because CMU called and told me my patient’s heart stopped as I yelled for the charge nurse hoping we weren’t too late to start compressions. My patient’s body was as blue as the lips of a passing elderly person. Starting compressions on my now blueberry purple patient and hoping to bring back a 23-year-old mother of 4 with COVID… and failing. 46
I. As kids we didn’t realize death was as common as it is, and there it is, the first funeral you attend. II. After spending months with my residents and seeing them every day, I attended the funeral of 23 patients that passed during their care, and 18 funerals of friends and family just in my first 16 years of life. III. After attending 41 funerals and 19 code blues in total, every single code blue in the hospital makes my heart drop. “Another one” as a tear rolls down my face. Defeated.
“Forest Fire” by Marcus Orta The fire It blooms deep Down within Spreading up Spreading thin The roses Surround me now Lying Upon the earth Covering The ground
An ocean of Red Under the deep Blue Expanding forever Outside of my view Movement so swift Captivates me Hyperaware now But here I feel free There’s no looking back I must know what I see The Red Sea is dressed Covered in thorns A warning to all But when beauty beckons I answer its call
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The forest is deep Here nearing the core Echoes of silence, Left yearning for more Longing for less I cannot conceive Echoing crackles Do senses deceive I am here alone Dusk has set and dawn has gone I ventured and failed Each travesty railed Death trails yet closer upon Waiting At these woods I thirst for rain To quench the fire Inside my brain Not all has gone up into flames, Oh God, next will be me.
“The Cow” by Leah Matney
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“Soul Sestina” by Audrey Davis
The eighth decade of the twentieth century Its music amuses me and evokes euphoria The passion ignites my pulse like lightning That jarring guitar gives me a glorious high And Benatar’s voice rumbles like thunder With a raspy rush that leaves chills all over. Yes, don’t remind me, the eighties are over. Yes, don’t remind me, I’m not from that century. But don’t tell me that music can’t give me thunder Don’t tell me that keyboard can’t create euphoria Because without any doubt it gets me high And it fills my core with lyrics and lightning. Journey’s bass quickens my pulse like lightning And though I play Separate Ways over and over It never loses its legacy, it still gives me that high Tina Turner’s badass beats might be last century But good lord, her rebel rock gives me euphoria Better Be Good to Me must be made of thunder. Music of today doesn’t generate the same thunder And it doesn’t fill my veins with electric lightning But music of today came from eighties euphoria And modern artists sample oldies from all over With mediocre sounds that make up our century But I must say, in the eighties, the quality was high. I’ll crank Phil Collins to provide me with a high Or maybe some Prince, since I’m feeling funky thunder Anything from the eighth decade of the twentieth century. Whether the weather is sunny or rainy with lightning, I’m cruising down I-40 trying not to get pulled over, Speakers are blasting with a retro, new wave euphoria. The eighth decade of the twentieth century Wasn’t my time to live the rock and roll lightning But today, I jam with pride, so don’t steal my thunder.
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“Seated Piano Man” by Audrey Davis
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In Memoriam... “Rock To River To River” by Pat Verhulst, a dear alum of Mars Hill University (1937-2021)
If you’d like to have a funeral for me, Let’s keep it small. Sometimes a group of monks from Tibet Make a festival mandala, a flat map Of Buddhist symbols, Earth, air, fire, Water. Representing the millions Of life forms, the ten thousand Fragments of the sacred world, Which is one. The symbols are Drawn in single grains Of colored sand. Very intricate And bright, it takes a week, all day, all night, every day, With silent prayers and blessings For every grain of sand. It is as big As a ping-pong table, with a single Round border to unite the many. When the mandala is complete, They bless the sand again, Prayers for all beings. They carry the flat design Carefully, to a river And throw it in. Nothing lasts, not this universe, Nothing. Carefully, to a river And throw it in. Nothing lasts, not this universe, Nothing.
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Their wish and intent is that the River will carry the sand everywhere. The blessing will be Carried from river to river, Dispersed to every thing and Everyone on earth. River to river to river As the water eternally moves, All one river.
No one can step into the Same river twice, Heraclitus said.
Rivers join rivers, the Nolichucky, The Little Tennessee, the Holston, The Tennessee, Ohio, Missouri rivers,
So the water joins to all water, The sand to all sand, The blessings to all, To the one universe.
All into the great Mississippi. At the Lake Pontchartrain, the river Opens out to the Mississippi Delta And the Gulf of Mexico. From here To the Atlantic Ocean, and then Links to all the other oceans In the world.
At one wooden church By a river nearby, A giant oak tree sheltered The crest of a steep hill. Dead now, the ghost of the tree Shadows the church and the river, The steep hill below them A burying ground. That phantom oak, That river, That graveyard, Can serve as my shrine. You can choose your own. They will never belong To anyone, but Temporally, they can represent Symbols of life and death. You can pick out a rock Or a pebble, any size, Any place, near a river or stream That you like. Everybody needs a favorite river. One of mine begins as the Little Ivy At the top of a steep ridge near Mars Hill. And, at the Fork of Ivy, joins the Big Ivy. They travel down to Marshall, where A cliff is painted white, and a White stone angel watches The Ivy pours into the French Broad At Hot Springs, Health minerals Surge up from the river bed And the river crosses the Mountain To Newport, Tennessee.
So, for my farewell, Throw a rock or a pebble Into any river, send it with My blessing and yours, My prayers, to everything To everyone, everywhere. All one ocean All one river Every one of us Who live and die. The one great water, The one great people, That seems so many, The million things and creatures That live and die. The one. That will be fine, That will be our farewell. Pat Verhulst 2009
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Daniel Hudgins 2000-2022
J’son Pitts 2001-2021
Born in Vietnam and raised by two loving parents in the US, Daniel was a bright and loving presence in our Mars Hill community. He rigorously pursued a degree in nursing and became a certified Nursing Assistiant. In addition to nursing, he was a part of the Baptist Student Fellowship, Eagle Scouts, and a recipient of a Presidential Scholarship. His gleaming smile and kind soul will be thoroughly missed, but we will remember his signature saying, “Go big or go home!”
A native of Gastonia, NC, J’son was an avid football player for Mars Hill University and designed his own clothing brand. He also started a music label with his twin sister called RichUpTheLabel. Without fail, he always put others before himself and had a deep love for his family. A lover of music and sports, J’son will be deeply missed in our school community. He lit up the room with his smile, and taught us to never say goodbye, rather, we will “see you soon.”
Special thanks to our guest judges... Cary Gray https://carygray.artstorefronts.com
Kate Kelleher http://followtheartstrings.weebly.com
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