Telolith, Spring 2013 by Susan Copas

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Seward County Community College/ Area Technical School Liberal, Kansas

Untitled, Photography Jakub Stepanovic

The cover design and page graphics were inspired by this photograph by Jakub Stepanovic. Cover layout and typographic design by Cinthia Serna

2013 • g n i r • Sp

h t i l o l e porary Art a C

m e t n

Vol. 40

Lite

e Seward County Community College / Area Technical School Liberal, Kansas

The Writers and Artist here represented have made careful choices—whether

of word or line, phrase or stroke—the hardest and most important being to make public the products of their private, personal imaginations. From these choices the Telolith is generated every spring, and for the contributors and the entire campus community of SCCC/ATS, it is published annually.

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Table of Contents Photography 05 11 12 18 20 23 23 26 29 30 30 31 34 39 42 43 45 46 50 50 54 54 55 60 64 65 67 70

Two-Dimensional Art

Jessica Arinaga – Fountain

Jakub Stepanovic – Julia

Deni Burton – Family Tradition

Virginia Grant – Tater Tots

Natalie Robinson – Rustic Beauty

Deni Burton – Fearless

Natalie Robinson – Feed Time

Virginia Grant – Snow Show

Jakub Stepanovic – Mind Lighting

Natalie Robinson – Country Living

Justin Parish – Magic Tree

Alis Brown – Into the Cold

Alis Brown – Into the Cold 2

Jakub Stepanovic – Communication

Alis Brown – Still Standing

Carolina Tapia – Pink Boots

Carolina Tapia – Flowers

Justin Parish – City Lights

Natalie Robinson – Sunset at the Ranch

Justin Parish - Reflection

Jakub Stepanovic – Urban Meditation

Jakub Stepanovic - Relaxation

Natalie Robinson – Searching for the Truth

Natalie Robinson – Daddy and His Girl

Virginia Grant – Tractor

Deni Burton – Work Horse

Deni Burton - Medals

Jakub Stepanovic – Industrial Elegance

63 69 70

LeeAnn Bryan - Fish in Ocean

Octavio Rodriguez - Call Me Back Cami Stahly – Personal Interest Karina Avalos-Esquivel – Mari Cami Stahly – Green Piece

Dalibor Cohadarevic – Tool in a Cup

Dalibor Cohadarevic – Shadow in the Mirror Jeremy Mendenhall – Memento Mori Dalibor Cohadarevic – Point of View

Stetson Haynes – The Liberty Bell Pepper Stetson Haynes – Random Shenanigans Stetson Haynes – Crash

Dalibor Cohadarevic – All Natural Food #1 Dalibor Cohadarevic – All Natural Food #2 Kevin Harmon – The Flower

Lynn Donovan – Water Wheel Cami Stahly - Wonder

Cami Stahly – Vibrant Loveliness Octavio Rodriguez – Atonement

Jeremy Mendenhall – Silent Silhouettes Arturo Martinez – Glass and Sphere Mark Rohlf – Event Horizon

Janae Snodgrass – Dying Moon Janae Snodgrass – Strength

Arturo Martinez – Paper Planes

Octavio Rodriguez – Night Watch Arturo Martinez – Black Ball

Arturo Martinez – Black Pepper Janae Snodgrass - Enlighten

Dalibor Cohadarevic – Messy Table

Non-Fiction 10 19 21 32 48 57 66

Amanda Stout – Gone Racin’ with Bud

Natalie Robinson – Marching to the Beat-The Unique Me

Kacey Smith – Happily Ever After: My Life as a Stepdaughter Lynn Donovan – The Wedding Gift

Lynn Donovan – The Crickets Warning Michael Vu - Strength

Lynn Donovan – The Eleventh Chapter

Fiction

Poetry 14 20 22 34 35 42 43 44 52 55 60 61 64

lo h

Selena Garcia – What Is Family?

lit

Kevin Hull - Home Plate: Where the Heart is

Michael Vu – Thera: Ishtar

Virginia Grant – Grandpa Loves Racin’

Karen Wilson – In My Father’s Words

Karen Wilson – Look at You

Amanda Stout – Bathetic Vampire

Lynne Donovan - Blind and Deaf Faith Virginia Grant – Journey

Octavio Rodriguez – The Thin Line of Progress Karen Wilson – The Button

Cami Stahly – Color in the Dark William Salvador - Innocence Michael Vu – Burning Ties

Three-Dimensional Art

Virginia Grant – Yesterday, Today

Karen Wilson – A Fortress

William Salvador – At Last

William Salvador – A Future of Forever

Virginia Grant – Country Road Seasons

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Jeremy Mendenhall - Striped

Tyconda Millsap – Grizzly Bear Tyconda Millsap – Music Box Tyconda Millsap – Untitled

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Submitting Work for Publication Any full- or part-time Seward County Community College / Area Technical School student enrolled during the year prior to publication may submit original, previously unpublished works created in the previous year for consideration for inclusion in Telolith. A signed and dated data sheet is required at the time of submission. Selection of work for publication is based upon originality, quality of thought, and craft, with the objective of including works from as broad and diverse a range of the SCCC / ATS student population as space and time constraints will allow.

Writing and art for the 2014 issue should be submitted to a faculty adviser during March, 2014. The SCCC/ATS English Department offers a creative writing course during the fall semester. We encourage those interested in developing their creative writing skills to enroll in this workshop-style course. The English Department also sponsors a poetry reading and coffeehouse each spring. The SCCC / ATS Visual Arts Department offers a wide range of courses in drawing, painting, photography, graphic design, ceramics, glass blowing and jewelry. Students enrolled in Visual Arts Department graphic design courses are responsible for the page layout and overall design concept for Telolith. The Visual Arts Department sponsors an exhibit of student work at the end of the fall and spring semesters.

The works published are written and or/created by SCCC / ATS students and do not necessarily reflect the views of the college. Copyright ÂŠ by SCCC / ATS, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission of the writer or artist.

Jessica Arinaga

5 Fountain, Photography

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Blind and Deaf Faith

Lynn Donovan

Everything was as she wanted it to be. Her routine was, well—routine, and that suited her fine. She contributed to the knowledge-gathering infrastructure of the marina through her diligence and dedication to sharks. Her life was fulfilling and complete. Until he walked in. Dr. Donnie Fitzgerald, PhD., Marine Scientist, and now her supervisor, had been transferred in by a committee she ignored. Her lack of verbal skills had found the one niche she could not fill—public speaking. She could publish anything they needed to disseminate her valuable knowledge about the importance of preserving the sharks and their habitats. She set up social networking sites where she could “chat” with the public. But she could never present any information publically. Now she had to deal with Dr. Donnie Fitzfumble, Fitzfutile, Fitz-whatever, just stay out of the way. She hated him instantly. In her mind, she signed his name with an F at her right temple. That allowed her to insert an additional vulgar name. Since she was forced to share her office, her marina, and her sharks with him—it was her own delightfully private insult. “Funding. It all boils down to funding,” signed Hope, her older sister, at Thanksgiving. “Why can’t we get funding from the blog, Twitter, Facebook, even Pinterest? What about the mail?” Faith demanded. “I set up a webcam. The sharks can be observed twenty-four-seven. Why isn’t that enough?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Look at me!” Hope gestured with two hooked fingers pointed at her eyes. “Some things require face to face. Sales, fundraising, things same as that, require face to face.” Faith frowned. She knew Hope was right, but it didn’t make her like it any better. On the day she and Dr. Fitzgerald were to enter the tanks, she typed up all the shark information, laminated the multicolored papers, and bound them with a plastic ring. She had inserted pictures of the sharks beside the descriptions and, in particular, why they were in captivity. The print was large, so she could see it. To anyone else, it appeared to benefit

aith was just like everybody else; she grew up, went to college, established herself in a rewarding career. The only thing she didn’t have—sight and sound. Gestational Rubella Measles left her blind and deaf at birth. She knew nothing different. Thirty surgeries, lens implants, and corrective-lensed glasses allowed a myopic view of her surroundings. It let her read and maneuver without the gaudy, white cane that screamed, “Blind person walking!” Hearing was another matter. Hearing aids and even cochlear implants were ruled out early in her life due to her non-existent nerves. But she didn’t care. Life was—as it was. Besides, she could hear through her feet. Approaching footsteps were felt, and she would turn toward the person. The mail cart rattled so violently, she knew when to step out of her office and receive her bundle with a nod. Few realized she could not hear. She liked it that way. As a marine biologist, she communicated with everyone by writing notes or sending e-mails. The notes were simply passed on through intra-office mail or a giant clip on her office door. This aloofness had gained her a reputation as an eccentric bitch, but she’d rather be thought of as a bitch than deaf, handicapped, or worse yet—different.

She preferred to work alone, except for the sharks. Besides, she preferred to work alone, except for the sharks. They were her life, her single-minded focus. She loved working with them, studying them, feeding them, and writing about them. Interacting with people was unimportant to her. With her immediate family, mom, dad, and sister, she communicated with her hands. But with the rest of the world, she wrote down her thoughts, commands, and instructions. The Internet made that easy. Everyone typed rather than spoke on the Internet. She simply refused to participate in any video conferencing where speech was required.

in a fisherman’s net as a newborn. It’d never had a chance to learn to survive in the wild. Now six foot in length, it was a member of Faith’s family. Dr. F held up two index fingers, “Small.” Then pointed down, “Here.” Faith nodded. On through the tank they swam, locating and identifying each species. A dark mass passed into Faith’s visual range. The tiger shark was still agitated. It was time they left it alone. She would treat it to fish chunks once they got out. She turned to Dr. F and gestured the scuba sign, “Go up.” He signaled, “Okay.” In the lead, she propelled herself toward the exit ladder. A dark hazy contrast against the light-blue wall indicated she wasn’t far from the ladder. Three, maybe four more strokes, then she would remove her fins. Suddenly her chin slammed against her chest, and she tasted blood. Her body jerked backward, and the strap

readability under water. Since communication underwater was all point and signal anyway, her goal was to point at the picture and then at the actual shark. He could read the rest. Or not. The scuba gear was arranged on a bench in the nonpublic access area of the pools. She was mostly geared up when Dr. F arrived. Ignoring him, she hoisted the air tank onto her back. She reached for the regulator, but missed due to the extreme angle it hung from her tank. The hose appeared in her limited peripheral as his fingers guided it toward her face. She grabbed the regulator and jerked away. Sharp, glaring eyes told him she didn’t appreciate his interference. His eyebrows rose, but his mouth did not move. She paused. Glancing back at him, she shrugged. He nodded and returned to squeezing into his wet suit. She’d never considered him before. His muscular limbs and smooth abs might place him around her age, maybe younger. She remembered his face from a photo she had examined. Light sprigs salted his otherwise dark neatly cut hair, but the skin around his aqua-blue eyes was smooth. Premature gray, maybe? He glanced up at her as he zipped his black and green suit. Her eyes darted to the bench, and she sat down next to the laminated manual. Her heart beat violently in her chest. She consciously inhaled and exhaled to slow down the uncomfortable feelings—all of them. She hoped he would assume she was oxygenating her lungs, preparing for submersion. Once he bounced up and made a two-finger salute, she stood and handed him the manual. He opened it, scanned the pages, and nodded. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder indicating she was ready to go in. He gave the scuba signal, “Okay.” They stepped over to the side of the pool, suspended one finned foot over the water and hopped in. Pain instantly pressed against her skull. She removed her regulator, squeezed the nose of her mask, and pushed air out her ears for relief. Dr. F hovered, watching her, then held up the “Okay?” sign again. She did the same and took the lead, swimming down into the shark tank. An eight-foot-long tiger shark swam toward them. Faith reached over to the laminated manual and turned to the orange page. She pointed at the picture and then at the shark as it serpentined past them. Dr. F nodded and scanned the page. He pointed to his side, indicating the shark’s original injury. She nodded and pushed off the bottom of the pool. The shark made a side-ways arch with its spine and doubled back toward them. It slithered through the space they no longer occupied, then doubled back again. She knew its territory had been invaded, and it did not like it. She swam over to where the nurse shark hung out. She showed Dr. F the appropriate blue page. It had been caught

The tiger shark was still agitated. to her air tank slipped away from her shoulder. Another jerk pulled the other strap and spun her around. The tiger shark was attacking her. It held the tank in its razor-sharp teeth and shook it violently, yanking her along with it. She kicked at its underbelly and struggled to remove her arm from the strap. The shark let go of the tank and darted past her. She swirled to keep her eyes on its position. It was between her and the ladder. Her eyes darted around. Where to escape? Where was Dr. F? The shark arched its spine and glided through the water, straight toward her undulating legs. She drew her legs and arms in close to her body and screamed. Bubbles spilled from her mouth. The shark rammed into her torso. Plastic, not teeth, scraped across her wetsuit. She opened her eyes. Dr. F’s multi-colored laminated pages protruded from the shark’s mouth as it shook its head fervently. A firm grip took hold of her arm. Dr. F kicked long fluid strokes with his fins, pulling her toward the ladder. He shoved her up out of the water and scrambled backward, fins sticking out from the ladder. He fell on his bottom next to her and stuck his feet straight out across the sloshing surface of the pool. Crab-walking away from the sinking dorsal fin, he wiggled to get the air tank off his back. Faith’s eyes darted from him to the water. She could not stop hyper-ventilating. “Uhh, uhh,” the sound escaped her mouth as she tried to regain normal breathing. She swallowed. A metallic, copper taste caused her stomach to lurch. She closed her eyes to fight the nausea. A hand touched her shoulder. She jerked and kicked away from it. “Uhh!” she screamed. Dr. F grabbed her by both Continued on next page

brightly-colored pictures of severely injured sharks; rescuers feverishly scrambling to save them; medical staff, including himself and Faith, administering hypodermic aid to the animals; expansive undersea terrains; healthy, revived sharks traversing the aquarium; and finally young people pressed up against glass walls, admiring and learning about the sharks. The words of his speech scrolled along the bottom of the huge screen. Faith drew her eyebrows together. Subtitles? She scratched out a question on her program and handed it to her sister. Hope glanced down and then back up at her. “Don’t you know?” she signed with small, discreet gestures. Faith leaned back, “Know what?” Hope turned her head and glared at her for a moment. “Dr. Fitzgerald is deaf, Faith. The subtitles help the audience understand him. Although, I don’t think they’re necessary.” She leaned away from Faith and shook her head. “You really didn’t know?” Faith shook her head. She lifted her eyes back to the podium and the man who stood before the people. Suddenly the audience jumped to their feet. Their hands slammed together, and vocal vibrations filled the air. Faith stood and clapped too. She smiled at her sister, who stared at Dr. F. Faith touched her sister’s shoulder. Hope turned. “I saw him first,” Faith signed. Hope dipped her head and smiled.

shoulders and held her firmly. She stared into his eyes and shook her head. His eyebrows knitted tightly together, and he slowly nodded as his mouth moved. Something about his face cleared the terror in her mind. She stopped fighting and relaxed. Her head turn to the right. Red covered her shoulder. She jerked away. It wasn’t her, it was him! Blood flowed from a gash laid open from his knuckles to beyond his wrist. She grabbed his forearm and squeezed her fingers around the muscle. He looked up into her eyes and smiled, then his eyes rolled up as color drained from his face. He fell limp across her lap. She held tightly to the arm. It was the closest thing to a tourniquet she could devise. “Ooooo!” she screamed and stamped her foot. “Ooooo! Ooooo!” She felt the vacuum effect of air moving and knew the heavy doors had been opened. People frantically ran in to them, cell phones to their ears. “Mum, mum, mum!” She screamed the best she could and held up Dr. F’s bloody, torn hand. Someone wrapped something white around Dr. F’s arm and pried her bloody hands off. Adrenaline waned. The room tilted and began to spin. Everything elongated into a darkening tunnel—consciousness waned with it.

Faith sat next to her family as Dr. Fitzgerald stood on the dais, delivering the speech he and Faith had written, his heavily bandaged hand resting on the podium. It had been six weeks since the accident. Representatives from large corporations sat among local residents as Dr. F spoke. A slide show flashed

Fish in Ocean, Painting

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LeeAnn Bryan

Octavio Rodriguez

Call Me Back, Painting

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Home Plate: Where the Heart is Kevin Hull Lowell Cohn, a former baseball player, once said, “I think a baseball field must be the most beautiful thing in the world. It’s so honest and precise. And we play on it. Every star gets humbled. Every mediocre player has a great moment.” I can certainly relate to Cohn and what he experienced. I’ve played baseball since the age of five, and it has taught me many life lessons: work hard, be respectful, and stay humble. I was blessed with the opportunity to play baseball for Creekview High School, in Carrollton, Texas, and called Mustang Field my home. Many fond, and some not-sofortunate, memories come to mind when I think back on the last four years of my life spent there. Numerous goals were reached, but many hardships were endured as well. It was this very place where my life changed tremendously, and I began to truly understand who I was and what I wanted to accomplish in the years ahead.

was in pristine shape, and I could proudly say I shared in the responsibility of getting it ready. The field was my home away from home, and it was no secret to anyone. Mustang Field is positioned on the west side of the school campus and sits in a gigantic basin below street level. It has a unique layout. In order to get to the stands, fans must follow a long and winding path downhill. Conveniently located in front of the entrance to the bleachers, there is a mouthwatering concession stand. After entering the stands from below, there are three seating options: the third base or home side, the first base or visitor side, and the middle section, which can be shared by fans of both teams. The field itself is also distinctive in that it is landscaped mostly with grass, unlike the traditional dirt infield. Instead, the only dirt seen is around each cutout of first, second and third base, as well as the pitcher’s mound and home plate. The left and right field lines measure out at 315 feet from the plate. The left and right field power alleys are approximately 345 feet from home. And dead center, with its batter’s eye standing fifteen feet high, is 375 feet from home. All in all, the field is relatively symmetrical, and there’s not a bad seat in the house. Directly behind the left field wall sits a small river with a beautiful neighborhood nestled behind it. Likewise, the scene behind right field includes the new indoor sports facility, along with the student parking lot, all sitting at the top of a hill. Finally, across the street from the right field porch sits the massive three-story school, which appears even larger when sitting down in the bowl. Upon entering the grounds, the smell of fresh cut grass fills the air, and the ping of metal bats plays music to the ears. By game time, the aroma of grilled hotdogs and hamburgers drifts through the stands, while teenage girls giggle and chirp at the players, and parents challenge the calls of the umpires. Some families and students bring camping chairs and blankets and opt to sit behind the fence at the top of the right field hill, as if perched in a second deck. While the game is going on, children are seen rolling down the hill to the base of the fence, then slowly making their

I’ve played baseball since the age of five, and it has taught me many life lessons . . . It didn’t take long for people in high school to figure out what made me tick and the things I enjoyed doing the most. I proudly wore the school colors and Creekview baseball attire most every day. And odds were if I couldn’t be found in the school hallways, I was probably down at the baseball field getting dirty and having some fun with my teammates. Though I spent a fair amount of time in the classroom, it seems like I was on the baseball field even more. And once I became an upperclassman, I took ownership of the field. I would volunteer to stay late and help the coach by raking the dirt, watering the grass, or picking up trash nearby. Come game day, the field

life was complete. I believe a strong sense of belonging gives an individual stability and direction. Moving on to college, it was only logical to continue my playing career and begin the next chapter of my life, which is now in Liberal, Kansas. None of this would have been possible had it not been for my previous experiences in high school that I relished so much. After graduation, I knew I would find a new place and field just like I did in high school. So, in that respect, I had a new sense of direction. My field also gave me stability because I knew it would always be there and remain a part of my life. I knew what to expect every time I set foot on it, and there was a sense of comfort associated with that. I was truly blessed with a home away from home. We all want to be in a place that defines who we are and one that gives us a sense of identity. Whether it’s our actual home, or somewhere we can retreat to, we all hope to discover that place. My high school field met those expectations and made a huge impact on me. I left my mark there, and it’s an amazing feeling. I hope to return there someday, watch a game, and relive all those memories and images. It’s a place I will hold near and dear to my heart for years to come. “Where we love is home — home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” — Oliver Wendell Holmes

Julia, Photography

way back up a 25-foot trek, to do it again and again. What a great atmosphere! This place was meaningful and memorable in so many ways. I stepped on this field nearly every day for four years to play the game I loved. It was my safe haven from the rest of the world and a place where I could leave my worries behind. My family and friends watched me play so many games here, and I’m grateful for that. In fact, I even had the opportunity to meet Taylor Teagarden, a Creekview alumnus and big-leaguer for the Texas Rangers before being traded to the Baltimore Orioles. Three of four years, our team clinched a playoff berth at this field and celebrated with a “dog pile” at home plate. This was a time of pure happiness that will never be forgotten. A lot of blood, sweat, and tears were shed on this field as well. During my junior year, I tore my ulnar collateral ligament while making a brief pitching appearance. However, nearly a year later, following successful Tommy John surgery and a faithful rehabilitation program, I returned to the field as a senior ready to ramp it up one last season. Emotions always ran rampant on the final home game of the year, realizing the seniors would never play here again. And so it was with me – I never cry, but when the game ended, I lost it. Following the game, we walked around bases one last time and slid into home plate. The moment I touched home plate, I knew that chapter of my

Jakub Stepanovic

Family Tradition, Photography Personal Interest, Graphite

Te lo l i t h spr ing 2013

Cami Stahly

Deni Bruton

Mari, Charcoal Striped, Ceramics

Karina Avalos-Esquivel

Jeremy Mendenhall

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Thera: Ishtar Come closer to the flame, young one, listen well to my words as I weave a tale as old as five of my lifetimes, a tale full of strife and intrigue. Where you go is meaningless unless you know where you have been. We are Knights of Ishtar This is how we got our name. Five hundred harvests ago, we lived in desolate fear. Out of all our neighbors, our nameless city rose with unbridled confidence. There was naught to worry for our neighbors fought against disorganized legions of dead. We call them “Shamblers,” simple and mindless they were. We thought nothing of the danger, only of ourselves. Shamblers roamed free, easily cut down. Un-forged heroes became celebrities of the quiet town. Rarely helping our neighbors, we scoffed at the idea, as undeserving heroes grew in the limelight. World of men, rising in all esteems. Women looked down upon as tools and necessities— even the nameless queen only a title— insulted and ridiculed with simple labor and routines, women, chained to their destiny, while men reveled in delight. Shameless acts during the night. Knights of the Court, training till sun’s peak twice the time they spent chasing their desires, eating without content. Undeserving knights, chests stuck out, peasants bowing, eyes to the dirt, their egos boosted to invincibility, their hearts closed to those in need.

Young girl—a life of poverty— dreamt of Knighthood and family. Most importantly: recognition. Her name was Ishtar. Strong-willed to the end, they turned her away for five harvests, each a different excuse, although she soundly bested all who qualified to be knights.

I don’t understand, she pondered to herself. Her father was a knight. So kind he was to her. Her ambitions stemmed from his sincerity. They killed her dream. She found him surrounded by Shamblers, while the other knights laughed and sang. Appalled and broken, all the same. In clandestine woods, she trained, honing her skills through trees and Shamblers. First mark barely cut through an old oak. Second mark, her life hung in the balance when Shamblers skulked nearby. She continued to fight, her spirit strong. She trained from dusk till dawn, resting when her body allowed. She spied the knights’ training ground. Tactics improved, each day she finished strong, fire in her eyes, burning in her soul, raging flame burning slow.

Ten festivals passed, and the nameless city prospered. Desolate heroes fluffed their feathers, soldiers and knights paraded in might, peace and tranquility falsified this night. News of their neighbors fallen to the dead, eyes turned to their grand heroes, their boasts empty and void. Men of every age, conscripted to aid: “The Shamblers are two days away! Walking in file and rank!” Knights denied their enemy’s intelligence, insulted to think of a being smarter than they. Battle horns blew, men formed lines from old to new, shaky hands holding spears, heavy sweat above innocent blind eyes. Knights and soldiers scoffed at the thought of intelligent Shamblers.

Mournful wailing echoed through the trees. Undead friends and neighbors lined mist soaked valley of the twin mountainous peaks. Demon floating above, whispered for all to hear: “They may not think, but I do. Run, hide, or fight, we shall find you.” Continued on next page

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spr ing 2013 Cackling signaled the herd, woeful battle cries sung across the land. Knights and peasants charged, overwhelmed with grief, stricken with fear, unable to strike a familiar face. The peasants scattered, hiding behind the gate. Soldiers and knights fought long and hard. Their souls soon left them, their will to fight gone. With half their force run within hours even the knights began to doubt they’d survive the day. Through confusion, one lone soldier bravely walked, head held high, with nary a doubt. Helmet flung aside, golden amber hair flowed in the change of wind. Ishtar drew her sword, striding into the fray of weak-hearted fools. Daring to question put aside with one mighty swing, a dance of a lifetime, weaving in and out between Shamblers, for hours they fought, till only she remained, last of the knights, tails between their legs. She held her ground under cloudless skies, her rage focused on dispatching this threat. Even her injuries did not slow her convictions. Demon scoffed and cackled. His horde dwindling, he knew he would be beaten by this warrior true. In respect to her strength, he pulled back what he had left. She stood her ground. Cowardly knights arrested her— they garnered the attention of cries and cheers.

“Why . . .” the nameless king questioned. “Get your gutless hands off me!” she roared. “You have lost your honor and pride. Cowardice permeates through all of you. This day, coming, you denied the very existence of their intellectual kind. Stupid! Pitiful is what you are.”

She looked at young Prince Trine: “Remember this day well. Your knights chase women and drink wine, their egotistical boasts with no spine. They train with no heart and indulge in shameful crimes.” Trine stood and asked, “Why do you fight?” “First, it was respect,” she declared. “But respect from cowards is nothing worthy of note. I don’t fight for you, or me. I don’t fight for this city or country. I fight for our future. I fight to protect my loved ones so they may breathe one more day.” Ishtar drew her sword, her eyes bloodshot, fever rampant on her face. She pointed her sword at her throat, hilt dangled toward the ground. “I still have my honor, Young Prince. I shall die as I lived.” She dropped to her knees, disrespecting the crown. Her arms dropped to her side as her blood stained the royal ground. Trine drew his sword, placed it on her shoulder.

Several harvests pass, nameless kings ousted. King Trine reigned. All knights disbanded, all cowards thrown out. He renamed the city—Esperance. Renamed the knights—Knights of Ishtar—for her honor and pride, shining example to all. Our story told true, we keep our honor and traditions to this day. We are Knights of Ishtar. Remember this story well, young Knight Commander. This is our name. Carry honor and pride, if you will lead us.

— Michael Vu

Tater Tots, Photography

Te lo l i t h spr ing 2013

Virginia Grant

What is

Family?

— Selena Garcia

my father. My mother left my father and took the job, even though it meant moving to Satanta from Great Bend, where my grandparents lived, and working without a green card. At first, my mom brought us kids with her, but it was hard for her since she had to work, and we had no family here; we were living at my grandmother’s friends’ house. My grandma offered to take care of us until my mom was stable enough to take care of us on her own. My mom wasn’t too happy with the idea but finally decided it was for the best, and we kids went back to Great Bend while she stayed here. I started kindergarten that year in Great Bend and came back to live with my mom at the end of my first-grade year. My brothers, on the other hand, decided to stay with my grandmother. They had established lives in Great Bend. My grandparents provided them a home, a family. My mother and I began our own journey. Meanwhile, my dad moved to Tennessee that year and got arrested a few months later. We didn’t see him for seven years, but we’ve kept in touch with him in spite of all that’s happened. It’s complicated. Family always is. Even if our situation is different, and isn’t what most people would call a “normal family,” it’s what worked out best for us. Every family has a story, and this just happens to be mine: Edgar, my oldest brother (whose name I have changed because he, unlike me, has never accepted our family situation), graduated from high school in 2007, and my middle brother Francisco (also not his real name) graduated in 2010. Edgar got offered scholarships for cross country but decided college wasn’t for him and is now working and training with a famous professional trainer named Allaha in San Antonio in pursuit of his dream of becoming a boxer. Francisco is graduating college this year and will be a firefighter. I’m starting college this fall. We’ll all start our own families someday, and they probably won’t fit the traditional definition of family either, but the love that has held us together thus far will ensure that we’re always together, one way or another. That, to me, is the true definition of family.

amily doesn’t always mean living with your biological father, mother, and siblings. Although this is what most people think of when they think of family, sometimes this isn’t always the most suitable way of living. To me the meaning of a family isn’t necessarily having your biological father or mother living with you. Family is the people who care about you and whom you care about, no matter what.

He wouldn’t let my mother work either; he said women weren’t allowed to work. In my case, my brothers never lived with my mom and me. They lived with my grandmother and grandfather. I lived with my grandmother until I was six and then moved with my mom. This all happened because my dad was an alcoholic, was really caught up in drugs, was very abusive towards my mom, and didn’t work. We moved from Mexico when I was two because my mom thought that moving from urban Mexico to rural Kansas to be near my maternal grandparents would change my dad, but things remained the same. When we moved, my dad didn’t even try getting a job. He would leave early in the morning, saying he was going to look for a job, and would come back drunk. He wouldn’t let my mother work either; he said women weren’t allowed to work. So then, how were we to get what we needed? Well, that’s where my grandparents came in. This happened for about two years, and nothing ever seemed to get any better. So, finally, one day my grandma and my mom were talking, and my grandma told her that she could get her a job at a Seaboard but that she would have to leave

Grandpa Loves Racin’ Grandpa loves racin’, the rumbly kind, NASCAR or dirt track is perfectly fine. Daytime or night time, large track or small, Grandpa loves racin’—his favorite of all. Find him on weekends in his easy chair NASCR on TV vibrating the air. Find him in summer, his smile unsurpassed, at our local dirt track, having a blast. Grandma loves grandpa, it’s easy to see, though noisy old races aren’t her cup of tea. But she’ll be beside him at large track or small, for time spent with Grandpa she loves above all. Grandma loves music, (it’s very well known). she really loves blues, with a good saxophone. She loves to dress up and go out on the town and catch a performance by one of renown. Grandpa loves grandma, and that is no lie. When he is with her, there’s a light in his eye, so he’ll be beside her, in suit and a tie. Seeing her smile makes him one happy guy. Marriage takes work if it is to sustain. Study your spouse and from others refrain. Each gives a little, and garners great gain. Both will be blessed, and the love will remain.

— Virginia Grant Rustic Beauty, Photography

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Natalie Robinson

Gone

Racin’

with Bud Amanda Stout

steady pace set by the pace car, but the anxiety builds to an unbearable level. Then bursts of excitement finally unleashed by the crowd, a bellow of cheers, clapping of hands, whistles crescendo into a monstrous volume as the cars approach the start line. As soon as the first car breaks the plane of the start line, the flag waiver rips and waves the green flag in repeated figure eights. The crowd’s cheers are soon engulfed by race engines running wide-open, full-throttle. They’ll push physics and aerodynamics to insurmountable levels to gain position, where a nanosecond of lost time or torque could cost a driver, his team, and sponsor millions in lost earnings and points. The sounds of the engines intensify, merge, and become a symphonic hum, a soothing heaviness in our chests until the last car in the pack moves through the start line. The hum softens as the cars enter the backstretch. For the next 267 laps, the cars will move around the track so fast we will only see the bright-colored paint schemes streamlined in a single blur. As they pass our view, traveling over 200 mph, they will often maintain only inches in distance from bumper to bumper. Drivers will swap paint, make mistakes that cause crashes and cost time, and they will strategically pit for mechanical adjustments and fuel. When drivers have exceeded the car’s maximum performance, one driver‘s skill, experience, team alliance strategy, and guts will push only one car over the line first to take the checkered flag. And that’s racin’! It’s our father-daughter vacation we have been taking every year together since 2005, the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series Championship Race in Homestead, Florida. It’s the highlight of our year.

ith the palm trees in the distance and the sunshine beating down hard on the 1.5 mile oval track with 18-20-degree banked turns, my dad and I sit patiently in row 40, section 314, located just above Turn One. Sipping on our ice cold brews, our anxiety grows as the opening ceremony moves through the precise order of the invocation, Star Spangled Banner, F-18 flyover, and—the exact moment we have waited for all year. The announcer finally growls, “GENTLEMEN, START YOUR ENGINES!” Tremendous rumbles of master-tweaked race engines escape the shells of the forty-three race cars placed side by side and behind one another according to their pole positions. The smell of nitromethane fills the air and hits our faces as we grin uncontrollably at each other. Grabbing my shoulders

The announcer finally growls, “GENTLEMEN, START YOUR ENGINES!” with both hands, shaking them vigorously with excitement, Dad yells into my ear, “Here we go, Nanny!” The anticipation is excruciating. The pace car leads the pack around the track, and cars zigzag sharply in and out, an effort to heat up their tires for optimal stick and performance. The starter stands up in his basket perch directly over the start/finish line. He waves the yellow flag, one more paced lap. Dad’s hands still on my shoulders, our hearts pound strong and proud as the cars make their way around Turn Four. The pace car exits the track—a clean start lies ahead. The drivers maintain the same

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In My Father’s Words atta girl bumfuzzled cut the crap dagnabbit enough fann’n the door gung ho hairbrained idea it is what it is jumpin’ jackrabbits knock it off life ain’t no picnic make you or break you not in my house out of the mouths of babes pull yourself up by your bootstraps quit flapp’n your gums running like a herd of elephants straighten up and fly right tomorrow’s another day you gotta pay to play vanity will get you nowhere would you just light somewhere x marks the spot you can’t hit a home run every time zip your lip

Green Piece, Marker and Pen

Cami Stahly

— Karen Wilson

Feed Time, Photography Deni Bruton

Natalie Robinson

23 Fearless, Photography

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Marching to the Beat— The Unique Me Natalie Robinson

“If

stage of life. During the teen years, a person will definitely have weaknesses, character traits that are still developing, and continuing learning in the area of life concepts and values. Nevertheless, this learning and training time should not be used as an excuse to act out because an individual is a teen. For example, junior high and high school years are stereotyped as a time of cliques and bullying, which results in teen depression, pregnancy, self-harm, and suicide. Many times, these dramatic choices and attitudes come from feelings of being unaccepted by the majority of the peer group. Leaving people out of my circle of friends was never an option for me at any age. I know what it feels like to be alone, to hide behind my “game face,” to be judged because of something I did or for my values and convictions. The stereotypical assumptions about my life from some people give me the courage and motivation to look beyond myself and find the person who feels lonely and unaccepted in a group. I diligently attempt to make this person feel welcomed, accepted, and loved by my group of friends and me. I believe that my approach is linked to the fact that my parents chose to teach to me at a young age God’s Word to love others and to be a woman of integrity. This expectation did not change because I entered my teen years of growth and development. Another stereotype that I have had to overcome through the years has to do with the fact that my parents chose to school my sisters and me at home. Even though many of America’s founding leaders and successful citizens were schooled at home, the myths and assumptions about homeschooling today are many and varied in content. I laughed as my new friend reacted when I informed her that I was homeschooled throughout elementary, junior high, and high school. It was a reaction I had experienced many times in the past. “Oh, so are you like those people who wear oldfashioned clothing and don’t have electricity in their homes?” she asked, while laughing at the joke she clearly thought was hilarious. I inwardly rolled my eyes at her ignorance about groups of people. Instead, I managed to smile sweetly while I, once again, began to explain how homeschooling truly works.

we were all born originals, why do so many of us die copies?” This short, insightful quote impacts many people regardless of ethnic background or financial status. We live in a world continuously driven to be like everyone else that surrounds us. Through the influence of social media and television sitcoms, we learn to dress like the celebrities, act like our classmates, and think the way society trains us to think. Each individual was created to be unique and original; however, in reality, a person is often judged for looking or acting differently from the status quo. Stereotyping hinders the ability for a unique individual’s differences to be accepted and celebrated. Quite frankly, everyone has participated in or been a victim of stereotyping along our journey through life. Instead of seeing other’s differences as gifts, we limit one another to restrictive standards. In my personal experiences as a teenager, a home educated student, and a pastor’s daughter, I have found that differences do not have to be “outlandish” to be targeted as not fitting into the society’s expectations.

I find it irritating when I am grouped into this shallow category simply because of my age and stage of life. “Lazy,” “irresponsible,” and “rebellious” are a few words that many people use to describe a typical teenager. I find it irritating when I am grouped into this shallow category simply because of my age and stage of life. I am convinced that one of the reasons for teen rebellion is that parents expect their children to go through this selfish stage in life. What if parents and other adults chose to not acknowledge an in-between stage of being a child and becoming an adult? What if, instead, an individual is expected to be responsible and considerate of others and not given “a way out” for lazy or rebellious behavior because of age? Irresponsible ways are unnecessary at any

extremes are present for children whose parents are in the ministry. The first assumption about a pastor’s child is the one celebrated the most by people who are looking for ways to feel okay about their own wrongdoing. It is the “rebel child” stereotype that many people associate with the preacher’s daughter from the movie Footloose, or possibly from real life experiences with the child of a ministry family they knew in school that was looking for a friend, no matter the cost. This character in the movie is a drinker, a manipulator, and extremely selfish. Overall, she is an insecure and immature young girl. She purposefully tries to emulate the popular expectation of a pastor’s child, which I have found happens many times in any young person’s life, regardless of a parent’s career. The opposite expectation of church people for the pastor’s child is to know and have memorized the entire Bible by age six, never listen to loud music or enjoy dancing, never watch secular movies, and always greet everyone at church with a smile so they will feel good about coming to church. This list may seem quite exaggerated and absurd, but from personal experiences I can assure you that some people do think in these ways about children of the pastor. People find it surprising when they learn that I love to dance, and the big shocker is that my dad, the preacher, enjoys watching my sisters and me dance as well. I love loud music, and I enjoy going to watch a new movie such as Avengers on the big screen at the movie theater. It is extremely important to me to be respectful, treat others the way I would want to be treated, and to honor God through my life. I do not like people judging that the only reason these things are important to me is because my dad is in the ministry. These choices are vital in my life because I have a relationship with Jesus Christ, not because my dad happens to be behind a pulpit every Sunday. It saddens me when people refuse to look at who I am as a person of faith because they are living with preconceptions that many times have nothing to do with God. Clearly, every person deserves the right to be an individual, unique and original, in action and intent. There is so much more to an individual than simply the outside view. I challenge myself to be a respectable and responsible teenager. I want to have dignity and integrity as a woman of faith, not just as a pastor’s daughter. I want to be a reminder to everyone around me to laugh and smile and live life to its fullest! I want to be perceived as an approachable, educated, sociable friend. Obviously, it is much easier for us to label one another as being a particular way instead of peeling back the stereotypical view and understanding and appreciating our differences. Personally, I have counted the cost of stereotyping, and I undeniably choose to “march to the beat of a different drummer.”

When I meet new people, the stereotype of a homeschooler ranges from one that borders on perfection to one that is totally demeaning. One of the common things I hear is that a homeschooled student is someone who is a socially awkward genius studying algebra and chemistry by the fifth grade. This type of homeschooler sews her own clothing, has fifteen brothers and sisters, and bakes her own bread. The flip side to this view is that homeschoolers do not go to “real school.” I have encountered people who have thought that school includes lounging around in my pajamas and watching television all day. In my homeschooling years, I did not usually sleep in and was expected to dress in clothes daily. I did not attempt algebra until ninth grade. Plus, I was the Robinson girl who was able to slide by without having to sew something I had to wear and model for a 4H project! Once, I had a girl tell me that since I was homeschooled I must be extremely unsocial and not know how to talk to people. This statement was comical to me. Anyone who knows or simply meets me realizes in a moment that this myth is the exact opposite of who I am. I have been known to meet strangers and make them my friend in a day. I have been voted spokesperson when doing group projects. I am able to talk to anyone regardless of age. In fact, I have often been called a social butterfly. I attribute much of my ability to meet others to the fact that I was homeschooled and through field trips, lectures, and relationships given the privilege of social experiences and contacts with people of different ages, cultures, and community organizations. These circumstances in life have taught me how to have pleasant conversations with a person of any age and background; however, I know that many of my public school friends find situations awkward when interacting with anyone other than their own age or peer group. I feel that my school experience at home protected and prepared me for the stereotypical world where we all work, play, and live together. Finally, to explain the last stereotype, my emotions are involved because it targets the two things closest to my heart: my family and my faith. I tied my shoes while the girls on my soccer team stood around and gossiped about another girl who played soccer with us. Seeing my disinterest in putting down another person, one girl pointedly asked me, “What do you think, Natalie?” I made it clear that I did not like that they were being so rude and hurtful to our team member. Another girl piped up after I finished my explanation and said, “Oh, Natalie doesn’t gossip. She’s just a goody two-shoes. Her dad is like a Pope or something.” Now, my dad is not a Pope, but he is a preacher, a man who has answered the call to pastor and shepherd people to know God personally and intimately. The girl on my soccer team almost had it correct. This is one example of the countless times that someone has stereotyped me as a pastor’s kid. As with the previous homeschooling stereotype, two different

Snow Show, Photography

Te lo l i t h spr ing 2013

Virginia Grant

The

Journey T

Virginia Grant

The Christmas Program

he night was cold and windy, and there was new fallen snow on the ground. The church’s Christmas pageant was always a popular attraction in the small town of Norrington, Kansas. Southwest Kansas was known for cold and wind, but snow was not such a regular occurrence. Still, it added a festive sense of holiday wonder to the yearly pageant. No one in the audience gave a second thought to the man who came in and sat in the back just after the program started. He was dirty and obviously in need of clean clothes and a shave. But he sat quietly and intently watched the program. His eyes closely followed the strawberry blond angel on the front row as she sang her songs and recited her lines. He looked longingly at her, and a tear slipped down his grimy face as he followed her every movement. Regret flooded his heart as he continued to watch the unfolding of the pageant. The children put on a great program, portraying wise men, shepherds, angels, and even farm animals in the customary manger scene, and the standard Christmas songs were sung with vigor. Delighted laughter rippled through the audience members as the children went about the pageant with the usual antics and miscues. As the program turned to a serious note with the birth of baby Jesus and the unfolding of the Christmas story, the crowd grew quiet and listened intently as the children performed the grand finale. Following the pageant, the festive atmosphere in the auditorium was palpable as parents and grandparents took pictures and children posed and giggled with delight at the attention they received from family and friends. Eventually, the crowd cleared out, and no one noticed the man who sat quietly in the back with a pensive and pained look on his face. The lights of the building were turned off, and the doors were locked. Another Christmas pageant was now documented by cell phone, video, and digital camera. And yet, the man still sat.

The Dream

hen he was sure everyone was gone, the man turned the lights up just a bit and made his way down the middle aisle toward the front of the auditorium. He ran his grimy fingers along the manger and lifted some of the sweet-smelling hay to his nose and inhaled of its fragrance. He planned to stay just for a moment and pretend that he was a part of the little angel’s life, as he sat on the front pew and pondered how his existence had changed so drastically and how he had ended up in such a low estate. He wept with bitterness and grief as he wrapped his tattered coat around his body, lay down on the pew, and fell into a fitful slumber.

He ran his grimy fingers along the manger. . . He was awakened by a bright and shining light coming from somewhere above him. He slowly sat up to see a giant of a man standing over him. The man wore a suit of armor, like something the ancient Romans wore, but it was all in white. He looked as if he were wearing football shoulder pads, his shoulders were so broad, and he had a fierce, yet somehow compelling look upon his shining face. Strapped to his side was a golden sword with a hilt of jewels. It sparkled in the bright light. The homeless man was startled beyond description and screamed like a girl and fell off of the pew. He fearfully backed away from the fearsome looking man, with every intention of running for his life. But the man in white held up his hand, and said, “Don’t be afraid.” This stopped the homeless man cold. He gingerly looked up at the other to see a compassionate look upon his face. “You are Steve,” said the man in white, with a surprisingly gentle voice. Continued on next page

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spr ing 2013 As the angel said these words, another scene came into view on the right side of the auditorium. It was a young man, and he appeared to be having a conversation with himself. He paced back and forth and wrung his hands in an anxious manner. “Pregnant. She is pregnant. Oh, what am I going to do? We were to be married next month. I nearly have everything ready for her. What was she thinking? Who is the father, ‘cause it’s sure not me? Oh, Jehovah, what am I going to do?” The young man began to weep. He sat on a stool and put his head in his hands, and his shoulders shook with the force of his weeping. Suddenly, the young man felt a strong but gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a man dressed all in white, with a golden sword at his side. “Don’t be afraid to take Mary to be your wife,” said the angel, “for she is carrying the very begotten Son of God.” Joseph could not believe his ears. His Mary had been faithful to him after all. Relief flooded his very soul. This scene fades to another, one where many camels carrying men wearing turbans and long flowing robes appeared to be journeying on a long and tiresome voyage. There was a bright star shining in the sky, and the men on the camels appeared to be using the star as a guide for their journey. The next scene was more familiar to Steve. For it was the manger. Sitting beside the manger was a young woman who looked very tired, and she looked lovingly to the young man who was standing beside her. It was the man Steve had seen earlier, the one who was weeping about his fiancé. The man was holding the babe in his arms, and looking wonderingly into its eyes. Steve sat transfixed as scene after scene passed before his eyes. The story that unfolded before him was intense, yet compelling. He saw a dove descending, and the sick made whole. He saw a group of men fighting, and a zealot cutting off a soldier’s ear. This scene faded, and the next showed a woman weeping. She was holding on to the feet of a man hanging on a cross. She heard a painful whisper from the man on the cross, “Woman, behold your son,” and a man standing nearby took the woman gently by the hand and led her away, while she continued to weep. This scene slowly faded, and an utter silence filled the auditorium.

“Y-y y-y y-yes,” said Steve. “I am come in answer to your prayer,” said the man in white. “You heard my prayer?” asked Steve. “No, but God did. And He sent me to let you know your future doesn’t have to be the same as your past. You can change your destiny if you choose to.” “But, who are you?” questioned Steve. “You look like Spartacus on steroids.” “My name isn’t important, but I am an angel of God,” answered the other. “I thought angels had long flowing hair, wore white robes, and had wings like an eagle.” The angel laughed and said, “You won’t find that description of any angel in the Bible, but let’s get to the reason I’m here. God wants you to know He loves you and wants the best for you. He wants you to come back to him.” “Oh, I don’t think so. After what I have done, there’s no hope for me. I’m too far gone to come back now. I’m doomed to finish my days the way I am now, poor, dirty, and forgotten. If only I could go back and change my life. If only I could undo my mistakes and start again. I would do so many things different. I might even be able to be daddy to Kelly, and be able to take pictures of her and take her out for pizza after she sang, like all the other parents do.” “There is hope for you, Steve. Tonight I will take you through time and show you how your life can change. Then you will have to decide what you will do with what you will learn. Let’s get started.

The Majestic

he angel sat with Steve on the front pew and drew his sword. He pointed it toward the left of the auditorium’s platform, and as if by magic, a scene came into view. A magnificent white horse with golden bridle and reigns and a saddle the likes of which had never been crafted before pranced into the center of the scene. Upon the horse sat a regal figure, the King more majestic than the mind could ever imagine. He wore a sparkling crown upon his head, and in his terribly scarred hand he held what looked like seven golden candle sticks. His eyes had a red glow to them, as though they were on fire. Then the horse faded from view, and the same magnificent King was sitting upon a throne of gold. He was surrounded by angels, just like the angel that had appeared before Steve, and he appeared to be ruling over his kingdom. This scene faded from view, and Steve said to the angel, “I have never witnessed anything so fearful in my life, yet I was drawn to look at that King, as though he held the answer to every question I have ever asked or thought.” “Just remember that King as you view the next scenes I will show you,” said the angel.

Steve just sat for a minute, next to the angel, as he contemplated all that he has seen. The angel had shown him so many things. Steve was simply overwhelmed. He said to the angel, “Why did I see all these things? Why did I see the King with the red eyes at the beginning of the vision?” “Because that mighty King is the same one that was born to be placed in the manger. That babe did not stay small and helpless. He grew to be a carpenter, then a mighty preacher, then he was nailed to a cross to make a way for every man and woman ever born to come to him. He wants to help you today.

been last night. There were the costumes piled on the edge of the platform. There was the star hanging behind the makeshift manger scene. Instead of days and days, it appeared Steve had only been asleep a few moments. He looked up at the pastor and slowly came to his feet. “Ok. I’ll come with you,” Steve said. “I have a lot of questions for you.” And Steve’s steps appeared a little lighter, and the burden he carried in that night appeared a little lighter as he followed the pastor out the back door.

That mighty King is standing by even now to rule in your heart and life. If you will but yield your life to Him, He will help you start anew, and the rest of your life can be fulfilling. He will give hope where hopelessness was before. If you can accept that King into your life, His power and might will give you a future you could never imagine.”

The Revelation

Mind Lighting, Photography

teve slowly woke up and looked around him. Pastor Jim was shaking him on the shoulder, and the angel was nowhere to be seen. “I thought I saw you earlier tonight, Steve. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. I was back in my office when I heard something out here, and I came to see what it was. Come with me. I will find you something to eat, and we can talk. It’s so good to see you again.” Steve rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his straggly hair as he looked around. The stage was just as it had

Jakub Stepanovic

Country Living, Photography

Magic Tree, Photography

Te lo l i t h spr ing 2013

Justin Parish

Natalie Robinson

Alis Brown

Into the Cold, Photography

spr ing 2013 Te lo l i t h

Happily Ever After: My Life as a Stepdaughter

Kacey Sm ith There’s a basic problem with Lofas’ premise, however. In 2004, according to the Encyclopedia of Children’s Health, onethird of American children under the age of 13 were living in a household with one biological parent and the parent’s partner. This number might be too low because the U.S. Census Bureau did not take into consideration that one child might be part of two separate stepfamilies. Why then is it that we don’t see the total collapse of a society in which a full third of families are “failures”? The answer is simple: Families of all sorts and types can raise children, and the assumptions made about stepfamilies are simply wrong. Some problems wrongly associated with raising children in stepfamilies include delinquency and drug abuse, but in reality, there are no drastic differences between children with stepfamilies or children living with both biological parents. For example, James Holmes, the Aurora, Colorado, shooter, came from a two-parent biological home. He wasn’t what I’d call successful. Besides, family values conservatives only talk about the negative effects stepfamilies have on children; they never say what the positive effects are. One effect is that the children are exposed to a variety of lifestyles, experiences, and points of view. The children also gain new adults in their life who will love, admire, and respect them. These new adults also give the children a new set of positive role models. I come from a stepfamily, and I’m on the right track to becoming successful. Yes, in the beginning, my family had its issues, but honestly, what family doesn’t? Whether you come from a stepfamily or a nuclear family, you’re still a member of a family. You’re always going to have one another’s backs, and you’re going to support them in everything they do. Biological father or not, my stepfather has been there supporting me through everything. He is what a father should be, and I wouldn’t change anything, because you see, it’s not me that needs changing. It’s our nation’s definition of “family.”

n the opinion of some people, my family does not qualify as “normal.” I live in a household with my mother, stepfather, and three half-siblings. I’ve known my stepfather since I was born. In fact, I actually met my stepfather before I met my biological father. I know who my biological father is, but he doesn’t play a “parental” role in my life. When I was younger, my biological father and I tried to have a relationship, and he shared joint custody with my mom. I spent every other weekend and the full summer with him. We tried to have the normal father-daughter relationship, and for awhile, it worked; then he remarried. This new union produced my other half brother, and my relationship with my father began to change drastically. We could no longer have a normal conversation without having an argument. It wasn’t pretty, and today there is no real connection between us.

These “family values” experts see doom in the future. . . To some people these elements of my biography can only mean one thing: My “broken” family has left me a “broken” person. Without the security provided by a traditional nuclear family, some social commentators might see me as a teen mother, thinking about dropping out of school, and spending a lifetime on welfare. These “family values” experts see doom in the future as the definition of family expands to include people like my family and me. They are wrong, and I am living proof of their error. Some of these experts think that nothing can replace a biological parent. This is true to some degree, but they are insinuating that stepparents do not care for their stepchildren as their biological parents do. For instance, Jeannette Lofas, president and founder of the Stepfamily Foundation, holds that stepfamilies will not and cannot function as biological families. Lofas maintains that stepparents must “recognize the hard fact that [non-biological] children are not yours and they never will be. ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad,’” continues Lofas, are “sacred words.” She goes on to say that many times stepfamilies who fail to recognize this fact risk fulfilling the stereotype of wicked stepchildren, cruel stepmothers, and withdrawn stepfathers.

Lofas, Jeannette. “Ten Steps for Stepparents.” The Stepfamily Foundation. N.p., n.d. Web. 25 Mar. 2013. <http://www.stepfamily.org/>.

Shadow in the Mirror, Charcoal

Dalibor Cohadarevic

33 Tool in a Cup, Charcoal

Look at You Here you are so quiet – sleeping so peaceful – for a short time so innocent – underserving of the sins against you For a while you are free from the pain from the war inside you from the fear within your body When you came to us you came with a name which carried a promise Jesse – “gift from God” When we chose we chose to keep you forever we chose to keep your name Jesse – “gift from God”

Into the Cold 2, Photography

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Look at you – soon you will awaken plunging into your world attacking hidden demons trampling on hearts that love you Again you’ll be a prisoner of the feelings you continue to experience of the brain that wars against you of the body that fears danger, when there is none

Alis Brown

We will come to you we’ll say the name that carries a promise Jesse – “gift from God” We will choose to fight for you forever we’ll choose to keep your heart as we hold on to the promise Jesse – “gift from God”

— Karen Wilson

Bathetic Vampire Questions unanswered, distance, the only answer to protect soft hearts, perceptions remain clouded. A new-kindled love among siblings, thought by one to never exist, found and cultivated. New awareness of her inability to love and be loved, although not acceptable, finally more clear. Mothers are supposed to fearlessly lead their children through darkest of times, but she blames her children responsible, her turn in the cyclic demise. A sad, bathetic vampire indeed, who never knew a motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s love, emotionally unavailable to her children, irresponsible to rise above. Untruthful and hurtful stories, intentions unknown, conjured toxicity within the family, instead of unconditional love and support in her chosen role. Denial and anger spew when clarity is sought, reek with false shame and humiliation. Lies shared with others about her own children, manipulating to control, defined in books as triangulation. In desperate attempt to interpret the core of her heart, siblings seek to understand where and why she fell apart. Boundaries donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist, hatred and blame consume her life. How do we help this bathetic vampire, how do we continue a relationship without strife? The most painful observation in all that has unfolded, the vampire sits back convinced, nothing peculiar, nothing wrong. Unwilling to understand, hurt and frustration bellowing from her own blood. In the absence of her children, a thousand pounds lifted, obligation to comfort removed from her load.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Amanda Stout

Memento Mori, Pencil

Jeremy Mendenhall

The Liberty Bell Pepper, Charcoal Point of View, Charcoal

Te lo l i t h spr ing 2013

Dalibor Cohadarevic

Stetson Haynes

Crash, Pencil Stetson Haynes

Stetson Haynes

37 Random Shenanigans, Charcoal

All Natural Food #1, Drawing

All Natural Food #2, Drawing

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Dalibor Cohadarevic

Communication, Photography

Kevin Harmon

Jakub Stepanovic

39 The Flower, Drawing

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The Wedding Gift Ly n n D o n ova n

is dangerous! She will eat you alive, if you let her. You’re not compatible.” And, funny thing is, he was right. They were married five years. Their breakup was so strained, Dad rejoined the military to escape the drama. He spoke of the painting often, and longed to have it back. Nevertheless, he made no effort to retrieve it. He knew it would be impossible. He knew the depth of her stubborn, brick-wall mind. I knew someday, somehow, I would find a way to return it to him. Then it happened, more easily than I ever expected. I’d been married six years and had a son of my own. Christmas was a few months away when Mom called. With amazing innocence she explained she had redecorated her living room and wondered if Don would want Windy’s painting. I met her innocence and raised her one calm voice when I replied, “Yeah, I imagine he’d like to have it.” Okay, we agreed I’d make sure the painting was returned to him. Christmas made the perfect time to present this special gift. I wrapped it in newspaper cartoons and labeled it “For Dad, from Lynn.” He told me later he thought it was a portrait of my husband and me. Little did he know! We kept it in our car and brought it in after everyone had opened all their gifts from us and we had opened our gifts from them. I wanted it to be a big deal because it was. Dad knelt on the floor in his skin tight wranglers and stove-pipe leather cowboy boots. His large round belly hung over his undersized hips. His eyes widened, and his eyebrows rose with curiosity when I balanced the large cartoon-covered rectangle in front of him. He grinned and snickered in his deep-voiced way. He exclaimed, “Mercy,” as he often did, and turned it around, determining where to begin unwrapping the mystery. My stepmother, sister, brother and his new girlfriend sat in chairs and on the floor watching with mild interest, a look of “What has she done now?” on their faces. Tamera, the girlfriend, eyed the TV, oblivious to what was about to happen. Finally, Dad poked his finger through the paper and peeked into the hole. Recognizing it immediately, he shot to his feet, lunged for me, and wrapped me in a smothering embrace. His voice was two octaves higher than anyone had heard before as he cried and choked, “Thank you!” We both cried. Through whispers we managed to talk during our embrace. I said, “You’re welcome.”

’ve always wondered if Mother would have clung to the painting from her brother-in-law if she had realized the subliminal message he painted into the wedding gift. The thought crosses my mind every time I look at it, now hanging in my utility room. Did she see what I saw, all those years ago? Did Dad even notice? Did my imagination create the insult, the warning, only because I know all the players? The painting became such a bone of contention between my mother and father when they split. Mother, of course, won and kept the painting. My stepdad never articulated his concern or preference for the item from her past hanging in his living room, at least not within my hearing. Did no one see what I saw?

A huge green plant with a gaping red maw fills the foreground like the palm of a clawed-hand. An angry orange and red sky casts shadows across barren desert sands. A huge green plant with a gaping red maw fills the foreground like the palm of a clawed hand. An innocent lizard sits in front of the patiently waiting phalanges. Two bones lie as warning of the lizard’s impending demise. It’s an oil-on-canvas board, twenty by twenty-four inches. The canvas board was mounted when he painted the hand-made frame, brown paint strokes still evident by careless over-brush on the canvas. The frame and the painting were both sloppy work actually, but then again, probably completed the night before. Uncle Windy (short for Winfield) never planned too far in advance. The symbolism is so obvious, I’m surprised no one reads the message slapped into the oily medium. Or does it matter? Mom and Dad met and married in Florida. His family drove three days to meet her for the first time at the wedding. They wouldn’t get to know her until three years later when Dad moved her to Texas. Yet, somehow my uncle sensed and expressed his warning to his younger brother. “This woman

to get it back. Was there sarcasm in her words? True enough, it did not go with her decor, but she’d never had much of a voice in how their house was decorated. Just as predicted, down came her picture of a defeated Indian warrior on his white steed, and up went The Man Eating Plant. Interesting how neither of my stepparents ever objected to the painting. When Dad died, Betty wasted little time transferring the painting back to me. Its bright colors complement the chocolate brown walls of my laundry room, and it makes me smile every time I see it, reminding me of my father’s joy when I returned it to him and my mother’s silly obsession with keeping it. I’ll always wonder about the secrets behind the design—if they truly exist in the painting or simply in my mind. Now it hangs in the neutral territory of my home, something I think Uncle Windy would have liked very much.

Water Wheel, Painting

He said, “How did you get this?” I explained Mom voluntarily gave it to me for him. The rest of the family sat slack-jawed in their places. The present, still wrapped in cartoon print, lay concealed on the floor. None of them knew what was contained in the paper or why Dad had reacted so emotionally to what he had seen. My stepmother, Betty, amusingly said, “Well, what is it?” Dad wiped his tears and returned to the gift. He couldn’t speak, so he just pulled the paper off and turned it around for the family to see. An expression of, “Yeah—and. . . ” lingered on their faces. Dad explained, “This is the painting Windy made for Jackie and me when we got married.” Dad choked up but continued, “Even when Windy died, she wouldn’t let me have it. I thought I’d never see it again.” Tears flowed again and we resumed our embrace. Tamera stewed in confusion, my siblings wiped away empathetic tears, and Betty commented how nice it was

Lynn Donovan

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Color In The Dark Still Standing, Photography

Sunshine covered by dark clouds, Lady with a beautiful outlook, Husband in the woods with the look of a madman Finds her walking and her outlook gets plowed. Beaten up, she stays beside her man, Keeping her outlook in the dark, Staying as close to God as she can. She does not know where to turn, Friends she has, with pleasure, Although she stays,the dream to run starts to yearn.

Alis Brown

One day running, she does, Off she takes, telling friends good-bye, Husband in the woods finds her as she runs. Catching her and teaching her a lesson, By the time he thinks he is done, She has gone to Heaven, But her friends will never forget the color She always had before she left.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Cami Stahly

Innocence Innocence I hold in my arms. Its mere existence brings me peace. Ignorant of its surroundings. Living to live and nothing more. Innocence so rare. Last of its kind. Yet you dare pose a threat to this innocence I find. So pure, so surreal. Be away, you plague, this innocence is mine.

Pink Boots, Photography

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; William Salvador

Carolina Tapia

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Burning Ties The smell of gasoline fills the air. Gazing into the clear blue skies reminiscing days gone by. Burnt matches at my feet. Never make it from my hand. Still peering out across the bridge. It’s been years yet my mind is still stagnant memories dance across the bridge. A journey across several countrysides spending countless moons in her eyes whispering of times that will never come.

Eyes closed clearing the world from my mind. Strike . . . Heat rises eyes slowly open to a sea of flames to an inferno opening to the past. A farewell delivered by my close friend. Three weeks of unforgiving agony. Watching and reeling while she’s in another’s arms.

Wonder, Print

Memories wane to and fro with the rhythm of the blaze. Flames rage stronger, soaring into the heavens. Wood and metal creak. Eyes averted to the unknown road. A compulsion to look once more.

Cami Stahly

Whisper, “You’ve come too far to stop don’t look back.” With one final warning the bridge folds upon itself. My walk into the unknown begins.

— Michael Vu

Vibrant Loveliness, Painting

Carolina Tapia

Cami Stahly

45 Flowers, Photography

City Lights, Photography

Te lo l i t h spr ing 2013

Justin Parish

Atonement, Painting Octavio Rodriguez

Te lo l i t h

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The Crickets’ Warning

Lynn Donovan come home? Please!” He chuckled but agreed. Rocking back and forth, I sat on their bed and stared out the window for their headlights. An eternity passed in the darkness of that window. Finally, their car pulled into the driveway, and I ran down the hall. “Come on, Gaylord!” my dad said. The beagle ran into the house, ahead of them, tail wagging and happy to be let in. “Where was he?” I cried. “In the garage.” Daddy laughed. “I thought he was in the pantry!” I said, fighting the temptation to hug my dad. “How’d he get in the garage?” “I don’t know. I guess you heard him at the door,” Dad said with a dismissive shrug. The door leading into the garage was next to the pantry door. I supposed it did make sense. Still, how did the front door get open? They didn’t seem any too concerned. So we all settled into bed. I slid under my pink and white gingham comforter and listened to every unfamiliar creek of the house. I couldn’t sleep. Even the crickets were silent now. Were they scared too? Did they know something was wrong? Why were my parents so calm? The front door had come open, somehow. Gaylord was in the garage. Something wasn’t right. Then I heard it. The crickets’ rhythmic chirping began again. They were mocking me in my fearful, sleepless state. I turned on my side, covered my ears, and cried. I was alone in my fear. I was alone in my consciousness that something was wrong. But what? I never knew. Not then. Not now. But every time I hear crickets chirping, I think of that terrifying night. And wonder— Who opened that front door?

f I hadn’t been standing in the entryway in my babydoll pajamas, pounding on the ceiling with my shoe to get a cricket to stop chirping, I wouldn’t have noticed the front door standing wide open.

It was eleven o’clock at night, and my parents were not home. It was eleven o’clock at night, and my parents were not home. They had gone out with their friends for drinks and camaraderie, or whatever it was they got out of being with their boisterous buddies at a place called Polly’s Pub. I was sixteen. Well past the age of needing a babysitter. Yet, here I stood, shoe in hand, arms raised over my head, trying to silence a cricket, unaware the front door stood open. The street was silent, but my dog suddenly, fearfully barked, and I jumped. Oh God! Where was he? I looked at the gaping door. Should I step outside to look for him? I couldn’t move. His muffled bark came from the direction of the kitchen. The pantry, perhaps? OH GOD, someone was in the house and had put him in the pantry! And here I was, in skimpy pajamas, all alone. I ran to my parents’ bedroom and fumbled through the phone book. Tears soaked the Yellow Pages ads as I searched for the Pub’s phone number. At last, I found it and pushed the numbers. Polly answered. I forced myself to speak clearly. “May I please speak to Everett Bryan? This is his daughter.” When daddy came on the phone, I lost it. “Daddy? There’s somebody in the house,” my octave peaked, “and I don’t know where Gaylord is. I heard him bark, but I can’t find him. I’m in your bedroom, and I’m really scared. Can y’all

Nicholson, George.”House Cricket Illustration.” The Illustrated Dictonary of Gardening, Div. VI. Gill:London.1884.

Jeremy Mendenhall

49 Silent Silhouettes, Graphite

Reflection, Photography Sunset at the Ranch, Photography

Te lo l i t h spr ing 2013

Natalie Robinson

Justin Parish

Arturo Martinez

Glass and Sphere, Charcoal

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A Fortress Peace eludes me. I search, but it is not found. Surrounded by demons seeking to attack each one knows me, each one hates me. They know my weaknesses, my insecurities, traps I have set for myself. It is apparent that I am willing to do anything for peace. Will I fight? Can I wage war? They are strongâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;pervasive, invading each part of my body. I fight, lie down, infested.

Peace eludes me. I seek a fortress where peace abides. A place to triumph over attacking demons, each knows me, each hates me.

Event Horizon, Painting

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Karen Wilson

Mark Rohlf

Janae Snodgrass

Dying Moon, Charcoal

Relaxation, Photography Urban Meditation, Photography

Te lo l i t h spr ing 2013

Jakub Stepanovic

Yesterday, Today Yesterday was a very good day, but today was even better. Yesterday, got laid off from my job, but the job was like a fetter. I had prayed quite a bit what to do with the job, should I quit, or stay there forever. I have dreams to fulfill, adventures to have, and my health is being a traitor. With the severance I got, I can take some time off, Have some fun, sleep a while, write a letter. So today, I did some things that I love, couldn’t ask for prettier weather. Took a walk with my man, in the fine morning breeze, hand in hand, side by side, both together. Did some much needed work, manicured the front lawn, trimmed the grass, killed the weeds, used the edger. Had a very long nap, helped a friend with a need, what a treasure. Had a date with my man, spent a night on the town, such a pleasure. I can’t wait now to see what tomorrow will bring Will I craft, will I write something clever? Because yesterday was a very good day, but today was even better.

— Virginia Grant

Searching for the Truth, Photography

Natalie Robinson

Strength, Ink

Te lo l i t h

spr ing 2013

Janae Snodgrass

Strength Michael Vu

“W

hich one of these do you focus on in life?” Danny asks me. He points to a list of six words on a Dungeon & Dragon’s character sheet: Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, Wisdom, Intelligence, and Charisma. “You know I focus on Intelligence,” Danny points, “since I like to analyze and think about why people do what they do and why things are the way they are.” His eyes focus sharply on mine through his glasses. We talked about this subject many times, but each time the question of why I would choose this always came up. I could never give a concise answer, or maybe I couldn’t give the answer because I locked it deep inside myself? We both knew what the answer was: Strength. He just wanted to know why.

We both knew what the answer was: Strength. Why such an answer? I would ask myself. Where does it stem from? In order to know myself, I would have to look deep inside myself and remember my foundation for this feeling. We both knew it stems from my past, but he only got fragments. I chose to give fragments because that is all I could muster to remember. My foundation is as solid as anyone else’s, but I know it’s not the same. I was born and raised in Fairfield, California. I was a hyperactive, outgoing youth. Growing up, I got into trouble just like any other child. My mother worked hard at an airplane factory. My father worked at a chemical factory. He was also in the United States Marine Corps. I believe I would brag to all my friends about him, but I knew I wasn’t the only one with a parent in the armed forces. I don’t know if I was born deaf in my left ear, or if it was the abuse. I got mixed stories from my mother and uncles. In one story I was playing too close to a loud boom box as a baby. In another story I was smacked hard enough to rupture my eardrum. Regardless of what transpired, I was, and still am, deaf in my left ear.

As a child, I didn’t understood fear or joy. I just wanted to have fun. I learned quickly the difference between the two. Out of all the events I could remember, two stuck out to me that laid my foundation. I was six or seven, and we had just gotten a Doberman Pinscher puppy. My neighbor, Richard, came over to see him. My parents named him “Brudo,” which I never understood. All I knew was I had a puppy. I picked up Brudo to show to Richard, and he squirmed out of my hands and fell to the grass of our front yard. I checked to see if he was all right. He jumped up, with tail wagging, running back up to me. I thought it was funny how fast he got back up, so I picked him up again and dropped him back on the grass. Both Richard and I marveled at how agile Brudo was getting back to his feet. We did this a couple more times. My father arrived home from work. He saw what we were doing and promptly scolded me and told me to put Brudo back in the backyard. I walked through the front door, carrying my little friend through the living room, slid the glass door open, and plopped Brudo on the ground. I slid the door closed, and I knew what was coming: a lecture. I knew I deserved a lecture, but what came next? I was way off. He lectured me for half an hour about how animals have feelings as well. I looked up on my knees, and I saw his face tensing up, his veins tightening on his neck. I tried to look away, until I heard, “Maybe you should feel what Brudo feels when you drop him!” Before I could react, I felt his hand on my neck. I was being lifted, and was soon above his head, with his other hand balancing me. I felt him release me. I heard the air rush past my ear. The room spiraled out of control. The next thought that crossed my mind was how could the carpet, the carpet I enjoyed lying on while watching Saturday morning cartoons, the carpet that cradled me when I napped, be so hard? At the same time, I was amazed at how high I bounced. The thought didn’t last long when a cold, heartless wall ricocheted me up and away from it. What amazed me more was how I landed back where I started bouncing. I wanted to be amazed by my bouncing act, but all I could do was lie still, so the vibrations throughout my body would stop. Especially Continued on next page

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spr ing 2013 base of the blade. “Get dressed. You’re going to be late,” was all he said as he dropped me off and left for work. I walked into the house and saw my mom. The moment she saw me, her purse dropped to the ground. I don’t think I ever saw her move that fast before. The feeling of my mother’s warm embrace melted away my fears. I wrapped my arms around her, and everything I ever held back came out in tears. I cried for five straight hours. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I could only cry. Father came home, and he was sharply greeted by my mother. I ran into my room and hid under my bed. My friend, the toy sword, I left behind to fend for himself. It wasn’t long before my parents got a divorce. It was a traumatic experience. To this day, I wondered if it was my fault. Was it because I cried? Was I that weak? Father presented me with three choices: live with him, my mother, or my cousins. The choice was obvious, not with him. I still think back to that day. No nine-year-old should ever make a choice like that. Too many consequences and responsibilities and too many “What if’s?” started rolling into my head, and I would eventually have to stop them. My foundation was rocky at best, but it left me with a chip on my shoulder, and a new fear: my mother. She wasn’t entirely physical, but very verbal. Whenever I came home with a C or lower on my report card, she would berate me. “Stupid,” “Pitiful,” ”Lower than dirt.” She also liked using a long, porcelain-handled duster, with a metal, round end, to discipline me by whipping my behind. Sometimes she would miss and hit my back or legs. Those days I would walk with a limp. I used every excuse I could think of for why I would act out. “The devil is making me do it!” or “I don’t know.” Regardless, it led me to find out another meaning to

in my head, since I realized it was the glass door I bounced off of head first. I thought I heard my father mutter something, but my left ear was facing him. All I could do was watch the wavy ceiling become wavier, and I felt water running down my face and into my ears. “. . . and don’t you dare cry, or I’ll give you something to cry about . . . ” was what he had said when I finally thought about it, lying on my favorite carpet. I was afraid. I didn’t want to go through something like that again. I swallowed my tears and lay there. I lied to my mom that I was resting, when she finally came home. I could feel his eyes on me. Several months passed, and I thought I had forgotten all about what happened. Or did I make myself forget? It didn’t matter, because life became routine with school and being babysat by my cousins and aunt. On this particular day, I decided to wear my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles PJs and bring along my trusty plastic sword. I got to my cousin’s house, only to find out they were going to play with some of their friends. I thought Outside? With these on? Umm. . .no. I stayed in the house and imagined I was helping the Turtles fight bad guys and such. I quickly got bored and just watched television. My cousins came back, and they immediately worked on their homework. The night passed along uneventfully, and soon I was off to bed. I woke up, thinking it was time for school, but I was still at my cousins’ house. They were already up and getting ready for school. I went over to my aunt, and she was surprised to see I was still here. She called my father, promptly, and told him, “Your son is still here.” It was an hour before he got there, and I thought I was going to be late for school. I gathered up my toys and went to the car. It perplexes me, to this day, how this next event happened. On the freeway, he asked me, “Why did your aunt call me? Did you get into trouble again?” I had heard his tone of voice once before, and I froze. I rewound what I did the day before, and I saw nothing that could be wrong. I answered him truthfully to the best of my knowledge, “. . . No.” “Then why did she call me?!” he growled. My breathing became erratic. My eyes darted from the freeway back to him, and I squeaked, “. . . I don’t know.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and his eyes became narrow. The veins were there, pulsing and pulsing. He reached for my toy sword. I held on to the hilt. He yanked once, and my hands burned from the friction. I saw his eyes once, and I knew what was coming. I couldn’t hear what he was yelling over my own yelps. I was curled into a ball, my hands up to protect myself, but that just made it worse. “Take your hands down before I rip ‘em off you!” was all I heard. My own friend used against me over and over again. No matter how I turned, no matter how I protected myself, he would hit his mark. We got home, and I carried my friend in, broken at the

. . . she would berate me. “Stupid,” “Pitiful,” “Lower than dirt.” Strength; I was twelve when I started learning Tae Kwon Do. The Master thought it could discipline me and control my actions. I studied for a couple of months, until one fateful day. We lived in Orange County, L.A. area, on a block with multiple apartments and only a block away from the middle school and elementary school. In the adjacent apartment complex was a kid named Phuong, who didn’t like me very much. Every chance he would get, he would slip a snide comment about me or my family. I never stood up to him, till my mother said, “If anyone ever gives you crap, you make sure to give it right back.” I do believe I misunderstood her. One morning, both Phuong and I met at the crosswalk.

I threw him off and tried to kick him a couple of times, but missed. We didn’t even hit each other, and the fight was over. I realized my kicks were becoming weak—once I thought that I was turning into my father. It took everything I had to subdue and throw away my lust for violence. High school came around, and I became timid and quiet. I was also very mellow, chatting with friends without a care in the world. I hid my hot buttons well. It took a lot for someone to anger me. My self-training paid off. I didn’t want to turn into him. I refused, adamantly. I focused my anger into energy, and trained that energy away, whether through spending time with friends, video games, or martial arts. I found an escape. I also learned another aspect of Strength: it wasn’t all physical. Many events have tested me and my resolve. I failed once, and I don’t plan on making it again. When I think of Strength, I think of strength of body, strength of mind, strength of spirit, and strength in friends. I draw upon them, rely on them, and they help make my world. I needed my strength when I learned about my eyes. Retinitis Pigmentosa is the name of this rare disease. It means “scarring of the retina.” My field of vision is slowly declining, and I have permanent night blindness. For example, trying to star gaze, no matter how much I try, I cannot see any stars, save for one: the North Star. Even that is hard for me to see. Side effects include loss of hearing, dexterity problems, and heart problems. I only have two of the three. Danny says I make walking into walls look so natural that professional actors would kill to have that skill. Thank you, I guess? The condition is so rare that doctors narrowed it down to two possibilities how a person would get this: genetics or abuse. It is kind of hard to rule out both for me. The reason why I choose Strength is for me to come to terms with one reality: doctors don’t know when I’m going blind. It could be tomorrow, a month from now, or thirty years from now. I build up my strength to face this adversity because I enjoy seeing everything too much. From the different vibrant colors, to people and places, but, most importantly, the smiles I see from my friends. “Today, stronger than yesterday. Tomorrow, stronger than today.” I wish I knew who wrote that quote, but I heard it and have kept it ever since. I believe in these words, and I look forward to each and every day, hoping to see a smile.

He let a comment pass through his lips about me being late. I warned him, “My mother told me if anyone gives me trouble, I’m supposed to kick their ass.” He took one look at me and laughed as loud as he could. “Momma’s boy,” he uttered. As soon as he said it, my hand went flying across his face. It was time to walk across, and I went first, leaving him behind in shock. As soon as I got across, I felt him on my back and quickly fell onto the grass. He started punching the back of my head. I quickly used my newfound skills, which I didn’t know how to use, to turn the tables. We rolled, kicked, punched, scratched, and kneed each other from the middle school front yard all the way to the elementary school entrance. Then we stopped, adjusted ourselves, and went to class. As soon as class was over and the final bell rang, we found each other. Our eyes locked, and we walked out to the front. When we cleared the school’s threshold, we rolled, kicked, punched, scratched, and stomped our way back to the crosswalk. We stopped, went across the street, and locked eyes once more. We had black eyes, split lips, swelled cheeks, and bloody noses. We laughed, and he stuck out his hand, “You’re alright, kid.” In a weird way, I started learning what Strength meant. At the time, I thought it meant holding your ground. If you could believe it, I got into more fights. I didn’t know if I enjoyed it, or I couldn’t stand being bullied. I think the latter, because it reminded me of how weak I was. I moved around, with my mom for a couple of years. I made friends, but I never got a chance to tell them good-bye when I moved. I don’t know if I regret it, but I slowly called it a “silent good-bye”. We came to Liberal, Kansas. I started school here and realized how different everything was from California. I started making friends, and found my first bad apple: Clarence. At first, he acted nicely to me, but as time went on, he started to bully me. I thought since he was my friend, I would let it slide. I was having a bad day one day, and I just wanted to be left alone and go home. The school bus stopped, and everyone started to stand to get off the bus. I just sat there and waited. I wanted to be the last one off the bus. Clarence stopped by me and told me to go. I told him to go. We went back and forth a couple of times until I got fed up. I stood up and threw my book bag over my shoulders and walked. I felt his hands on me, and I fell forward a couple of steps. Everything after that was a blur of emotions. I swung around quickly, releasing my book bag, and clocked him in the jaw. I grabbed him and forced him into one of the seats, jumped on top of him, and started whaling away with my fists. As soon as I did, I realized something immediately. I’m turning into “him,” Father. I quickly stopped, grabbed my book bag, and promptly exited the bus. I ran into the crowd of students watching, and I felt Clarence on my back once more.

At Last It has been some time since I last heard you beckon me to your slumber. Where in this might I find peace? I come to you when I am cold. Yet this engraving refuses to speak. I no longer find warmth in the chapped stone before me. Please excuse my gloom, my smile. I have come by rather fortunate news. The treatment was to no success. There is nothing medicine can do. Neither wealth nor kin, I leave behind. No time for tears. Days numbered. I bought this lot for two.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; William Salvador

Daddy and His Girl, Photography

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Natalie Robinson

Paper Planes, Graphite Arturo Martinez

A Future of Forever Two strangers searching for another. To hold, to be held by the one they were blessed, is all they ask before final rest. Two strangers reach out into the dark, praying only to take the hand of a thief, a thief of their heart. Two strangers collide with nothing but time. No question, no fear coincides within this moment of light. Only hope, only care twines the two in one. Two strangers hold gently, but never let go. So long been alone, yet nothing draws back the isolation of strangers. Two strangers no more. Cherish their one. Forever is mystery, and forever a mystery, Love.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; William Salvador

spr ing 2013 Te lo l i t h

The Thin Line of Progress Oc tavio Ro dr igu e z

The Metropolis. Caught in the gaze of the stars and heaven. Beautiful, disgusting, blinding, and alone. The truth beneath the void. The balanced line of speech. The un-tuned string of the harp. The whispered secret, traveling to the ear from the lips of a woman whose name, unknown. The Metropolis, rival of heaven. Defeater of death. Writer of man. Destroyer of kind. The Metropolis. The mountain unclimbed. The Metropolis. Bastion of desire and impulse, an end to man and the end of beginnings and the beginning of ends. Something so revered it had to be destroyed. Destroyed in seconds. Thousands of years of progress. The killer become victim. The Metropolis, scorched, bombed, dead and black and beautiful, now lay dead. Fables of reconstruction. Lies and endless nights. All now lay in cinders. Turned is the gaze of the stars, and turned is the gaze of heaven. For Metropolis now lay dead.

Night Watch, Painting

he black buildings stabbed the sky, provoking the gods with the pride of progression. Hundreds of feet in the air, poking, stabbing, bleeding. Disturbing the once-natural. In them, thousands of windows, portholes of the bleak for those within. Worn and ugly, stretched and torn, they fit the land. Foundations of movement engraved the land below. Loud, fast, disruptive and dangerous. The speed of one thousand empires before, rushing, turning, screeching and crashing. Noise given meaning through words and actions. Signals and flashes. Lights shining everlong, the sky unable to bring the night. Always was the time of living and never the time of blight. It was the epitome of progression. The dawning of man. The head of the best, stretching and yawning, rearing its head every which way. The mast of the ship, carrying the hidden truth. The skeletal pilot, forever steering towards the void.

Octavio Rodriguez

Black Pepper, Charcoal

Arturo Martinez

63 Black Ball, Charcoal

Country Road Seasons I journeyed out on a country road, at dawning of springtime day to capture the sunrise of stunning hue, and enjoy God’s grand display. Mimosas were budding, tulips bloomed, air was alive with such sweet perfume. There’s something ‘bout springtime that’s fresh and groomed, a glorious bouquet. I journeyed out on a country road to take a summer stroll. Found obsolete tractor abandoned lone, a vigilant patrol of ivy grown graveyard, of old oak tree, of windmill and silo, of barn owl free. It was as peaceful as it could be. It pleased my very soul. I went out on a country road, ‘cause autumn was in the air. Maple trees were bright crimson red, the wind held a whispered prayer. Azure sky had white puffy clouds, harvest had ripened, scarecrow stood proud. I love all autumn has to endow; she has such an artful flair. I journeyed out on a country road, when plant and flower adjourn. Diamonds were gleaming upon the snow, so cold was of no concern. There’s something of winter, when earth’s at rest, which makes me look inward, I can attest, to see new beginnings, when chill suggests springtime will soon return.

— Virginia Grant

Tractor, Photography

Te lo l i t h

spr ing 2013

Virginia Grant

Deni Bruton

Work Horse, Photography

spr ing 2013

THE

Te lo l i t h

ELEVENTH CHAPTER Lynn Donovan

“I know I am going to Heaven because I have already been to hell, in 1968.” SSG Donald L Conant, Sr. Retired Army DAV

silence. As soon as they were home, he went to bed. Donnie didn’t see him for three days. Mom said he was sleeping. But Donnie wondered what he had done. Still Donnie didn’t blame him. After Dad typed his memoirs into the computer, he printed every gut-wrenching word onto tear-apart track paper, tore the perforated edges off, punched holes in it, and mounted each set in a black manuscript folder. He autographed them for each of us kids. At last, we could read the things he refused to tell any of us, his deepest, darkest secrets. Finally, we would know the causes for his insomnia, why he drank so much, and the reason why he dove into depression when I married a Filipino. Dad had a comedic style for telling stories, so we expected humor mixed with seriousness, like watching a war movie. We had no idea what horrors would be revealed in this manuscript. A lump formed in my throat as I read his dedication.

ad sent a surprise in the mail to each of us kids, but when my brother read it, he had a surprise for Dad. For months our dad had sat at the computer, typing, crying, pacing, and staring into space. This was no labor of love. It was a confession of his soul. He wrote about the year he spent in Vietnam.

Loud noises and closed-in spaces terrif ied Dad. We knew very little about that year. All we knew was he had a pathological fear of having a flashback. At times it was debilitating. My siblings had seen him come home blanchfaced and mousey because he heard about a buddy “losing it” at a filling station. The buddy shot several people, killing them, because he thought he saw “gooks.” Loud noises and closed-in spaces terrified Dad. My sister and I laughed at him for years. While our brother, Donnie, stayed silent as if he understood. Donnie hated it at times, because they couldn’t do the things other fathers and sons did, like hunting, because Dad couldn’t handle the effects it had on him. He tried once, I’ll give him that, but when they got into the woods, holding their guns at the ready, Dad had to stop. He was in tears as he apologized and hurried back to his truck. They drove home in

DEDICATED TO: My family, who I am sure suffered as others did, who had loved ones in Vietnam. I love them all, and I thank them for their support and understanding. DLC I turned the page and began to read. I laughed and I

Now Donnie sniffed. His tears wouldn’t stop flowing. Finally, he knew why he had empathized with Dad’s fears. He had told Donnie these stories, and Donnie had remembered. That was my brother’s surprise for Dad. Although we lived in three different states, we were talking about the manuscript within a week. After chapter 21, his final chapter, we understood why Dad couldn’t carry a gun in the woods. It was too similar to the jungle in Vietnam. A flashback really could be triggered without warning. After reading about those mutilated children, we understood why almond-shaped eyes, especially children’s, put a chill in his heart. We admired his ability to overcome this branded nightmare for the sake of his two Filipino grandchildren. Our dad was, once again, our hero. He had survived a bloody, senseless “police action.” His memories had been his prisoner of war. Thank God the V.A. doctors had suggested he write them down. By doing so, he was able to set them free. He was able to let us know what he had been through. More importantly, he was able to face what he feared most—what we would think of him. He found out we still loved him. We did not judge him for what he had done, what he had seen, or what he did not do. “Chapter 11 was the toughest chapter to write,” he had told us. It required him to stand toe to toe with the devil and spit in his face. He feared it would break his sanity, yet he kept pecking the story onto the screen. It was the bravest thing our father ever did. Well, second bravest. The first was surviving Vietnam, 1968.

Medals, Photography

cried throughout his stories. I couldn’t put the manuscript down. However, my brother had a very different reaction. The words, the descriptions, the tales were vivid, graphic, and haunting, all the while, familiar to Donnie. How could they be so familiar to him? He knew this book was a project, suggested by the V.A. doctors, for Dad to gain control over the insanity he felt nipping at his heels every waking and sleeping moment. But, when Donnie read chapter 11, he had to pick up the phone. “Dad? I am reading your book,” Donnie told him. He didn’t know how to tell Dad what he knew, so he simply said, “You’ve told me these stories before.” “No, son, I haven’t told anybody about these things. I just couldn’t talk about it.” “No, you’re wrong. You told me these stories. I remember them distinctly.” Silence crackled across the phone line. “How could you remember?” he asked. “I don’t know, but I do. I remember lying in a bed. You wore your straw cowboy hat. It lifted up as you pressed your head against the side rail. I remember the red indentation the metal made on your forehead. You talked to me for hours. I think that’s when you told me these stories—was I dreaming?” “Oh my God.” Dad’s voice broke into sobs. “I wasn’t sure until I got to chapter 11,” he said. “When I read about the local village being slaughtered, about the dead people everywhere, and you guys walking in on the mess.” He hesitated. Should he go on? Dad was already crying. He hadn’t heard Dad cry too many times in his life. It broke his heart. “Dad, when I read about the children strung upside down in the trees, their mutilated bodies, their Asian eye-lids sliced off and the grotesque death stare of each of them, I knew this was not anything you would talk about, yet I knew the story. How could I know these stories, Dad, if you didn’t tell them to me?” He sniffed and blew his nose. “Dad? Are you alright?” “Son, when you were ten, you got sick.” He cleared his throat. “You were in a coma. The doctors told us you were dying. I told them, ‘Look here, I don’t wanna know what my son died from. I wanna know what’s killing him!’ Those doctors ‘bout wet themselves, Yes-sir-ing me and running off to figure out what was wrong with you.” He sniffed, and I heard ice clink against his large plastic cup. He took a long drink. “The nurses were really nice. They told us to talk to you. Even though you were unconscious, just talk to you. About anything, it didn’t matter. Your mom and I thought they were crazy, but we were willing to try anything. So I sat down by your bed, and I talked. I didn’t know if you could hear me or not. Eventually, I ran out of things to say, and you still didn’t move, so I started talking about ‘Nam.”

Deni Bruton

Te lo l i t h

spr ing 2013

The

Button

Karen Wilson

The night, dreadfully long, at last gave way to morning. The old woman had cried for hours. Andya, eager to receive her meager ration of bread, wondered if she would be forced to share it. The answer came soon enough. Slowly, the door opened. A stalwart guard entered. Grumbling, he tossed a chunk of bread on the ground and set down two mugs of water. Without a word, he left. The two women eyed each other. Neither spoke. Andya quickly snatched the bread, cramming a piece into her mouth. The portion, not much larger than usual, would have to last both of them for several hours. Andya’s heart softened, and she offered a chunk. Bony fingers cautiously took a piece. Days passed. Little by little the women began to bond. The old woman, Tyra, opened up late one night. “I’ve been here for at least a year. I’ve seen much, maybe too much.” “Have you seen men? My father, might he be here?” Andya asked. “ I’ve seen many. They move everyone around frequently. As soon as you come to trust someone, they move you. Tell me of your father — what is his name?” “Frigo! His name is Frigo! Tell me, have you seen him?” “I’ve seen him,” offered the old woman. “He is alive; he walks freely about the camp.” Confused, Andya pondered this new information. How could this be? If he was free to move about, why had he not returned to his family? Andya pumped Tyra for more information. “I’ve said too much. I have to think of my own safety,” the old woman said, and grew silent. Day after day, Andya’s attempts to obtain information from Tyra were futile. The woman relinquished nothing more. Andya offered her an extra portion of bread, but she remained silent. The day came when guards entered the dungeon, grabbed Tyra, and pulled her out into the sunshine. Startled, Andya screamed. Was her new friend in danger? Hours later, shaking and sobbing, Tyra was returned to the dungeon. Andya eased toward her, offering comfort. Tyra jerked away. What had happened to the old woman?

he cell was small, dark, and dingy with barely enough room to lie down. A sliver of light snuck in from high in one corner. Crawling, Andya explored the cold, sturdy walls, working her way around each corner. Next, the floor, gritty and dirty beneath her hands, straw scattered around. Shivering, her skin crawled as the thick, musty air filled her lungs. In a corner, Andya grasped a small, metal object. Carefully holding it to the ray of light, she examined the carvings. Barely visible was the profile of a face, a warrior, with rugged features. The shank on the back of this piece told her it was a button. But whose? Vivid memories taunted her. Images of her father, one of

Reports were that many had died in this dungeon. Might this have been her father’s fate? many men shackled and stumbling, led away behind enemy warriors on stallions. The entire group struggled as they tripped over rocks and fought to keep up. Not one had returned in five long years, and others had been taken since that time. Straining, Andya fought to remember his facial features. Time was erasing the picture in her mind. Reports were that many had died in this dungeon. Might this have been her father’s fate? Again, she inspected the button. It resembled those on her father’s uniform. Had he been in this place? Might he have died here? Andya’s stomach rumbled, reminding her of long days within this dungeon, nothing but a few bites of stale bread and rancid water each day. CLASH! The gate swung open. Light blinded Andya. Roughly, a haggard old woman was shoved through the door. Crumbling to the ground and weeping, the woman huddled in a corner. Like a mouse, Andya scurried to the opposite corner.

Enlighten, Graphite Janae Snodgrass compound. Holding Andya tightly, he yanked open the door of another cell—this one, four times larger than the other. The soldier shoved Andya through the door. She fell to the dirt. Andya, gasping for air, struggled to see in the darkness. The stench was overwhelming. Andya wretched, gagging from the smell. Her eyes focused on three bodies, one against each wall. Crawling to the first, she touched then turned it. As she rolled the body toward her, the head fell away! She screamed! Twice more the experience the was the same. Huddled in a corner, Andya cried. How cruel! What was happening? Again, the heavy door opened and, with fear, Andya turned to see Tyra standing in the doorway. “You’re all right,” screamed the young woman. “Murderers, they are all murderers!” “Quiet,” hissed the old woman. “I have brought you something.” In one hand, Tyra held a bag. Her other hand held a small object, which she handed to Andya. “The button, it is your father’s. I have saved it for you.” Andya grasped the only link she had to her father tightly in her fist. “That is not all,” muttered the old woman. “I bring you this, also.” Cackling, the old woman tossed a bag into the corner. “It is this that you have been waiting to see.” Andya quickly opened the bag, and then she screamed and screamed again. She dropped the bag and crumbled to the ground. Eyes wide open, the head of her father rolled out.

Night came and Andya felt a movement near her. “Andya, are you awake?” Tyra asked in hushed tones. “Your father, I saw him. He still lives. He has sent a message.” Tyra quietly explained what she knew of Andya’s father and all she knew of those controlling the prisoners. “You must help me to see him! How can I find him?” “Shush! Do you not know that they are always listening and watching. You will get us both killed!” Quietly, Andya scooted closer. Whispering, the two women discussed what Tyra had seen. They agreed that the old woman would help Andya escape. Five nights later, the plan would be played out. Andya kept count of the nights. At last, the time came. “Help! Please help!” Andya cried out. “The old woman is very sick. She needs your help!” In the corner, Tyra moaned as she shook violently. “Please, do not let her die,” Andya screamed. Two burly guards pushed their way through the small dungeon door. Both wore hoods and muttered to each other. Roughly, they rolled the old woman on her back, shaking her fiercely. “Stop it! Stop this now!” the larger one commanded. Tyra continued to moan. With the guards focused on Tyra, Andya slipped through the gate. Fighting to stay on her feet, she scurried into the forest. Stumbling in the dark, she pictured in her mind the crude drawing Tyra had scratched in the dirt. Suddenly, a giant of a man grabbed Andya, dragging her to another area of the

Messy Table, Graphite Industrial Elegance, Photography

Te lo l i t h spr ing 2013

Jakub Stepanovic

Dalibor Cohadarevic

Tyconda Millsap

Music Box, Ceramic

Untitled, Copper Etching

Tyconda Millsap

Grizzly Bear, Bronze casting

in Sp r

13 0 2

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40 . l Vo

h t i l o l Te Colophon

This publication is designed annually by Seward County Community College / Area

Technical School students enrolled in Graphic Design courses. Most of the text is set in Neu Helvetica, which

is a reworking of the original 1957 Helvetica typeface designed for hot type compositon by Max Miedinger. Released in 1983, Neu Helvetica is designed to improve legibility and take advantage of digital composition techniques. Telolith was produced using Adobe Photoshop, Illustrator, and InDesign on Apple iMac computers. The four-color process cover is printed on Nordic Cover, and the text is printed on Kelly 70 lb. Endurance Silk paper by Mennonite Press in Newton, Kansas.

Faculty Advisors

Susan Copas, Art William McGlothing, Writing

Intro to Graphic Design Kedrick Eyle Deni Bruton Melynn Downs Lizeth Peralta Cinthia Serna Janae Snodgrass Joseph Thottasseril

Graphic Design I Raphael Sanchez

Contemporary Art and Literature

Seward County Community College / Area Technical School 1801 N. Kansas Avenue â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Liberal, Kansas 67905 www.sccc.edu 800.373.9951 620.624.1951 bill.mcglothing@sccc.edu susan.copas@sccc.edu

Writing and art for the 2014 issue should be submitted to a faculty adviser during March, 2014. The works published are written and /or created by SCCC/ATS students and do not necessarily reflect the views of the college. Copyright ÂŠ by SCCC/ATS, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission of the writer or artist.

Seward County Community College / Area Technical School 1801 N. Kansas Liberal, Kansas 67905 800.373.9951 / 620.624.1951