Telolith, Spring 2014 by Susan Copas

T E LO L I T H Spring 2014 Vol. 41

Seward County Community College / Area Technical School Liberal, Kansas

Contemporary Art and Literature

Inside cover design by Dalibor Cohadarevic. Outside cover design by Kevin Harmon.

T E LO L I T H Spring 2014 Vol. 41

Contemporary Art and Literature Seward County Community College / Area Technical School Liberal, Kansas r

The Writers and Artists here represented have made careful choicesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;whether of word or line, phrase or strokeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;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.

Tab l e o f C o n te n ts Two-Dimensional Art 10 11 11 14 14 14 15 15 15 21 21 23 24 25 28 30 30 31 31 33 34 35 37 38 40 42 42 42 43 43 43 44

Melynn Downs – Bottled Flower Brianna Bucher – Natural Beauty Jan Meredith – Grandma’s Rocker Jan Meredith – Daisy Dalibor Cohadarevic – Dream Vivianne Salcedo – Seward Vegetables Melynn Downs – Classic White Kevin Harmon – Robin Singing In The Green Melynn Downs – What She Sees Jessica Ratzlaff – Untitled Abstract 2 Melynn Downs – Four Seasons Dalibor Cohadarevic – Rose Lynn Donovan – Waterwheel House Jakub Stepanovic – Belief Katelynn Watkins – Bella Vita Samantha Ward – Warm Nights Samantha Ward – Nature’s Creation Vivianne Salcedo – Vegetables And More Vegetables Jan Meredith – Texture Collage Kevin Harmon – Two Engine Transformation Lynn Donovan – Hummingbird Melynn Downs – Smirk Jakub Stepanovic – Alive Brianna Bucher – Leaf Scatter Travis Lighty – Illustration Brianna Bucher – Cowboys Night Out Melynn Downs – Pepper Melynn Downs – Living Duck Vivianne Salcedo – Forms and Pepper Samantha Ward – The Heart in Art Jessica Ratzlaff – Still Life Katelynn Watkins – What a Dream

45 48 49 49 50 55 56 57 60 61 61 62 64 66 70 71

Jessica Ratzlaff – Snowy Night Dalibor Cohadarevic – Light and Dark Jan Meredith – Rose the 1st Dalibor Cohadarevic – Pumpkin Dalibor Cohadarevic – Light in Darkness Lynn Donovan – The Bridge Melynn Downs - Crows Lynn Donovan – Waterfall Dalibor Cohadarevic – Crane from Kung Fu Panda Jessica Ratzlaff – Untitled Abstract Brianna Bucher – Landing Approach Jakub Stepanovic – Energy Dalibor Cohadarevic – My Car Dalibor Cohadarevic – Girlfriend Lynn Donovan – Hummingbird Jan Meredith – Lighthouse

Three-Dimensional Art 17 20 20 26 26 27 27 27 47 65 67 67

Andrea Sitter – Chthonic Demon Arturo Martinez – Floating Diamond Andrea Sitter – Triangle Vase Paola Chavira – 2 Chains Arlene Rivera – The Flow Melynn Downs – Slanted Brianna Bucher- Fuego Remolino Jennifer Olson – Whoa Dalibor Cohadarevic – Oblivion Arturo Martinez – Mask for “Into the Woods” Rebeka Allen – Face of Flowers Carmen Hughes – Like a Sir

Poetry Photography 05 06 07 08 09 13 18 19 19 21 39 42 43 48 53 58 61 62 63 69 71 71

Jakub Stepanovic – Way Emmalee Newport – A Farmer’s Life Jessica Ratzlaff – Frog Stachia Nordyke – Irrigation Sprinkler Stachia Nordyke – Winter Foliage Trista Panjwani – Mother and Daughter Royanna Borden – Aurora at Fairbanks Jakub Stepanovic – Under the Sky Jakub Stepanovic – Meditation Jessica Williams – Pipe Dreams Emmalee Newport – Graceful Beauty Royanna Borden – Pomegranate on the Plains Jessica Ratzlaff – Peacock Emmalee Newport – Showering Down Emmalee Newport – Living in Kansas Matthew Pannkuk – State of Main Jakub Stepanovic – Crystals Jessica Ratzlaff – Needle and Thread Royanna Borden – Icy Night Emmalee Newport – Lone Mountain Jakub Stepanovic – Strike Royanna Borden – Lidia the Hat Girl

10 24 25 34 34 35 44 45 56 57 66

Christie Proctor – The Evolution of our Tattoos Kyleigh Becker – Sevilla, España Kyleigh Becker – The Middle Kingdom Christie Proctor – Tonight Kyleigh Becker – Little Bird Kyra Flenoid - Scared Shaquera Livingston – Afraid Azucena Juarez – Winter Courtship Edward Kentner – And Julee Used a Dirty Word Lynn Donovan – An Idea Christie Proctor – The Art of Analysis

Non-Fiction 06 12 16 29 36 52 54 59

Julee Davis – Wheat Child Aletha Moon – Echoes from the Dustbowl Edward Kentner – Wendell Lisa Medrano – It Goes Both Ways Joshua Juma – Home Christie Proctor – Farm Girl Jordan Castilleja – Behind Closed Doors Tailor Lynch – America: The Land of the Free

Fiction 22 32 40 46 51 62 64 68

Lynn Donovan – Choices Julee Davis – Any Given Sunday Travis Lighty – Coming to the End of Seventh Heaven Edward Kentner – The Last Time Julee Davis – Disposable Kyleigh Becker – 18 Christie Proctor – Lilith Lynn Donovan – The Last Gasp

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 2015 issue should be submitted to a faculty adviser during March, 2015. The SCCC/ATS English Department offers a creative writing course during the fall semester. We encourage those interested in developing their 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.

Jakub Stepanovic, Way, Photography

Wheat Child Julee Davis

car to get out and I stopped the look at the home I was

raised in—a modest, but nice home back then—in a decent neighborhood filled with decent small-town folk. My gaze turned across the street and moved beyond to what was once actual working farmland, planted each year with summer wheat. As a child, the best parts of my summers in Southwest Kansas were spent in that wheat field. There were other things to do, other imaginary worlds to explore. The open lot was used as a baseball field. The lot owners had even graciously placed a huge backstop there for us, at their own expense, most likely so that our stray balls wouldn’t shatter the stained glass windows of the church nearby. An old rusted-out Model T sat behind an abandoned home and afforded hours of play and imaginary road trips to the most wonderful places. Never mind that the rotted upholstery gave off the musty smell of decay and allowed the springs to poke through, digging into our bare, summertanned legs. Pieces of half-crumbling wood lay everywhere around the old, broken-down home, often used to build forts that would withstand even the worst onslaught from the villains we conjured up in our young minds. But the best thing of all, for me, was the wheat. Though I didn’t realize it back then, my time in the wheat was the beginning of my solitary time –

my “me” time—and I cherished it. I could hardly wait each year for the wheat to first sprout, then grow, into the tall, sturdy stalks that would become my own private hiding place from the world beyond. I spent hours lying in the soft earth between the rows, feeling it between my bare toes, smelling the fertile scent of the ripening wheat, listening to the stiff breeze making the stalks sigh as they swayed and gave beneath it. I picked the tops off the stalks and chewed on them, enjoying the milky sweetness

of raw wheat on my tongue. The sunrises I spent there gave me the breathtaking display of golden heads glistening with morning dew, and the sounds of birds awakening to a new day, announcing it to the rest of the world. It was such a calm, soothing, quiet place—and yet so busy, upon closer inspection, as the creatures inhabiting the site went about their daily lives. Bugs to observe as they made their way up the stalks. Ladybugs. Dragonflies showing off their

Emmalee Newport, A Farmer’s Life, Photography

iridescent bodies in the sunlight as they made the journey. What was the purpose of it all? Why were they climbing to the top? What would they do once they reached the summit of the tall stalks? My eight year-old mind had so many questions for which I truly wanted answers. Questions long forgotten, if ever asked, by those in adulthood who went by unnoticing and uncaring of the tiny world within a

I learned about the ways of nature. I learned about life. I learned the impor tance of solitude. world that was my refuge. There was evidence of other insects that had abandoned their temporary home. The split, empty shells of locusts that had dug their way out of the ground, attached themselves to a stalk, then matured and hatched to fly away, like the ugly duckling cousin of a butterfly. I discovered dead ones and gave them proper burial rites inside one of the small empty matchboxes mother always begrudgingly kept handy for such purposes. And if a child were to be patient and still, there were wild creatures to observe as they made their way through the rows. Rabbits, wild kittens, female foxes with their kits, their beautiful fuzzy red tails trailing behind them, and other furry things to delight as they came close enough almost to be able to reach out and touch, seemingly unaware of the human lying so near. Surely they must have known. Wasn’t that why they would stop, look around, their small noses twitching as they picked my scent up out of the air? Yet they continued on at the same unhurried, relaxed pace,

Jessica Ratzlaff, Frog, Photography

knowing, somehow, that I belonged. Remembering what my grandfather had taught me, I always knew when my time would be cut short by an impending rainstorm as I watched the frantic parade of ants scurrying to get inside their earthen homes before the onslaught, so intent on the task at hand that they ignored the small offerings of cracker crumbs I’d brought along. No matter – that only made the field an even more inviting place afterwards with the smell of rain in the air, the scent of the wheat even stronger after its cleansing, the smell and feel of the earth even more sensual against my skin. But the best time of all – the time I cherished the most – was the sunset and the following onset of nighttime.

The wheat continued to whisper against the unrelenting and cooler evening breeze, but now, instead of providing a soundtrack background for the daylight visitors, it seemed to call and beckon to the shy creatures that only ventured out under the protective cover of darkness, urging them to come forth. More wary than their daytime counterparts, they never came close, so sightings were rare, but their sounds could still be enjoyed. The frightening hoots of the owl that lived in the trees just beyond. The mournful, lonely howls of the coyotes. The white noise song of the locusts, growing louder, attempting to drown out all other sound, as if they thought they were the only important ones – the only ones worthy of being heard. But an attentive child could tune them into the background and hear Continued on next page.

Wheat Child continued from previous page.

that one solitary cricket in the distance. I lay on my back and gazed up into a clear night sky, ablaze with all the constellations I was reading about in school, and I learned. I learned about the ways of nature. I learned about life. I learned the importance of solitude. My mother’s voice would drift across the top of the field, unheard, unheeded, and unanswered. She didn’t know. She didn’t understand. She would only scold about the dirt clods stuck in my hair or the mud smeared on my feet and clothes. She would

turn her nose up and tell me I smelled “bad.” Only the voice of my grandfather could break the spell. He knew. He knew where I was. He knew what I was doing. And he knew it was vital. Julee Kay? You come on back now, you hear me? When it was the wheat field, it was always “come on back,” not “come on home” as it was when I was anywhere else. It’s past your bedtime, your mama’s worried, and there ain’t no more for you to hear or learn out there tonight. Even the coyotes have gone to bed now. Light

Stachia Nordyke, Irrigation Sprinkler, Photography

a shuck under it, girl! How did he know? It was never discussed. I never told him how I spent those days. But he knew. He knew just like he could tell you within a fiveminute time frame when the rain would start as he watched the ants. So back I came. Running barefoot under the electric fence, through the empty lot, and across the dirt road in front of my house, heedless of the goatheads and sharp stones that still held too much heat from the triple-digit day that had just passed. Back into the reality of a cold supper that I’d missed, a warm bath drawn by a scowling, unimpressed mother, and a summertime bed too hot to sleep in. Yes, my childhood home is still there – still the same color it was all those years ago, but faded and looking so much smaller and less appealing than it did back then. The road was paved decades ago. The empty lot is still there, though there is no longer a backstop, and there are no children playing ball. The church still stands as it always did. But the abandoned home, the Model T, and the wheat field are gone years past. I looked some more across the empty lot into the place where the field once stood. It’s as long gone as my childhood, as long gone as I am from that place, yet still they are so fresh in my mind. I stood there with a slight smile on my lips and a small tear of happy remembrance falling down my cheek. I wondered about my own children’s upbringing. Had they had enough time in their own special havens? They had been thrust out of the nurturing world of the stay-at-home wife and mother and entered the world of the single working mom, busy and harried, like my own mother was. Had I done right by them and allowed and encouraged

time enough, as my grandfather had done with me? Remembering my son Alex’s daily treks to the “frog pond” near the home I raised him in, looking quite Tom Sawyerish with fishing pole and tackle box in hand as he left on his bicycle, remembering driving over to pick him up at nightfall and finding him with some friends in the middle of the pond, “paddling” across it on a large, floating piece of scrap metal they’d found, rolling down the window and telling him it was time to “come on back,” I thought maybe I had. But it was never discussed. Neither was it ever captured as an image anywhere but in the mind’s eyes of those who saw it. A photograph could not tell the story of what he and his compadres saw in their minds as they paddled down the mighty Mississippi, headed for the ocean, observing and listening to frogs, toads, and other water creatures on their journey. Would my daughter remember it all and do right by my grandson and granddaughter? Had Nate, my eldest, remembered it all and done right by his boys Mike & Jim? I hoped so. Would Alex return to the frog pond years from now, even though it had already been filled in with earth several years ago and no longer existed, and remember as I was doing now, and wonder the same things about his children and grandchildren? Again – I hoped so. I closed my eyes and heard the night sounds in my memory, till my grandfather’s voice broke the spell: Come on back now, there ain’t no more for you to learn. . . . I got back into my car and drove away. r

Stachia Nordyke, Winter Foliage, Photography

The Evolution of our Tattoos

Remember when tattoos were something we did to ourselves scrawling in pen on our adolescent skin. Remember when tattoos were Lines in blue, black, and red just something on our skin. easily erased with a little spit They used to not reach into our soul and a little elbow grease. sucking like a leech. Simple Little Doodles. Lines in blue, black, and red Remember when tattoos were etched deep inside our rushed hearts handed out at birthday parties voids made of knife hurled words. goody bags that made us look like Hidden Bleeding Holes. theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d painted us. when tattoos were Lines in blue, Remember black, and red another word for art scrubbed at by our mothers showing our paths from birth when we had to go back to school till our hearts crash. Rough Red Skin. Lines in blue, black, and red Remember when tattoos were aligning like a map of the world rebellions against our parents with all the marks we made on it. our 18th birthday gifts to ourselves Dark Permanent Scars. that created rifts. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Christie Proctor Lines in blue, black, and red that we paid mini-fortunes for divining meanings from pain. Open Raw Wounds. Melynn Downs, Bottled Flower, Ink drawing

Brianna Bucher, Natural Beauty, Mixed media drawing

Jan Meredith, Grandmaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Rocker, Watercolor painting

ECHOES FROM THE DUSTBOWL Aletha Moon Finally we counted up the combined wealth of ten children — $3.87. Grandma said she’d make up the rest.

ROLOGUE: it happened several decades ago, but we still think of it today. A few old timers are left, and the kids have all grown up, but memories come back from time to time. r “Beans, beans, beans! All I ever eat around here is beans.” One of the younger kids made up a funny song right then and there about beans. We laughed. Their older sister, Nellie, must have agreed silently because the next time we all went to town, she went to the grocery store, picked out a whole sack of food, and charged it. How good everything smelled and tasted. Perfect. Delightful. Daddy thought so too until he found out where it came from. Then he was furious and reached for the razor strap to whip Nellie. Grandma jumped in front of the tearful girl just as Daddy raised his arm. That stopped him, and he stomped out. He sure was mad.

Then we all searched frantically for money to pay Daddy the $4.00. Nellie just cried and cried. Finally we counted up the combined wealth of ten children--$3.87. Grandma said she’d make up the rest. Daddy gave Nellie a lot of extra chores and a blistering tongue lashing. r Hazing used to be the accepted thing for high school freshmen. Some wiseacres loved it, but most just went with the crowd to watch. Timid victims wouldn’t fight back and generally got the worst of it—until the twins got to high school. On the very second day of school, the leading oppressor let out a blood curdling war cry and took off for the vacant field parking lot. Amos grabbed the jack handle and Avery, the jack, and the battle was on. It didn’t last long, though. The war crier ended up with a broken arm, and his faithful followers with a variety of lumps and bruises. That was the finish for that tradition. r

One Saturday we were all busy with chores when Grandma happened to mention that she noticed the mulberries were ripe and ready for pies for the church dinner. Before she could say any more, children scattered to get pans and buckets for the berries. We picked all we could reach and then dragged the old ladder over to get the top ones. Then we dropped in and out of the kitchen all afternoon to see how the pies were doing. r “Come on, let’s get this old shed cleaned out so we can put the strip-down in here.” Jake felt very grown up because it was his. The bare skeleton of a car, a strip-down had no motor, top, doors, insides, wheels, or steering. Whenever everybody went to town on some errand, Jake and his brothers spent their time at the town dump digging around looking for scrap iron or other metal they could use on their project. They pulled all kinds of half-buried broken junk out. They even found one of those little old trunks

with the rounded hump lids. Jake shook it and said, “Hey, there is something in here—maybe treasure. Let’s go ask Grandma if we can bust the lock.” “No need for that,” she said. “The key is on the ring.” She opened the old trunk, and there wasn’t any treasure at all—only a small package wrapped in yellowed newspaper. When she unwrapped it, there was a worn pink housedress. “This was my wedding dress,” she said, smoothing it with her gnarled, rough hands. “Of course, it was my Sunday best for years.” She smiled, half apologetically. Nellie looked at Grandma and suddenly knew how much the worn dress meant to her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she gave Grandma a warm hug. “Now, where’s that ring? I put it in here with

the dress so I wouldn’t weaken and sell it. Your grandpa spent $2.00 to get it.” Underneath the paper wrappings the treasured ring was not shiny but dull and ugly with a green stone. Grandma reverently and painfully worked it over her arthritic finger, her old eyes far away. Nellie thought to herself, “Now I know where Granny got the pretty cloth for a new Christmas dress for Lolly’s doll.” r Conditions were so bad that a lot of people from Southwest Kansas made the arduous trip to California, where they were often unwelcome. Many returned later despite everything. Grandpa said we’d have gone, too, but we just didn’t have the money. So

Trista Panjwani, Mother and Daughter, Photography

we stayed, struggled, and survived. Dust blew for years. Wet cloths and stuffing around doors and windows didn’t keep it out. No matter what, it got in anyway. Even when we slept with our heads under the covers, we all breathed in so much that several people got dust pneumonia. Two of our cousins died from it. For these and many more reasons, Grandma had taken it upon herself to battle careless, thoughtless people who let their land blow away. Behind her back—and some openly—local landowners called her “a silly old lady, meddling in other people’s business.” Her feisty reply was always the same: “I wouldn’t have to be a meddler if you were smart enough to do something so your land won’t blow away!” r

Dalibor Cohadarevic, Dream, Charcoal drawing

Jan Meredith, Daisy, Mixed media painting

Vivianne Salcedo, Seward Vegetables, Charcoal drawing

Kevin Harmon Robin Singing In The Green, Mixed media drawing

Melynn Downs, Classic White, Charcoal drawing

Melynn Downs, What She Sees, Mixed media collage

endell Edward Kentner at the doorway, the They stood intense redness obvious

in both faces. One from anger, the other from embarrassment. Barnes always reflected his emotions in his face. A flush red would appear at his neck and would rise to his face as mercury rises in a heated thermometer. Collins, on the other hand, rarely showed any emotion, but today his head was bowed, and the ruddy color of his face matched the color of the stop sign that separated the student parking from the busy adjoining street. The packed classroom sat silent and stunned as the burly, six-foot three-inch coach held his student slightly off the floor by his coat collar. The student seemed to dangle from a hook attached to the end of the coach’s arm, his toes just touching the ground. All mouths were agape, all eyes were on the pair. All eyes, except one pair, which were twinkling with mischief. I had covered my mouth to stifle my giggling. As I glanced up, I could feel eyes scanning the class, searching for me. I ducked my head and glimpsed upward just in time to catch the steely glare of Coach Ron Barnes. My best friend, shaggy Beatle-haired Wendell Collins, was also peering sheepishly in my direction, still hanging from the coach’s grip. A few days earlier, Wendell and I had been disrupting Coach’s study hall class. He was also our

varsity football coach. As juniors, we had struggled through a 1-7 season with Wendell serving as one of our guards and me as one of our running backs. As class neared the end, Wendell and I (mostly I) had increased our horseplay to a point where Coach had ordered us to his desk at the front of the class. We reluctantly rose as the end-of-class bell rung. Together we sprinted toward the door, Wendell in the lead. He escaped as I was snagged around the collar by one of Coach’s huge paw-like hands. “Kentner!” he barked as the other students filed out around us. “You and Collins had better straighten up while you are in this class,” he said menacingly. “Do you understand?” I nodded, smiled, and promised we would “knock it off.”

And there it was. The flash of red on the neck quickly moved upward. I hurried to my next class. When the final bell dismissed classes for the day, Wendell caught up with me in the hall. He frantically quizzed me concerning my altercation with Coach. The concern in his face was sincere. Mustering my sternest face, I looked my best friend in the eye and began with the most earnest speech I had ever shared with him.

“Wendell, Coach said we better never act up in his class again or our football careers will be over,” I said sadly. Wendell’s ashen face said it all. He had always been a rule-follower and an all-around good guy. It had only been the last couple months that with my encouragement, he had exercised his rebellious side. Suddenly, I realized how vulnerable he was. “Coach said he didn’t want to see us in study hall for the next week,” I mumbled purposefully. “Where are we supposed to go?” he asked. Thinking quickly, I suggested that we meet in the library each day. Everyone avoided the library because of the librarian. Students referred to her as Miss Grease Beetle. She was rude and smelly, according to most of the kids in our school. Wendell agreed this would be the best place to go even if it was one of the least desirable places to be in the school. I think Wendell felt this would be acceptable self-imposed punishment for our behavior. The following day, Wendell and I met in the hall prior to study hall. I told him I would meet him in the library after I stopped by my locker. He went the opposite direction toward the library. As he turned the corner, I sprinted to study hall, reaching it as the tardy bell rang. All of the students settled into their seats as Coach began to take roll. “Andy” – “Here,” “Amanda” - “Here,” and on he went until he called for Wendell. “Wendell Collins,” he repeated. “Has anyone seen Wendell today?” he asked. Several students verified they had seen him in earlier classes. Coach finished roll and called me to his desk.

“Kentner, do you know where Collins is?” he demanded. Mustering my sternest face and most earnest voice, I began, “Coach, Wendell said he did not appreciate the way you have been treating him, and he said he was tired of you picking on him all the time. He said he wasn’t coming back to your class and you couldn’t make him.” And there it was. The flash of red on the neck quickly moved upward. His surprise and fury were clear. I added that Wendell felt Coach had picked on him both on and off the field during the year and he had finally had enough. “Where is he now?” Coach roared. I lowered my voice as I replied, “Wendell said he’d rather sit in the library with the Grease Beetle than to be in your class one more day.” Coach Barnes exploded to his feet. He flew from the room and down the hallway toward the library. Ten minutes later, he stood in the classroom doorway, his face a brilliant red, dangling Wendell by his collar. “KENTNER!” he bellowed. r Andrea Sitter, Chthonic Demon, Ceramic mask

Royanna Borden, Aurora at Fairbanks, Photography

Jakub Stepanovic, Under the Sky, Photography

Jakub Stepanovic, Meditation, Photography

Andrea Sitter, Triangle Vase, Ceramic vessel Arturo Martinez Floating Diamond, Mixed media sculpture

Melynn Downs, Four Seasons, Digital design

Jessica Ratzlaff, Untitled Abstract 2, Oil painting

Jessica Williams, Pipe Dreams, Photography

Choices

Lynn Donovan

“I don’t

have to do this, you know.” Bailey tried to sit up. Her head swam. Vertigo sent her back against the crisp pillow. “Yes, you do.” He kissed her fingers tenderly. “You and I both know this is right for you.” “Do we?” She croaked past her mutinous tears. Silence settled between them. Finally, she cleared her throat. “It’s not fair.” A smile warmed his face and lit up in his eyes. Tenderness met her desperate glare. “It’s fine.” She lifted her chin slightly and smoothed the turned-down pale green sheet over the matching loose-weave blanket. “What about you? It’s not fair for you.” He shook his head and squeezed her hand lightly. “I’ll always be with you.” “That’s not what they tell me.” She batted another trail of tears from her cheek. His smile melted into a line across his lips. He leaned back in his stiff, vinyl chair. A tolerant sigh escaped his lips as he pressed interwoven fingers against the back of his head. “They don’t know everything.” “They know about this!” “You’ll find love again.” Hot tears pooled in her eyes. “Never! Not like this.” He nodded. “Yes. Exactly like this.” He leaned forward and touched his lips to her cold fingers. His

breath warmed her knuckles. “I am but a measuring stick to guide you.” She vehemently shook her head. Tears seared her cheeks. Words caught in her throat. She swallowed hard. “Now, now, we must exhibit our optimism. Sometimes optimism is all we really have, right?” He nudged her chin up with a crooked index finger. She nodded and closed her eyes. The meds washed over her senses. Her mind floated in and out

“No, I have taught you how to find me! Look for me with your heart.”

of consciousness. The monitors beeped softly above her head. Her bed jerked, and she forced her eyes open. “We’re ready.” A man in maroon scrubs pulled her bed out from the wall. He attached her monitors and IV bags to a part of the headboard she couldn’t see and leaned over her face. “Here we go, Bailey.” Lights swooshed above her. She pressed her face into her pillow to block it out. The movement beckoned her nausea. An elevator opened, and they entered the small boxed room. Gravity pressed down on her for some time, and then the doors opened. Her bed shook as it passed over the threshold. She clung to the side rails as if she might fall. Tears

streamed from her eyes. Her heart fractured a little more the closer she got to the operating room. “I love you always,” he whispered. “How can you say that?” Bailey fought the anger and the fear. “You’re leaving me, forever.” “No, I have taught you how to find me! Look for me with your heart.” “I will. I will always look for you.” “That’s the optimism I want to hear.” He smiled lovingly. The man in scrubs appeared in her peripheral. “Bailey, the doctor is ready. I need you to count backwards from one-hundred.” He fidgeted with her IV line. “One-hundred. Please, please don’t go.” Her lover kissed her trembling fingers. “I have to. You cannot live with this tumor in your brain, and I cannot exist without it. Your life is more important. I have existed only to show you the way.” “Ninety-nine. I can’t live without you.” “You won’t have to. I have been the measuring stick. You will know…when you find your true love.” “Ninety-eight. But ….” “No ‘buts.’ Go to sleep. Live your life. I’ll be waiting for you. Your optimism will find me. Look with your heart ….” “Ninety-sev—.” One year later, Baily patiently stood in line at the local Starbucks Coffee House. Her usual would

get her through the morning. She shifted the laptop shoulder strap. Its weight pinched a nerve. So did the English assignment buzzing in her head. Hopefully, she could shut out the world and get the paper written this morning. The Wi-Fi connection in the brewhouse was sufficient to get her through the research. If she could keep her eyes on her screen and not on the people coming and going. Why did she still entertain the silly notion that she’d find her lost love in a stranger’s face? She chuckled at herself and stepped forward with the progressing line. Finally, she was next in line. The man in front of her ordered something unfamiliar to her, and apparently to the brewista, as well. The goth-clad girl smacked her gum and asked him to repeat his order. He did, graciously. “I’m not sure what that is, but I’ll do my best.” She turned and began putting something together in a tall latte cup. The man glanced over his shoulder and caught Bailey’s eyes. “That’s what I like: optimism.” He stepped aside as if to focus better on Bailey. “Sometimes optimism is all we really have, right?” A bolt of déjà vu shot through her heart. She forced her word out, “Excuse me?” “My apologies, do I know you?” He smiled. It warmed his face and lit up in his eyes. Bailey stared at him. Words stuck in her heart. She cleared her throat, twice. “I—I don’t think so.” “Ah. Well.” He turned around and received his coffee from the brewista. He placed a ten dollar bill next to his cup and waited for his change. “Perhaps,” he turned back to Bailey, “we could share a table and solve this delightful dilemma.” Bailey’s eyes darted to the girl behind the counter. The girl tilted her head and popped the chewing gum with her back teeth. “Cindy, I’ll have

my usual.” Cindy nodded and turned to her task. Bailey’s eyes returned to the man. Her gaze focused on his tender eyes. He looked to be a few years older than she, nicely dressed, a professional, perhaps. She pressed her immaculate eyebrows together and spoke slowly, “I think I’d like that.” r

Dalibor Cohadarevic, Rose, Graphite drawing

Sevilla, España

Lynn Donovan Waterwheel House, Oil painting

Sevillian rains fall From cloudy grey skies On the canopy Maroon above us As we seek shelter Inside — warm and dry Tapas? Always, please “Sangria, por favor, tambien.” The bartender smiles Dark, yes, and handsome Drink mixing, we wait Paella, steak, fish The best food we’d had Then our sangria We had watched him Experienced hands knew what to do. Glass pitcher filling Red wine and oranges More nameless liquor We drank and laughed then Till the rains ended Till tapas were gone Till stories ran out Until the last drop had disappeared. I paid, and he asked “Passport? For the card.” Maybe, I hoped It was for my name, The girl he had met Seeking a shelter From Sevillian rain

— Kyleigh Becker

The Middle Kingdom Smog fills the air Crushing lungs Tightening chests I can’t breathe Not for the first three days at least Beijing sun hides from me Far away Smothered beneath clouds Smoke Industry Leaving only such a dull light Bright Yet hidden so well I can stare Forbidden City steps Trod by so many others Mao Dragon and Phoenix carved into the ground Few trees and flowers I know they’re dying Smothered By the Beijing sky

— Kyleigh Becker

Jakub Stepanovic, Belief, Oil painting

Paola Chavira, 2 Chains, Jewelry Arlene Rivera, The Flow, Jewelry

Melynn Downs, Slanted, Mixed media sculpture

Brianna Bucher, Fuego Remolino, Ceramic sculpture

Jennifer Olson, Whoa, Ceramic vessel

Katelynn Watkins, Bella Vita, Digital collage

It Goes Both Ways Lisa Medrano

When

I think back to my early childhood, both of my biological parents are in the picture. I am the youngest of three siblings. My family consisted of my mother, father, brother, and sister. We were pretty normal. Well, I thought we were. If someone had asked me how my parents’ relationship was back then, I would have probably said great, but I guess there were a lot of things I didn’t know about them. Soon, my world would change as moods shifted in the house. I was the closest to my dad out of all three of us kids, and when I started to notice my mother and him having problems, it was really hard. When I was in the third grade, I got up one Saturday morning and found my dad sleeping on the couch. I remember feeling sad as a million things ran through my head. I didn’t want to be separated from my father or my mother. I wanted them both in my life, but this was just the beginning of what was still to come. My father was an alcoholic; there were nights when he wouldn’t even come home. It always broke my heart seeing my mom sad. How do you tell your kids your dad won’t be home for supper tonight? It is really embarrassing when your mom has to tell you, “Your dad is in the garage drinking.” I don’t think my dad ever realized how much pain he

was causing us. There were nights that I was scared my dad was going to come into the house and be drunk and hurt one of us.

...I ask myself, why it doesn’t cross his mind, “Hey, I have three children. I wonder how they’re doing?”

My parents separated, and I remember crying myself to sleep almost every night. All of us kids lived with my mom, and my dad left to live on his own. Eventually, though they got back together and tried to work things out. Things got back to “normal.” It was the end of my seventh grade year when we really started to notice problems again. My mom and dad were constantly arguing; he wouldn’t sleep in the same room as my mom, and some nights he wouldn’t come home. This had happened before, but this time when they separated, it was for good. You would think I would have been devastated, but this time I wasn’t in third grade. This time, I understood why my mom was doing this, and I felt she had every right to get a divorce. It was right, but everything came out wrong. We ended up losing our home because my mom couldn’t do it all on her

own, going through a divorce and having to raise three kids. My dad still got to see us on weekends— if he wanted to. There were times he didn’t call and ask if we wanted to spend the weekends with him. My father moved to Colorado last year with his new girlfriend. The only thing I get from my dad today is child support money, not a call, not a hug telling me I’ll be okay, not a “How is school?” Nothing but money. It is sad to think that the last time I communicated with my dad was over Facebook last December. I know it goes both ways, and I could call him, but I expect a parent to think of his kids at least every once in a while with the prompting coming only from his own heart. When I see that he is online on Facebook, I ask myself, why it doesn’t cross his mind, “Hey, I have three children. I wonder how they’re doing?” While my relationship with my father further deteriorated, my mom did everything to help me, my sister, and brother. I am now poised to go on to college, and I will do so without the illusions that once comforted me as a child. Someday I will my raise my own children, and like me, they will know that while we can’t do it all alone, we are the most important players in our fate. r

Samantha Ward, Warm Nights, Watercolor painting

Samantha Ward, Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Creation, Watercolor painting

Vivianne Salcedo Vegetables And More Vegetables, Ink drawing

Jan Meredith Texture Collage, Graphite drawing

An y Given Sun day J u l e e Dav is

Judith’s

coral-colored nails were crisp with citrus and cucumber as she alternated between savoring another bite-sized sandwich and rubbing the pre-moistened towelette between her fingertips. Occasionally, she took the towelette and dabbed daintily at the corners of her small mouth with its matching coral stained lips, inhaling the lemon scent. It was Sunday, she was home alone expecting no one, but her mother had taught her that a proper lady should never be caught bare-faced, uncoiffed, or shabbily dressed, regardless. Her only concession to that was her bare feet tucked underneath her legs as she relaxed on her leather sofa, a napkin monogrammed with a gold-threaded “J” in cursive properly placed across her lap to catch crumbs and spare her black wool slacks any staining. But her black suede flats stood at the ready on the floor right in front of her in case she needed to slip into them. She took care as well not to drip onto her grey cashmere sweater as she continued to snack. You never knew who might ring the doorbell, perhaps even Kenneth, though in the months they’d been dating, he’d never shown up unexpectedly, or on Sunday at all. He’d proclaimed

Sunday his “day of un-rest,” jokingly referring to the mundane weekly household chores one needed to attend to.

He was the most disgusting man Judith had ever seen, yet for some reason she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Ah, Kenneth. Judith smiled and absentmindedly patted her long, blonde tresses drawn up in a chignon as she took in a few of the many photos of the two of them together she displayed around the apartment, her green eyes coming alive as each sparked a wonderful memory, the most recent taken at a gala event for the museum where Kenneth was Chief Curator. That was how they’d met, Judith and some friends taking in the Egyptian mummies display. Kenneth had greeted them personally and insisted on guiding their tour. Money (especially old money) talks, and Kenneth had no doubt been courting their checkbooks with his offer, but you

couldn’t fault him for that. It was part of his job to raise funds for the museum. Still, he seemed to be especially attentive to Judith, showing extra interest in her, and her interest was piqued as well. He was witty, charming, obviously well-heeled and well-educated, and handsome, as an added bonus, with his tall, lean figure, dark hair long and swept back in a ponytail, blue eyes that were like looking into midnight, neatly clipped facial hair surrounding a smile that bordered on rakish. Judith took the opportunity at the end of the tour to offer her assistance to the museum, whether it be financial, volunteer work, or both, and discreetly slipped him her card. His potential boyfriend resumé got a boost from her own Internet sleuthing after she’d returned to her apartment that evening. She’d found he was from old money too, back east, no less, and had an Ivy League education. Judith decided they’d be a perfect cliché together. She reached for the remote on the table beside her and brought the widescreen to life as she munched on another cucumber sandwich. Absentmindedly, she sifted through one channel

after another, looking for something to break her boredom and stimulate her mind. “Professional Bowlers Tour? Ugh! The sport of the Great Unwashed,” she sniffed as she pressed the Channel Up button again. Some cooking show, depicting a breaded and fried abomination that explained the heft of the hostess. Judith pressed the button again, fearful she’d gain five pounds just for allowing that vision to assault her retinas. Golf. A bit better, but she wasn’t in the mood. Horse racing? No. Those were events to be seen at while you pretended to watch through pearl-handled binoculars held under the brim of that season’s huge, floppy hat. The next channel afforded something called “WWF,” and despite her revulsion, she lingered a moment watching a muscular man in skintight zebra trunks leaning down into a microphone held by a nervous and shorter-looking announcer, spittle and venom streaming from the taller man’s mouth. Each time he leaned in, the announcer leaned away as if he’d clearly rather be somewhere else in his black suit and bowtie. The big man’s greasy dark hair flew wildly about him as he hurled insults and promises of a “beatdown” to someone called “Larry the Lumberjack,” who appeared to be nowhere in sight. He was the most disgusting man Judith had ever seen, yet for some reason she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Finally, the threats and the spit shower stopped, and the announcer pulled the microphone back to his own mouth. The monstrosity stood next to him, arms folded, scowling and nodding as the announcer spoke. “Well, you heard it folks! Killswitch Kenny has just thrown down the gauntlet to Larry the Lumberjack! Will Larry accept the challenge? Stay tuned!”

Judith stopped in mid-chew. “Kenny?” Her eyes shot back to the wrestler and widened in recognition. Daintily she laid her half-eaten sandwich back onto the plate and vomited into her Chanel flats. r

Kevin Harmon Two Engine Transformation, Graphite drawing

Tonight

Little Bird

don’t fly little bird the winds are fierce and you think it best to fly above the clouds soar where eagles roam but little bird you’re still a hatchling

Tonight, we all are poets dripping with words that sparkle and shine. Bardic lines lay drawn in ink on our hearts spoken aloud to the waiting crowd. Tonight, we all are poets joined by the rhythm and rhyme of magic. Dancing syllables slip off our tongues lighting our dangerous paths.

don’t fly little bird don’t fly wait until the winds blow over and clear skies and sunshine pours then glide on gentle curves of clouds

Tonight, we all are poets inspired by black and white viewpoints coloring what naturally remains dim forcing self-inspiration and regression.

little bird eagles soar too high for you white in the high clouds don’t try to fly with them go too high and freeze little bird as you plummet soft as a snowflake you’ll realize that where eagles fly is too dark of a place to be wait to float, to glide until the sunshines pours on slow gentle skies

— Kyleigh Becker

Tonight, We All Are Poets dancing in the dark corners of human nature ripping out our very souls with soft words we ache to shout aloud to the waiting crowd. Yes, Tonight, We All Are Poets. Lynn Donovan, Hummingbird, Oil painting

— Christie Proctor

Scared What am I scared of? Could it possibly be love? Or something else, Something like commitment? Maybe one day it will come to me Could I be just immature? I know I’m scared to get hurt But for some reason I can act like such a flirt. I don’t mean any of it It’s all just for fun I can’t let anyone get too close Because of the fear I have. And the guy that I may love the most I push away because I’m scared, Scared that he will betray me. So when he asks me to stay, I run away and sneak out, And then later I have doubts. But I can’t admit my feelings. It’s like I’m in denial But hey, I guess that’s just my profile, Deep down I’m in constant pain But nobody knows. And it’s driving me insane. I keep it all bottled up inside. No one understands me Because they just don’t see my real side. They don’t know that I have to meet So many demands. Sometimes I wish I could die. Because there’s nothing to live for, And tears fill my eyes,

And I feel like I’m trapped So I just sigh. And now I don’t know what to do. So here I am scared again.

— Kyra Flenoid

Melynn Downs, Smirk, Graphite drawing

Home

Joshua Juma

Whoever

said that money won’t buy you happiness has never been poor. They say money is the root of all evil. Well, I think not having money is the root of all evil. Africa is usually called the dark continent , yet we share the same sun with other continents. In Africa when poverty knocked on my door, I had no choice but to answer. But when opportunity knocked on my front door, I ran out through the back door because I thought it was the police knocking. Peace is a dream, not a reality, because bullets move faster than peace meetings. We all want to make a difference in life. Those that try end up giving up because the light at the end of the tunnel happened to be a moving train with its headlight on. Personally I didn’t think I could make a difference in my country because most people said that I was too small and too young, but all that changed a year ago when I caught malaria. If you think that you are too small to make a difference, then you clearly have not spent a night with a mosquito. I come from a family of five. My dad is the breadwinner, and the rest of us just share the loaf. My father works hard, and we enjoy the fruits of his labor while they are still ripe. He is my

role model, and he goes by the name Moses. He might not have parted the Red Sea, but he is the sea my boat sails on. He is my inspiration. Any man can make a child, but only a real man can be a father. He taught me to be a man, and he did not spare the rod, but he showed me the road. He would always say “A little sleep and a little slumber, and poverty will come to you like an armed bandit.” Most of us have a good life in our dreams. My dad wanted his reality to be better than his dreams. Prayer and hardwork were his staple diet. He is currently a well established engineer and a pastor.

If you think that you are too small to make a difference, then you clearly have not spent a night with a mosquito. They say behind every successful man is a woman, but in this case she is not behind, she is by his side. My mother is always there for him. She is more like his shadow, and she is the best mother

any man could be blessed to have, as she gave life to three men. But what can I say? Men are what their mothers made them. What is life without a family? What is a house if it is not a home?. Food for thought, digest it. Poverty. The letter “P” in it probably means poor. They say give a man a fish, you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, you feed him for a lifetime. My question is what if the water and worms run out? People lack the ability to improvise because naturally humans are creatures of habit. My dad taught me that being poor is not a choice, but staying poor is a choice. Education. Education comes in different forms. It is not limited to a classroom. Experience is a form of education because you learn. Illiteracy cripples progress. To me education is what remains after one has forgotten what was learned in school. I come from an educational system where a fish is graded by its ability to climb a tree. This is wrong because the fish will grow up always thinking it’s worthless and dumb. I believe in an educational system where individuals are graded according to their capabilities and not their flaws. Personally I am not good at math, regardless of how much I try. A typical situation I always encounter is this: “x-y = 6. Find

emoH the values of x and y.” Well, I see things differently. The “X” I know is Samantha. She is my “X,” and I can’t find “Y” either, because I don’t know “Y” it’s necessary. Challenges in life don’t come in the form of x’s and y’s; they come as debts, crashed dreams, and deadlines. We all have different opinions. That is why we might be in the same building but have different views and walk the same path but have different destinations. We all have potential to be what we want to be. I’m physically short, but I want to reach a stage where people have to climb ladders to reach my height. I want to be the dwarf that walked with giants. Home is just a foundation of the building that I will live in once I reach my full potential. It did sound impossible, because someone told me where I couldn’t go, what I shouldn’t do, and why I couldn’t do it. That is when I decided that my next hero would be . . . ME. r

Jakub Stepanovic, Alive, Oil painting

Brianna Bucher, Leaf Scatter, Ink drawing

Emmalee Newport, Graceful Beauty, Photography

Coming To The End Of Travis Lighty Seventh Heaven Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

a typical routine; it becomes second nature really. You close the window, shut the blinds, cut out the lights, and climb into bed. Some can easily drift into the sea of dreams while others find it difficult to make that transition, but once you have made that leap over the barrier, bliss and tranquility are yours. Marvelous sights that pale in comparison to this world, spectacular exploits that allow one to defy the laws of reality, and even the abilities to connect with those who are lost once again. A dream is said to be a gift from the divine, an escape from our worries and dilemmas. Dreams can take us to a perfect world that will bring us peace and serenity . . . or they can bring us terrifying visions and frightening nightmares. Passing through the door between unconsciousness and the real, I found myself standing in an open field. I examined my surroundings; I was amazed by the realism of this landscape. I turned to find a small child whom I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know. She gestured that I follow her to a small house in the distance. It was a cottage house atop of a hill that I had never seen before, yet once we entered through the front door, I met a person that I had thought was lost forever. My heart sank, and my eyes dripped with tears as I whispered her title in grief. Grandma? She welcomed us with open arms, offered us something to eat, but when I asked if she knew who I was, my grandmother said that she had never met me before. I was by her side on her deathbed, when she was

dying of cancer, and I was there every day with her after she saved me from that rotting pit I once called a home. How could she have forgotten me? In a fit of inconsolable distress, I excused myself, and I left through the back door, only to find myself standing on a floating island high in the sky with a single tree in the center. I approached the tree and examined it closely; it produced a sort of fruit that I had never seen before. I plucked a bit from off of a branch, then heard a voice that called out, beckoning me to consume the fruit.

The two women turned vicious as they pulled at my arms like ravenous dogs, bound and determined to claim me as their prize. I raised my head to find a snake resting on a branch, tempting me to do what I felt was wrong. Its minatory words and ominous voice coaxed me to take a bite, but my sense of reason swayed me to refrain. I dropped the fruit to the ground and quietly renounced my transgressions and the serpentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s enticements. It stared at me with vicious eyes; it gave out a baleful hiss as it lunged out at me and sank its fangs into my arm. I slowly fell into a trance. Stumbling about the island, my foot slipped

Travis Lighty, Illustration, Graphite drawing

off the edge, and I began to rapidly descend from the sky with the island fading from my sight. Where would I go now? I found myself lying on cobbled streets in the pouring rain. Picking myself up, I noticed a young woman in the distance looking at me, but then she turned and ran away. She seemed so familiar. Perhaps she was someone that I lost long ago? Without a second thought, I ran after her, thinking that she could give me an answer. The further I ran, the more I realized that we were the only ones in this old and disturbing-looking city. She made a sharp turn down an alleyway, and when I arrived, she was nowhere to be found, only a lone wooden door standing at the end. Curious, I opened the door, only to find a void within. Nothingness. I could hear moans though, and in a second a living corpse, apparently female, reached out to me from the darkness, and I slammed the door in panic. Walking onto the cobbled streets, I felt that the buildings and setting resembled London, England, in its older days. The rain began to subside the further I trod, but I felt a sense of dread. My

suspicions were accurate, for standing before me was a portly man glaring with a vicious expression. From out of nowhere, another man in red appeared, then swung at me. Making a hasty retreat, I saw my attacker, and I could see the rage in his eyes. Fear drove me to run away, but the men proceeded to chase me down. I thought I was done for until, from the same little girl who had once guided me to the cottage on the hill, my saving grace came. She led me into an old church where my pursuers could no longer follow. The child directed me toward a mirror standing at the altar. She vanished as she stepped through the glass, encouraging me to follow. I walked out of a tent and found myself in a carnival setting. Small rides, carnival stands, animals, and people without faces. While sifting through the festival, I searched for the child, but she was nowhere to be found. I combed through the crowds, only to be snatched by a woman, the only one around with a face. She stroked my face, ran her fingers through my hair, and whispered into my ear. She pursed her lips and moved closer toward me, until another women dressed in green pulled me away and began to claim me as her own. She too had a face. The two women turned vicious as they pulled at my arms like ravenous dogs, bound and determined to claim me as their prize. Within seconds a wave of water doused us from out of nowhere. The women shrieked and loosened their grips on me, allowing me to escape. As I ran, I saw the culprit responsible for the water. The pachyderm winked at me as I passed by and proceeded to the large tent. I stepped inside only to have the spotlight shine on me, unable to see any of my surroundings. In the distance, I saw a second spotlight shine on a graycolored clown wearing a mask. It spoke in rhyme

and incessantly questioned me. It asked for my true identity, if I was satisfied with my life, and if I was afraid to die. I stood there in silence. Then in a hushed giggle, the clown removed the mask and gave me its name. Sloth. The two women from before appeared from the darkness and began to approach me. At their approach, the gray clown spat fire on the tent, setting it ablaze, which revealed the audience to be faceless jesters. The entire tent began to burn, consuming everyone within, all laughing in death. My death was certain—until a white tiger came to my rescue and guided me to escape through an untouched clearing. Beautiful. That’s all I could say about my surroundings. A lush and vibrant forest, more glorious than any other. I heard the howl of a pale white wolf in the distance, calling for me to follow, and once we met, I was taken to a thriving ancient city. The city itself was marvelous. I entered the gates, noticing the wolf had retreated back into the forest. Curious to explore this utopia, I proceeded inside, and everything within its walls seemed perfect. The architecture, the artwork, the shops and the people, all with the most precise sense of order, right down to the smallest detail. The people on the streets were very youthful, unbelievably friendly, and held remarkable beauty. It seemed as if I had stumbled upon paradise on earth. It was too perfect. The moment I realized the city’s perfection, the world became gray, eerily quiet, and time stood still around me. A young man with a dragon tail appeared from out of a building, warning me to leave quickly. I asked what he meant, but he slithered back into darkness, warning me to escape now before the greater evil consumed me. I found myself near a temple where a pair of average yet out-of-place men stood glaring at me from the side, one dressed in

purple and the other flipping a golden coin. They taunted my imperfections, shortcomings, and animalistic desires. Frustrated, I walked past them to escape, yet they followed and continued to gloat their superiority. Suddenly they stopped in their tracks and fell to the ground. Dead. That’s when I saw it, right before my eyes. Death. The faster I ran, the closer Death came, killing innocent civilians and destroying all within its path. I reached the temple where a strange woman appeared and stopped me just as Death arrived. This woman, named Sin, took my blood and splattered it over a marble statue. It burst into flames and shattered to reveal Him. The Fallen. Death and Sin bowed in respect before Him, only to be consumed by the fires which had brought Him to life. He sneered at me with those infernal eyes, then raised his hand and set my body ablaze. I welcomed oblivion’s embrace, but a cool breeze and radiant light extinguished the flames and lifted me up. The Fallen watched as I floated into the sky, not of my own accord. The morning sun brightened the world, but I felt out of place in this setting. That’s when I saw her again, for the last time, the young woman who ran from me as we stood amongst the clouds. She held me in her arms and told me her name in a whisper. Tears fell from my eyes as I remembered who she was. She was the love I had lost many years ago. We clung together for a long time, but it would not last. She held me closer and spoke to me with the voice of an angel. ‘Sorry, but it’s time to wake up.” Awake and alone once again. Unable to go back or dream. Forever lost, forever gone, forever alone. We may sleep every night, but a dream cannot last forever. r

Royanna Borden, Pomegranate on The Plains, Photography

Melynn Downs, Pepper, Charcoal drawing

Brianna Bucher Cowboys Night Out, Charcoal drawing

Melynn Downs, Living Duck, Mixed media drawing

Jessica Ratzlaff, Peacock, Photography

Jessica Ratzlaff, Still Life, Oil painting

Vivianne Salcedo, Forms and Pepper, Graphite drawing

Samantha Ward, The Heart in Art, Watercolor painting

Afraid

Katelynn Watkins, What a Dream, Digital collage

Broken is the girl reflected before me Eyes guarded Heart tainted Afraid of what could be Wishing for what is wanted This girl stuck at sixteen instead of embracing adulthood Mind full of ideas But body afraid of action Trying to break the ice Only to make a scratch This barrier iimpenetrable This unconditional hate Having this hate for the little girl Who wishes she had known The little girl that is now grown She can only laugh to hide the hurt She can only smile so that no one will see Those that see through her faĂ§ade Never seem to question her pain For the sake of not caring Or the fear of knowing.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Shaquera Livingston

Winter Courtship I saw Winter smile from the corner of my eye, and it froze me in place but he did not see me smile back. I heard the song of Winter outside my bedroom window. It chilled me to the bone, but he did not hear me sing back. But Winter sees me smile back at him now. And Winter leaves me gifts beside my door that freeze my hands but wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t accept my gifts in return. But now Winter hears me sing back at night. And Winter comes to embrace me, and fills me with cold. He does not let me embrace him. But now he accepts my gifts. And Winter has kissed me now and filled me with deadly cold and I only regret that I could not kiss him more. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Azucena Juarez

Jessica Ratzlaff, Snowy Night, Oil painting

The Last Time Edward Kentner

She

lay heaped in the middle of the floor. The sweet taste of blood streaming from her nose pooled on her lips before running to her chin. She could feel another warm, sticky stream oozing from her ear. Pain seemed to shoot from every limb on her trunk. The dull throbbing of consciousness was ebbing. She fought the urge to sleep, to slip away from the pain. She had two reasons to survive, two reasons to remain conscious, two reasons to end this terror. Lying still on the threadbare carpet, she forced herself to focus. Listening intently, she was frozen with fear. Her attacker had left the room, but if he heard movement, he might return to continue the savage beating. She didn’t need to close her eyes to pretend to be unconscious. The punches to her face and the subsequent swelling had closed both eyes. Her ears rang with a shrill-pitched tone. Silently, she waited and prayed. Had he really left the room, or had she imagined it? Was he in the ragged recliner sitting in the corner? She couldn’t risk him being there. She willed herself to be still and listen. The slow, methodical ticking of the clock exaggerated time. TICK. TICK. TICK. She could feel the pain heighten with each passing moment. As the sensation of pain increased, so did her resolve. This could not happen again. This would not happen again. The throbbing from her ribs became more and more unbearable. An hour ago he had taken her head in his huge right hand and strode toward the wall with the intensity of a major league

pitcher, flinging her with the additional leverage. She felt herself literally flying toward the impending collision. Head, shoulders, and hips crushed into the oak bookcase. Upon impact, a crisp cracking of her ribs was followed by the whiplashed thud of her head making contact. Before she could collapse, he grabbed her by the shoulder and backhanded her face, driving her downward.

She was there for sport— their sport, their savage entertainment and amusement. She had gathered her strength after his slap and rose slowly, not cautiously. She had tried pulling herself up using the shelves of the teetering bookcase, causing it to topple toward her. Books, knick-knacks, framed photographs all came crushing down. Broken shards splintered across the floor as she felt the impact of the heavy shelves. The blow pushed her to the center of the room where she fought to keep her balance. Unexpectedly, from behind her, she felt his hand gathering her hair and twisting it. The hoots and hollers from his gang encouraged him more. Drawing the hair into a knot tight in his hand, he pulled her first to her feet, then to her tiptoes. Like a puppet on a string, she was suspended from his left hand. Without warning he spun her like a top to her left, and within the same movement he struck the right side of her face, ear

first, with the force of his open palm. Not once, not twice, but three times he had struck her head like a piñata at a Mexican party. TICK. TICK. TICK. Why had she let this happen again? By now she recognized the beast within him. She wished she could have left the house and run for safety. She had been submissive to him and subservient to his “dawgs.” His wish was her command. She never back-talked, never thought for herself, never went against his wishes, yet she again found herself in a crumpled, bloody heap. It began with a couple of slaps in front of his friends that brought on cheers and calls for more from his crew. The higher they became, the less she could do to please him. She was there for sport—their sport, their savage entertainment and amusement. As she lay there, her breathing began to even out. The sharp pain that accompanied each exhale became a little more bearable with each gulp of air. She must live through this. She would live through this. She could feel determination growing with each breath. Childhood memories of her white middle-class home flooded over her. Safe, predictable, maybe even boring could best describe her childhood. Early in her teen years she had felt she needed more than a bland day-to-day existence. Excitement, living on edge, appealed to her sense of adventure. Now there were others whose childhood depended on her. Lying bruised and battered she thought about her children. Where were they? Had they heard? The

baby would be less affected, but her four-year-old was certainly old enough to comprehend what was happening. He may not understand why, but even a child would recognize the brutality of the man who had beaten his mother. Lost in her thoughts she pled with God that her children be asleep and not witness her awful violation through hearing or sight. Listening intently, she struggled to hear if her babies were crying. All she could hear was the shrill ringing in her ears. She lay heaped in the middle of the floor. His cronies had left. The blood no longer ran from her nose as it had dripped off her chin and puddled on the floor underneath her. She strained to listen again to no avail. Without moving, she squinted through bloated eyes, hoping to see. Slits allowed for cracks of blurred light. Deliberately she willed her eyes to focus. Light became vague mixes of color as each pupil fought to send an image to her retinas. Ever so slowly the floor became focused, next the toppled bookcase, its content, and finally the wall where the bookcase had stood. In the hallway a child stood in his red pajamas, shaking silently. The fear contorted his face. Although she could not hear his sobs, she knew from experience he was mutely weeping, for he had also felt the punishment of being in this household. Using all her strength, she raised her head slightly. Her swollen eyes never left her son. She longed to hold him, to comfort him, to assure him everything would be all right. Her body could not respond as she wished. Searching for stamina, both physically and mentally, she mustered all her energy, dragging her head up slightly higher. As she did so, she watched as her sonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes flew open and his mouth emitted a scream of terror inaudible to her. She never felt the second stomp of the solid boot heel. r

Dalibor Cohadarevic, Oblivion, Mixed media sculpture

Emmalee Newport, Showering Down, Photography

Dalibor Cohadarevic, Light and Dark, Mixed media drawing

Dalibor Cohadarevic, Pumpkin, Mixed media drawing

Jan Meredith, Rose the 1st, Watercolor painting

Dalibor Cohadarevic, Light in Darkness, Charcoal drawing

Disposable Julee Davis

“I heard a Fly buzz – when I died – “ Emily Dickinson

Kim

lay back on the threadbare chenille bedspread, her curly red hair fanning around her. She absentmindedly picked at the spread in places where the threads already hung loose. The smell of gunpowder pulled tight over her head like a blanket and made her sneeze, despite the breeze that lifted the thin nylon curtains off the windowsill. She pulled her terry robe tighter against the March night chill, watching with her hazel eyes as the curtains reached for her with each small gust of wind. With the light off, there was only the slight, shadowy illumination from a streetlight a block away, but she could still see the Rorschach pattern her husband Mark’s blood, brain, and bone made on the wall canvas she’d painted opposite the bed after she’d pulled the trigger. Kim was groggy now, her brain slower to tell her body what to do, her body slower still to obey, but she finally managed to lean partway up on one elbow to reach towards the nightstand for what was left of the pills and the booze. She counted the pills out – ten more to go from a bottle of nearly thirty.

She’d just gotten a month’s supply filled earlier in the week. She popped half of them in her mouth and nearly gagged at the dry, powdery bitterness. She unscrewed the cap off the Crown and pulled at the neck of the bottle with her mouth, choking on the vile liquid and making a grotesque face. A nice glass of white zin would have been more to her liking, but she couldn’t be sure it would do the trick like the stronger liquor. Kim swallowed the last of the pills and drank the rest of the whiskey, trying to keep a delicate balance between not drinking fast enough to keep from tasting those awful pills, and drinking too fast and vomiting herself back into the land of the living. She lay back on the bed again, alone with her last thoughts, watching the ceiling kaleidoscope spin and turn. A stiffer breeze blew a sheet of paper off the nightstand, an email she’d printed out and silently handed to her husband when he’d gotten home. The look of recognition on Mark’s paling face as he read was all the confession she’d needed. In it, a faceless mistress had let Kim know that Mark was having an affair with her, and given enough detail

for Kim not to doubt it. The author was vindictive and cruel, confiding to Kim that Mark had recently described his wife to her as “disposable.” As soon as Mark had put the paper aside, Kim brought the gun out from behind her back, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Kim wondered with detached curiosity what she would look like when the bodies were found. She supposed she'd be bloated, her skin mottled blue and grey. The bedspread and mattress beneath her would most likely be soaked as the settled blood seeped out of her pores, the weight of the liquid too much for her skin to handle. With both of them lying in the room, the sickly sweet smell would be overpowering, and the flies – oh, Lord, the flies – how they would be everywhere. Through drugged and blurry vision, Kim saw a faint glow illuminate a spot on the ceiling and recognized it as the reflection from an incoming text on her cell phone. This time of night, it could only be her mother. She wondered what her mother would think when she r

Fa r m G i r l Carol

Mosely-Braun, the first African American woman to be voted into the Senate, said “Defining myself, as opposed to being defined by others, is one of the most difficult challenges I face.” To me, this quote rings quite true. Defining myself is a difficult feat, because the more I try to label myself, the less I feel like I am accurately describing who I am. People are, by nature, a kaleidoscope of the people, places, and moments of their lives. Some moments, people, and places mean more to us than others, but all help shape who we are. Some offer a routine to lose ourselves in, some offer reassurance, and still others offer us a feeling of freedom. The family farm offers me all of the above. On any given day, at any time, I can tell you exactly what my grandmother is doing. At 7:15 my grandmother has just rolled out of bed and shooed the cats away from her shoes. By 7:20 she has awoken every dog in the tiny farmhouse and shoved them out the back door into the enclosed dog run. The dogs whimper at her as their feet encounter the cold, hard-packed-ground, but she just shuts the door. They have long since killed any grass in the rectangular space with constant digging and running, so it’s their fault the dog run is barren. By 7:30 she is heading out to the barn, a mix of cat food and water in her old Tupperware balanced on the top of a fist that holds a small coffee can of dry food. She’s been doing this for years.

The 100-foot trek from the whitewashed garage where she’s fed a horde of sixty cats to the two-story white barn where she’ll feed ten more doesn’t faze her, no matter the weather. Come rain, sleet, or snow, she makes the same journey. I used to make it with her. The old white barn doors always protest sliding over to let her in, creaking and groaning louder than the fierce winds that whip around the corner of the barn. Once inside, the barn is warm and inviting. There is a black momma cat lying on top of a stack of green alfalfa, sometimes with babies, sometimes

When I was younger, I wanted to dye my hair to match Dolly’s mane, because I craved the attention she got at every show. alone. Momma always meows at Grandma, encouraging her to pour the food in the old iron pan that sits on the dirt floor of our ancient barn. Above her, a battalion of small spiders has created a kingdom of webs in the support beams of the floor. After grandma has fed the kitties in the iron pan, she turns to her Folgers-coffee-can-laden table and gets to work. Each of our dozen horses gets three-fourths of a can of feed, and a quick scratch in their favorite place as she works her way through the pens. The

Christie Proctor

mares cluster around her, bumping her gently with their heads and snuffling in her pockets, hoping to find a treat. The heat of their bodies warms up the cold morning, and they follow her around their pen as she dumps food in the six buckets. Then they peel off of her, like an organized ballet, each choosing a bucket for the day. When all her girls are happily munching away, Grandma heads back into the barn. A quick switch of the cans, and grandma heads out the back of the barn and into Wee-haw’s pen. Wee-haw is one of our rescued animals, a formerly abused mini-horse. He doesn’t snuffle, or crowd. Wee-haw just stands five feet away from her and watches, his long tail switching back and forth. When she’s dumped his grain in his small black rubber pan, she stands next to it, forcing him to come closer to her if he wants to eat. Though he’s been on the farm for a while now, Wee-haw is still a little standoffish, memories of his former owner’s cruelty driving a lot of his actions. Eventually, he wobbles over, always ready to rush away, and lowers his head to eat. Grandma pats him on his shoulder and walks away, into the next pen. My red dun broodmares happily say hello, rubbing their noses against her hands, and blowing their breath in her face. Dolly, the oldest, was a gift from my grandfather when I was younger, and her daughter, May May, is her spitting image. Both the girls have blonde fur covering their bodies that darkens slowly as it nears their knees. From their

knees to their hooves their fur is a beautiful auburn color. Their manes and tails are naturally a bright orange, and when they flick their tails, it looks like the flickering of a flame. When I was younger, I wanted to dye my hair to match Dolly’s mane, because I craved the attention she got at every show. My grandmother always laughed, and said “Why would you dye your hair to match Dolly, when God dyed Dolly’s body to match you?” So many memories of my childhood involve my grandmother reassuring me with sweet words like those. It wasn’t my grandmother’s words that shaped who I am today, though they did reassure me that whoever I became would be special to her. It was the freedom that the farm gave me. For ten miles either way you can see only wild grasses, some chest high. The lack of people gave me a place where I wasn’t going to be judged. If I wished, I could scream as loud as I wanted, play the wild child, run in the fields, or sit down and read in the trees. It didn’t matter. Either way I was accepted. And loved. If someone were to look at me today, they would not see the wild child, or the girl raised on the farm. They would see a college student, a blonde, someone loud and vivacious. It is difficult to define myself, because my definition is so far removed from the definition others would give me. The challenge of defining myself is impossible. But, as Ms. Braun said “Magic lies in challenging what seems impossible.” There is no place more magical to me than the farm. r

Emmalee Newport, Living in Kansas, Photography

Behind Closed Doors Jordan Castilleja

When

you think of “family,” what comes to your mind? Do you think of your everyday typical family, a mom, dad, and kids? Is this the only way that a family can be considered a “family”? Let me tell you what I consider a family; to me, family can be anything from a connection between a single parent and a child, between siblings, or even just two people who care deeply for each other. Maybe this is because my definition of family has shifted dramatically in just the last year. Not long ago, I lived a lifestyle that could be described as “The Brady Bunch.” It’s not like that today. It all began the summer before my senior year. I began to see that my parents, who were once very much in love, were arguing more frequently and becoming more distant from each other. I think the major turning point for my family was when my dad came in my room and asked to sleep on my futon; at that moment I knew that things would never be the same again. Not sleeping in the same room became a routine. Their relationship became what you call “bipolar.” There were many instances that I can recall when they would “act” like they weren’t mad but that quickly escalated from “normalcy” to anger. My mother spoke to me and told me that it was best if she stuck around and tried to fix things with my

dad. That didn’t last very long. It was mid June when our “Brady bunch” disintegrated; my mother had packed her things early in the morning. I had just woken up, having heard footsteps all over the house. I walked into my living room, and there by the door was my mom’s entire set of luggage. In confusion, I quickly approached my mom to ask what was going on. She asked me to be as understanding as I could be and told me she had made the decision to leave my dad. For a moment, I was speechless and did not know what to respond. It took three days for it to sink in that she had really left.

I walked into my living room, and there by the door was my mom’s entire set of luggage. What made it even worse was that the day she left she left without saying where she was headed. I had many sleepless nights thinking of where she was. So many thoughts ran through my mind of what could’ve possibly happened to her. I was desperately calling and texting her but received no answer. Nobody knew where she was. It was like she left leaving no trace behind of the life we once

shared. One day I was at work. I was mowing the grade school when I felt my phone vibrate. I looked at it and saw a new message. I quickly opened the message to see that my mom finally answered, saying that she was in California with some girlfriends. It was at that point that I realized from now on it was just going to be me and my dad. It felt like weight was lifted off my shoulders. For that reason the only person I consider family is my dad. He has been there for me through thick and thin. Not only is he my dad, but I consider him my best friend. My dad is the most special person in my life right now. He sacrifices himself and goes out of his way to always provide the best he can give me. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t wake up and say, “Good morning,” and not a night goes by without a “Good night.” Every Sunday when he wakes up to go to church, he always makes breakfast for me. Little things like that are what count and make the bond between us stronger. In all reality this was a life-changing experience that made me better. For me, the definition of family was once set in stone: A mom, dad, and kids. I was wrong, and I learned this lesson the hard way. r

Lynn Donovan, The Bridge, Oil painting

And Julee Used a Dirty Word â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Edward Kentner

Fall, 2013, Creative Witing Students

Travis tried a verbal joust Azucena we could never roust and ........ Julee used a dirty word.

Christie, life a box of tissues Tempest, a demonic cat with issues and Julee ........ used a dirty word.

Jason gave cadence, rat, tat tat Aletha wore a John Deere hat and Julee used ........ a dirty word.

Melynn Downs, Crows, Digital design

Bill defended a defenseless snake Cody a bloody sonata by the lake and Julee used a ........ dirty word.

Killian imagined haunted toast Lynn became a bed bug host and Julee used a dirty ........ word.

An Idea Fleeting as a thistle in flight, I calmly sit and reflect. Just a distant forming mist, I sense a fragile hint. The source of your origins, I know not where youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be. Lurking in the shadows somewhere, I seek you in my dream. Faithful I will find you, I watch and I listen. Rewarded by my patience I feel you in the distance. Hurry before your presence fades, I save with great haste. My countenance is brightened, I smile without disgrace. Glancing at you smugly, as if reflecting in a rear-view mirror. I say to no one listening, Ah, I have an idea.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Lynn Donovan

Lynn Donovan, Waterfall, Oil painting

Matthew Pannkuk, State of Main, Photography

children, we are raised with the concept that everyone is created equal. However, when we are faced with the immigration debate, we find ourselves conflicted over whether or not these people should be viewed compassionately, as individual people, or as our means of keeping our houses clean and our lawns mowed. We have failed, in this discussion, to realize that everyone has a story, and no immigrant is the exception; this is the prologue for those venturing wide distances to better their lives. Examining what ignorance has earned in wages leads some to believe it is their “God-given right” to feel as though owning some people is okay because they are not advanced as we are. Giving small donations to some struggling families residing in our own country and choice countries abroad is how we attempt to make ourselves feel better for the way we thrive and others don’t. As a country, we do not empathize with the painful existence of others; we are too busy living our own comfortable lives. We often fail to recognize the existence of those who are not directly integrated into our society, unless we are exploiting them for their cheap labor. We need to look at the things that are going on in the countries neighboring us; instead, we damn them and their desire to be happy in life; we don’t truly see the struggle and heartache they must endure just to live. We fail to see just how human they really are. As a child, you may recall your grandparents or great-grandparents telling you stories of when they

American: Land of The Free Tai lor Lynch were younger and maybe when they had originally come to the United States; if you have heard these stories, then you’ve probably heard of their strife. You may have also heard why some would try so hard to enter into the States, no matter the cost. If it wasn’t your grandparents or your great-grandparents who arrived here, you must realize that we all come from somewhere. Not every person is genuinely from

We often fail to recognize the existence of those who are not directly integrated into our society, unless we are exploiting them for their cheap labor. the United States; in fact, recent studies show that Native Americans originally came from Siberia, making their own journeys across the Bering Strait. We all have ancestors who could say they are not truly from this land. With this in mind, you should ask yourself why it is that some feel entitlement to this land more so than others, when we are all immigrants? We all have someone in our ancestral background who struggled before us, who endured the trials so we would not have to. Why do some people consider themselves the exception, without a second thought, in acknowledging who “belongs” here? Why are we more biased towards what we

consider ours, and why do we not take the time to try to understand what is theirs? They say we fear what we do not know; I would say I most definitely agree with that theory. We don’t understand the strife any present-day immigrant must face, particularly the strife of our own neighbors; yet we condemn them for their trials. As we grow, we hold the idea that doing whatever it is we can do to further ourselves in life is what is acceptable. We’re often told that no one can hold us back from anything, and THAT is exactly what the “American Dream” tells us to do. However, not only do we try to push others further behind us to raise ourselves to the levels of success we wish to obtain, but we are encouraged to do so. We are told that if you aren’t trying your damndest to get where you want to go, then you aren’t good enough. Well, what about those risking life and limb to be here? They are giving anything and everything to make a better life for themselves, to live that “American Dream,” yet they somehow aren’t good enough to be considered “American.” They give more just to live in this country than we give in living here the entirety of our lives. In a way, we almost can’t justify why we are good enough to live here, simply because of what this land represents: it is the ultimate land of the voyager. To keep someone out in the manner that we attempt runs directly against this world we have created: “The Land of the Free.” In our society, if we are wealthy, we are associated with feeling a strong sense of opposition

to those immigrating across the southern border. We are widely-known for our anti-immigration policies, yet also known for the hiring and exploiting of immigrants. We tell the world how to build the largest wall ever seen, and then hire those we wish to keep out in our factories and in our homes to allow us to continue leading our lives comfortably, feeding that monster others would call luxury. We tell our children to grow up and be the best person they can be. We spoon-feed them a world of what we call prosperity, a world that can only truly be called greedy. I would love to see people be able to get into this country and make a better life for themselves, without such strong opposition. Immigrants aren’t the problem; the way we view them is. The way we have labeled immigrants truly does impact their lives. We show them better lives, dangling it in front of them in the very same technique we use to teach our dogs. If we could teach a heartless world the way of empathy, we could then teach ourselves how to better love our fellow man. If we could teach the world to know that each and every object is, and always will be, just a material thing, we could learn to give without want. If we could deny ourselves our hypocrisy, we could learn what a human being truly is. We can learn that this is the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, but that it must start somewhere, and that somewhere is our southern border. We need to make simpler the act of becoming an American citizen. r

Dalibor Cohadarevic, Crane from Kung Fu Panda, Mixed media drawing

Jessica Ratzlaff, Untitled Abstract, Oil painting

Jakub Stepanovic, Crystals, Photography Brianna Bucher, Landing Approach, Graphite drawing

Kyleigh Becker

Dark, dripping hair wet my sister’s shirt as she and I sat in her dorm. A movie played on the TV, volume low. I lay on top of her roommate’s bed, glasses on my suitcase. I’d already seen the movie. Propping myself up on my arm, I turned to my sister. She lay on her bed, a vague shape in the darkness. “So, how many?” Through the darkness, I saw her turn to me, face lit by the light of her phone. “What?” She knew what I meant, I could tell. While my sister could lie to everyone, even me, and get away with it, sometimes she slipped. “How many, Kels?” The shadows flickered as scenes switched. Characters ran across the screen. A commercial played near silently. She fiddled with her phone a second more, then turned it towards me. All I saw: white. “You know I can’t read that.” Kels sighed and turned away from me — back to the movie, playing quietly across the room. “Eighteen.” “Eighteen?” “Yes.”

Jessica Ratzlaff, Needle and Thread, Photography

Jakub Stepanovic, Energy, Oil painting

Royanna Borden, Icy Night, Photography

Lilith

All

the other girls’ mothers baked cookies. Her mother baked herself, serving pieces of her flesh at the local bake sale, earning a less than favorable reputation among the women and an invitation to come back from the men. “Everybody’s welcome” became an open door invitation thrust at a revolving door of men who were always “better” than the last. She grew up with a slew of “uncle” whatevers, but not one daddy. Except, maybe, one sugar daddy who tried to get some sugar on the side while her mother ran to the store. When the door swung open, she was expecting salvation, but instead was given hell. Her mother accused her of seducing him, despite the dark bruises, scratch marks, and barricaded doors testifying elsewise. Lust still gleamed in his eyes, and that night she slipped out a self-locked door on bare feet in the dead of the night, leaving her first dead soul behind. The next morning the detectives found two bloody footprints leading from the open mouth of the alley, but no trace of the missing girl. A few months later, the search was called off. Despite his partner’s reassurances, a rookie drove himself to the grave with a bottle of whiskey and her ninth grade picture in the shotgun seat. Death greeted him with a cold kiss, and she added a mark to her tally, regretfully.

Christie Proctor

She took up hitchhiking. When she stopped in Montana for a breather between truckers, she saw a national news story about a slew of gruesome murders across the country. She stayed in the diner for about an hour, watching the coverage. Later, no one remembered the soft-spoken hitchhiker who had ridden off on a big rig.

Phoenix rotted, Anchorage froze, and Austin winds blew straight through her soul.

She began panhandling. It was almost too easy to convince people to help her. She got excited when they accepted her. They almost never knew how close they were to Death. She began thinking of it as a game. It was a race between who deserved it and who didn’t. She swore if six men didn’t violate the rules, then she’d quit. Four survived. The rest did not. She watched either way. But, the show got old, and it was time for a new venue. The police in Seattle were left befuddled, while their city cried out in terror. She rolled her eyes and moved on. Los Angeles was fun. It took them two whole years to make connections. But even when L.A. and Seattle pooled resources and brains in an unrivaled criminal psychology think tank, they

Dalibor Cohadarevic, My Car, Graphite drawing

didn’t find the clues she’d left. Before long, L.A. had grown old, and the public clamor was too loud for her to think. Phoenix rotted, Anchorage froze, and Austin winds blew straight through her soul. She never stayed anywhere for long; she was long past her regretful stage. On her first night in the southern City of Sin, she found her home. The first day of its relatively modern festival of debauchery she took to the streets on foot, intent on finding her next game. French and English swirled around her, a music all its own against the hard beat of loud jazz. Bodies pressed against each other in a drunken daze while lovers and strangers alike swapped spit indiscriminately. She looked down with disdain at a near violent couple, their passion-fueled antics filling her with immeasurable disgust. The single flash of silver that went unnoticed by the oppressive crowd silenced the couple at her feet. The folds of her dress hid the dripping evidence of her judgment. A smile of bliss stretched her lips. She had a new couple in her sights when a voice rose from the crowd and distracted her. The voice seemed to fade to nothingness on every third word. Yet the noise seemed so familiar that it caused her head to swim, and for the first time in her long career, she lost track of her players.

An old woman stood on the outer edge of the crowd, handing out crosses and prayers in the midst of wickedness. Many women took a cross, their quest to amass necklaces not complete until they had traded glimpses of their flesh for every last plastic bauble the men around them held. The old woman smiled indulgently, and prayed for the women as their crosses fell in between the rich colors of beaded glory and disappeared into cleavage. Then, the woman went about her penance, praying fervently, as only a damned soul can. The woman who had once been the missing girl stared at the older woman on the corner until the years fell away from both of them. The girl saw her mother for the first time in thirty years, and made a soft involuntary sound. When the women’s eyes met, the crosses fell into the filthy street, immediately crumpled by dozens of oblivious revelers’ feet. “Lily?” the old woman asked, seeing the ghost of her missing daughter in the murderess’s eyes. She shook her head, black-dyed hair cascading over her face, and away again, revealing a hardened mask where vulnerability had been. “My name,” the murderess said, “is Lilith.” When the older woman took a step forward, anger flashed in Lilith’s eyes, still alive after being buried so many years ago. The older woman tried to bridge the gap between them, but the crowd surged and washed Lilith away. Later that night, when the drunk hunk at the end of the bar smiled expectantly at Lilith, she did not smile back. As she crawled into bed alone, she ran her hands over her stomach, feeling her tally, stroke by rigid stroke. She heard the soft groans of ninety-nine men, ninety-nine short breaths, and then . . . silence. r

Arturo Martinez, Mask for “Into the Woods,” Leather sculpture Brie King, Painted surface design

The Art of Analysis

I had a nightmare once where all the little dots on my arms

grew larger and darker and I aged a century in a minute. My family’s psychologist told me “You’re afraid of death.” I laughed and replied “Show me someone who isn’t.”

I had a thought once that maybe I’m just a box of tissues getting used and maybe I’ll be empty one day.

My family’s psychologist told me “You’re afraid of commitment.” I laughed and replied “I need something to commit to.”

I had a poem once and I shared it with the world. No one could hear me in the din but I finally felt like I could live.

My family’s psychologist told me “You crave attention.” I laughed. — Christie Proctor Dalibor Cohadarevic, Girlfriend, Mixed media collage

Rebeka Allen, Face of Flowers, Ceramic mask

Carmen Hughes, Like a Sir, Ceramic mask

The L a s t G a s p Lynn Donovan

A tentative

knock, just two taps, but Dana jumped as if it had been a forceful pounding. She had been awake for a while in her teardrop trailer, drifting in and out of sleep. She sat up and glanced at her husband. K.P. snored softly. She touched the door handle, and then considered whether to open it, or just push the curtain aside and peek out. Who could possibly be knocking? The purple glow of a dawning light, the kind that precedes the actual sunrise by as much as three hours, had squeezed out the stifling darkness of the new moon. Should she wake her husband? The door handle made a loud clicking noise, over-emphasized by the crisp, late September coolness. She pressed down on her back teeth, as if that simple, physical act would soften the sound she created in order to slip out without disturbing K.P. Did the camp host need something? Pam was an early riser. All the campers knew she’d be the first to fill the pristine air with the fragrance of coffee boiling on her propane stove. But she had never bothered anybody during the early morning hours before. She was the calmest, most happy-go-lucky person Dana knew. Not in ten years of hosting these teardrop trailer gatherings had she ever overreacted to anything. Still Dana was a registered nurse. Perhaps one of the campers was sick. She swung the small door open and ducked her head to peek out of their sunflower-yellow trailer.

A young man in a dirt-stained tank top and cargo shorts lowered his head and stared at the ground. Golden, stringy locks of curls hung in his eyes. His sunburned skin glowed in the subdued light. He stepped back a few steps and mumbled something. Was he drunk, disoriented? What did he want? Dana turned to her husband and gently shook him awake.

Her black and white Border collie, Buddy, lowered himself to the ground and whined, then growled a low rumble in his chest. “What is it?” he croaked. “There’s a man out there. He seems to need something.” “Huh?” K.P. rose up on one elbow and glared beyond his wife through the opened door. Whoever the guy was, he had stepped back too far for K.P. to get a good look at him. Besides, he needed his glasses to see clearly. He sat up and opened the cabinet over his feet, retrieved his glasses and a T-shirt. He pulled the shirt over his head and swung his legs out his door. His pajama pants flapped against his shins as his feet met the flip-flops in perfect alignment with his descent from the sleeper. They were on his feet with little effort. He stood to his full height. A

yawn forced itself into an accompaniment of the satisfactory stretch he could not refuse. He stood six inches taller than their tiny trailer. The young man, a boy really, was already in his cross hairs, so to speak. He glared at him as he rounded the trailer. “Can I help you?” His voice seemed too loud in the stillness. Funny how the dimly lit, early dawn amplified a person’s voice. The boy glanced but never looked up. “I’m sorry to bother you guys. I—I don’t know where I am.” “Well, where do you want to be?” K.P. resisted scratching in places he normally scratched first thing in the morning. “I—my girlfriend and I were—well, we were at the Royal Gorge, I—we got separated and I was looking for her.” He glanced up, but quickly turned to look across the camping area. Wet streaks stained his dusty face. Had he been crying? “Well, you’ve wandered off a little ways from the Gorge, but it’s still walking distance to get back. In fact, there’s a trail that’ll lead you directly to it. Takes ’bout an hour to hike, as I understand.” K.P. glanced around the campsite. Pam’s silver percolator was steaming. She’d been up for a little while. Her eyes met K.P.’s, and she stood. Her spikey hair glistened from her morning refresher with a bottled water. He tipped his head back, silently summoning her. She leisurely made her way past the four dormant campers to K.P.’s area at the crest of the sites. “Pam, isn’t there a group hiking to the Gorge

this morning?” Her eyebrows drew together, as her eyes roved over the young man. “I believe so.” “Well…” K.P. tilted his head and stared at the kid. “What is your name?” “Jimmy. Jimmy Duckworth.” “Well Jimmy, here, got separated from his girl. They were over at the Gorge. I reckon he could get breakfast with us and hike back with our little group. What you think?” Pam glanced at the sleepy camp site, and then she flashed her warm, grandmotherly smile. “Of course, everyone’s welcome for breakfast. There’s always plenty.” The boy glanced over his shoulder toward the road. “Well, I don’t know….” “Oh, come on.” Pam took his elbow. “You can’t be wandering out here without something in your stomach. I’ve got coffee, and we’ll be starting biscuits and gravy before long.” A door opened and a large, bald man emerged from his teardrop. Pam turned toward the sound, “Look, there’s Paul. He’ll be making a mountain man breakfast within the hour. Trust me, we’ve got plenty of food.” “Well…OK.” The boy followed Pam to her site. Her black and white Border collie, Buddy, lowered himself to the ground and whined, then growled a low rumble in his chest. She shooed him away and motioned for Jimmy to sit in a red canvas chair. His spindly legs angled higher than his seat, and he looked like a crab gathered up against the aluminum chair frame. An hour later… “Everybody!” Pam sought their attention. “Most of you have met our guest, Jimmy Duckworth. He wandered over here from the Gorge. I suspect it was the lure of George’s bell-pepper omelets, myself, but….”

Emmalee Newport, Lone Mountain, Photography

The campers giggled. George shrugged— innocent to the end. Pam smiled widely. “Anyway, if anybody is planning a hike this morning, he’d appreciate a tagalong.” “Sure,” Nancy said. “Bill and I are going. I think Bob and Claudia are, too.” Bob nodded. Claudia started gathering up the breakfast dishes and headed to her trailer. “We planned on going, too,” Jason interjected, as he chewed his last bite of burrito. His wife, Amanda, walked up behind him and nodded. Their toddler, Violet, sat on her hip, content with a newly filled tummy. “You’re welcome to walk with us.” “Jimmy!” a voice echoed across the downsloping terrain. He jumped to his feet and whirled around.

“Zoey!” He ran to her. It was just like the movies where two lovers run across a grassy field and fall into each other’s embrace. He twirled her around and around, seemingly in slow motion. The campers just stared at the cliché in action. Jimmy wiped the corner of his eye with his fist, as he proudly draped the other arm around her shoulder. “Guys, this is Zowina, my fiancé.” She tucked her head against her shoulder. Her dark skin could not reveal the embarrassment of being displayed to such a large, fervent group of strangers, but her eyes and coy gesture did. The campers returned to their trailers and were soon back with walking sticks, a leashed Sheltie dog, water bottles and a baby’s hiker-back pack. The Sheltie growled and nipped at Jimmy and Zoey. He frantically pulled against his leash. “Settle down,” Bill reprimanded. “I’ve never Continued on next page.

The Last Gasp continued from previous page.

seen him act like this.” Zoey clung to Jimmy as they walked the capricious terrain that was the hiking trail to this side of the Royal Gorge. Claudia made a quick step to join up beside them. “What happened to you kids? How’d you get separated?” “Oh,” Jimmy blushed and snuggled his cheek against Zoey’s head. “It was my fault. We—” he glanced into her eyes. “We had a ridiculous fight and—we’re all right now.” He squeezed Zoey even tighter. She smiled lovingly toward him. They only had eyes for each other. “Oh,” Claudia nodded and grinned, a knowing look in her eyes. She quickened her step to pass the amorous couple. The group neared the end of the hiking track and slowed their pace. Crime-scene tape guarded the entrance to the overlook. A state trooper approached them and shoved a piece of paper into Bill’s fist. “You folks need to stay back. There’s been a tragic accident here, last night, a murder/suicide, we think. It may be related to this flier but, right now, we’re not sure.” An ebony-skinned couple stood off to the side, embracing one another. They seemed out of place. She wore a beautiful red and gold Caftan, while he wore a dark silk, double breasted suit. She sobbed against his shoulder. He looked livid, as he scanned the on-lookers. What were they doing inside the isolated crime-scene area? In stunned silence, Claudia stared at the woman. Even in the woman’s morose state of grief, her features were unmistakable. Claudia touched Nancy’s arm and whispered, “Doesn’t she look like Zoey?” “I was thinking the same thing.” Nancy turned to confirm the identical features, but the kids had been absorbed into the multitude. The crowd was swelling. Macabre curiosity held the people to

this place they would otherwise have meandered beyond. Nancy approached her husband and stared at the information he had been given by the trooper. “What is it?” He glanced down, for the first time, at the sheet. Says here”—he scanned the paper—“a Romeo and Juliet type of a thing, I suppose.” He scanned the page further. “Says their names were—” Bill stared at the paper. “Their names were what?” Nancy pressed in closer to her husband. “Bill? What were their names?” His eyes slowly rose to meet hers. Moisture pooled in his soft blue eyes. His mouth hung slightly open. He held out the paper, and she jerked it from his grasp. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Claudia and Nancy perused the flier together. They gasped in unison. “What!” Jason and Amanda said at the same time. Violet never stirred against her daddy’s shoulder. Nancy scanned the crowd. “Where’re the kids?” She swallowed hard. “Why?” Jason stepped up to Bill who stared at the infinite edge of the overlook. Claudia barely breathed the words, as she spoke,

“It’s Jimmy. Jimmy and Zoey.” “What do you mean, ‘It’s Jimmy and Zoey’?” Amanda insisted. Claudia shoved the paper into Amanda’s hands. She scanned the information. It read like a missing child ad on the side of a milk carton. Zowina Ojukwu and Jimmy Duckworth had been missing for over three weeks. They were last seen at a convenience store in Canon City, Colorado. The Ojukwu family offered a reward for any information— Amanda dropped the flier. It summersaulted in the breeze, skipping and tumbling until it disappeared over the craggy ledge. The hikers returned to camp in muted silence. No one spoke of the lovely couple who had shared their breakfast and joined their hike to the Royal Gorge. But everyone knew, Jimmy and Zoey would never be found. Not alive anyway. Their bodies were somewhere at the bottom of the Royal Gorge canyon, and their spirits wandered in search of each other. For many years after that fateful night, early in the dawning hours, in the cool later days of September, when a hesitant tap woke a camper, Jimmy could be found still searching for his eternal yet tragic lover, Zoey. r

Lynn Donovan, Hummingbird, Oil painting

Jan Meredith, Lighthouse, Watercolor painting

Jakub Stepanovic, Strike, Photography Royanna Borden, Lidia the Hat Girl, Photography

T E LO L I T H Spring 2014 Vol. 41

Graphic Designers Kyleigh Becker Dalibor Cohadarevic Melynn Downs Kevin Harmon Adriana Macias

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 Minion Pro, which was based on the Minion typeface from 1990 by Robert Slimbach. Released in 2000, Minion Pro is designed to work better with different platforms and character sets. 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.

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

Faculty Advisers Susan Copas, Art William McGlothing, Writing r

The works published are written and /or created by SCCC/ATS students and do not necessarily reflect the views of the college.

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