Index
Poetry
The Weary Soldier / Billy Dennis ........................................................2 Crashing into Darkness / Jordan House..............................................4 Why? / Rudy Gutierrez........................................................................5 Blocked Writer’s Muse / Rebecca L. Moore........................................6 The Child Who Once Was Me / Ginny Morris......................................8 Black Skin / Justin David Tate.............................................................9 Mike Tyson / Justin David Tate............................................................9 Poe’d / Michael Comer........................................................................11 Fate of the Gods / Rebecca L. Moore.................................................12 A Sticky Web / Erik Perales.................................................................13 I am a Storm / Kara Knight..................................................................14 Sometimes / Ginny Morris...................................................................15 Trophy Son / Adrian Atos ...................................................................17
Artwork
Think Good or Bad / Jonathan Wences ..............................................2 Stairway to Heaven / Rebecca L Moore..............................................3 Asphyxia / Betza Alvarez.....................................................................4 Rogue-Like / Bryce Fite.......................................................................5 Relic / Marion Kee...............................................................................7 Volleyball Motion / Samy Rodriguez....................................................8 The Corner of Used To Be and I Don’t Know / David Kabanek...........9 Squishy Face / Ashley Long................................................................10 Self-Portrait / Ashley Long...................................................................12 Self-Portrait / Valentin Guzman...........................................................13 Introspection / Stephanie Romero Renteria........................................15 Still Life / Betza Alvarez.......................................................................16 Still Life / Marina Diaz..........................................................................16 Late Night / Betza Alvarez...................................................................18 Linear Study / Valentin Guzman.........................................................18 The Dynamic Fall of the Last Leaves of Autumn / Brittnee Weed.......21 Untitled / Monique Jones.....................................................................25 Benefit of the Doubt / LaDarryl Jones.................................................26 Wrecks / Mateus Moura.......................................................................27 Weren’t We Once Brown? / Brittnee Weed.........................................29 Jet Motion / Samy Rodriguez..............................................................32 The Night Life / Jesus Torres...............................................................33 Ongoing Direction / Vivian Pineda Rodriguez.....................................34 Power Lunch / Betza Alvarez..............................................................35 Dancing Alone / Traven Mitchell .........................................................36 Twisted Tree / Nora Ramirez...............................................................36 Memories / Gloria L. Moore.................................................................37
Essay Short Story
Invaluable / Billy Dennis......................................................................19 A Fortunate Accident / Adrianna Noriega............................................20 A Field of Lilies / Cameron Searcy......................................................22 The Transference of Memories / Robert Nichols.................................24 The Spectacles-Wearing Roommate / Sherlin Mathew.......................28 A Safe Place / Veronica Calzada.........................................................30 Wings of Vengeance / Van Kennedy...................................................32
Poetry
Artwork
Think Good or Bad
Essay
Short Story
Jonathan Wences
The T he Weary Weary Soldier Soldie S o l di e r Circling battles, the dark raven hunts for me: tragedy for some. My old friend returns to collect what he is due. I welcome back, Death. Gone into the void, nothing, everything ceases. Finally, there’s peace.
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Billy Dennis
Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Stairway to Heaven
Rebecca L. Moore
Alternative 2014
3
Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Crashing C ra ashing shing into into Darkne Darkness Darkness My heart is racing, pounding; everything is dark. I can’t see anything but the clock, hearing it tick tock on the dock. I block it all out as I wait on cold, hard plastic. Everything smells like alcohol, and it all looks so white. If it’s so white, how can it be so cold, so dark? Seconds pass into minutes, minutes pass into hours, and hours feel like days. I just sit there staring at the tick tock clock waiting, with blood rushing in my ears and my heart trying to get out of my chest, hands shaking until suddenly, it all goes quiet except for the squeak of a door, and all I hear is “I’m sorry” before my world crashes into darkness like his car did just hours before.
Asphyxia
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Jordan House
Betza Alvarez
Poetry
Artwork
Rogue-Like
Why Why? W h y?
Essay
Short Story
Bryce Fite
Rudy Gutierrez
I have seen much suffering. I have also been the catalyst in others’ misfortune. What I’ve learned from those experiences is that no matter what we do, the power of the individual is greater than we will ever understand.
of existence. One that comes from a different background and sees a different future, and might just have a different intention. ... When the only one that knows your true purpose is you.
With that being said, I ask why? A simple question with complex answers, I ask why? Yes, why? Why settle? Why be another forgotten name, forgotten purpose?
Why be oppressed, restricted, or denied privileges? Why not stand for yourself and for those who cannot stand for themselves until they are strong in spirit, through feeling your strength?
When that inevitable day comes, that no mortal can run from, what legacy will you leave? What will be the stories told by the seeds that are left through the life you lead?
As I said in my piece, I humbly believe that each one of you has all the pieces you need, and they are yours to move.
Will they tell of the pain, the obstacles, of questions and worries? Or will they tell of triumph? Will they tell of glory?
Rise above the expectations and limitations set by others, and lead yourself to your fullest potential.
When life pushes your buttons, leads you down mazes and distracts you from your ultimate mission, will you know your purpose? Will you stand your ground and believe in yourself?
The only limits that truly exist come from one’s self. A wise man once told me that a challenge is just an opportunity to show your true strength, so soar as high as the human mind can conceive.
Why should we settle for the standards set by another? One that lives a different life, has different experiences, a whole different history
Why, you may ask? Why be great? Why be remembered? Well, if you have the potential, the real question is ... why not?
Alternative 2014
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Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Blocked B locked Writer’s Writer’s Muse Muse Rebecca L. Moore
With a nomadic mind damned to wander in unrest; Time once spent writing, now spent on a quest. A pen, just taken from the box, refuses to write a line. I, left to sit and ponder meandering thoughts, sipping wine. Old eyes adjust to the spines of books once read with zest. Fingertips travel from page to page, hungry to caress. The scent of aged pulp develops a memory as I regress. Through Arabian nights with calico cats at sea, I travel time. In a garden of verses, the song of the muse is mine. Climbing from the wardrobe, a little prince my new guest. A few moments with Seuss, M.D., and I’m feeling my best. Returning to pen and paper, challenged to make the steep climb; Words come easier, after time spent with a nursery rhyme. Keys to a simplistic life, found among hopes in an old chest In a garden of verses, the song of the muse is mine.
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Poetry
Relic
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Marion Kee
Alternative 2014
7
Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
The T he Child Child Who Who Once Once Was Was Me Me Ginny Morris Staring back into the memories blanketing my past Flipping through the snapshots makes the years go by too fast Each picture holds an instant — a single drop of time Yet photographs can’t capture all the life that has been mine To someone else, perhaps a smiling child is all they see I see the joy and innocence of someone who was me Each picture is a window to the time when it was made And often gazing back through them, I wish I could have stayed Banishing my worries with a gleeful childish grin Rejoicing in simplicity and peace from deep within Wistfully, I carry on with the way that life must be Still envying the freedom of the child who once was me
Volleyball Motion
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Samy Rodriguez
Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
The Corner of Used To Be and I Don’t Know
David Kabanek
Mike M ike Tyso Tyson Tyson
Black Bla B lack Skin Skin “Dad! That’s my husband.”
World champ, age 20.
Dad steps back from the black man.
Upset loss. Rape charge. Prison.
Reluctant handshake.
Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out.
Justin David Tate
Alternative 2014
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Poetry
Artwork
Squishy Face
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Essay
Short Story
Ashley Long
Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Poe’d P oe’d Yellowed, stale pages tightly packed with printed words, spirited thoughts of another mind’s dream. Verses flutter with black birds and gold bugs. Lives touched by this volume of tales, this cherished and loved invocation, family memories sketched by a penciled vandal. My parents, one a reader, one well read, their history and arts affectionately applied to mystery and romance. My Father, the fisherman, with his poles and jigs shaped my world with the water’s silent song. My Mother, the sparrow, with her nestlings safe, never let me fear that first leap into self. Poetry is the Sword of Damocles, the raven from my nightmares to whom I cry “Fly, fly O’ sailor of the skies” as he soars over my seas of ink and paper. Like him, my eyes are always seeking, and like him, my mind is always dreaming — of more.
Michael Comer
Alternative 2014
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Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Fate F ate a te of of the the Gods God Gods Your hard exterior, meant to keep you Alone, are you awaiting a piercing
Perturbation, chaos, the lingering Disorientation, new knowledge tangling
Solid facade, a deception full of holes Fissures with your pouring Spirit, sing
Our infatuation so strong, the wrath Hate, passion, the apple found enchanting
Always a fool for the confusing love Sex, affection, animosity, the pendulum swing
Held in each other’s arms, temptation First risk, first child, innocence and yearning
O! How I falter, stumbling over the pitfalls My emotions cut deep, my heart left aching
Our child, another fool too naive to realize The bewilderment of life, the thrill of falling
Carved of a solid smooth piece, yet open Allowing the flow of your gifts, bathing
Self-Portrait 12
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Rebecca L. Moore
Ashley Long
Poetry
Artwork
Self-Portrait
Essay
Short Story
Valentin Guzman
A Sticky Sticky Web Web Trapped, the web was spun. The bait was taken, millions ensnared. Unavoidable it was and continues to be. All are aware, many are unafraid. It links all its prey together. By choice most retort, But once pulled in, can you really leave? The web of truths and lies. Flocks of prey tweet their lives away. So entertained, interests are peaked. It’s hard to even try to run away.
Fear not, this web is here to stay. Fear comes when one cannot leave, confined to glide across its many threads, to search in joy, or in need of help, only to find all but what one needs. Lured in, impossible to escape now. Plenty of victims far from one alone, welcome to the world wide web.
Erik Perales
Alternative 2014
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Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Ia am m a Sto S Storm t o rm Kara Knight
Like a storm, the intense winds reflect my strong personality. I am not scared of anyone nor anything. When I am angry, I rage like destructive, unpredictable winds. Scary, but potentially mesmerizing to those who witness my authoritative nature. My emotions are like a torrential downpour, flooding my heart with overwhelming feelings of happiness, excitement, empathy, and sadness. Filling my soul with love and with compassion. As with the storm, never one drop, always many. The beauty that follows portrays my morals and commitment to anyone and everyone. I am always there to brighten someone’s day Or to let my enchanting sense of humor turn a frown upside down. Finally, as with the storm, I am a creation of God, and my intensity, emotions and beauty are all unique according to his design. I am human. Intense, strong, destructive, unpredictable, emotional, and beautiful. I am ME.
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Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Sometimes Sometimes Ginny Morris Sometimes I sit — alone, And watch the passersby And see if I can read My thoughts among the clouds And comprehend the vastness of the sky.
Sometimes I stop — to listen, To murmurs through the trees To try and hear my memories And echoes of my dreams amid the leaves.
Sometimes I wait — in silence, Upon the sandy shore To feel forgotten moments Break their velvet chambers And drift through ancient hideaways once more.
Introspection
Stephanie Romero Renteria
Alternative 2014
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Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Still Life
Betza Alvarez Marina Diaz
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Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Trophy T ro ophy phy Son So So n Adrian Atos
I was born very talented, But I was always discriminated against. They thought it would bring me down Really, they kept me motivated Being raised by only my mommy, We had major problems financially Not enough money for college. So I was forced to serve the country. Because of racial discrimination I ran back to my real passion I broke the segregation barrier And became a Negro baseball player I became Rookie of the Year There was nothing they could do but cheer Leading the league in steals This is how I provided my family with meals Growing up, no one expected me to succeed Not even my own father knew That I will be a Hall of Famer All he probably thought of me to be was a farmer People look up to me as a legend But really I was a regular man, Striving for quality and success I am Jackie Robinson, My mother’s trophy son.
Alternative 2014
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Poetry
Artwork
Late Night
Linear Study 18
Alternative 2014
Essay
Short Story
Betza Alvarez
Valentin Guzman
Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
Billy Dennis
I
was just nine years old when my grandfather took me on our first expedition. All together, we shared seven glorious adventures around the world. My grandfather, Dr. Richard Shelton, was a man of many talents. An engineer, he spent the better part of his life collecting degrees like so many children collect baseball cards, passing down much of his knowledge to me. As a scientist, he didn’t simply teach me about the theory of evolution. He took me to the Galapagos Islands, where we walked in the footsteps of Charles Darwin and studied his finches up close. As a hero of World War II, he didn’t teach me about the D-Day landings from a book. Instead, I stood on Omaha Beach and felt the mist spray hit me in the face as I surveyed the area where the 29th Infantry Division would suffer such horrible causalities in the name of freedom. And as a historian, he didn’t teach me about the American Revolution by giving me a banal lecture. No, I stood upon the greens at Lexington and Concord and heard the residual echoes from the shot heard around the world. These were the perks of being his favorite grandson. These were our adventures. However, by the summer of 1994, our expeditions had to be scaled back to meet the reality of the situation: he was dying of emphysema. He decided we would spend a month studying troop movements, both British and American, during the War of 1812, and then we would make a decision where we would do our excavation. We decided on the Battle of New Orleans. Close to home, this was the safest choice we could make in light of the current situation. We learned of several areas where the American army, commanded by Gen. Andrew Jackson, made camp both before and after the battle. We finally settled on a small area, about 10 miles north of the Jackson Line. When we arrived at the location, it was not exactly impressive. In fact, I would describe it as a mosquito-infested swamp,
but neither granddad nor I made a peep. On our second day, we hit paydirt, unearthing numerous artifacts from the battle. Most could scarcely be recognized by the untrained eye. Pieces of this and that, they weren’t much to write home about, though we always did. However, it was our last day that would linger in my mind forever. The funny thing about last days is you seldom realize they’re your last. First thing that morning, I got a hit from the metal detector and we started to excavate a twofoot-by-two-foot square of area muck. About four feet down, we found the source of the detector’s consternation: a disintegrated coin purse. Taking special precautions not to damage the relic any further, we lifted it from its resting place and brought it back to the trailer to be examined. Eight hours later, I discovered nine coins. All were British but one. I still remember carefully cleaning the piece so it could be read: United States of America, 1795, half-cent. I woke my grandfather from his unpeaceful slumber to show him our discovery. I remember his reaction being uncommonly emotional. He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “George Washington was president when this coin was minted,” he said. “Think about all the amazing men who could’ve held this coin.” We spent the rest of that night, our last night, talking about the coin and making up stories about who and where it was spent and how it ended up in our hands. Our last night was truly amazing, taking turns holding the coin before finally retiring for the night. Three days later, warm in his bed, my grandfather finally succumbed to the disease. Since then, I have spent many nights holding that coin and thinking about all the great men who might’ve held it, but I only know one for sure. The coin represents all that was my grandfather, the lessons he taught me, the adventures we shared and the man I adored. It is what is invaluable.
Alternative 2014
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Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
A Fortunate Accident
A
s a child, one of my biggest fears was witnessing my parents go through a divorce. My parents always had marriage problems, and because of that, I never spent enough time with my dad. He never made the effort to be in our family picture. All I ever wanted was to see my mom and dad together and happy, but that was never the case. I knew that their marriage was coming to an end. Summer of 2001 is when everything changed. My dad moved out our home, and I received the news that the divorce was being filed. My world was torn apart. In July of 2001, my mom decided that we were going to take a trip to Mexico to spend some time with our extended family, as well as distract our minds from the drastic change that was happening in our lives. We stayed there for about a week, but north of the border on our way home, my two brothers, Xavier and Mario, my mom, and I were involved in a horrible car accident. The van that we were traveling in flipped over on the highway. My brothers and I were okay, but my mom had to be rushed to the nearest hospital in downtown San Antonio. As soon as my dad received the news in Dallas, he dropped everything he was doing and sped to see if we were all okay. Unfortunately, my mom went into a coma. My dad was devastated, not being able to do anything to help. My mom’s coma lasted three months. During this time, my dad traveled from San Antonio to Dallas every other day. He had a job that he had to attend to keep up with our bills, as well as make sure that my brothers and I were okay since we were home and going to school. During that time, my dad did everything and anything he could to help us through our horrible situation. His pride was put aside to help
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Adrianna Noriega us through our devastating moments. After three long months, my mom finally woke up, but to the news that she was paralyzed from her waist down. At that moment, my life completely changed. I never imagined seeing my mom in a wheelchair. My mom was then transferred to a Baylor Rehabilitation Center in Dallas, where she received physical and psychological therapy. Luckily, my dad was by her side during those six months of her life. While my mom was living at the rehab center, my dad had construction workers working on our home. He was having my mom’s home remodeled and adjusted so it would be easier for her to move around and have everything at her reach. Getting adjusted to the drastic changes was really rough. I hated every moment that I witnessed my mom feeling hopeless, as if her life was over. I only wanted her back home by my side, but I knew my life would continue to be incomplete since my dad was not living with us. Eventually, my mom returned home. She was shocked to see the home improvements my dad had made for her. There were not enough words that could thank my dad for all the help and support he provided her. Seeing my parents get along filled my heart. My dad moved back in to help my mom around the house. That is when I realized that things had taken a positive turn. My family, then, was complete. It seemed that my parents were in love all over again. We were all able to cope with my mom’s disability, but it all felt like it was meant to be. The horrible car accident we had been in was probably one of my worst nightmares, but it happened for a reason. I was able to see how much of a strong man my dad was, and I could not be any more thankful for how much he had done for his wife. Now, it is almost thirteen years later, and my parents are more in love than ever before.
Poetry
Artwork
Essay
Short Story
The Dynamic Fall of the Last Leaves of Autumn
Brittnee Weed
Alternative 2014
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Poetry
Artwork
Essay
A Field of Lilies
Short Story
Cameron Searcy
T
A black Lincoln Continental pulled up to the he seven-car caravan trailed a small scene, two men stepping out. A tall, dark cargo truck en route to an open figure donning a fedora and beige trench coat meadow outside the city. approached the recruits. Perfect place for target practice. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How are those It was drafting day in the Union, and the 10 targets coming along?” young recruits, fortunate enough to be handpicked “Come look for yourself, Brother Charles.” by one Charles George Yarbrough, were required The recruits led him over to the blindfolded men to undergo a series of exercises proving their standing in front of the open trailer. “Eleven ducks competence. Today, they would be put on the frontline — each for a killing, sir.” “Excelsior! All right fellas, line ’em up. Let’s one with the smoke of gunpowder in his eye and a commence the sprint.” lust for significance in “The name of the his heart. game is the 50-yard There was one rule: dash,” said Charles. no one gives his real “The rules are simple… name. At least not until • Each recruit gets his the end of enlistment. So far, I know what damage you pick of a target. Upon arrival, recruit • Each target is No. 1 broke the lock off all can do on stationary targets. allowed a 10-second the back of the cargo But now, I want to see how you head start before you, truck, sliding open the the recruit, can take the door, letting the sunlight perform on a moving one, and the first shot. illuminate the stow• The target able to age lined up along the most difficult one on the planet by reach the white flag wall — eleven men, far — the homo sapien. positioned fifty yards blindfolded with bound out in the field — that’s hands. fifty yards away from the The two climbed into starting point — is a free the trailer, hauling the man.” eleven confined men off “So far, I know what damage you all can do on the trailer, one by one. “Question,” recruit No. 2 asked 1. “How much we stationary targets. But now, I want to see how you perform on a moving one, and the most difficult one getting paid for this?” on the planet by far — the homo sapien.” “500 a head.” Charles gestured to the first of the eleven men in “Five hundred? Nice.” the lineup. “And that’s just the low, low price for new mem“Brother Keith, would you please fetch me a bers. Wages accumulate as you gain more expeduckling?” rience.” Keith Shabazz (Keith Yarbrough), Charles’s “How much?” nephew, grabbed the man out of the group, “Let’s see — a single job can get you two grand. dragging him over to his uncle. That’s a solid payoff for a quick hit-and-run. Now, I “Gentlemen, I’d like you all to meet one Mr. know guys who’ve gotten anywhere from five to ten Roger Bondlow. Father of two. Husband of one. times that much for a lone job. Just one. All-around pain in my ass. The reason Mr. Bondlow “Sometimes, they’ll take a string of low-paying stands here before you today is because … well … jobs if they know they can handle each one he owes a debt; a debt to society. efficiently, so the money they build up over time “A debt to which he has failed to pay as of today. is a sure thing. So long as you stay in the Duke’s This is the price he has to pay for his mischievous good graces, he’ll bless you.”
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Poetry
Artwork
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Short Story
Charles placed the rifle in Daniel’s hand. nature, in addition to his infidelity — but we won’t “Brother Keith?” get into that one, now will we, Mr. Bondlow? “Yes sir?” “Daniel?” “Would you be ever so kind as to apply the Daniel-David Yarbrough (Charles’s first and only pressure to Mr. Bondlow here?” son) was seated amongst the recruits. “Absolutely.” “Yes sir?” Keith, bearing a slave whip in his right hand, “Seeing as how you are the one here with the most advanced level of marksmanship, I would ask wailed back, releasing a lash onto Bondlow’s back, leaving a deep streak running across his shoulder that you allow Mr. Bondlow here a more generous blades. Bondlow sprinted down the field while the head start than usual.” recruits looked on anxiously. “How long you talking?” Charles leaned into Daniel’s ear, “Give him “Give him a full minute.” Keith dragged Bondlow over to the starting mark, another minute.” “One more?” removing the blindfold so he got a good look at the He patted his son on the back. scenic view before him. The spacious land. The “I believe in you.” vast snow-capped mountains in the horizon. The Bondlow was five field of lilies swaying yards, ten yards, fifteen from side-to-side in the yards deep. early fall breeze. “Can I shoot now?” Charles placed his “Not yet.” arm around Bondlow’s Twenty. shoulders, pointing out Daniel held the scope to his eye, “One.” toward the large oak Twenty-five. tree in the far distance, pumping the rifle. His glasses were “Two.” surrounded by a sea fogging up. He placed them on his Thirty. of cotton-white lily “Skip a few.” flowers, swaying in the forehead. The glasses began slipping Thirty-five. northwestern breeze. “Nine.” “Mr. Bondlow, you down back onto his face, so he tossed Forty. see that large oak tree them onto the ground. “Ten…” out there — way out Daniel held the scope there in the field?” to his eye, pumping the Bondlow managed rifle. His glasses were to nod his head in fogging up. He placed between involuntarily them on his forehead. The glasses began slipping shakes. down back onto his face, so he tossed them onto “Yes.” the ground. “And do you see that white flag tied to the trunk “Relax. Take your time. Focus.” of the tree?” Bondlow was five yards away from the flag. Bondlow focused his eyes on the white flag tied “Now!” to the trunk of the oak tree, blowing in the wind. Daniel pulled back the trigger; the butt of the rifle “I do.” kicking against his shoulder. After a few seconds “Here’s the deal: if you reach that flag before my delay, the bullet struck Bondlow in the back of his son, master marksman that he is, shoots, you’re head, sending him down into the field of lilies. The a free man. Free to do whatever you so choose. white flag was a mere inches out of his grasp. Sound fair to you?” Charles gave his son another pat on the back. Bondlow nodded. “See — I’ve always believed in you.” “Very good.” Daniel placed the rifle down, turning back around Charles held up the rifle in his hand. to a standing ovation from the ten recruits. “This here’s a Mossberg 464 Lever Action rifle. “You see fellas? Do you see what you can For any of you western buffs, it’s the same gun accomplish with just a little patience, practice, and Lucas McCain used on The Rifleman. And soon, principle? It’s all in the mind.” you’ll use it too.”
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Poetry
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The Transference of Memories
T
he doorbell rang, and I was the first to answer it. Two huge cardboard boxes arrived at our front door that bright, sunny day at the start of our summer school vacation. I had finished the second grade, going on third. I was growing up. I could answer the door as well as any adult. I summoned my dad, and he asked the delivery man if he might wheel the boxes down the driveway to the garage door. He agreed, and my brother and I ran back through the house, opened the basement door and followed dad down the stairs, to help open the garage door and find out what exciting new stuff we, the men of the family, were about to share. The boxes were parked on the floor, paper work was exchanged, and when the delivery man turned to go, dad said, “All right boys, let’s open her up and see what we’ve got.” Dad chose the smaller box to open first. Inside was a set of steel legs, some braces, and a wide flat board. It was a stand for a new saw, he announced. We took out the parts, found the screws, nuts and bolts, and helped him locate the screwdriver he needed, or the wrench, and got the hammer in case he needed that. We sat and watched him assemble the stand, handing parts to him, carrying on an adult conversation about what you do with this washer, how much to tighten the bolt, and the like. In a matter of a half hour or so, all the pieces had been fitted together to make a sturdy stand to hold what was in the big box. “Okay boys, let’s take a look in this one.” The box was opened, strapping and packaging removed, and we looked down on something we had never seen before. There before us was a brand new Sears and Roebuck Craftsman 10-inch radial arm saw. We had no idea how it worked, but it had a long arm and a huge gleaming circular saw blade, shaped like a shark tooth pinwheel. Dad set it up on the steel stand bench, and we
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Robert Nichols handed him parts and offered advice on how to secure the saw to the bench. He showed us how the saw extended on a steel guide arm, gliding back and forth, as he pulled and pushed the handle toward him and then away from him, testing the motion. We were anxious to see it in action. Life was grand just then. He grabbed the electrical cord, started to put it in the wall, paused and turned to look at both my brother and me. A very serious look came over his face. “I don’t want either of you to touch this saw. Do you understand? This thing will cut your arm off in an instant. You’d bleed to death right here on the basement floor, and you’ll be dead in less than ten minutes. Do not touch this saw! Do you both understand me?” “Yes, sir,” chimed the obedient voice of a boys’ choir. Dad inserted the plug and told us to grab a piece of the lumber he had stored in the garage. He took it and placed it on the saw. We could see that the saw had a ruler board, or a fence as dad called it, that held material perpendicular to the path of the blade to let you measure your cut. The moment had arrived. After a final look at the instructions book — it had to be at least 20 pages thick — he inserted one of the two locking keys into the side of the rail, gave it a half turn, and said, “Let’s see how it works.” He flipped the big red switch on the front of the rail. The saw sprung into action as it emitted a sharp sound that rose to a high-pitched whistle, as saw blade revolutions climbed to a peak. Dad slid the two by four across the saw’s path on the fence, measured a few inches and glided the radial arm toward him. The saw cut that board like I cut a hot dog with my fork. For a brief moment, I imagined it looked like my forearm. I was relieved the wood didn’t bleed. It took me almost two weeks to learn how to unlock the saw using one of my mother’s bobby pins. I admit I was startled when I pulled on the switch to see if it was unlocked and the saw sprang to life. But I didn’t touch the saw arm. Dad told me not to do
Poetry
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Monique Jones
that. He didn’t say anything about not turning it on. But I realized I’d gone too far and, of course, mother heard the saw and raced down the stairs screaming for me to get away from the saw, your father’s going to hear about this, you are in big trouble, you could have killed yourself, and so on and so forth. The saw was gone from the house in short order. Mother insisted. Dad completed a few projects for which he bought the saw to do, but the excitement had ended. Fortunately, working with dad didn’t. We would help him repair our cars, our bicycles, the lawn mower, and anything that needed looking after. He taught us how to use his tools, how they worked, how to care for them. After my father’s death, it fell on me to sell the few tools he had remaining. Many were old friends. They brought back memories that made it very painful to bear his loss. I didn’t want them. We held a garage sale when mother moved out of the house and into a condominium in Houston to be near the family. The tools meant nothing to her. She didn’t mind seeing them go. I was there when an older gentleman approached the tools and asked me what I wanted for them. I told him they were old, my dad’s tools, and to make me an offer.
“These are your dad’s? You can’t sell your dad’s tools. I can’t buy them. They belong to you now. You need to keep them. Someday, you’ll wish you hadn’t sold them, and by then, you won’t be able to get them back.” I said, “Okay, thanks.” I realized he might
be right. I kept them. I still have them today. Each time I pick one up, I remember how often dad held it, and that tool does a little repair work on me. I feel I’m back together with him — just for that moment.
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Benefit of the Doubt LaDarryl Jones
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Wrecks
Mateus Moura
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The Spectacles Wearing Roommate
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eventeen-year-old Sylvia Richardson was trying to get her suitcase packed. Of course, this would only happen if she could control the trembling of her hands and the wild beating of her heart. She kept thinking, “How is it possible that I am so blessed?” She had just been to Miss Thompson’s office and had been informed that she was going to join a prestigious all-girls boarding school in London. This was due to the influence of one of the members of the school’s Board of Trustees, who was also one of the sponsors of the Ashwood Home For Girls, the orphanage where Sylvia lived. The sponsor, Lady Elizabeth Montgomery, had taken a particular interest in Sylvia, though Miss Thompson could not say why. It was also imperative that Sylvia be ready to leave within two hours because Lady Montgomery would be coming to pick her up. She looked down at the suitcase, the only new thing she possessed. When she had turned to leave Miss Thompson’s office, Miss Marsha, as Miss Thompson was affectionately referred to, said, “You would be needing a new suitcase” and gave her the suitcase, which Miss Marsha had just taken from a closet. The medium-sized suitcase, made of fine leather, had Sylvia in raptures. She carefully placed all her neatly folded belongings,which mainly consisted of some hand-me-down clothes; a red ribbon that she had always had, at least from the time that she was found as an orphan outside the orphanage doorstep, if what Miss Marsha said was true; and a Bible. Four hours later, she was standing in front of the entrance of the St. Paul’s International Boarding School For Girls, tightly clutching her suitcase. Lady Montgomery placed her hands on Sylvia’s shoulders reassuringly. Sylvia, though, was thinking whether she would be able to adjust to this place. Having lived in an orphanage all her life, she had grown up with the other girls with little or no privacy, and now, she would probably be alone or at the most, with one roommate. The rooms of the
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Sherlin Mathew hostel, where she was to stay, had single or double occupancy rooms. Lady Montgomery led her to the director’s office, where she was interviewed and advised about what would be expected from her. Generally, the tuition for this school could only be afforded by well-to-do families, but because of Lady Montgomery’s influence, Sylvia would not have to worry about this. All that was expected of her was to put in the amount of effort that was commensurate with the trust being placed in her. Lady Montgomery, or Lady Elizabeth, as she insisted on being called, asked her if she was feeling all right. Sylvia squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and said that by the grace of God, she would be fine. Lady Elizabeth smiled, “You will be. His angels are there to protect you.” Sylvia, turning to her to express her gratitude, stopped. Tears were rolling down Lady’s Elizabeth cheeks. Sylvia, feeling embarrassed about having witnessed something as intensely private as that, pretended to be interested in a couple of Cubist paintings, the head or tail of which she could not make out. Lady Elizabeth, not realizing that Sylvia had seen her, took Sylvia’s hands in hers and pressed them tightly. She then hugged her very tightly and kissed her forehead, then let her go, remembering herself. Sylvia, now faint with shock, had to steady herself because of this unwonted display of affection. Murmuring a goodbye, Lady Elizabeth took her leave after showing her the way to the matron’s office. The matron, who was busy with the incoming registrations, introduced herself and said, “I am sorry I would not be able to show you your room, but Lisa here will take you there. These are the keys to your room.” Lisa turned to her and smiled, “I am the head-girl of this school, Lisa Newton, and I will be showing you the ropes of this place. If you need anything, you can always ask me. Come; let me show you to your room.” Sylvia numbly followed her. They walked down to the hallway to the stairs, and then went up the stairs to the top floor. “This is the room you will be staying in. Hope you have a
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wonderful stay here,” she said, opening the door to one of the rooms and then leaving. Sylvia, despite feeling very tired after all of what had transpired, was able to appreciate the spaciousness of the room. It was very comfortable too. She noticed two beds and thought, “Oh, I have a roommate, I wonder what type of person she is.” Placing her suitcase on one of the two tables, she noticed a pair of spectacles sitting on the other table. Walking toward the table, she took the spectacles and put them on, thinking that maybe she would be able to know what type of person her roommate was. Feeling strangely drowsy, she lay down on her bed, the spectacles still on, and slept. She got up the next morning, only to see a girl looking at her and smiling. She bolted straight up and then realized that she still had the spectacles on her face. “Oh, I am sorry, did I startle you?” the girl asked. Sylvia, who could not see the girl clearly because of the high power of the glasses, removed them sheepishly and said, “I’m sorry, I took your glasses without permission.” “Oh, that’s okay, I can understand, you were curious,” she replied mischievously. Sylvia looked at the girl and saw a girl about her age, with short curls framing an oval face. Sylvia felt a sudden sense of deja vu. “Are you my roommate? Do I know you from somewhere?” The girl, instead of replying to her question said, “You must be hungry. In one hour, the bell will ring for breakfast, and then it is time to head for classes. My name is Serena, I can show you around.”
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After breakfast, Serena, now wearing the glasses, showed Sylvia to her class and said that since she was not in Sylvia’s class, she would meet her in the evening. In the evening, Serena showed Sylvia around the school and asked her to talk about her life in the orphanage. She, in turn, asked Serena about her family. To this, Serena seemed reticent. Thinking that she probably had some issues that she did not want to talk about, Sylvia did not push the matter. Thus their days were going great and they became good friends. Sylvia felt more comfortable and thanked God that she had a great roommate for a friend. One night, Sylvia was suddenly awakened by a frantic Serena. The room was on fire; an unattended candle had fallen down, causing the curtains to catch fire. Serena screamed, “Get out, Sylvia, and call for help! I’ll try to do something, hurry!” Sylvia ran out of her room and cried for help. Soon the police and the firefighters came and started putting out the fire. Everybody was herded out when, suddenly, Sylvia realized that Serena was not there. “Help! Somebody! A girl is still in there.” The matron said, “Everybody is accounted for. No one is there.” “No, Serena is there.” The matron, suddenly shocked asked, “Whom child? Serena? We do not have anybody called Serena in this hostel. Lady Elizabeth had a daughter named Serena. She died in a conflagration sixteen years ago trying to save her sister. The baby had a red ribbon tied to her hand. Unfortunately, after the incident the child was lost. It was a big case during the time.”
Weren’t We Once Brown?
Brittnee Weed
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A Safe Place
I
can do this, just get out of here and survive. I find myself repeating this in my head, as if repeating it will somehow give me the strength to leave. My mother is outside the restroom door, where I find myself, just trying to get away from it all, especially her. She angers me, particularly when she’s high. At the age of fourteen, I should not be worried if my mother and I are going to eat today. But most days, I am. Luckily, we live close to the bodega, where I can search for food. I think some of the people there can tell I’m hungry because occasionally, some give me food. I spend a lot of time outside, just wandering the streets till I have to go home. It’s hard to be around my mother when she’s high on meth. That is if she has managed to scrounge up enough of our money to buy liquor. My mother gets violent and blames me for everything. She says it is my fault we’re struggling, as if I am somehow the reason we never have enough money for food. I am also the reason she cannot keep a man. Therefore, to avoid fighting, I try to stay out of her way. During a fight, most times, she tends to win; she just starts wailing on me as if I’m her punching bag, allowing her to relieve stress with every blow. Since mom knows that the teachers will notice if I go to school with bruises, she mostly punches and kicks me on my back and legs. Sometimes I fight back if I know that I can get away before she can get her hands on me. Usually, if I am near the front door I tell her how I really feel; that way I can just run out the door and wait till night comes around to go home. By then, she is usually passed out from a day’s worth of drugs and liquor. Weekends are the worst. I wish school was seven days a week so I could have somewhere to go. Saturdays, I get up early and leave for the day. My friend Jade lets me come over. Her parents work on the weekends, so it is not a big deal. They always have food, and her mom is so
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Veronica Calzada cool. Jade can tell her everything, and their fights usually end with a hug. I do not tell Jade how it is at my house. I am afraid she will not be my friend anymore if I tell her my mom is a druggie. Saturdays at my house are like some kind of party for my mom. She always has people over and they stay all weekend getting high and drinking. Sometimes the men she brings make me feel uncomfortable. They are always looking at me and telling her how pretty I am. Mom makes me say “hi”; that is why I get up early and leave so I can avoid that whole situation. There was one time I made the mistake of coming home one Saturday night and a few people were passed out in the living room. Our apartment is so small that when someone walks in, he is in the living room; and to get to my room, I had to find my way through the bodies on the floor. That night, I remember trying so hard to make it to my room without a sound. I am not sure which one of the bodies was my mother’s because it was really hard to see anything. I eventually made it to my room and went right to bed. I was exhausted from being out all day. Jade had to go to some kind of family birthday party and I tried asking a few of my other friends if I could stay the night with them, but I had no luck; therefore, I had no choice but to go home. Sometime after I went to bed, I was awakened by a man, who quickly covered my mouth when I started to yell. He held me down and started touching me. He squeezed my breasts and started trying to pry my legs open as I was fighting so hard to keep him from getting my legs separated. He easily over-powered me and ended up molesting me that night; it was not the first time my mom brought a man home who tried to touch me, but it was the first time I feared he was going to go all the way this time. I tried telling my mom the first time it happened; I was eight years old; but she said it was my fault and that I should not have seduced her boyfriend. Once he left, she
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“I spend a lot of time outside just wandering the streets till I have to go home. It’s hard to be around my mother when she’s high on meth.
beat me so bad that I missed school for a week. After that, I knew better than to tell her anything. She kept him in our lives for a better part of a year. It was the worst year of my life; just about every night he would come into my room and tell me that if I said anything to anyone he would kill me and my mom. So I kept my mouth shut. Even though I hated her, I did not want to die, so I lived that year in fear and confusion. I fear that if he had not heard something outside my room that night, he would have raped me; ever since then I do not go home on weekends. I would rather sleep at the park than go home. I have only had to sleep at the park a few times when I cannot sleep at a friend’s, but it is not that bad. Actually it is quite peaceful. I like to sleep on the jungle gym by the big blue slide. Usually I fall asleep looking at the stars, admiring their beauty in the night sky. I try to remember the constellations while I am lying there but I usually doze off into a fantasy life, where I have a mother and father who both care for me and show me love and affection. Shortly after that experience with my mother’s friend coming into my room and molesting me, I began a relationship with my art teacher. She allowed me to stay late on Tuesdays and Thursdays to finish up my paintings. Art was my favorite class. I felt like I actually had control of something, even if it was just painting. I got to choose what colors I wanted to use and since Mrs. Mary believes in us tapping into our creative flow, so she usually allowed us to paint whatever we pleased. I really looked forward to our after school sessions; she made me feel loved. She expressed that I should go to art school after I graduated from high school. Before then, I never really gave college any thought. She brought
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me some information on art schools that gave scholarships and their requirements. After I read up on them, I began to plan out my future. I actually had something to look forward to after high school. A few months after I began to get to know my art teacher, I had a huge fight with my mother and told her how I felt; that I did not like her having all sorts of people over on the weekends and it would be nice if I could actually just hang around the house in peace. The following day, I went to school and I was still very upset from the fight with my mother that I did not really feel like doing anything, even painting. I guess it showed more than I thought because Mrs. Mary asked me if I was all right and if I wanted to talk about it. I said, “sure,” so she took me to her office. She began asking me what was wrong. I immediately just broke down and told her everything. She made me feel safe. I had never felt this way before. She called the police, and I did not see my mom for about two weeks after that. I was sent to a group home, not too far from my school. I really liked it there. I made a ton of new friends, and I did not have to lie to them or keep my secrets to myself. They had all gone through some sort of life-changing event that lead to them being taken away from their home and placed in this group home too. It was so amazing. We had breakfast, lunch, and dinner on weekends, and they even had tutors that could help me with my school work. I do not think I ever felt so happy. The best part was that I got to stay at the same school till more permanent arrangements could be made; I was fine with that. My life began to change, and everything that seemed unattainable began to be within arm’s reach.
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Wings of Vengeance
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Van Kennedy
he last days of the war were drawing near. Falex’s forces on Avara had been defeated and a fraction of his forces were scattered across the Cernovian Galaxy. Falex and a small superior unit of his soldiers had fled to the distant Milky Way galaxy on a backwater planet called Earth to regroup. The Avarian prince, Elkon, and his elite unit of warriors were a few weeks behind the traitor general and his party, unaware what waited for them. On the journey to Earth, Elkon’s mind flooded with memories, hopes, and vengeance for his home world Navara. Falex had been the supreme general of the Avarian Legions before his betrayal and usurping of the crown. Power hungry and hell bent on galatic domination, Falex, in a meticulous plot, overthrew
and killed Elkon’s father, King Ealous. The Avarian Civil War had brought mass destruction to Avara, cities vaporized, women raped and sold into slavery, children slaughtered in their sleep all because Falex’s fear of a future population that would rise against him. The thought brought fury to Elkon’s heart, tears to his eyes, and blood to his fists. Falex knew that Elkon wasn’t far behind him, but the fool would arrive to a blood bath, supplied by the prince and his troops. Falex had been coming to Earth for nearly two centuries and had built an army of half-breeds, half Navarian and half human. Navarians were the ultimate beings in all the known universes. Their bird-like wings gave them the ability to fly and defend themselves. They healed at accelerated speed, and their natural life span was an average of 500 years. Their talon-like fingernails
Jet Motion
Samy Rodriguez
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The Night Life
Jesus Torres made their hands deadly. Being genetically structured the way the Cosmic Father had made them, lifting ten times their own weight didn’t cause them to break a sweat, but what made them a dominant force was their high level of intelligence. Nephilim had been the name given by the humans to the half breeds. These Nephilim ranged anywhere from 9 to 16 feet tall with six digits on each hand and foot. They looked more human with the exception of their two rows of teeth, which made it easier to bite off someone’s head. These creatures were mountains of muscle and highly intelligent. Falex had easily conquered Earth with this race of giants. Their life span was more than humans but less than Avarians, averaging around 225 years. Falex had the Nephilims trained in the ways of Avarian combat and manipulated them into ruthless killing machines for his own ambition. Descending into the Earth’s atmosphere, the starship’s scanners picked up Falex’s ship. Gathering his men around the command table, he laid out his plan of attack. “We’re not landing. We’re going to fly in, and the ship will run on auto pilot
high above, giving us an eye in the sky. If you’re worried about being out-numbered, don’t worry about it. Roman has our DNA in his database, and I can assure you his phaser cannons won’t let anyone get near us, right Roman?” “Not even a fly and if you see a brilliance of beautiful golden light, it’s me blowing the enemy a kiss,” answered the ship’s online artificial intelligence database. “Helos, take your team and fly in from the north. Orm, take your team and come in from southwest. Ellis, Elgus, and Dovant, you’re with me. We’ll come in from the southeast, and this will give us a good layout of what we’re up against.” Flying down, Elkon spotted Falex surrounded by fifteen Avarians. When all three teams had landed, they closed in on Falex and his forces. “You traveled across five galaxies to face me with only eleven warriors. Impossible as it is, I think you’re an even bigger fool than your father!” spat Falex. “Time for insults has long passed, Falax. It’s time for retribution and your blood on my blade,” said Elkon, in a cool collective voice. Before he could make his move, Falax raised his hand to give a
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signal, but for what? Just then it seemed as if the mountains around them began to rumble alive, but after a few seconds of shock, Elkon and his men realized it was at least ten thousand giants. “They are mountains on a mountain!” declared Helos, in a voice of shock and awe. He could imagine the damage these monsters could do. “Marvelous, aren’t they? My men and I have fathered a new breed of monster. After your blood has watered the ground, I will transport my army to Avara, where I will reclaim the throne that belongs to me!” Falax shouted with hate and rage. “How do you figure the throne is rightfully yours when your ancestors have no claim to Avara?” bellowed Elkon. As the giants were making their way down the mountain, roaring in a heart-stopping rage, golden light began to fall from the heavens, scorching the giants and the earth around them. Falax and his men took cover from the phaser beams, while Elkon and his men drew arms. After a few minutes, the golden beams dissipated and nearly all the giants were dead. Falax charged Elkon with blind raged, but Elkon had dreamt of this
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Vivian Pineda Rodriguez
moment for ten years. Extending his wings to full length and a quick downward thrust, he rocketed into the air just as Falax’s blade slashed where he had just been standing. Landing nearby, Elkon positioned his blade and cleared his mind of hate and rage, and filled it with justice, confidence, and vengeance. Their blades met in a blast of sparks and a clank of steel, slash after slash and swing after swing. Elkon realized he was the stronger but not the quicker. He had to get Falax to lose control. “You still haven’t answered my question, coward. Why do you think your lower-class ancestors had claim to the throne?” asked Elkon. “The Avarian throne belongs to the strong. The ones strong enough to conquer, not cower like your spineless father!” yelled Falax. Seizing the moment, Elkon hammered down on Falax, keeping him in his striking distance yet being careful not to let him get close up. Strike after strike, Elkon could see Falax’s strength giving, but he didn’t give into the temptation to finish him just yet. Falax rushed Elkon again, pushing him back into a boulder,
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but before he could land a deadly blow, Elkon head-butted Falax, sending him stumbling back and dropping to one knee. “I didn’t travel this far to see you go to your knees like a woman. Get up and take your punishment like a man!” taunted Elkon. Falax, not being so easily defeated, threw sand in Elkon’s eyes and thrusted his blade into the right side of Elkon’s chest. Stammering back, Elkon would not give into pain or accept defeat; he pulled Falax’s blade from his chest and flung it to the ground. As fast as lighting, Falax had Elkon in a choke-hold, ready to break his neck. Elkon’s life was beginning to fade. “Your rebellion only delayed the inevitable. Once I rebuild my forces, I will turn my sights back on Avara. By then, you will be a rotted corpse with no heir to avenge you. Poetic, isn’t it? Say your last regards my beaten bloody prince!” roared Falax. While Falax was talking, Elkon had secretly drawn his knife from his wing guard attached to his back. Before Falax could apply enough torque, Elkon raised his left arm high and fast enough that it broke Falax’s grip and exposed his side, where
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Betza Alvarez
Elkon could drive his knife deep inside Falax. As Falax was beginning to fall, Elkon quickly picked up his sword and beheaded his nemesis. “With one thrust Falax fell to the dust. With one swing I am king!” Elkon proclaimed. Looking around he saw his men, some battered, some dismembered, and some dead. Tears began to form, but he held them back. He brought eleven men to this planet, but he would only be taking five back. Standing on the observation deck of his ship, Elkon’s mind was filled with the future, present, and the past. What had caused this great war that nearly destroyed his home world and eradicated one of the great clans of Avara, Falex’s clan, the Falconus? He had made the decision, and he would present it to the nobles. He would share his power; instead of one ruler, there would be six rulers — a council. The details would be drawn out later, but it was a start. While Avara’s new hope rocketed back to Avara, its new terror was growing in an earth woman’s belly. The unborn son of Falax would be born any day now, and the name Og would be feared all the back to Avara!
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Twisted Tree Nora Ramirez
Dancing Alone Traven Mitchell
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About The Alternative The Alternative, Eastfield College’s student-produced fine arts and literary magazine, was first published in 1990 to highlight student writing and artwork. After a three-year hiatus from 2007-09, it was restarted in 2010, receiving an honorable mention for general excellence from the Texas Community College Journalism Association. The college has published a student literary magazine under five other names, starting with
The Villager in 1971. It was changed to Goat Leg in 1976, Epoch in 1980, Et Cetera Ambiance in 1988 and Visions in 1989. This year’s edition features a variety of works including drawings, paintings, poetry, photography and short stories. It would not have been possible without the collaborative efforts of students and advisers from the following disciplines: Art, Digital Imaging, English and Journalism.
Contributors and Advisers
About the Editor
Editors / Designer Aki Ohashi
Aki Ohashi Aki is pursuing her Associate’s Degree in Digital Imaging Technology at Eastfield College and working on multiple certificates in Digital Media. As a native of Japan, she has studied Fine Art at Dohto University and DTP (Desk top publishing) at Ochanomizu College. Before moving to the United States, she worked as a graphic designer for nine years mainly in Tokyo. While at Eastfield, her designs have been displayed at the League for Innovation Exhibition at Mountain View College in 2013 and 2014. This year, Aki became the editor of The Alternative for the first time, as well as design editor of The Et Cetera newspaper. She is a member of Phi Theta Kappa. She will graduate in May and plans to pursue a career in graphic design.
Production Consultants Gail Johnson Publications Adviser Gary Piña Faculty Advisers Iris Bechtol Lori Dann David Danforth Larissa Pierce David Willburn
All contributions in this magazine are the works of Eastfield College students. Opinions expressed in this magazine are those of the writers, photographers and artists and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Dallas County Community College District, Eastfield College and the magazine staff.
3737 Motley Drive, Mesquite, Texas 75150 972-860-7130 eastfieldcollege.edu
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Gloria Moore