Bell Tower Arts Journal

The Bell Tower ArTs Journal

Volume 17 2024–2025

Editor Regan Minkel

Editorial Board

The editorial board for the journal is comprised of full-time faculty members from the English Department, the Visual Communications Department, and the Fine Arts Department. The editorial board has the final approval on all selections and publication decisions.

Regan Minkel

Torrey Wylie

Paula McDermott

Selection Committee

The selection committee for The Bell Tower Arts Journal is comprised of student members from the English Department, the Visual Communications Department, the Art Department, and faculty advisors.

Faculty Members:

Paula McDermott

Regan Minkel

Eduardo Corvera

Kristine Kirst

Cover Design

Emily R. Chad wick

Poster/Publicity Design

Mia Gillispie

Raquela Silva

Student Members:

Donna Welch

Maria Vazquez

Marissa Kr navek

Photography Editors

Kristine Kirst

Rebecca Stewart

Torrey Wylie

Layout

Ande Fuqua

Jordan Cook

Jayden Hass

Raquela Silva

About the title:

Just as The Bell Tower at Tyler Junior College chimes on the quarter hour to mark the passage of time, it reminds students of the harmony which surrounds them in their educational pursuits. Music, dance, theatre, art, athletics, and academics blend to make Tyler Junior College a beacon to the community, the state, and the world at large. As the echoes of the chords filter through the oaks, their vibrations tremble far beyond the confines of the brick archways and winding walks where students gather. Tyler Junior College is a lofty tower of educational opportunity for students who have come from all parts of the world. The Bell Tower Arts Journal proudly hails the accomplishments of its hallowed halls and beckons those who would seek both its traditions and the promise of tomorrow.

~Judith Bateman, 2006

Editorial Policy:

The Bell Tower Arts Journal is sponsored by the Psi Gamma Chapter of Sigma Kappa Delta, the National English Honor Society. We accept submissions of poetry, short fiction, nonfiction essays, photography, and fine and graphic art by current Tyler Junior College students. We accept submissions for consideration only during the fall semester each year for possible publication in the subsequent spring semester. The Bell Tower Arts Journal is entirely student generated and seeks to provide a publishing venue for the rich artistic expression of TJC students.

Our goal is to create a publication that is a high quality, content-rich source of literary and artistic expression on a wide range of topics and themes. Therefore, we seek unique, insightful work displaying vivid, lively language and artistic skill.

All submissions must be the original work of the student writer or artist who submits it for consideration or publication. We do not accept previously published or plagiarized work. Every attempt is made by the editor to assure originality. All literary pieces will be submitted to turnitin.com for an originality report. However, it is ultimately the responsibility of each student to submit only his or her own literary and artistic work.

Moreover, while we strongly support intellectual freedom as the right of every individual from all points of view, we do not accept work deemed pornographic, profane, exploitative, or that seeks to cause injury to an individual or group.

Tyler Junior College gives equal consideration to all applicants for admission, employment and participation in its programs and activities without regard to race, creed, color, national origin, gender, age, marital status, disability or veteran status.

Acknowledgements: The editor of The Bell Tower Arts Journal gratefully acknowledge the support and assistance of Dr. Jim Richey, Dean of Humanities, Communications, and Fine Arts; Alyssa Haynes, Department Chair of English; Torrey Wylie, Graphic Design Professor, and Paula McDermott, Art Professor and standing Bell Tower committee member.

Copyright © 2024 by Tyler Junior College

Allgood / tyler / ChArCoAl

TaBle of ContenTs

FuquA / JaCksonville / grAphite Pencil

MaKenzie esPinoza / Forney / PhotograPhy

georgiA

Zinnia AuguStfoliA

raquelA silvA / tyler / PhotograPhy

The kiSs

WilmA Allgood / tyler / ChArCoAl

A one-Sided memory

Payton haley, glAdewAter

writer’s Block

Kylie ordoriCa, tyler

BeAr in fire

barry JaCobs / tyler / AcryliC on CanvAs

esther reifel / rusk / AcryliC on CanvAs

The guArdiAn

MaKenzie Allen / FulsheAr / PhotograPhy

firsT Person

rashAd slAughter, longview

Prowl

g. Fisher niChols / bullArd / PhotograPhy

BlAck dollS

Kayren ArMsteAd / dallAs / digital Art

illuSionAl ArT

Kylie goode / the Colony / PhotograPhy

Sonnet 126

MeriK burke, san Antonio

Horse StAtue

Ande FuquA / JaCksonville / grAphite Pencil

A lover’s emBrAce

Alex deWeese, tyler

footStepS

Cody Peters / lindAle / PhotograPhy my muSe

sannie duran / van / ChArCoAl

A ThAnksgiving to

sashA lenay Price, flint

HoPeleSs romantic ‘77

seAn-MiChAel MallArd, tyler Self Portrait

sannie duran / van / ChArCoAl

A CeleStial TaPeStry

ordAn dunne, Johannesburg, south AfriCa

988

Aidan deAn, tyler

brAcy tebbe-trujillo / Kilgore / PhotograPhy

The ArTiSt

emily r. ChAdWiCk / omen / AcryliC on CanvAs

Cowboy

Corlie hardy, rusk

The BeAr�

-lyndsey gordon, tyler

Children on tHe Shoreline

liAn boone / lindAle / Adobe PhotoshoP

dorothy Waldron, lindAle

deSperAtion

raymond Arrington, tyler

dorothy Waldron, lindAle

waddling AwAy

hannAh shAwhan / tyler / PhotograPhy

emPaThy

rebeCcA PaCkArd, tyler

CollAge no� 1

georgiA Christensen / edom / Color Aid PaPer & AcryliC on PaPer

59

Sin

I am trapped and ensnared. I disgust myself with my own actions. I read the words of God and am rejuvenated, and my spirit is full for a time. Why do I still fall to sin? Why do I continue to commit adultery before God? I hate this. I hate this trap I’m in and whenever I take two steps forward, I fall ten more. I live in constant fear. I am both grateful and burdened. I want Christ to save me from this nightmare I keep forcing myself to have, but I don’t know how to ask him. I want to get down on my knees and beg, but it’s so hard. Why is it so hard to ask him for help? Why am I so prideful? The cross I bear is too heavy to carry myself. I know I need help, but why do I think I can do it on my own? My flesh is so weak. It’s disgusting. It’s humiliating. It’s foul. It’s terrifying. With my sin, I’m committing spiritual suicide. I choose death when life is staring me in the face. The truth screams at me, begging me to stop, but I choose to ignore it. I ignore the warnings and cries for help. Why? Why am I this way? Why am I so ignorant? Why am I so blind? Why am I deaf? My sin has ruined me. It’s nice to think I’ve learned my lesson, but sin still holds me captive. I still make the same mistakes. I still turn away.

-Andrew Patton Malone, arp

Bloom

Aidan deAn / Tyler / PhotograPhy

The Page Before me

A writer sitting at her desk. Computer screen glaring at her still hands.

Waiting patiently, Whirring softly.

An artist holding a new pen. Fresh sketchbook begging to be drawn on.

Wide open, Pages clean.

Between both the writer and the artist, The problem remains the same: A blank page awaits.

-Amber edMondson, ben Wheeler

Sticky

HandS and teddie

WilmA Allgood / tyler / ChArCoAl

leCtioPhile

Fairy lights and old poetry, A magical sight just for me.

Books piled high upon my desk,

My greed for stories, almost grotesque. Hours pass as words flood my brain, Each new world, grand and arcane. I just can’t seem to give them up. The lifeblood of stories fills my cup. Overflowing with rich ichor,

The stories I read are my personal liquor. Drunk off of words, I lay in bed.

A million lives live as dreams in my head.

-river sessions, tyler

i Am Alive

Used up, thrown away, and forgotten. Everyone’s biggest fear can become reality in the blink of an eye. Nothing lasts forever, no matter how useful, beautiful, or meaningful it is. You can dump everything you had into a relationship. For what? To show up 10 years later looking crazy and stupid? Or is it to learn a valuable lesson about being a human? About being alive?

We wouldn’t be able to appreciate the good days without feeling the bad ones. The most valuable lessons in life are the ones that hurt the most. We can talk to other people that have had similar experiences, but it will never be the same. Drugs and alcohol seem like a good fix, but they just drag out the feelings and end up making the pain so much harder to get through. If you can’t feel what your mind and body are trying to tell you, you’re causing more harm than good.

You can do everything right, give someone all the love in the world and sometimes it’s just not enough. Being so blind in love and not realizing the other person has been falling out of love for some time now is a hell of a cliff to stumble off of. While falling down the deep, dark canyon we call depression, it’s easy to open your eyes and see all the warning signs you were so blind to. You feel dumb for looking past it all. It was obvious and it was inevitable. If only somebody would’ve warned you. But it’s too late now. So, brace for impact.

Sitting all alone in a black hole, sifting through the wreckage of a failed relationship, the only tools you have are memories that are a constant reminder of how lonely you are. Memories put on repeat that used to bring joy, smiles, and laughter are now met with sorrow, tears, and cries. Nobody is coming to help you up and out of this. It’s time to look deep inside yourself to find your own way out.

Nothing kills you slower than letting someone go. No matter who’s at fault, a relationship coming to an end is painful for everyone involved. So, don’t be naïve in thinking they are the only one who is at fault here. You’ll never be able to forget, but acknowledging your own shortcomings will help when learning to forgive. Learning to forgive is the most useful step when trying to reclaim your happiness.

I’m still wandering around this canyon trying to navigate my way back to the top, but the love I have found from family and friends is like a glimpse of hope. Someone knows I am alive, and they aren’t giving up on me.

-Canyon binghaM, tyler

deAfneSs

Silent worlds within the ear

Where noise fails to hinder

A muted world that’s clear to all

Those who cannot hear

The whispers of a summer breeze

The rustling of leaves in autumn

The buzzing of the honey bees

Forever lost, a deaf heart despairs

The silence echoes in the mind

A silent thief

A grip unkind

Leaving you deaf and uncertain

But in the silence, there’s a voice

One that’s present and bright

In the stillness, you have an option

To listen closely and hear the sounds

The beating of your heart and soul

Creates the muted symphony

In deafness, you will gain your strength

Your inner music plays your way

So, let the silence guide your path

For in the quiet, the answers lay

And let your deafness pave an action

To a richer, fuller day

-Karli neWberry, Paris

Ande FuquA / JaCksonville / grAphite Pencil

fiSh Bowl

Assisted living, living in a fish bowl. Get bored and watch the fish in the tank with personalities of their own.

Willy’s chasing the others around the tank, while some hang with their own kind, have their own families. Some get behind the rock and wait ‘til it’s safe to come out— spending their lives watching.

The babies stay home by themselves and the big ones check on them. The one named Bill grabs a mouthful of rocks at one time, spitting them into a shape that forms a hiding place— The Great Architect.

Circle of life in the fish world. They feed off each other. Not like people—we bury our dead. Nothing to say. Nothing to store.

Just enough to take care of your need.

This world is a big fish bowl.

Our fish bowl never stops turning—never stops moving. God’s creation—each fish hand-painted by the Architect, Himself.

-irene McduFfy , tyler

Fair Stand

Makenzie Espinoza / FornEy / photography

moonlighT

The pale glow of the moon illuminates the car’s interior.

A sheet of thin ice paints the winding road ahead of us.

Father and mother verbally battle one another, volume increasing with each turn of the car.

The venom spewed from their lips lingers in the back seat.

Tears as salty as the ocean dampen my face.

The moonlight glistens on the little brown bottle in the cup holder and makes the toxic solution inside visible.

Father takes another sip of liquid courage, only adding fuel to their duel.

Desperate for peace, I turn to the night sky.

The moon, the size of a trillion stars combined, greets me with a smile. Her gentle light comforts me, shielding me from the poison filling the car.

The voices now boom like thunder,

Drowning out any other noise within the four doors.

Unbeknownst to father and mother, a humongous deer roams in the nearby tree line.

Father turns his head to face mother and attempts to deliver his final blow. The deer sprints into the street.

Like lightning, father crashes.

The car turns like a merry-o-round and I soar like a bird.

Glass shards tickle my flesh.

I land on cold, frosty grass.

Silence fills the crisp, frigid air.

The moon illuminates the scene.

From a distance I can see the once whole deer split in two.

Organs spill out on the pavement.

I gather all my strength and crawl to mother.

An impossible task.

By the time I reach her lifeless body, the once pounding heart has been silenced.

Her once smooth skin is now covered in lacerations.

She is lying in a crimson pool.

My strength begins to dwindle.

A warm, copper slush spills from my lips.

My appendages give out and I collapse to the ground.

Sirens scream in the distance.

I turn to the sky and I am greeted by a familiar smile.

She lifts my limp body from the cold grass into the winter air.

I breathe my last breath as blue and red lights dance across the sky. I only feel peace.

-haley gandy, lindAle

muShroom girl

JaClyn Walker / ChAndler / wAterColor

Blue Hour

When the sun can no longer sustain her strengths She hibernates until another day. As She passes the horizon, the light She radiates eventually fades away.

Watch as Her absence delivers a new type of beauty— Blue Hour, something else we can adore, until the time comes when She returns to fulfill Her daily duty once more.

-liAn boone, lindAle

unTold StorieS

I am a three-year-old child, with an older brother and younger sister.

My siblings and I are raised by our father.

I remember getting lashings every time I turned around.

I got a lashing after church once for singing.

I got beat for everything I did, or did not, do.

I remember going to an uncle’s house where things happened to me. Once, I remembered that I was supposed to have my own weekend with my biological mother, but she did not want that.

I am the second oldest of the kids and the oldest girl.

I was never taught about being a woman.

Around twelve years old, my father finds his third wife. She is an evil woman.

She hurt me just like all the other adults did.

She tells my dad to choose between his children and her.

I would have chosen my children.

My father chooses her, my older brother, and my baby sister.

I am about fourteen now, living with strangers. A lot of terrible things happened to me.

At age seventeen, I drive a drunk friend home and am gang raped at gun point and left for dead.

I make it to my nineteenth birthday. My oldest son is there.

I stay with friends but am thrown out because my baby cries too much. I was never taught anything about life.

At twenty-one, my second son is born. His dad abuses me for three years before he kicks us out.

I am twenty-three and I overdose on pills. I get my stomach pumped.

The nurse takes my blood. I leave.

By this time, I am in preterm labor with youngest son who was born two months early almost died twice within four months.

I am twenty-six and planned my daughter’s delivery.

My ex decides to take my boys away from me.

So, I am raising my daughter and people always ask me why I am sad. My daughter and I are close but there are things I can’t tell her.

I am depressed. I’m fighting it to this day.

I am taking what I am supposed to and going to therapy.

In my forties, I lose the relationship with my only daughter and my oldest son won’t talk to me, either.

I do not understand why these two children are mad at me. I love them so much.

There are a lot of untold stories here and one day I will tell them all.

-betty burns, glAdewAter

Zinnia AugustfoliA

Raquela Silva / TyleR / PhotogRaPhy

The kiSs

WilmA Allgood / tyler / ChArCoAl

A one-Sided memory

The water in Galveston was warm; that’s one of the things I remember clearly.

You and I snuck down the carpeted stairs in the rental home. We were careful not to wake your sister who had taken the batteries to our television remote. She left us no choice but to explore. At least that’s what you told me.

You grabbed your keys out of your corduroy backpack and held them together tightly so they wouldn’t rattle. I held my breath as we shuffled out the door, closing it quietly.

We turned our phone flashlights on and raced down the wooden stairs that ran alongside the stilted house. Beige sand covered our feet as you grabbed my hand. You pointed your flashlight out to the black void of an ocean. It’s endless, we concluded. We locked eyes, smiled, and ran toward the unknown.

We knew I wasn’t a strong swimmer; we knew to stay in the shallow.

Water filled our t-shirts and sand filled the pockets of our shorts, weighing us both down. We swam regardless. You splashed me and the salt tasted like it was meant to be consumed. It was as if the sole reason the water was placed in this location was for us to taste and enjoy together. We laughed as we tried to push one another under. You gave in, dove down, and reappeared further out. Your wet hair framed your face, water beads decorated your eyelashes. I wanted to follow you. The warm water was inviting. A little deeper, we kept going.

The only sense of clarity we had at that moment was provided by our phone flashlights that shone from under the salty water, along with the beams from the moon in the sky. The lights illuminated our faces. All we could see was the other.

I felt your fingertips graze my back, sending shivers down my body, even in the summer heat. I was caught off guard when my feet were swept out from under me by the current.

I was immersed in the darkness and for a moment, by surprise, my heart was full. I was at peace. I was pulled back and forth with my hair swaying above me as if the ocean and I were performing an intricate dance. I began to feel as if my entire existence was a moment of art; I wanted you to see me this way, too.

I didn’t fear the dark. The dark made me feel as if there was something special about me. It made me feel as if there was something beautiful about humanity and our connection to nature. The dark made me recognize the human connection to the warmth of the water.

Yet, after time, the ocean’s weight felt stronger on my back than it ever had. I didn’t want to resurface. I wanted to stay a piece of art for as long as I could. However, I knew that dwelling in the darkness for the sake of art would eventually cause me to suffocate. I knew to swim up; anyone would know to do this. But, it wasn’t that easy. When everything was dark around me, I didn’t know which way to go. There was beauty in the dark, but the pressure on my lungs forced me to recognize its danger.

As I began to run out of air, I stretched for the bottom of the ocean, but couldn’t reach the sand. My heart sank with panic. I tried to swim in any direction, but the current became violent. My eyes burned as salt flooded all my senses. I tried to scream for you to see me. I didn’t understand why you couldn’t see me.

Why didn’t you see me? I woke up in my bed, gasping for air. As sunlight filled the room, I realized none of it was real.I tried to understand how I had dreamt of you so vividly, how I had thought of the ocean as dark as I had. This dream was an experience within itself, adding to the list of memories I have of you that seem to only exist within my mind.

But I remember the salty taste. I remember how the moon reflected off our wet hair. I suppose sometimes remembering feels more powerful than the moment itself. That’s when the mind paints a moment the way it thinks it should look. In my mind, I drowned by your side in Galveston. In my mind, you and I will remain art forever.

But because of that memory, I know to stay clear of the darkness. I know this regardless of its beauty. I know not to slip away in the middle of the night to drown in the moonlight. I know there is peace in the light of the morning sun that seeps through the window.

But most of all, I know how far you like to wander past the shoreline. I know not to follow you. I only hope you will understand the dangers of the darkness before the current takes hold.

-Payton haley, glAdewAter

writer’s Block

All I see before me is a daunting wall of pits and slopes. I forgot my rope and my map is in another language.

There are voices on the other side whispering in hushed voices.

But there seems to be no way around.

Maybe if I could read my maps or if my rope was just a little longer. If I could just hear the voices clearer.

If only the wall was smaller.

Maybe the coffee is too weak; it’s lost its edge.

A friend lends me a sledge hammer, “Just approach it in a different way!”

But the hammer cracks, and the wall still stands. The wall is only chipped, a peep hole to the other side

She sits on the wall looking down to me, “Adjust yourself, it’s all in your head.”

She reaches down, but I’m still too far to reach.

She reminds me this is an endeavor of the self I stumble on the takeoff, but find the strength to jump. My grip firm and eyes focused.

Ascension is a test.

At last I sit on top of the wall with her as we survey my realm.

-Kylie ordoriCa, tyler

barry JaCobs / tyler / AcryliC on CanvAs

esther reifel / rusk / AcryliC on CanvAs

The Guardian

Makenzie Allen / FulsheAr / PhotograPhy

firsT Person

I am gone

I feel nothing

I am nothing

I am numb

I wish I were like the other boys at my school I wish I was fit, athletic, unapologetic, and cocky I wish I wasn’t so emotional and in my feelings sometimes I want to be better

I have no friends

I have associates

I can no longer provide for people that don’t care I just have me and nobody else

I am gone

I want to live a healthy life

I wish I were fit and athletic

I want to have dreads that I can wrap behind my head I wish I loved myself more

I am gone

-rashAd slAughter, longview

The Prowl

G. Fisher Nichols / Bullard / PhotograPhy

BlAck dollS

Kayren ArMsteAd / dallAs / digital Art

Illusional art

Kylie Goode / The Colony / PhotograPhy

Sonnet 126

Dearest mistress, fairest maid, patron of life’s great nectar.

The hour dawns, so calls the great collector.

My form shall shrivel and weaken thusly, And from beauty born shall dissolve unlovely.

But perk thine cheeks and bar thine tears, Though trees crash and fall, do more not grow? Though dams cease the river’s streams, does not it flow?

My face shall weather, ripple with tree rings,

But through mine eyes, thine paradise held still, Where time shall ne’er steal, and rest us both upon the hill.

-MeriK burke, san Antonio

Horse StAtue

Ande FuquA / JaCksonville / grAphite Pencil

A lover’s emBrAce

Icarus is falling.

How unfortunate is it that no one is around to see?

Icarus is falling.

Like a star,

He shone like a flame in the night and burned out too soon.

Icarus is laughing.

As burning tears of wax stream down, peppering his skin with kisses as they descend.

Icarus is laughing.

Who knew the things you love could hurt you so?

Icarus is flying.

Contrary to common belief,

Icarus craved the rush of the fall.

Icarus is flying.

The wind drowns out the screams of the sun,

As Icarus collides with the sky and the sea.

Icarus is content.

He lays dormant under the sea, Dreaming of the sun and her embrace.

His life, a symphony, Forever left unfinished.

-Alex deWeese, tyler

Footsteps

Cody Peters / Lindale / PhotograPhy

my muSe

sannie duran / van / ChArCoAl

A ThAnksgiving to remember

I was diagnosed with kidney dysplasia when I was eight years old. That meant that I would have to go to the rubbing-alcohol-smelling chilly dialysis room at Children’s Hospital for three hours, three times a week, go on a diet, take baths instead of showers, take growth hormone injections every night, and miss Wednesday night services. I could not even do P.E. class because of the catheter attached to my heart, which cleaned my blood through tubes attached to a machine.

The skywalk was always scenic, and the volunteers would come hang out with us, or give us crafts to do, and the nurses would always put Jolly Ranchers in a bowl for us dialysis kids to eat. My favorite flavors have always been grape, green apple, and blue raspberry. Aside from catching up with a lot of homework and writing my stories, I watched Nickelodeon shows to make me laugh, like SpongeBob SquarePants, The Fairly Oddparents, Paw Patrol, and Blaze and the Monster Machines. And I watched My Little Pony at home or through a website called “Dailymotion.”

It went on for about a year and a half while I waited for a transplant match. Even though I felt trapped, I still had a lot of love and support from my parents, friends, and our church members. That kept me going.

Then, one day in fifth grade, sometime near Thanksgiving break, my class and I were about to head out on a field trip to the planetarium. I was very excited because I loved the stars and the planets and getting out of town to get away from my issues sounded good. Moments before we were meant to leave, Mrs. Arndt told me I had to get off the bus.

It turned out that was a moment of life-or-death, because not too long before that, my doctors had found a match for a transplant, and I needed to get into surgery at The Children’s Hospital as soon as possible. My dad drove me there, and I was feeling all kinds of emotions. I was upset that I did not get to go to a planetarium and that I may never be able to. I was nervous about the surgery, but excited at the possibility of a near-normal life. The clouds were gray on the drive, but not my future.

My donor passed away in a car crash and his mother made the life altering decision to donate his organs to five kids. Two of them got his liver, two got his kidneys, and one got his heart. Sadly, the heart transplant recipient did not survive longer than two weeks.

I stayed in the hospital for a week after surgery, and then I became homebound for the entirety of December. My grandparents came to visit, and Mrs. Arndt came to tutor me and catch me up on classwork, especially math.

The doors had opened after my recovery period; I could finally eat whatever I wanted and not worry about my phosphorous levels, sodium levels, potassium, and such. I could go on as many school field trips as I wished, go to summer camp, run around outside, play volleyball, arm wrestle boys, and I was even baptized when I was thirteen years old!

I still had never been to a planetarium. That was, until I attended Tyler Junior College in the Fall of 2023, eight years later. It was the best experience I have ever had!

I am thankful for that Thanksgiving where I did not go to a planetarium so I could still live to see one.

-sashA lenay Price, flint

HoPeleSs romantic ‘77

What do I do?

I spend for her affection. I buy all I can.

But it’s never what she wants. It’s too late when she does tell me.

I love her too much. I overdo it.

I know this, yet three times this has happened. She’s not the first to say this. I just I never learn my lesson. I only wanted happiness. Hers first, mine second.

-seAn-MiChAel MallArd, tyler

Self Portrait

sannie duran / van / ChArCoAl

A CeleStial TaPeStry

In the heart of Africa, as the sun goes down beyond the horizon, the great symphony of the universe unveils itself. The stage is set, and the celestial actors begin their grand performance. Under the expansive, African sky,the Milky Way emerges as the mesmerizing centerpiece, weaving an intricate tapestry of wonder and awe. It is as if the celestial gods have put a blanket of stars over the land as it goes to sleep. The night sky in Africa is transformed into a theatre of dreams as darkness falls across the landscape. The untouched universe that lies above is a mystery waiting to be solved, and an adventure waiting to be explored. Millions of stars look down on our world, shining like diamonds. Each one reminds us of the size of the universe. The Milky Way appears to be a surreal river of light, a cosmic route enticing travelers to go out on an expedition to make uncharted discoveries. It appears as though the luminous river is looking down on all the lives that exist within it. It flows across the African sky, arching from horizon to horizon. The Milky Way is so vast that it is mind-bending to the human brain.

The Milky Way looks like it has been painted across the sky – clouds of dust consisting of hues of milky white, magenta, and silver. Something so naturally beautiful teases one to delve into the unknown in search of its secrets. Each star is a brilliant beacon, forming constellations that spark the imagination of tales from diverse cultures. The connection between folklore and the traditions of the African people is made through the constellations: Orion, the mighty hunter, and the Southern Cross, the symbol of the southern hemisphere.

The air, crisp and clear, carries with it the smell of the earth and vegetation, grounding one in the presence of this celestial spectacle. The cool breeze brushes gently past the leaves on the great baobab trees that tower above even the tallest giraffes. The tall elephant grass waves in the night, as if it is rocking a baby to sleep. One cannot help but feel a profound sense of tranquility and wonder enveloped in the embrace of the African night. Such an event creates a sense of belonging in any person.

Witnessing the Milky Way is an experience that nobody will forget. An image forever engraved in those whose eyes have been blessed by it. It leaves you with celestial tales of the past, connecting people with the unknown world above. The African skies act like a mother, comforting whoever lies below. Its beauty and surreal vastness leave anybody enchanted and wonderstruck, reminding us that we are but a speck in the greater scheme of things. A speck in a boundless universe. It is a mesmerizing experience full of stories and wonder. It makes us question our place in the world.

-JordAn dunne, Johannesburg, south AfriCa

Running from my selfish flaws, I trip and fall, banged and bruised.

I look up in a puddle and I see you,

A feeling of shame and depression envelops me.

I run and hide, cover my eyes, and wish to die.

I feel the feeling of watery eyes, but the physical drops are dry.

A look at my past brings feelings of demise, Littered with broken dreams, trauma, and lies.

A corpse of the happy me covered with maggots and flies; I’ve come to be the person that person despised.

Shame and guilt develop in me.

I want to run and flee from the soul within.

A room full of locks but with just one key. Lock to lock, my trembling hand leads.

Fear triumphed by the desire to be freed.

In the final lock, I place my key. With no luck, a tear drips free, Bringing life to a frail seed.

Unbeknownst to me, you have the master key. Unbeknownst to me, you have come for me.

Weighed down by shame, I wish to separate from my broken name. This candle has lost its flame.

I feel I’ll feel never be the same.

My self-worth bloodied and stained.

My identity missing and maimed. But somehow, you still call me by name.

Glass pierced by a stone. What does it mean to be fully known?

So many pieces, but still so alone. In my house, but never home.

Anxiety and depression causing a mental insurrection. Happy thoughts often lose the election.

My upper room fails inspection.

A captor with no heart or affection. Feeding me lies of deception.

Attacking my core as a vicious infection

A look to you, a sudden glance,

A Memory flashes of this old dance. Out of breath, I start to pant. This occurrence is far from chance.

What do you want from me?

I have nothing that you need.

But why for me did you bleed?

Clenched in your fist, the crumpled deed. Because of you, I have been freed. The price you paid for my greed.

A debt I cannot pay.

The laws I can’t obey.

But still, away from me, you cannot stay. Your pursuit cannot be kept at bay.

Holy hands reach around.

With a simple wipe, I now can see. He looks at me and I turn to flee, But a pierced hand reaches for me. Soft eyes land upon me. He draws me in firmly. He tells me He loves me.

So, this is what it means to be fully known. This is what it feels like for the prodigal to come home.

-Aidan deAn, tyler

Floating

Bracy TeBbe-Trujillo / Kilgore / PhotograPhy

Cowboy

When I was younger, I assumed that all fathers were just like mine. I figured they all had a mustache and talked slow and wore boots. I thought that they were all as hardworking, smart, and selfless as mine is. However, as I grew older I came to realize that my dad is different than most. My dad is a cowboy.

My dad wears plain work clothes, and he always has, for as long as I can remember. He wears Wrangler jeans and plain Carhart t-shirts, except for on special occasions. On special occasions, he wears pearl snap shirts, but never button-downs because his eyes are too old and his hands are too big to do up the buttons. He always wears a belt with a sheath for his case knife, and he always has a pocketful of change that he empties into an old water jug at the end of every day. Once the jug bought us a boat, and now it saves for my little brother and me to go to college.

My dad also wears a hat. It makes him makes him appear taller than he already is. He wears a straw cowboy hat in the summer and a chocolate brown felt hat in the winter. My dad’s hats are shaped like his Uncle Dean’s were with a wide double pinch and an extended brim. Stores don’t sell hats like that so he takes his to a hatter to have them shaped. Few people wear their hats shaped that way, but then again my dad has never really been one to follow trends. When I was little I thought that maybe the hats were what gave my dad the ability to name plants on sight, to always cast his bait in exactly the right spot when fishing, and to know where the animals would move before they did when we went hunting. Now, of course, it is obvious that he was always just that smart.

My dad wears boots. He wears a size 14D with squared toes and riding heels. I have only ever known him to own two pairs of boots at a time: a work pair, and a church pair. Every year he gets a new pair of boots. The new boots become his church pair, and his old church pair become work boots. Once, when we were low on cash, he did not buy himself a new pair of boots. Instead, he started wearing his church pair all the time. This continued until my siblings and I discovered that he had been wearing them for so long that the tacks had worn through the soles and we bought him a new pair for father’s day.

Now that I am older, I see that my dad was never like most dads. He was better. He is hardworking, smart, and selfless. My dad is a cowboy, and the true thing that sets my dad apart is not his cowboy clothes, but his cowboy ways, and his cowboy heart.

-Corlie hardy, rusk

The BeAr

Once upon a time, there was a big bear living in a cabin. Every morning he woke up to cook a big, hot breakfast. This breakfast consisted of salted, grilled fish and berry juice. He would then go outside for his daily crawl around. But for some reason, today, as he made it to his wood trail, he noticed that he was not the only one there. He begins to build his speed and realizes it also speeds up. Now panicking, the bear starts running toward home. Before he makes it back home, he realizes he is still a bear. He stops and turns around and makes a loud, scary noise. What he sees catches him by surprise. It is the female bear just trying to get her a catch. They both begin to laugh and continue walking to his house. The two bears ended the wild night with a juicy, fried fish.

-lyndsey gordon, tyler

The waiting game

It’s a game of waiting, waiting, and waiting. What will the next doctor say?

The PET scan results arrive on a Friday, late afternoon.

Waiting, waiting, and waiting for the doctor to call and tell me what I already know.

The pure exhaustion I’ve been going through—

It’s in the lungs, lymph nodes, adrenal gland, and bone. Let’s add the axillary nodes, only associated with breast cancer, so I am told.

Waiting, waiting, and waiting days for that test. What will it tell me? What comes next? Treatments to decide.

Early Monday morning, the doctor calls.

He wants to see me early on Tuesday. I know it’s not good. Oh, what will I do? I’ll face it as it comes. The prognosis is bleak.

So, now I’m waiting, waiting, and waiting for death. I am going to live before it comes. Each day is a blessing. I will laugh, I will love, and I will cherish each day.

-dorothy Waldron, lindAle

deSperAtion

College was supposed to be safe It was supposed to be sacred

Kept separate

Away from you

But you won’t let go I long for release I crave it desperately

Yet no matter how hard I beg It never comes

You never let go

I am tired

There is no room to breathe under your thumb

The closet is suffocating me I am drowning in a sea of tradition

We are adults

We should be able to talk like equals I want you to look me in the eye and shake my hand

Give me the respect that you say I deserve

Follow through

Please

But you do not

I want to love you

I will not love my captors

I am your son, not your servant

Everyone has a mind of their own

So do I

So does he

I want you to meet him

I think you’d like him

Well, if he wasn’t dating me

You might like him a little more that way

Too bad though

He’s mine and I’m his

I’m sure you understand

Mother Father

Take my hands

I love you

But please

Let go

-raymond

Arrington, tyler

A lone rhododendron

The numbness had swallowed me whole for almost a year. Then I took notice of the date on the calendar, fast approaching. Everything started to spin. It was coming fast. I could not breathe as the walls closed in. I needed to run. I could not stay here. I needed to get away.

I left without a moment’s notice: my husband did not understand. There was a tidal wave rushing towards me. I had to go Home. To the northwest where my childhood memories all collide. The place where my home and the garden once were. Now only trees, brambles, and weeds.

A lone Rhododendron, now five feet tall, planted over forty years ago. Here, a part of her remains.

I took a deep breath and let it come in. The pain came in and washed the numbness away. It was time to grieve, with tears in my eyes and a broken heart. I sunk to my knees and bowed my head. I let the tears flow. With anguish inside and a large hole in my heart, I sobbed, “I miss you so much. I love you. Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.”

-dorothy Waldron, lindAle

Waddling AwAy Hannah ShawHan / Tyler / PhotograPhy

emPaThy

This broken jar of sympathy

A hollow, fragile symphony

Meeting one in his misery

This severed strand of sympathy

Strewn about impulsively In vain serves as a remedy

The pitiful mound of sympathy

Stands curious of the mystery Of his agonizing memory

He gains alone my sympathy That I offer to him gingerly He shrouds his dismay with bravery

Away with this beastly sympathy

I long for the touch of empathy To meet his grief unfearfully

I know not what I ask from Thee But know I ask it foolishly Oblivious to what would smite me

And with my newfound empathy

I will sit beside our agony

And greet comfort’s silence willingly

-rebeCcA PaCkArd, tyler

CollAge no� 1

georgiA Christensen / edom / Color-Aid PaPer & AcryliC on PaPer

The Bell Tower ArTs Journal 2024 dediCaTion

Derrick White served on The Bell Tower Arts Journal Editorial Board and Selection Committee for fifteen years, from the inaugural issue, Volume 1, in print from 2006–2007, until Volume 14, in print from 2020–2021. Derrick has been a mentor for those serving on the Editorial Board and Selection Committees. Under his leadership, the journal has won numerous awards at the Texas Intercollegiate Press Association Conference. This is a testament to the stellar quality of the journal and proof The Bell Tower is better with his help.

Derrick has been a faculty member at Tyler Junior College since 2001 and has served as Art Department Chair since 2015. His department helps coordinate the Festival of the Arts, a monthlong celebration of the arts here on campus, which includes The Bell Tower Arts Journal release party.

He is the notorious founder of the Art Club, an inclusive group of artists and art-interested individuals who focus on community building through camaraderie, activities, and events. As an artist, Derrick specializes in acrylic and water based mixed media paintings and collages. His artwork can be seen on campus and within the Tyler community.

On behalf of everyone who believes in The Bell Tower Arts Journal, the 2024 edition is dedicated to Derrick White as a symbol of our appreciation. Our institution honors Derrick for helping to create the artistic vessel that is The Bell Tower Arts Journal. With sincere gratitude, we thank you for the legacy you have helped us to create. The students, faculty, and administration are grateful for your valued time and expertise throughout the years.

With thanks,

Regan

Minkel, Editor of The Bell Tower Arts Journal & English Professor