Voices 2007 by Jaron Judd

Voices

Spring 2007 Volume XXX A Student Publication of Midwestern State University

Cody Mason Mixed media 12” x 12” x 12”

Editor Assistant Editor Advisor Art Advisor

Christian McPhate Anthony Anderson Sue Henson Gary Goldberg

Dedication

Dr. Jeff H. Campbell 1931 - 2006

Dr. Jeff H. Campbell was a husband, father, poet, and professor. He was a minister, explorer, and tour guide from antiquity to present. His passion for English, Humanities, and life electriﬁed classrooms and inspired students to take active rolls in the learning process. Known to most of his students as KOP or “Kindly Old Professor,” Dr. Campbell nurtured an appreciation of many philosophies and religions and somehow seemed to embody the best parts of each belief. The spirit in his voice and in his eyes was contageous. The morning Dr. Campbell bowed out of this life, students lost a mentor, colleagues lost a friend, children lost a father, and Midwestern State University lost a caring, loving, and dedicated professor. His spirit will forever live in those whose lives he touched as well as in the Walden Red Maple tree planted outside the Prothro-Yeager building. We dedicate this issue of Voices to the memory of an amazing man, Dr. Jeff H. Campbell. -The Editors 2

Ode to A Lighthouse Ysabel de la Rosa --for Dr. Jeff H. Campbell

Thou art light-in-darkness shelter-from-storm sign-of-safety the place-of-high-seeing that grants the wide, the deep, the far perspective. Wind does not bend you nor wave break you. I will look for thee through all voyaging, look to thee on all homeward journeying, knowing I cannot fail to ﬁnd thee, for time and traveling have taught me: should the light go out in untoward circumstance, thou wilt not, cannot cease to shine.

Ysabel de la Rosa was a student of Dr. Campbell’s when he taught at Southwestern University in Georgetown, Texas. 3

Table of Contents Poetry and Prose Costume Jewelry

Carrie Sullivan

Insanity

Christian McPhate

Naked

Leiaka Welcome

Even Gods Are Slaves to the Wage

Crystal Land

The Gift

Gina Walker

Fair Foreman Clay

Elizabeth Bourland Hawley

Among The Thorns

Gina Walker

February

Mandy Cross

Don’t Say It

Crystal Land

2006 Vinson Award Winner Our Provincetown

Elizabeth Bourland Hawley

Editor’s Choice [Untitled]

Anthony J. Anderson

High School Art, Poetry, and Prose Winners And Then She Cried

Melissa LeRitz

The Bus

Melissa LeRitz

Acrylic

Christi Mongomery

Digital

Samantha Smith

Front and back cover art Meegan Weaver The staff of VOICES is grateful to the jurors who made this year’s literary selections, to Angie, Lisa, and Andy in the Print Shop and Jason York for pre-production assistance, and to Gary Goldberg and Sue Henson, our faculty advisors. We also want to say CONGRATULATIONS to the editors and contributors of VOICES 2006 for their winning entries at the TIPA state conference this year. 4

Table of Contents Art Cody Mason

Mixed media

Lana Ratliff

Copper, brass, nickel, silver

Jori Brewer

Digital print

Dawn Skarsten

Mixed media

Lauren Savoy

Silver print

Alyssa Gaines

Stoneware

Shawn Cheney

Silver print

Mike Lechuga

Watercolor

Mike Lechuga

Acrylic

Casey Meurer

CloisonnĂŠ

Meegan Weaver

Digital print

Lindsay Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neal

Acrylic

Maggie Johnson

Watercolor

Johnna Krantz

Acrylic

William Tucker

Mixed media

Marie Neudorf

Mixed media

Adam Leanos

Linocut

Jacob Pike

Bronze

Julie Stormer

Stoneware

Matthew Turner

Silver print

Rachel Tompkins

Digital print

Lauren Miller

Drawing

Lindsey Burks

Digital print

Casey Meurer

Watercolor

Views expressed by contributors do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Voices staff or MSU. 5

Costume Jewelry

Taking Mark’s hand, Rhonda turned around. There were eight people ahead of her in line, half of whom were eyeing the loud-mouthed man with looks of contempt. This was a nightmare. She smiled nervously, hoping he would shut up. He didn’t.

Carrie Sullivan

Cecil held his cigar out the window of his red SUV, his arm draping down the door like a limp marionette’s limb. A line of smoke trailed from the vehicle as he pulled into a parking spot in front of the post office. He turned off the engine, took another puff, and then got out.

“A box of envelopes!” he said. “Can someone get me a damned box of envelopes? I know you have to have hundreds stacked back there. What do they pay you for?”

Squinting over his sunglasses, he looked up. A blanket of blue-gray clouds covered the sky. Rain, he thought. How apt. The man left his window down and his shades on. He dropped his shortened smoke on the ground and pressed the glowing embers out with a shiny black loafer. With a solemn expression on his lined, gray-bearded face, he suppressed a cough and muttered a curse then strode up to the door and went inside.

A middle-aged, balding clerk behind the counter said, “Sir, if you don’t lower your voice, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.” “Huh?” he said louder. “What? I can’t hear you! Must be the overwhelming noise of incompetence!” “Mom,” Mark whispered, “why is that man yelling?” “I don’t know,” Rhonda said, anger brewing under her calm exterior. “Sir,” she said to the man, “I don’t appreciate your behavior in front of my son.”

“Stay by me, sweetie,” Rhonda said to her fiveyear-old, Mark.

“Well, that’s funny because I don’t appreciate your breath.” He glanced down at Mark and arched his eyebrows. “Hey, kid, how about getting Mom some gum, huh? I feel sorry for Dad. Probably rather kiss a dog. Phew!”

“I’m just looking,” Mark said. He held a package of dinosaur stamps. Rhonda shifted her heavy purse and brown package to her left arm and handed her son her umbrella. She grabbed the last box of business-size envelopes on the shelf. As she pulled it to her, she heard a gruff voice say:

“Sir, I don’t appreciate your behavior in front of my son.”

“Damn it.” She turned to face a tall man with a gray beard. He was wearing sunglasses.

She blushed with rage, and Mark’s eyes darted back and forth from the man to the woman.

“That would be the last box, wouldn’t it?” he said, laughing. “Tell me, what exactly did you sacrifice to the gods to make them smile their fortune on you?”

The clerk came around the counter and approached Cecil, who started backing up to the door with a smile on his face. His sunglasses glinted under the fluorescent ceiling lights.

“Excuse me?” Rhonda asked. “You heard me. I want to know your secret.” He looked down at Mark. “Ah, maybe that’s it. You got knocked up, popped one out, so thus the cycle of shit continues for the world. Person after person after person. More agony. I wonder why they don’t encourage suicide in schools because honestly, what the hell is there to live for?”

“No problem, sir, I was just leaving,” he said, cracking a side grin at Mark. “Envelopes, gum, and suicide. Remember that, kid. It’s all you need to know in life.” “Out,” said the clerk. “Now.”

Cecil turned around, and with an attitude, pushed the glass door open. He suddenly heard several people clapping. For a split second, he thought maybe they were applauding his bravery, glad that he had the courage to voice his disapproval of the incompetent middle class.

“Stay away from us,” Rhonda said. “Please.” Perhaps it was the calm conviction in his tone that made her stay put, or maybe it was because he’d taken off those ridiculous sunglasses.

But then he realized they weren’t clapping for him. They were clapping because he’d left their lives. As if his absence was a blessing.

“Mark, take the envelopes to the car and wait for me,” she said. She made sure the boy looked both ways before crossing the parking lot. He ran to a silver Ford and opened the passenger door, then stepped in. Rhonda turned to the man again.

This was why. This was the why for everything, and he knew it. It started to rain.

“What,” she said. The word was more of a reprimand than a question.

Rhonda went through the line, and the clerk apologized for not running off the rude man sooner. She simply shook her head, shrugging off the encounter. She bought the envelopes, mailed her package, and took Mark’s hand. It had begun to rain outside, the soft rush of sound like a calming elixir to her ears.

Rain splattered his gray hair and matted it to his head. The skin around his blue eyes crinkled. “My wife left me this morning,” he said. Rhonda stood there, unsure of how she felt. She couldn’t stop staring at the trickles of water running down his face. She wasn’t sure if any of those tiny streams were tears.

Mark opened the door for her, and she released the catch on her umbrella. Stepping outside, she saw the man again, standing in the rain with his hands in his pockets. She began defensively striding away from him, when he stopped her.

“It was just twenty-three years,” he said with a shrug. Rhonda offered him the shield of her umbrella. “No,” he said with a smile, backing away from the protective cloth over her head. “Listen, I’m sorry for what happened in there. And um, maybe if I would’ve said ‘Sorry’ to her, Janice wouldn’t have—well, anyway. That’s old news now. She’s not coming back, and I don’t blame her.” He started feeling around in his pants pocket. “Here. Take this.”

“Ma’am.” His voice was significantly quieter now.

He pulled out an elaborate ring decked with gems and handed it to her. She hesitated. Then she let him drop it in her palm. “Costume jewelry,” he muttered. “It’s not worth much. Not much in comparison to,” he cleared his throat, “to the things that matter.” Rhonda opened her mouth to speak, but he continued.

Lana Ratliff Copper, brass, nickel, silver 7” x 8” x 7”

“Anyway, she left it behind.” His voice turned slightly bitter. “I sure as hell don’t want the damn 7

thing. Maybe you could pawn it for a few bucks.” He sniffed, blinking the rain from his eyes. “Tell the kid I’m sorry, too.”

present. Payday wasn’t until Friday. She had three days to go. She glanced at the ring. It would at least buy them a tank of gas.

He turned and walked through the growing puddles to his red SUV. The windows of the vehicle were down. Water poured through them and onto the seats, soaking the interior. The man got in. He didn’t seem to notice the moisture. Or maybe he noticed but didn’t care.

“Honey, we’re going to stop by the store on our way home,” she said. “Okay.” She drove to Herb’s Pawn Shop, lost in thought. She wondered where the stranger from the post office would go now, what he would do. She knew what it felt like to be abandoned. Mark’s father had left them when the boy was only two years old. She’d raised him as a single mother with a minimum-wage salary for three years. In a way, she felt a connection to the man. Still, the way he behaved in there was absolutely inappropriate. She was glad he’d apologized.

Rhonda dropped the ring in her car’s cup holder. She turned the key in the ignition a couple of times before the vehicle started up. “What’s that?” Mark asked, touching the ring with his pointer finger. “Nothing.” As she pulled out of the parking lot, the low gas light came on. Suppressing a curse, she sighed, knowing she didn’t have the money to fill up at

She thought of his slouched figure, sitting in the car, drenched. And she remembered the horrible sunny day her ex had walked in from work and informed her he was having an affair and that he would be moving out the next day. She’d felt drenched, too. Drenched in fear and sorrow and defeat. “Go look at the toys, honey,” Rhonda said, as she and Mark entered the pawn shop. She waited for Sue to appraise the ring. (Rhonda came in often and knew every worker like family.) Mark grabbed a foot-long plastic dinosaur and looked up at her with pleading eyes. She shook her head, and he put it back on the shelf. Turning to Sue, she froze upon seeing the delighted expression on her face. “What?” she asked. Sue told her the ring was worth $500,000. Not costume jewelry. But maybe, like the man had said, not worth much in comparison.

Jori Brewer Digital Print 11” x 5” x 17”

Insanity Christian McPhate

Is it a cry Is it a plea Is it a reality a soul awakening Do they see Do they see the light Do they see the truth Do they see the spiral Do they understand the meaning of life the meaning of death. the meaning of the journey Can they follow the soul’s path Do their souls go through progressions like the body goes through regression What do the lunatics see Do they see our world the death of the world Do they dream as we dream What swirls within the realms of madness Can you feel it the chaotic dance the spiral of life the insanity of emotions the truth?

Dawn Skarsten Mixed media 12” x 12” x 18”

Naked Leiaka Welcome

I stand here naked, With nothing on but my skin, Bearing it all for the world to see, My hidden thoughts, my various organs of sin. I sit here naked, Allowing everyone to see Letting them all point, Fascinated at how quickly they judge without knowing me, I lie here naked, More open than before, Crying both silently and internally Whilst allowing the world to use me as his whore. I have struggled, I have fought, I have survived. My new promise, my new goal, is to never again be naked in life.

Lauren Savoy Silver print 9â&#x20AC;? x 6â&#x20AC;?

Even Gods are Slaves to the Wage

and have him bring us that order when it’s ready.” She grinned at her bearded customer, who obliged her with a gentle smile in return. “Let’s talk, shall we?” she asked, and led him to a booth in one corner of the restaurant’s dining area.

Crystal Land

A bearded, long-haired man wearing a white Tshirt, slightly tattered jeans, and a carpenter’s belt loaded with tools, walked quickly down the sidewalk and towards the large building in front of him. “Mt. Olympus Burgers,” a sign on the building announced in bold letters. “Now with more than 32 locations across the U.S.,” read a smaller sign attached to the bottom of the larger one.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, Jesus,” Kali began as she sat down. “How have you been?” The carpenter sighed softly and shook his head. “I’ve been struggling,” he admitted with a frown. “My situation is still ﬁne here in America, but you should see me in other parts of the world. My outﬁt is like this here because it’s the fashion; in other countries, my clothes are ragged because that’s all I can afford from their prayers.”

“Hello. Welcome to Mt. Olympus Burgers. How may I serve you today?” The voice was at once melodic and gravelly, and the words were wrapped around a thick Indian accent. The woman speaking was beautiful, with wide eyes, smooth brown skin, and long black hair that fell to her waist in thick curls. The name tag on her shirt read Kali.

“Jesus sighed once more and absently rubbed at the ancient scar on his hand.” “I can certainly relate,” Kali said, “though the problem with locale is quite the opposite for me. I live in a palace in India, you know. Its halls are scented with incense, and ﬂower petals carpet the ﬂoor. And I certainly don’t have to eat hamburgers,” she added, sticking out her tongue in distaste. The expression might have been playful on anyone else, but even Jesus had to suppress a slight shudder at the terrifying sight. “Over there my children offer me fruits and candies every day.”

Kali was beautiful, but she also happened to have two sets of arms. Her necklace was made of severed human heads; her belt was made of dismembered human arms, but her customer didn’t even blink at those apparently minor details. “I’ll have a cheeseburger—regular, not double—with no lettuce, small fries, and a Diet Coke,” the bearded man said simply. “Would you like to Sancti-Size your meal, sir?” Kali asked politely. Her hand hovered over her belt of arms as she waited for an answer. The man shook his head and Kali pried away a straw and a large cup lid from her belt.

Kali paused for a moment and looked at Jesus closely. “Wait,” she said. “It’s getting close to Christmas, isn’t it?” Jesus nodded. “Then why aren’t you on vacation? I’ve heard murmurings of prayers to you, so there must be plenty.”

The upper of her two left hands began to punch the order information into the cash register, while she jotted down a note on a slip of paper with her lower left hand. She wrote three words—J.C.: the usual—and threw the paper over her shoulder at the cook. He was a fat, bald man with unusually large ears, but he seemed incredibly cheerful all the same. The peaceful smile on his face was unusual for a fast-food worker, and he moved through his kitchen with ease and no hurry.

Jesus sighed once more and absently rubbed at the ancient scar on his hand. “Oh, there are plenty of prayers,” he admitted, “but so few of them are sincere. I don’t have enough faith stored up to take a proper vacation yet.” “Don’t worry. There’s still plenty of time left before the season ends,” Kali reassured him. “I realize that, which is why I’m not worried. I just wish that I could get something more than mere lip service,” Jesus said.

“I’m going on break, Buddha,” Kali called out to him. “Ask Hermes to cover the register for me, 11

“At least lip service will keep you remembered and around,” Hermes interrupted suddenly and plopped a tray laden with food and drinks down onto the table. “I’d be gone if it weren’t for some twice-blessed companies and a slew of bad movies, you know.” He handed Kali a cup of water, grabbed a paper container of fries for himself, and slid the tray over to Jesus as he sat down next to him.

The three deities laughed and went on to chat about more idle matters as they enjoyed their meal. Kali and Hermes looked up with looks of resignation on their face as they heard the door open with a chime, but their expressions quickly morphed into ones of absolute panic. A handsome man in his thirties walked through the door. He was wearing a perfectly tailored green silk suit and elegant leather shoes. His cane and sunglasses sparkled as the sunlight from outside hit the diamonds lining their surfaces.

“Eat quickly,” Kali said, looking around the restaurant. “You never know when he’ll scurry out of his ofﬁce to check on business.” Hermes smiled charmingly. “My dear dark goddess, you cut me to the core. When have you seen me do anything slowly?”

“Slacking off today as well, I see,” the man said, sneering as he looked around the building. “It’s no surprise that your place in the world is declining, and you’ve no room to complain. Now get up and get back to work. I don’t pay you to loaf about and talk to other failures—oh! I’m sorry, I meant to say customers.” Jesus ﬂushed from a brief surge of anger, but he stayed silent and reminded himself to turn the other cheek. “Yes sir, Mr. Money, sir,” Hermes yelped, immediately rising to his feet and darting off to reclaim his position at the front counter. Kali was much slower to comply. She stretched out her arms before she stood and looked the welldressed man in the eye as she walked past him. “You may be on top right now, little man,” she growled. “But just wait. You were nothing but a herd of mindless goats in the past, and I will see you reduced to less in the future. The world ﬂows in cycles. Yours will end soon enough, and my kin and I will reign again.” Money smiled, and this time the expression seemed genuine. “That may be, my dear, but I highly doubt it. And until that time comes, you work for me. Now get back to your place, and put on your apron. It’s company policy, and I know you need the job.”

Alyssa Gaines Stoneware 16” x 4” x 5”

The Gift Gina Walker

Two children play together in the yard on an old rusty swing set in the yard. They make a game to see who can swing the highest and jump the farthest in the yard. The boy sails ten feet and lands neatly near the honeysuckle that grows in the yard. The girl ﬂies crooked and plops down a few short inches from the bushes in the yard. A single pink rose blooms amid many thorny branches on bushes in the yard. Crying and shaking, the girl runs inside and leaves her brother alone in the yard. The boy follows and only thorn bushes and honeysuckle are left in the yard. A vase on the girl’s dresser now holds the pink rose that once bloomed brightly in the yard.

Shawn Cheney Silver print 6” x 9”

Mike Lechuga Acrylic 30” x 30”

Mike Lechuga Watercolor 22” x 30”

Casey Meurer Cloisonne 2 1/2” x 2 1/2”

Meegan Weaver Digital print 30” x 20”

Lindsay O’ Neal Acrylic 30” x 30”

Maggie Johnson Watercolor 22” x 30”

William Tucker Mixed media 13” x 13” x 13”

Johnna Krantz Acrylic 15” x 11”

Fair Foreman Clay

“‘Clay, you’re drivin’ drunk and you ain’t got car insurance. I’m gonna have to haul you in.’ “So Clay, he spends three days in jail, and he starts to thinkin’: ‘Heck, this is better’n the tent. Warm bed. Food.’ He gets out and three weeks later he ain’t got no job still, and no car insurance, and he’s still drivin’ drunk. So the sheriff, he went and hauled him in again, but by then he realizes what Clay’s up to, and he says: “‘Well, Clay, ain’t you even tryin’ to get a job?’ “And Clay says: ‘Yeah, I’m tryin’. But the way I see it, I don’t mind spendin’ three days in jail ever once in a while.’ “So, ol’ Joe – he’s the sheriff – he called me up and he says: ‘Rusty, can’t you find a job or somethin’ for Clay?’ and I says sure, I’ll put ‘im to work somewhere, and Clay did real well ropin’ cattle and lookin’ after my leases for a while. “Later he started workin’ as foreman for Taylor’s ranches and that’s when he found himself a woman, a good woman. They got married and they take care of her two kids. They live in that little house up on the corner on Gose City Road. “Well, one day I go up there and I walk in the house and there’s Clay at the kitchen table cryin’ his eyes out. I says: ‘Helen, what’s the matter with ‘im?’ and she says: ‘He just found out he killed a man, Mr. Lindemann.’ So I says ‘Helen, grab me a beer,’ and I go and sit next to him and he starts telling me the story about what happened the day before. “He was out at Bar-L, and he’d had a few beers. Of course, the guys get mouthy and they pick a fight. So he winds up outside in the parkin’ lot fightin’ with one of ‘em—that’s Ralph he’s had fights with before – and they’re beatin’ up on each other, and he’s gettin’ tired and scared because Ralph’s a head taller than he is, and weighs more than he does. So when Clay lands him a good punch in the gut, Ralph falls down on the parkin’ lot, and that’s when he turns around and high-tails it to his truck and gets back home. “The next day he gets up and he goes over to R.T.’s for a burger and fries, and he learns about the redneck found dead in the parkin’ lot of a bar up in Wichita. Clay starts feelin’ real sick and heads home. “When I got to his house he and Helen had been talkin’ about what to do with the kids while he was in jail, and what she was goin’ to do, and that he’d

Elizabeth Bourland Hawley

“That’s Clay, their new foreman. Their previous foreman, heck, he’d go out to the Dairy Queen in Archer City, and he’d tell one of the cattle ranchers that if he saw his cattle on the Taylors’ side of the fence again he’d shoot ever’ one of ‘em. Sure enough, if some of ‘em cattle got on the other side, Flem shot ‘em and then buried ‘em with a backhoe. He did that with three bulls all in one afternoon.” He sipped coffee from his mug, leaned on the truck, and pushed back his hat. He squinted in the sun. “But Clay’s done good,” he said, picking up his story, “and he’ll keep on doin’ good. Let me tell you about Clay. It was some years ago his ﬁrst wife threw him out of the house because of all his drinkin’. So for a while he was livin’ in a tent behind that old rusted school bus in Holliday. He couldn’t live in the school bus, though, because Bubba was livin’ in it with ‘em two other bums. “Clay didn’t have no job, no place to live, and no car insurance. The sheriff, he pulled him over one day and he says:

Marie Neudorf Mixed media 12” x 12” x 6”

ruined their lives. So I says: ‘Helen, Clay, y’all sit tight. I’m gonna go see Joe’ – that’s the sheriff – so I get in my truck and drive over to the sheriff’s ofﬁce and I says to him: ‘Joe, what’re you goin’ to do about Clay and the fellow he went and killed last night?’ Joe, he gives me a look, and he puts on his hat and we drive over to Clay’s house. “Well, we’re drivin’ back and Joe’s thinkin’ to himself out loud and he reckons Clay’s on about the shooting at P-3. Some white trash that’s already been arrested that mornin’ went and shot Ralph in the stomach. Ralph had crawled across the parkin’ lot and died sittin’ in his Camaro. From what Joe had gathered durin’ the investigation, he knew Ralph had been at the Bar-L before and then he’d drove down to P-3, picked a ﬁght, and got shot by that white trash.

“I ﬁgured right quick it wasn’t Clay after all, and he hadn’t heard about the arrest, and he’d been cryin’ all day for nothin’. “So when Clay sees my truck comin’ up the road he gets dressed and starts sayin’ good-bye to Helen and the kids, and they’re all cryin’. “It took a while for ‘im to believe Joe, but ol’ Clay, he’s been whistlin’ and singin’ ever since he found out he didn’t kill no man, and he ain’t touched no more beer, either.” He sat his mug down on the truck and folded his arms. His eyes looked far into the horizon. “Yep. Clay’s done good. He’ll keep on doin’ good, too.”

Adan Leanos Linocut 7” x 6”

Among the Thorns Gina Walker

Inspiration does not descend from the ether, an expression fully formed. It sneaks in, waiting to be noticed. A word, a phrase, an image, a random thought hidden among the thorns of life. Jacob Pike Bronze 7” x 5” x 5”

February Mandy Cross

Breathe in, bleed out. Breathe in, bleed out. Anger/guilt and saline frustration All in part because of liesa fallacy of miscommunication. Where’s the instinct, Where’s the trust? Ashes to ashes, Dust to dust. Go ahead, walk away, It’s not right to ask you to stay. Your choice had a consequence, One for which I have no defense. Julie Stormer Stoneware 19” x 5” x 4 1/2”

Don’t Say It Crystal Land

And then he said it: “This isn’t working.” So I walked away. I found someone else. A nice guy, charming. And then he said it. “Will you marry me?” I didn’t love him, So I walked away. The next one hit me When he drank his Scotch, And then he said it. “Oh God. I’m sorry.” It happened again, So I walked away. He came back that night, Bottle in his hands, And then he said it. So I walked away.

Matthew Turner Silver print 9” x 6”

2006 Vinson Award Winner Our Provincetown Elizabeth Bourland Hawley

Clouds that came over us did not concern the two of us for soon we would dine then return to our cottage by the sea after clam chowder lobster and wine the wind rose and brought with it the smell of salty air as we walked beneath a disappearing moon

The ashes had turned my purple jacket gray and I turned to see our dear friend John who had stood with me and prayed by us every day though almost blinded I could see a view of John that made him seem magical I thrived with him

you said I love you entering the cottage we tossed our hats I said I love you back then made you tea

That day I removed my coat John was watching me but threw his arms around me to hug me and hold us three

Toward the shore that faced the west a seagull flew in from the coast - it always did waited for you on the porch for your unbuttered toast The morning after the storm I did not see the bird and fretted as if I thought its absence foretold your final breath Despairing, I held you gazing at me you drew your last breath finally pain-free Later to release you I raised your urn high and all around me the wind rose in a swirl, an ashen cloud made up of you As you floated heavenward the sun blinded me, the wind nipped me I knew your love would accompany me during time without you till I joined you in my own rest

Rachel Tompkins Digital print 12” x 9”

Lauren Miller Drawing 14” x 10”

Editor’s Choice [Untitled] Anthony J. Anderson

Everyone dies on a beautiful day. As the body shuts down in silence, and the heart forgets all violence The still green Junipers sway. Everyone dies on a beautiful day. When the soul tames the breath, and rides an exhale chased by death A child’s imagination will play. Everyone dies on a beautiful day. As the eyelids ﬂutter to a dramatic close, and the face forms its ﬁnal pose Memories provoke laughter in glorious array. Whether the sun comes out or hides away, Everyone dies on a beautiful day.

High School Art Winner Samantha Smith, Wichita Falls H.S. Digital

2007 High School Poetry Award And Then She Cried Melissa LeRitz Notre Dame High School

She was So bold, so sure So much better than me I loved her from the beginning. She made me stronger, and yet didn’t care I was the last thing on her mind I wanted her to like me Wanted to be her Time went by, life went on Trials came and triumphs were few, But they were more precious than anything else I became so much closer to her She doesn’t even know I kept loving her But then it happened. I didn’t know what I could do! This was the only thing that she didn’t control She couldn’t make this better for me even if she wanted I loved this strong girl, who was always there There was nothing I could do Sadness engulfed me She remained calm How could she? She was always so strong Never failing, always so sure of everything I wanted to be her, but she couldn’t see I would & had always loved her And then she cried. As did I

2007 High School Prose Award The Bus

Melissa LeRitz Notre Dame High School

She doesn’t know how much she’s helped. On the edge, about to go off the side, naked and showing all the bad and what little good I had left, in front of everyone, but there she comes: bearing clothing, a parachute and a brighter future.

passengers want to get off in the beginning, but the longer they remain seated, the more comfortable they become. My driver stopped at this cliff. They had slowly begun to drive me insane, so I was eager to get off. I burst through the bus doors, and sure enough there was my footman, the seventh of my friends. They call him Fate. However, this was not my friend Fate whom I remembered from before. The last time Fate and I had crossed paths, he had a pleasant smile and light eyes. He spoke gently to me, and warmth radiated from his smile into my soul. He told me that he and I had a great friendship, and as long as I remained on the road I was on, he would always be there to greet me with a smile. Not too long after this meeting, I stepped out of that covered bus stop and onto the bus.

So I jumped, but not in the direction I was going; no, the side I had originally intended to jump from had sharp, pointed rocks at the bottom with no chance of escape. But I decided to run. Run through the crowd that had been watching me, provoking, and, dare I say, encouraging me to jump to my ﬁnal destination: those rocks. I ran as fast as I could, passing the people I had hurt along the way. Among them were my old friends, standing in respect to the importance they had played in my life: Fear, Anger, Lies, Regret and Resentment, and Hatred. I met those six friends of mine on a bus. Fear is the bus driver. He drives us all around, and he alone decides what direction to travel and where our destination lay. Lies eventually grows bored of being driven around by Fear and thus occupies his time by antagonizing Anger. Anger sometimes tries to overcome Lies by ignoring him, but Lies’ presence is always known, and he always successfully penetrates Anger’s mind. Anger tends to sit alone in the back of the bus, but she radiates throughout the bus and everyone knows where she sits and what she is capable of. Regret and Resentment are twin sisters who are never separated. They are always at the back of the bus, looking out the back window, watching everything that has already passed them, and they wish wholeheartedly that they could return to every place they did not see the ﬁrst time through because they were too busy longing for the previous location.

“Fear, Anger, Lies, Regret, Resentment, and Hatred.” Fate had not betrayed me. There he was with a smile despite that Fear had taken me on a divergent path. But then I realized that Fate had changed; he had a smile, yes, but it was of a devious nature. He greeted me and took my hand. I wish I could say he comforted me, but he just made me feel all the more uneasy. We walked a while and approached the edge of the cliff. “What are you doing,” I asked as Fate kicked a rock over the edge.

Hatred is Anger’s son who was born on that bus. Some would assume that Lies is Hatred’s estranged father, but that is merely speculation. Hatred is extremely obedient of his mother, and she is the only thing Hatred feeds off of. While Anger sits by herself on the bus, she works through Hatred. Hatred grows along with his mother and as they grow, Hatred has more and more work to do. The cycle of this bus is continuous, and all the

He turned to me. “I’ve missed you!” he exclaimed as he hugged me, and for a brief second, I felt his warmth return to me. “You’ve forgotten about me, haven’t you?” I shook my head, but honestly I hadn’t thought of him since I boarded the bus. “Well, I know I haven’t forgotten about you. You have always been on my mind. I miss talking to 24

“Oh, this and that. Once you asked Fear where he was going, but he asked you to take your seat, so you did, never questioning him again. Another time, you were arguing with Hatred, but you eventually gave into his will and ideas. It was hard watching... I almost felt replaced.” Fate said sadly. His smile had completely left his face, his head was down, and his arms hung pathetically by his sides.

you. But you have new friends now. Are they better friends to you than I’ve been?” he asked, almost pleadingly. I contemplated this; I had never thought of them as my friends up until this point. “They have never left me since I’ve met them,” I responded, almost proud of them. Fate looked almost amused with this. “Neither have I,” he replied. “I was with you that day at the bus stop. I yelled for you, but you must have not heard me. As the bus was pulling away I couldn’t bear the thought of life without you, so I started running. I couldn’t catch up, so I lept onto the back bumper. I made my way to the top of the bus and found the window next to you. I banged on that window as hard as I possibly could. You were busythough, so I let you go about your business.”

“I could never replace you. I want to spend time with you now,” I said. Fate’s crooked smile returned to his face, replacing his sadness, almost as if he had planned this, making me uneasy yet again. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “You see, I’ve been jealous of your new friends. You’ve had all the time in the world to talk to them, but now it’s time for you and me to talk.” It was now that I realized that there was a crowd behind me, a crowd who could see everything about me; my good, my bad and particularly how my new “friends” had affected and changed me. It was now that I realized I didn’t like myself anymore than they did, and I did not like where I was headed. “Come on. Let’s go,” Fate says motioning his head to the openness of the area down below, ﬁlled with those threatening rocks. “What?” I asked, scared to death. “This is where I have followed you to. This is where you have led me. You let Fear drive you to this and all I did was follow.” I must have appeared as confused as I looked because he continued, “You don’t understand, do you? Nobody ever does. You see, I don’t shape you... you shape me! You let Fear and Anger, the twins, and Lies shape you; in turn, they have also shaped me. Indirectly, of course, but nevertheless, here we are. But now we are forced to follow through.” So I stood there next to Fate, looking down at those rocks, wishing I had never boarded that bus. I began preparing myself for the jump. Behind me in the crowd were all the people I had unknowingly hurt while I was on that bus. Forgotten people, who I loved yet abandoned. My friends, my family, even strangers all looked at me, ready for me to make my move with Fate. They were almost happy that I was about to vanish from their lives. Going back would not be a life, I decided. I looked at Fate one last time, smiled weakly and nodded, trying to express my uneasy readiness.

High School Art Winner Christi Mongomery, Wichita Falls H.S. Acrylic

I couldn’t imagine that I had ever been too busy to talk to Fate. He had been so warm, and so loving before. No, he must be mistaken, I thought. “What was I so busy doing?” I asked.

Then I looked up and saw her. 25

VOICES from the past... Celebrating 30 years as an MSU student publication

The Storm (1997) Amy Thompson

The storm It rages within A mass of confusion A confusion of feelings Pushing and pulling Tearing and shredding My heart In all directions Into a million pieces The anger thunders The sadness falls The fear chills The pain howls As I cower away I try to fight the anger But it dominates my actions I try to fight the sadness But the tears still fall I try to fight the fear But in silence I remain I try to fight the pain But my heart breaks more I have but one request For the thunder to quiet The rain to cease The cold to disappear The wind to die For peace to overcome me Even for just a moment Yet when it starts to calm And there is hope for peace The storm rages once more Worse than before For I seem to dissolve within And become a mutilated pile Of pain Of hurt Of anger Of fear Of sadness Of rejection And when it becomes too much I become The Storm

Lindsey Burks Digital 6” x 9”

Nightmares (1987) Robin Price

Darkness envelops my state of consciousness. Images of terrifying tangibility dance through my intellectuality. True panic never ceases in this cloud of confusion. I am blind to the fragments slowly ﬁtting into perspective. Visions of fright, torturous paroxysms, and violent fury, slowly settle in turbulent waves of supposed sanity. I gradually realize that these beastly dreams are nothing more than the reality of existence. For I am not asleep. Instead I am struggling to stay awake in this bed of bewildering chaos called mortality. 26

The Joker (1977) Dale Heath

With his toothy, side-glanced grin The little boy said, “I know you’re foolin’ me.” As he leaned on the wall And watched his father walk away He thought, “Aw, that didn’t hurt.” --and that the joke was on them. When he watched them not watching him He fought the tear in his right eye And thought he told them both “I hate you.” He awoke in a cell In decay.

VOICES Submission Guidelines Cover Sheet: All entries must include a cover sheet with your name, phone number and/or email address, and the title of each work you are submitting. Multiple entries may be listed on one cover sheet. The following statement must be included along with your signature and date. “By signing below, I verify that all works I submit for consideration in VOICES 2007 are original,that I am their only author, and that I have the authority to offer them for publication in Voices.” For convenience, you may download a cover sheet from our web site at: http://libarts.mwsu.edu/english/voices/index.asp

Format: Poems may be up to twenty lines. Prose is limited to six typed, double-spaced pages. Do not include your name on any pages, but do number each page and write at the bottom of all but the last page “more.” Editors reserve the right to make changes necessary in ﬁtting winning entries to the page.

Submission Options: 1. Drop off a disc or hard copy in the VOICES box across the hall from Bea Wood 210. 2. Email entries in Micorsoft Word or RTF format to voices@mwsu.edu 3. Mail disc or hard copies to: VOICES 3410 Taft Blvd. 12725 Wichita Falls, TX. 76308-2095

Deadline: Midnight, Friday, Nov. 16, 2007. Don’t forget the cover sheet! Selection Process: Blind jury and editorial review.

“It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story.” Native American Proverb 27

Casey Meurer Watercolor 18” x 24”