MCR Spring 2012 Final Small For Web Locked 1

Developing the SenSeS
Marine Creek Reflections
2012 FIne arTs lITerary Journal TarranT CounTy College norThwesT
Volume XIII
When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly. ~ Virginia woolf
Before the Seed Amanda Jackson
editorial Staff
Theresa D. Heflin, B.S., M.S., Ed.S. Faculty Editor
Patricia ann Kimble

Graphic Designer
Chip Cogswell
Videographer
rita short
Staff Photographer
liliana rodriguez, english major

General Editor
Student Staff Editors

matthew Cowles, English Major Victoria Forman, English Major amanda Jackson, Film Studies Major Kyle Jackson, Film Studies Major Kaylan Kocsis, Psychology Major leutisha mergerson-hill, Humanities Major Tabith olive, Cosmetology Major Cameron stewart, Anthropology Major Kimberly VanKirk, English Major
Marine Creek Reflection 2012 received invaluable assistance from the following:
Rick Heyser, Ph.D., and Staff, Tarrant County College Northeast Printing Services Christine Hubbard, Ph.D., Dean of Humanities, Tarrant County College Northwest Campus Teri Tooley, Humanities, Tarrant County College Northwest Campus
ii
editors note
As artists it is our job to take in the aromas, the sounds, the movements, the tastes, and the experiences we feel and turn them into something more tangible, more universal: a form of art. Without zeal or fervor from the staff, we wouldnt have been able to portray, adequately, the essence of each creation. Every perspective spoken leads one train of thought to another, and once that materialized, the magazine took a life of its own, overflowing with each of our thoughts merging into one soul. Here lay the truths of artists who yearn to share their experiences with all who perjure themselves; step out of the lie and into the truth of each of your senses.
liliana rodriguez, general editor Marine Creek Reflections: Developing the Senses, 2012
iii
Redwoods Sandra McCurdy
iv
table of Contents
Before the Seed ..............................Amanda Jackson ................... i Redwoods .......................................Sandra McCurdy ....................iv OCD ABCs .......................................Tabitha Olive ........................... 2 Dirty Sink (Art) .................................Sharon Turner .......................... 2 Broken Mirrors .................................Kimberly VanKirk ..................... 3 Hypnotize (Art) ...............................Lilly Rodriguez ......................... 3 Daddys Own Pinocchio ................Arielle Washington.............. 45 Spinning (Art) .................................A.J. Marie ................................ 6 Barringer Crater (Art) .....................Ken Griffin ............................ 67 Concentric Circles .........................Katie Beach ............................ 7 To the Dead Man in the Bentley in North Hollywood ............Elijah Mendoza....................... 8 Crown of the Saint ..........................Anthony Garcia ...................... 8 Oidipous .........................................Alex Chrestopoulos .......... 913 Cherub (Art) ...................................Leutisha Mergerson-Hill ........ 13 Uprooted .........................................Kimberly VanKirk ................... 14 Tracking Method (Art) ...................Jonathan Quinn ................... 14 Vestige ............................................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 15 House in Izmir (Art) .........................Michelle Kaytaz .................... 15 Entropy ............................................Brittany Gonzales.................. 16 Through the Woods ........................ED Kimmell ...................... 1617 NonReturnable ...............................Peter Frazis ...................... 1819 Coming Home (Art) .......................Patricia Ann Kimble .............. 19 Wanderer ........................................Leutisha Mergerson-Hill ........ 20 Incognito (Art) ................................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 20 On the Prowl (Art)...........................Patricia Ann Kimble .............. 21 Texas Grit (Art) ................................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 22 Star Gazer .......................................Leutisha Mergerson-Hill ........ 23 Hot Strawberry Jam ........................Constance Siegel ........... 2425 Plenty (Art) ......................................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 24 Yellow ..............................................Arielle Washington................ 26 Glory (Art) .......................................Leutisha Mergerson-Hill ........ 26 No Longer Home ............................Tabitha Olive ......................... 27 Tracks (Art)......................................Amanda Jackson ................ 27 Deal with the Devil ..........................Cameron Stewart ........... 2830 Sound of Vice (Art) ........................Anthony Garcia .................... 29 Birds Eye View (Art) ........................Lilly Rodriguez ................. 3031 Antelope Glow (Art) .......................ED Kimmell ............................ 32 Antelope Sand (Art).......................ED Kimmell ............................ 33 Discarda .........................................Jennifer Hines ....................... 34 Empty Black Birds ...........................Amanda Jackson ................ 35 Iron Fly (Art) ....................................A.J. Marie .............................. 35 The Final Call .................................Mariah R. Fournier ................ 36 Circumlocution (Art) ......................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 36 Our Brothers ....................................Virginia-Ann Bernal .............. 37 Splinter (Art)....................................Analeigh ............................... 37 The Moment ...................................Katie Beach .................... 3839 Nelumbo nucifera ..........................Victoria Forman .................... 39 Pretend Romance ..........................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 40 Ink ....................................................Leutisha Mergerson-Hill ........ 41 Angels Tattoo (Art) .........................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 41 SL33PING B34UTY ............................Alex Perez ........................ 4246 Lazy Dreams (Art) ...........................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 47 A dimming light ..............................Amanda Jackson ................ 48 Free Imprisonment (Art).................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 48 Soul-diers of War .............................Chloe Rodriguez................... 49 Savannah (Art) ..............................Leutisha Mergerson-Hill ........ 49 The Fire ............................................Cameron Stewart ................. 50 Steel Men (Art) ...............................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 50 Silent Mourning Sun .......................Kimberly VanKirk ................... 51 Horizon (Art) ...................................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 51 Flying Solo .......................................Tabitha Olive ................... 5253 Grounded (Art) ..............................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 53 Painful Love .....................................Cameron Stewart ................. 54 Slate (Art)........................................Lilly Rodriguez ................. 5455 Mariposa Street ..............................Nick Zinicola ......................... 56 Target the Interloper .......................Kyle Jackson ......................... 57 Coming Home II (Art) ....................Patricia Ann Kimble .............. 57 My Burning Conscience ................Matt Cowles.................... 5861 Growth (Art)....................................Amada Jackson................... 58 Missions Impossible ........................Kaylan Kocsis .................. 6263 Hopeful (Art) ...................................Patricia Ann Kimble .............. 63 Encuentro .......................................Kendy Gmez ....................... 64 Descry (Art) ....................................Patricia Ann Kimble .............. 64 The Ballerina ...................................Brittany Gonzales.................. 65 Shadow Dancer (Art).....................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 65 Doug Griffin: Special Agent Teacher ...................Mitch Wells ...................... 6667 Away From the Crowd ....................Angela Jenkins ..................... 68 Away From the Crowd (Art) ...........Heather Braman ................... 68 Model-Citizen ..................................Harry Monck ......................... 69 Bound (Art) .....................................Heather Braman ................... 69 Cape Buffalo (Art) ..........................Shirley Ann Gangwere ......... 70 Boss (Art) ........................................Lilly Rodriguez ................. 7071 Git R Dun (Art) ...............................Lilly Rodriguez ....................... 71 2012 Contributors .......................................................................... 72
Faculty Contributor All others are Student Contributors
CD CD O O OC OCD ABCs D
OC D
Tabitha Olive
Abhorrent absorbing anomaly Bacillus, bacterium. Crawling, creeping, carnivorously consuming cohorts Detrimentally destroying, dispatching, devouring, deviously decaying dermis. Execrate encroaching enemies, Filth fornicates, filling follicles. Glutinously grasping, gregariously gorging Hysterical! Hideous hermaphrodites hiding; Indigenous individuals infest intestines Jilted! Juggernauts jockeying jurisdiction; Kinesthesia kidnappers, kindly keep killing Loquacious leering lazy leeches, lustfully lick legs. Murderous microbes mangle malleable morose meat, making me mad! Neurotically nauseated! Nails nudge nefarious node, nipping needlessly Odious organisms overwhelming oneself -Purge prickly parasitic pathogens, Quiet qualms. Quickly queasy Reckless requiem, remove repugnant raunchy remains. Scouring should surely sterilize, suicide supplicates soap Thistly thorny tainted tomb. Underground undistinguishable ulceration Vile vicious venomous virus veraciously violates vault. Wretched worms writhe wriggle worrying wenis. Xenophobia! Xeneclasia! Yclept Zombie, zinger!
Dirty Sink
Sharon Turner
Hypnotize
Lilly Rodriguez
Kimberly VanKirk
Mask me. Bury my flaws; Afford me an illusion of confidence. Own me. Define my existence; Morph me into a vacant symbol. Flaunt me. Parade my perversion; Offer me fame by means of infamy.
Broken Mirrors
Stain me. Defile my skin; Smother me in a layer of filth. Break me. Shatter my worth; Strip me down to hollow bones. Fail me. Neglect my desire; Leave me splayed about broken mirrors.
Developing the Senses
Daddys Own Pinocchio
Arielle Washington
Why did you do it? Ive never really given a clear answer to that question. It wasnt just an act of mindless violence, like an anchorwoman on Channel 7 has claimed, and I havent had a psychotic break, like my lawyer continues to argue. Everyone asks me Why? and I say You wouldnt understand. But now, as I sit with these chains chafing dark, red marks into my wrists, staring into the deeply confused and slightly appalled eyes of my mother, I think she could understand. Why did you do it? Mom pleads. There are some tears welling up in her eyes, now. I try to lie, try to save face. Im crazy, I tell her, deadpan. She moves further away, grows visibly colder. Tell me why, she commands, her body seeming rigid. I was possessed, I lie, remembering hearing that from some evangelistic television show. She wraps her arms around her chest and scoots further away in the steely chair. I can sense that she wants to leave, but Im not ready for that not yet. I do owe her the truth. Please, she whispers, her last attempt. I just I take in a shaky breath while my
own tears begin to pool in the hollows of dark purplish-blue circles under each of my eyes. Mom scoots forward and stoically unlocks the grip of protection shes placed around herself. She brings a hand to my stubbly, shaved head and brushes across the top of it gently, like she used to. Only back then, I had long, blonde hair where the stubble now lies. Mom used to call me a Princess; Dad would grimace and finish his umpteenth glass of brandy. Go ahead, Sweetheart, Mom says, quietly. Tell me why. I wanted him to love me, I whisper. I wanted to be a real boy. Mom begins to sob and shakes her head. She stops brushing her hand across my scalp and grips my rough, bruised hands; she understands. She croaks, Oh, God, Im sorry; my God, Im so sorry. My parents had two children before me Emmett and Chris. Dad looked so forward to having a third son; he said a household of men is a household of Gods own choosing. From the time I was born, he never understood. Dad did all he could to turn me into the third son he thought he deserved. I was given Hot Wheels for birthdays and mini Jeep
Wranglers for Christmases. Pink was not a color I was accustomed to, unless it was in Moms closet or bag of cosmetics. Even then, I only saw it when I snuck through her things to take a prohibitive peek. When I was 9, Dad signed me up for baseball and soccer and set up wrestling practices with my brothers. The bruises and scratches upset Mom, but Dad told her she worried too much; I was a tomboy, I could handle it. I was his tough little soldier. He loved me. When I was 12, I started developing; Mom wanted to get me a training bra, but Dad told her that was out of the question. He gave me some of Chris hand-me-down undershirts and said to pile them on until those things were gone. When I was 13, I got my period for the first time at a monster truck rally with Dad and my brothers. They all laughed at me, and screamed it to anyone who would listen. Emmett punched me in my chest and called me Bloody Mary. Chris pulled at my dirty ponytail and said I was finally a slut. Dad guzzled down his beer, patted them on the back, said Boys will be boys! and gave me a dirty look when I began to cry. He told me I was disgusting; he said I was a disappointment. Mom took over when I was 14. She let my hair grow longer until it reached the middle of my back. She took me to the mall to get new clothes and nail polish, and my closet began to look like hers. Dad only said, Pass me the salt, at dinner; when I asked him if I could watch TV with him, Get out of my sight and do your homework.
At 16, I was beautiful. I hated it. Mom brushed my hair every night and asked me about the boys at school. She bought me make-up and asked me if I was happy. Dad never said goodnight. He took my brothers to concerts and bars; he ignored me when I asked if I could come along. At 17, I made a new friend. He was prettier than me. I gave him the make-up Mom bought me and he shaved my head. I borrowed his dads hunting clothes and his dirty combat boots. I asked him if I looked like a real boy and he said, Honey, youre a fathers dream. I came home and Mom was gone to the store. Dad drank his whiskey in our old arm chair and my brothers were wrestling on the living room floor. I walked in and smiled, and Dad spit at me and said, Youre a filthy queer. Emmett called me stupid, and Chris threw Dads bottle at me. They all laughed. I walked up the stairs to Moms closet, and found the pink shoebox up top. I took the emergency gun and came down the stairs, where my brothers wrestled and Dad drank. I killed them all, one by one, for the names and the neglect and the hate. I didnt cry real men dont show their emotions, and I was real. Dad wouldnt think I was disgusting, then; he would be proud. He would understand. Now here I sit, with my hands warm in Moms, and she tells me she loves me, her precious daughter. The guards make her leave soon after, because our time is up, and I tell her I love her, too. I am sorry for what happened. I only wanted to be a real boy.
Spinning
A. J. Marie
Concentric Circles
Katie Beach
I run in circles. Wherever I turn, there is something to do, someone else Im supposed to be. I do my hair. I do my homework. I do my time, I do my time, I do my time, I do. Always someone asks, Whatre you up to? Whats for dinner? Always someone demanding, Get dressed, were going out. Always someone knocks at my door again, in need of attention. Laundry needs washing; CASA needs more volunteers. Dogs need feeding I should study for that test. Look pretty for the charity fundraiser. Memorize that song for my cousins wedding. Dont forget the dinner party. Did I take time to write today? Days are punctuated by to do to do to do Nights are stripped of solace by a boner in my back. Be skinny, be pretty, be smart, be sweet. Like a hamster on a wheel, I run in circles. Running to get nowhere; running to catch a moment I can call my own.
A moment of silence--A moment of peace--A moment of serenity. The breeze catches my hair; the roses tickle my nose; the sun vibrates my skin. I breath deeply, fill my lungs with cool, fresh heaven. I nuzzle my toes into the soft pillow of loose earth. For a moment Im alive and Im dead and I am left alone.
I see my moment up ahead. Its just out of reach, one rung up on the wheel. I smell a faint whiff of roses and warm grass. The hairs on my arms reach out to the sunlight. Yet something dark inside me says, Ill never reach it. It pits in my stomach, churning bile up my throat. I feel a hopeless sinking in the back of my eyes. Im never going to get it. And still I run in circles. I run in circles, and I am exhausted.
Barringer Crater
Ken Griffin
To the Dead Man in the Bentley in North Hollywood

Elijah Mendoza
Youd made the cop cars angry as you circled Highways through Los Angeles for hours. It seemed you didnt know where you were going But, if you escaped, the triumph was ours And so we watched you creeping up the 10, A chopper and a dozen cars in tow, Until your hundred-thousand dollar ride Ran out of gas. Reports came in that you Were packing heat and almost shot your girl. The paparazzi gathered as if you Were a glitzy, reckless star. The cops prepared For war. We didnt learn till later you Were Pakistani and sold your business when The economy went bad. The white Bentley Was just a rental. Last night, we watched you sit Inside that car while SWAT and CHP Made a perimeter around the block, Clasped their guns, and waited for the black truck To come so they could neutralize the threat. No one realized that youd taken a Glock And put a bullet straight through your temple. We stared at your dead body late into The night until the officers smashed out A window and found the bloody mess. We knew You were dead. You werent famous. The news crews left. I didnt know if you had won or lost, But I hoped that you were in a better place Than Southern California. You were the richest Man on the street last night. That was a dream Of yours, Im sure. We arent that different. Ive been so mad I wished I had a gun; Thats when I knew it was love. At least you went On your own terms. You showed us all, dead man Whose name wasnt announced. Forget your name; We know your anger. Weve felt gut-check despair. We know your story. Its ours. This is your poem.
Crown of the Saint

Anthony Garcia
OidipOus
Alex Chrestopoulos
Translated and Adapted from the original Greek text, with apologies to my great friend, Sophocles.
Teiresias, whose omniscience exacts truth through sightlessness, teach us what is unspoken. Let us learn what is only known in Heaven. Expose this malady which has fixed itself to our city. In your sightless sight we place our hopes. You are our last hope. We have been counseled by Apollo, that the only way to rid the city of its curse is to find Laios murderers and either slay them or cast them out of Thebes. Restrain not the prophetic voice of Colymbas. Tread all the passageways to prophecy to free your city, free yourself, free me, and free everyone from the charred finger of death brought to us by the contamination of this corruption. Help us, we beg of you. The measure of a mans worth is assessed by how he best makes use of his power for good. Teiresias Alas, see how my worth diminishes when no one benefits from my wisdom. Had I recalled what I knew I would not have heeded your summons. oidipous What is this? What value shall I place in the apprehension of your words. Teiresias Let me return home; I to my troubles and you to yours, if I may prevail upon you. oidipous It is unlawful to cheat your beloved city of Heavens response. Teiresias I see that fashion may be attired in kindred cloth if I answer with equal fire. Therefore I shall not respond to your reproach. oidipous For Gods sake, do not turn away. On our knees we shall entreat you, as suppliants to tell us what you know. Teiresias You shall know nothing. No good to you shall come from the evil I know. oidipous What are you saying? That you have the knowledge but will not share it? That you will let the city be thus destroyed? Teiresias I will not cause either you or myself pain. Why do you try to shame me into giving you answers that I cannot bestow? oidipous You are evil wrapped in contempt. You would enrage a stone. Will you not speak? You would lead us to knowledge and then leave us unquenched. Teiresias You blame me for my temper. Do not find fault with those that dwell in the same house as you. oidipous Anyone would be angry to hear what you said. You debase our city.
Teiresias What I cover in silence shall come all the same. oidipous If it is fated then fate has brought you here to convey the message. Teiresias I will not go beyond what I have already said. You may therefore rage on like the beasts of the field. oidipous Then you shall know the tempest of my thoughts. You are evils bedfellow. It was you who plotted to bring about the murder. Though you could not see, you sought out others who could affect the deed. This I proclaim. Teiresias I will not lay with that accusation. Now you shall know the truth you seek and now you shall bear the yoke of your own edict. From this day on address not these men or myself. It is you who fetches fiery offense to scorch our land. oidipous Do you imagine that your feeble finger pointing will aid your escape? Teiresias Why should I run? Truth is my armor. oidipous Who teaches the teacher to recite these cunning words? Certainly not the gods. Teiresias It was you who knotted my words into your noose. You goaded me to speak against my will. oidipous What words? Speak them again so that I may scruple this unscrupulous thing. Teiresias Did you not understand me before? Or do you mock my words. oidipous Repeat them again so that I may appreciate your craft. Teiresias Like a dog that smells his own scent, you chase your own tail. oidipous You will not rejoice that you have twice spoken these words. Teiresias Be sure that I will say more that will fill you with anger. oidipous This volley in folly shall fall far short. Do what you will. Teiresias You do not realize that you are joined to your strumpet spouse and that through the decency of wedlock you are indecently wedded.
10
oidipous Do you think you will always be able to rejoice in saying things like this? Teiresias I rejoice in the strength of the truth. oidipous If strength is there that may be true, but not for you. This is not for you because you are blind; blind in your ears, blind in your mind, and blind in your eyes. Teiresias Observe how well I wear your chides for one day soon they will weigh you down under their weight. oidipous Your words lose their way in the darkness of your sight. You live in the thickest night and not I and not anyone else who is able to see the light of day should fear your words. Teiresias It is not for me to achieve your fated fall, since it becomes Apollo to reveal what is to be brought about. oidipous If this is not your invention then it must be Creons. Teiresias Do not lay this misery at Creons feet but see what flaw lies at your own. oidipous Do you presume that this wealth and power and vastness of skill that I have acquired through lifes challenges do not grant me the skill to see that you have come as the muse of jackals? This howling and baying cloaked in anguish for Thebes, smacks of envy for Theban riches. Those unsought for riches bestowed to me by the citizens of this city. And Creon . . . . . dear trusted Creon, who first befriended me, now comes with sugar words tainted with the poisons of deceit and betrayal. Sweet Creon! Thoughtful Creon, who brings this blind siren who weaves delicate melodies of deception to ensnare me, hoping to secure his pitiless profit. Show us your profound skill. You have none? Here, I will lend you some. It was I, divine counterfeit, who weaned this city from that bitch. This riddled city whose prophet could not provide respite. Not through birds or the words from some god, any god. It was I and I alone, Oidipous, who caused her song to cease, without the help of birds to tell me; I, Oidipous, whom you now seek to dethrone so you may acquire a perch at Creons court. Tears! Tears and shame are the only reward for you and the plotter of this pretense and were you not so old, you might learn from your punishment, the price of your pride. Choros Oidipous, would you not agree that what was spoken here was uttered in anger? Our purposes are better served if we if we resolve how to best achieve Apollos command.
11
Teiresias I may not hold sway over this dominion, but in words we are equals. On this privilege we are peers and to no one can I be counted as a slave except to Apollo. Nor will I scrape and graze at the feet of Creon. Therefore hear me. Though surrounded by darkness I see clearly, while you, bedecked by gold and dazzled by the eminence of your own bearing, are blind. You see not the evil that surrounds you, you see not the evil that strokes you, and you see not the evil that you spawn. Do you know from whom you are spawned? You are hated by those closest to you, both of this world and beneath it as well. The doubled-headed curse created by your mother and father shall drive you limping out of this land. Lame and blind shall you rule in the kingdom of darkness. Who in Kithairon will hear your screams and offer you refuge? Your cries shall be joined by the one who taught you the meaning of marriage and within whose house you found tender yet fatal haven. Many other ills there are that will render the uncommon Oidipous common. Moreover, whose children shall your children be children to? Therefore, though you smear my words and Creons name, no mortal man shall come to be known for a worse evil than you. And no man will find punishment more complete and absolute than Oidipous. oidipous I cannot bear this cackling any longer. Take your lies to the Stygian pit from whence you came. Darken my dwelling with your vacant villainous gaze no longer. Away with you. Teiresias It was you who sought me; otherwise I would not have come. oidipous I sought counsel to help us bear our misery not an ass that bears us contempt. Teiresias In your mind as an ass I was born, but to your parents, who bore you, I was wise. oidipous What do you mean? Stay where you are! To whom do I owe my birth? Teiresias On this day you shall own the disgrace of knowing who bore you and who bears you. And from that truth shall your downfall be sprung. oidipous You speak much in the same way as that bitch of a Sphinx that I banished before you. Teiresias Then speak, Oidipous, he who needs not teaching to undo the sirens riddle. oidipous Scoff at me if you like, but you will soon come to know my greatness. Teiresias Yes your greatness. Your arrogance, your conceit, your smugness shall find a balance on the scale with your humiliation, your indignity, and the folly of seeing the intimacy of your fornication.
12
oidipous Then it is fortunate that I saved the city; therefore, I care not for your words. Teiresias Then I take my leave. You, boy, be my eyes. oidipous Yes, be his eyes. Take him away since he provides us with nothing but impediments. Remove him from my sight. Would that I were blessed with his blindness so that I did not have to look upon his face or waste my time with his wattling words. Teiresias You shall receive the full bargain of my words and not until then will I take my leave. I fear not how you bend your brow toward me. You cannot destroy me. For what I am about to say will linger in your mind like a chigger in the crease of your skin. I say to you: the man, this someone that you seek, with boastful assertions of the murder of Laios, dwells in the land of Laios. A foreigner, it appears, who then became an adopted citizen of Thebes. But he will not delight in his adoption. For though he can see, he shall be blinded by the radiance of his vanity and though he is adorned in the garments of glory he shall rule as the monarch of mendicants. His staff shall be his queen that will guide him to a foreign place, and when he calls to his children they will answer him as brother. And with the woman who gave him suck shall he share the desires of a wife. Despoiler of his fathers bed, plunderer of his mothers womb, and by whom his father was extinguished. That is the curse for which you seek. That is the odious aroma that blisters the nostrils of the gods. Now, retire to your hearth and if I am witless then know that there is no wit in what I say.
Cherub
Leutisha Mergerson-Hill
13
Uprooted
Secret, hidden, deadly cur makes haste upon its host, like a tree that rots from inside out -found too late to cure. A single cell, like small mold spore, spreads disease from limb to limb. Shrivels vessels, roots and veins, weakening the strongest core. Labored breath, hollowed chest, slow crumble and collapse. Shattered kindling on the ground -Spirit thrives, Body rests.
Kimberly VanKirk
Tracking Method
Jonathan Quinn, Faculty Guest Exhibit
14
House in Izmir
Vestige
Michelle Kaytaz
Lilly Rodriguez
The derelict aged door, With inscriptions not to be forgotten. Colors rich and quaint, marked a warning; Lingering thoughts of the past. Will consume us all till we are rotten. It purloined my warmth and left me frozen. Captured by my own thoughts with no forgiveness. Stone remains. God, if only I would have known. Leaving flowers upon ruins, Would be all that remains.
15
Entropy Brittany Gonzales

The wind cannot stop time, nor the monster. The trees in their wisdom and age know no answer, And the rivers, as fast, persistent, Cannot evade its poisonous fangs. The clouds drop their shadows, And the world tries to hide in its gloom, But their attempts will be in vain Bravery of life against the futility Of entropy Will never Can never Prevail.
There is no point in trying? There is no point in not. Not to waste the energy? There cannot be waste, Except with something worth saving. So we try? Yes. For what? Time.
16
Through the Woods

ED Kimmell
17
NonReturnable
I slouched in my white pine desk in the back of the basement classroom contained in one of the decaying buildings that was added to the San Diego High School campus which was built in 1882. It was somewhat symbolic since I had already flunked Algebra once and been refused entrance into class by the same teacher for a second go-round. Now I had been put in the basement with all the other losers, incorrigibles, and kids who were 3 suspension days away from being sent to Snyder Continuation School. Snyder, as we affectionately referred to it, was a kind of prep-school for Chino State Penitentiary. If you ended up there you might as well drop out. The bell rang and there was still no teacher in the classroom, which was always a bad situation. You see, this was San Diego High School in 1965. We were the melting-pot school, the social experiment as we called it, during a time when racial tensions were at their worst. Fights were a common daily occurrence and all it took, when a teacher wasnt around, was for someone to look at somebody the wrong way and words were sure to be exchanged. I averted my gaze to the windows at the top of the classroom wall that glimpsed the feet of anyone walking to the concrete steps that descended into the no-deposit no-return teenage refuse bin. Unexpectedly, a pair of black cordovan shoes hooded by a pair of cuffed gray pants appeared at the top of the stairs. As the shoes descended the 10 steps, you could hear a hitch in the gait of the person. Not like a limp, but more like a strut. The scratch of the grit being ground into dust from his steps as he padded down each step raised goose
Peter Frazis
bumps on my arms. The rear steel and glass door opened with a vigorous force framing an extremely solid negro man with a large square head and very close cropped hair. He strutted and scowled toward the front of the classroom with his brown valise never taking his eyes off us. He then proceeded to the chalkboard where he wrote in big bold letters, Peyton C. Cook. He never said a word for what seemed an eternity until he barked the name Chrestopoulos. I thought to myself this guy thinks hes bad, well see. I didnt say anything. Again the name Chrestopoulos came out, but this time there was an accompanying growl that sounded like hed eat my heart if I didnt say anything. Here I sneered. You Greek? There was a special emphasis on the word Greek that sounded like a challenge. Yeah, I responded with all the curt I could muster. Your parents from Greece? This was not a good question to ask me. Whats it to you? I snarled. You proud to be Greek? He had now changed his position and was standing directly in front of me. No, I said defiantly. I looked around and saw the eyes of some the Mexican kids staring at me with understanding expressions. We were immigrants kids. Cooks face softened slightly as he dropped his head back. Looking down his broad negro nose he knowingly answered, Too bad. Well have to work on that.
18
That was my introduction to Coach Peyton C. Cook. He was a Black tennis coach in 1966 who would arrogantly post the score of his matches on the board every Monday morning. He was a great tennis coach and teacher who, because he was black, was only allowed to play on the public courts in Balboa Park. But for all his bravado and cockiness he genuinely cared about his students. He was keenly aware of most of our home lives and for that reason his teaching style was different. Under his boot camp supervision we all learned how to do Algebra, a subject that I found that I was especially good at. It was the first time since elementary school that I
felt a sense of self-esteem. He made me realize that it was okay to be smart and that the combination of being tough and smart was formidable. The summer after his class I took Algebra II at another school so I could graduate. I remember getting one of the highest grades in class and afterward a friend of mine derided me for trying to be a kiss-ass. It was at that moment that I began to see the world and my friends through the eyes of a black man who was proud of where he came from, who he was, and who he had become. I saw the world through the eyes of Peyton C. Cook and I thank him for that vision everyday Im alive.
Coming Home
Patricia Ann Kimble
19
Incognito
Wanderer
Been here; been there. low,
Lilly Rodriguez
Determination my fuel; I would not accept defeat. I longed for it, wanted it close again, To be one, united, as back then. I opened doors, looked outside, maybe it was there, But nothing stood behind the doors, much to my despair. I have been up one staircase and down another, In search of what I took for granted, Unable to replace it, its not like seeds that can be replanted. All of these places Ive traveled, searching for what I could not see, Something there all along, dwelling internally. Manifesting within, wanting to be freed, That beautiful young spirit of a Woman.... I finally found Me!
Still, I have not found what Ive been looking for. I have looked high, looked low, looked on top and beStill, I have not found what Ive been looking for. Circled around and around, like a merry-go-round, Side to side, in narrow places and wide, Still I have not found what Ive been looking for. Taken buses, trains, cars, and planes, To places near and far, in hopes of finding the lost thing. Traveled through winters blizzards and summers heat,
20
On the Prowl
Patricia Ann Kimble
21
Texas Grit
22
Lilly Rodriguez
Star Gazer
Bright stars over Texas, keep ona shinin. Shine on that girl who was once a twinkle in her daddys eyes. Now she prances making grown men cry. In her saffron lace lingerie, baring It for all to see. They look, They touch, They smell... Oh, how They love her scent. Powdery sweet, honeyed aura, indulged in her aroma. Her citrus sweat, tangs the tongues of patrons who promise, then tell, Of their journey through her abyss. Not guarded, not treasured. Given away for pennies, the cost of her pleasures. Bright stars over Texas, keep ona shinin. Shine on that girl who was once a twinkle in her daddys eyes. As the promises made yesterday, slowly fade, Like lemon drops sucked for hours. She struggles to hold onto her spirit as her soul is devoured. The spotlight shines from above every night. Reminiscent of the bright stars over Texas, shinin on her, while she still twinkles in her daddys eyes.
23
Hot Strawberry Jam

Constance Siegel
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It is as if I am transported through time, to another era. It is impossible that I am still in the place I was before my eyes were sealed to open themselves in a place I have no knowledge of which how I arrived. I begin to acclimate myself to my surroundings. The sights, smells, feelings flooding my senses are new. Sensations flood the very fiber of my being. I am standing in a kitchen that only faintly resembles my own. I see a roaring fire, a stovetop covered with hissing pots bubbling almost over; the smell of baking bread wafting through the air, of sweet strawberry jam cooling on the windowsill. The meager furnishings somehow creating delicacies that I Plenty
Lilly Rodriguez
know my hands did not make, yet here they are. Here I am too, apron on, flour coating my hands, evidence of the fact I have indeed been transported here. The question lingers, How did I get here? How did the woman who just hours before stood in high heels listening to a concert, and lecturing on 21st century ideals, arrive in an 18th century kitchen? Baking bread, canning jars newly filled with strawberry jam set aside to cool, bread and butter pickles boiling their final moment before their own hot water bath, chicken almost ready to be divided into not one, but two meals, and fresh laundry ready to be hung on the line. Truly, this is the kitchen of a grandmother many times removed from where I belong. I look around awaiting the arrival of the owner of this kitchen, a lingering insistence that I am said owner. Yet, surely not! Surely some wise woman of my ancestry has called me to the past from my present to impart some tidbit of knowledge of where we were and how far we have come. Surely, she has summoned me to her time to extol her astounded joy at the revelation that her daughters need not suffer as she. That her daughters, these future generations, will be able to escape the chains of domestic servitude that led her to an early death after producing offspring at far too young an age, for far too many years. She is calling me to remind me of the grandeur of unrestricted birth control, of the ability to procure an abortion without fear of dying on a darkened rooms table, of the ability to vote, to attend college, to enter the work field in a career of
24
my choosing, to have it all. These must be the things she is waiting to tell me. I scan the room for this saintly elder woman with the gray in her hair and the sage advice on her lips. Where is she? I must know, I demand to know! And yet, she does not appear. There are no accolades for feminine advancement. No congratulations for the giant leap she always wished to take. No thanks to God for the answered prayer of her daughters salvation. There is no apparition to take my hand and tell me to continue marching. No encouragement to keep up the good fight. Only the crackling of a roaring fire, a stovetop covered with hissing pots bubbling almost over, the smell of baking bread wafting through the air. Only my own apron covered from standing in the middle of a hot kitchen making strawberry jam. Slowly, I open my eyes. I am drawn back through time to my own era. In front of me is the antiquated recipe box whose papers smell of the past and future. As I thumb through the yellowing pages the realization that I am that wise woman begins to set in. The realization that it is I, alone, who must bring my grandmothers grandmother to the forefront of not only my mind, but also of my daughters, and my granddaughters minds: the stories learned on the knee of those who wanted much of what we had, yet didnt want to give up what they had. Of those who were wise enough to treasure the blessings life had bestowed upon them, and to shun what would destroy, the femininity within themselves. These stories; it is my turn to pass on. It is through my own hands planting herbs, canning strawberry jam, making pickles and baking bread, and yes, though my own voice of standing up for those who have no access to birth control, who cant afford an education,
or who are not allowed to walk the streets without a male relative by their side, that the story of the Grand-women of my past are kept alive. It is through me that the echoes of their voices say, Well done, thy good and faithful servant; well done my sister, my daughter, my granddaughter, the woman-child soul of my future, well done. It is my job to remember the sacred recipes of our womanhood. It is my job to remember the pain endured for my freedom. It is my job to make sure that my daughters not only know how to can strawberry jam, but also to ensure they take from my willing hand the torch of progress and eagerly trod toward the generations of wise women I will not see or know and become them. It is my job to open my eyes and smell the sage wafting through my own mind that I am privileged to have had placed in my hand by my grandmother. It is in this she appears, in the jar of hot strawberry jam.
25
Yellow
Arielle Washington
We laid in the center of your carpet, And, oh, your laugh splashed a yellow That penetrated my skin and bones Reaching hidden caverns inside. We held hands under the butter sun, And, oh, your fingers played a golden song Between mine and melted the webbing Above my open palms. We spoke on the roof of your sour-lemon car, And, oh, your voice beamed a sunset cloud That ballooned up into my chest Bursting into rain. Now, I walk in the mud of a forgotten dream, And, oh, your memory becomes a faded bruise That throbs on my skin; this vomit-stained splotch, The only reminder of a fire that burned me yellow.
Glory
26
no longer home
Oh, ponderous mountain! I coveted to lay my head
Tabitha Olive
Feel at home and comforted I am mislaid instead, Was it not you that I ached to see? Blanketed by this starry night, your canopy How did you accord me solace from a Thousand miles away? And yet, I feel no contentment here, now, today. Misused and inauspiciously looked upon I Ascertain you with fresh eyes Vaporous memories of you, Must have steered me astray Tracks
Amanda Jackson
27
Deal with the Devil

Cameron Stewart
Why is it always the crossroads? Damn me, if it isnt always the miserable crossroads in some miserable part of the South that is even worse than the eternal Hell-fire we reside in. The Devil spoke to his attorney, noted barrister Edward Clarke. The Devil needed a client; he always needed them like a high school cheerleader craves attention. He had what many psychologists would call issues. Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, was a tall, thin man. He had a pale complexion with red eyes. The red eyes were not necessarily evil, or threatening looking as they were intense. His hair was long and black combed neatly back, while his clothes were of the finest quality. He wore a gray three piece suit with a pocket watch in his vest. His tie was red. He was a dark sort of handsome. People expect things to be done a certain way, my lord. Clarkes response was about as convincing to the Devil as Clarkes ridiculous sideburns were plausible. Clarke, you do know that part of the reason youre in Hell is for that atrocious facial hair. Really, that is more of the reason than you being a total ass and convicting a fellow classmate from your school days for crimes of sexual misconduct, who also happens to be one of the best poets. There is no sexual misconduct, you fool, only sexual conduct! Lucifer didnt like Clarke, it was obvious, but Clarke was unfortunately the lawyer best up for the task in Hell. Jacques Verges, who has defended the
most awful war criminals in the 20th century, colloquially known as The Devils Advocate was taking his sweet time dying, the selfish bastard. So, he was stuck with Clarke, a man he despised, but he supposed most people loathed lawyers, even their own. In truth, the Devil wasnt all that partial to anyone at the moment; he felt isolated but was too proud to admit it. Clarke blushed but decided to ignore that provocation. He was a skilled lawyer in his day, yet he could always be out maneuvered by his satanic client and overlord. He had never thought about it, until now but one of the greatest and ironic torments in all of Hell was eternal abstinence. So he would wait. It was almost witching hour, the time when all demonic interactions had to occur in the physical world. This was again due to some divinely inspired legal clause from long ago. Just then, the Devils phone rang. The caller I.D. said Lilith. He let it ring a few times, before frustratingly answering the unwanted, bothersome call. What is it now? Darling, get some dry dog food? She continued with an unneeded explanation. Blondies run out. The only dog in Hell, Hitlers German shepherd. Yes. Fine. Okay, Ill get dry food for the dumb dog. He hung up the phone. You know, Clarke; I really did love her once. Honestly. But she is the very root to all my miserable suffering. Hell was a superb bachelors pad before that bitch was cast out of Eden and seduced me. She was the only person to have ever played the Devil. She nags the very Hell out of me. He waved his hands in a laconic gesture to emphasize his point. Milton had it right; at one point I was a rebel. Now, Im a prisoner. Its time, sir, Clarke said as he looked at his watch for the thousandth time that night. Just as Clarke informed the Devil of this, a car pulled up. The car was an ugly thing. It was a 1974 AMC Gremlin, colored white, with a distinctive rust
28
coloration sporadically scattered throughout the vehicle. The car engine stopped running, but not before a large cloud of fumes shot out through the tail pipe. A disheveled woman stepped out of the car; she looked like she was around thirty, give or take a few years. She had long, red hair, emerald green eyes, and a lovely figure. She wore an overcoat, even though it wasnt all that cold outside. Are you him? The lovely looking woman asked. I am he, The Devil replied. This is my lawyer; hes here for the necessary paperwork. The woman ignored the grammatical correction. Im Clare St. Thomas. I hear you buy souls? The reply was confident, almost chilling. Thats the rumor. What do you want? Fame? Be a rock-star? Or is it just cash? Lots and lots of cash. He wasnt feeling like much of a salesman at the moment. In truth he had gone from depression about his dead end relationship to now his heart fluttering. He felt intoxicated at her very presence. Its true that Lucifer still had a decent buzz going. Earlier, he had spent most of the day in a tavern in Mexico. It was the kind of place where there were more people than teeth, and the drink was extremely questionable. How strange, he often thought to himself, that he would trade one hell for another. It had been a grand bender earlier, one with an unusually large multitude of drink and sex, even by his standards. Still, debauchery clears the mind, and the Devil needed that; it was in his nature. But none of this mattered now. There was a task at hand to perform. My little boy has cancer. His father isnt around no more. What kind of cancer? Did daddy run away, find a younger woman, perhaps? This wasnt meant as a taunt, but a genuine inquiry. He had never had a feeling like this ever, not even with Lilith. He thought that with Lilith, there had been love, but as he looked into the eyes of Claire, it
dawned on him, that it was nothing more than blind lust. Temptation consumed him, and the devil knew a thing or two about that. Bloody hell,
Sound of Vice
Anthony Garcia
he thought. The look on Claires face gave nothing away. If she was insulted, she hid it well. Daddy died in Iraq. William, my son, has a brain tumor. Have you tried praying? asked the Devil. He gagged and had to swallow partially undigested tequila and whatever that bar food was. Not at all very becoming of the arch-deceiver; he hoped she didnt notice. What do you think?
29
Clarke stepped in for the first time since the conversation began. Maam Im afraid we are legally obligated to ask this question. You see, if you have prayed, and no reply has yet come before you meet us, then Im afraid it isnt part of Gods plan for your child to live. The Devil nodded in curt agreement. He tried his best to continue standing still, but in truth, he was still a bit woozy. Is there nothing you can do? You can possess people, make them do horrible things but not prevent an innocent child from dying? she cried with passion as great as her long, red hair flared. The devil intervened. I didnt say I cant do it. If you want a deal, you have a deal, but there are no guarantees. What the Hell do you mean no goddamn guarantees? She was in the Devils face as she shouted. Spittle flew from her mouth, and he could feel the warmth of her breath, and hear the sound of her heart -- thump, thump, thump. Time slowed. The tension too damn thick. Again, Clarke spoke, We can make a deal, but it will only work if the paperwork doesnt get filed by the time you die. He paused. I cannot legally say that this will happen, but judging by the chaos of the system, I think we may have a deal. You know, we still dont have a computer system? We still use an endless case filled with library cards. This annoyed the Devil. Youre done here; go back to Hell. With a scream, and a sudden cloud of smoke, Clark vanished. Now, of course, Claire, there are a few things you must know. First, your son, assuming you die before God gets the paperwork, has thirty-five years from this
day to live. He will be cured, live a normal life, but the cancer will return, and it will be fatal next time. If you dont die, however, before God gets the paperwork, your son will die immediately, thus overriding our transaction. For consorting with me, you will go to Hell for all eternity. Well, unless you pray for forgiveness. He coughed as he mumbled the last part. He hoped ironically to the heavenly father that she didnt catch thathow he wanted her. After all, theologians can universally agree that the Devil is fundamentally a selfish bastard. And he certainly didnt deny that; he embraced it. She sat down contemplating the choice. In truth, she knew very well what she would do. She was going to take the deal. This was a bluff. She didnt even think what lunacy it was to try and fool the bold deceiver. She was confident. When the Devil said nothing, just stared hungrily at her for a few minutes, she finally spoke, We have a deal. Give me your hand, my dear. What for? So I can prick your finger to sign your name in your blood. She gave him his hand keeping her green eyes locked on his. Lucifer pierced it gently, holding a small vial to collect the droplets of blood. Then, with supreme suave, he sealed the pact as he kissed her hand. Clare accepted a quill and took the parchment. She signed the dotted line, went back to her son, and the Devil went to Hell to sober up. The Devil forgot the dog food.
30
Birds Eye View

Lilly Rodriguez
31
Descarda Jennifer Hines

Ingls, mi amigo, me has servido bien Pero un amante es lo que deseo. Te he odo, mi amor, en la ciudad, las calles, En los barrios diferentes que han volado Por la ventana abierta de mi coche.
Te he visto, mi corazn, en los ojos brillantes Que me miran en manera extraa, En las caras de las morenas Con el pelo hermoso y oscuro.
Tus frases cadenciosas, tus murmullos resonantes, La caricia de tu lengua como la miel; ests goteando con miel, Cada palabra un beso que llueve sobre mi cara.
Voy a buscarte por todas las partes, seguirte en toda la tierra Hasta que te he hecho mo y propio, hasta que Los dos se han convertido en una vida, Mi corazn, mi amante, Mi espaol.
32
Black BirdS
Soaring wings spread well above the tree tops; Darkened skyies bellow the shadow of doubt, Empty voices feed the angry rain drops, While worried eyes drag scarce prey through the route. I mark them dancing bravely on the ground. The oblivious dupe wanders blind. With all their might begging to stay unfound, Veiled beneath drops of hope; too blurred to find. I drift above the whimpered leaves weepingTop its branch, ranting fiercely at the wind. My gut growls, as rivals start their creeping. Roars attempt to sound as the hunts begin. Bottom side up and feathers drawn down, I arch my top low and swoop to the ground.
Amanda Jackson
Iron Fly
A.J. Marie
33
Antelope Glow
ED Kimmell
34
Antelope Sand
ED Kimmell
35
The Final Call
Mariah R. Fournier
The mirrored glossy reflection haunts me For I know not the broken face I see. A mans cold dead eyes tear deep within my soul In unkempt battle gear; mournful.
Never dreaming his name may be called, He knew he might fall; his fate sealed. The last regrets of a broken soldier His only dream, the war was over.
A soldiers name forever etched in stone, Foreshadows one more man missed at home. A warm Christmas, Easter- Never the same, The cause of this war? Pride is to blame.
He survived the guns symphony Rode straight to the arms of great misery. A heros welcome- not ever found, Only to serve; duty bound.
*Voi Chi Phi Rat Lon, whispered under his breath. To know his comrades could not escape death.
Circumlocution
Lilly Rodriguez
Wounds of war may heal, all in time. Godspeed to the soldier; hero; friend of mine
* Vietnamese for, at great expense.
36
Splinter
Analeigh
The light of day comes to an end. Bedlam across the land fallen silent, Sleepless eyes stay vigilant, Aware of the jungles night movement. Brothers stand side-by-side. Moons illumination floods the foreign ground, Casting a lit shadow upon the field of vision,
Our Brothers
But the day of pandemonium has yet to cease.
Virginia-Ann Bernal
Although the dim gives asylum to the adversary, Brothers stand side-by-side. Abrupt sounds unease the engrossed minds, Just fathers; just brothers; just sons; just boys, Clenching the M-16s gun grip with an anxious trigger, Our fathers; our brothers; our sons; our boys, Bewildering thoughts fog the sanity, Brothers stand side-by-side. Wall of the honorary stand a post with heavy hearts, Black paints the perplexity of the land, Eyes wide in frantic search upon the obscure shadows, Brothers stand side-by-side.
37
The Moment
Katie Beach
Everyone has that moment. That one revisited time and again; when stuck in traffic, when washing their hair. It haunts the dawns end of their dreams and mixes itself in to create a nightmare. Everything reminds them of that moment, that girl in the car next to you in traffic who looks like someone who should be remembered. Once just a witness, she was now a memento of That Moment. The smell of the bleach used on the bathtub the other day; that smell was present in The Moment, too. The funny thing about it is that you never know what its going to become at the time that it takes place. You realize months or even years later the significance of it, and that is when its actually created. Before then, The Moment is just something that happened, one in a string of millions of decisions and accidents and lucky breaks. Once you see it for what it truly is, youre stuck. That Moment becomes your personal poltergeist, your best friend, your other half, and, like a cancer, it swells inside your core, bigger and bigger. Every time you reflect on it, it owns you and finally becomes you. Yes, everyone has that Moment. Everyone thinks to himself, I couldve been a rock star, if only I had... Everyone wonders where life would be if that Moment had come without consequence. It is that one Moment theyd sell their soul to take it back. For Karen, it had come exactly one week after Trey had disappeared; that particular day, just like any other, when shed awakened with morning sickness. That day, when shed had to redo her mascara three times because every time she looked in the mirror, she started crying since no amount of makeup would make her feel any less ugly. That very typical day, when she sat in the lobby of an abortion clinic, flipping through a back issue of Vogue trying not to think about God. Of course, when the Moment happened, it was just another choice; just another combination of emotions, Christian up-bringing, and nausea. She wouldnt see it for what it was until eight months later, while sitting on her bed wide awake at three in the morning staring at the bassinet that housed her month-old child, who had just gone back to sleep after crying for an hour. That was part two of the Moment, Karen sitting in the dark and wishing for the first time that all those months ago she had cuffed her ankle to the chair; nailed her hand to the coffee table next to the out-dated Vogue; done anything to keep herself from bolting out of the clinic when they had called her name. The first time she truly wished that shed had the courage and the cowardice to go through with the procedure. Only in this moment did she realize how much she wished that she could take back her choice to keep her baby. Now with the light of the street lamp outside her window filtering through her curtain, in the dawn of a new Moment waiting to become, did she understand that day in the clinic for the Moment it had been. Sitting on her bed with a bottle of her prescription sleeping pills in her hand, she shivered. She shook just one pill into her hand. Then a second. She dumped the entire bottle until the cup of her
38
hand overflowed; three of the pills spilled out onto her bedspread with a soft and resolute thud. Staring at the mound of escape in her hand, every memory and every hope shed experienced surged from her cognition, riding her veins like a luge of solid energy, rushing to her hand, a volcanic eruption shook her body. Four more pills fell to the bed. As the tears welled in her eyes, Karen told herself she just wanted some sleep, just wanted her head to stop pounding. She dove toward her hand, lapping up the pile of relief, pushing every last stray pill into her mouth; then sat on her bed tasting the powdered chemicals resting on her tongue. She swallowed them one at a time, each swallow rolling down her throat like a wave lapping the sand of the most serene beach. She was three waves in when she changed her mind.
Leaping from her bed, her cheeks still pouched with pills, she flew to the bathroom and spit the remaining ones into the toilet, then retched. Kneeling on the tile, Karen vomited a second and third time and rested her head on the porcelain seat. And so, there, in the marble encasement of her bathroom, was born another demon to thwart her attempts to find mercy in sleep, another Moment to haunt her dreams and to waft into her day like a familiar scent attached to a bad memory. And in perhaps her first true act as a mother, Karen knelt on the cold floor and prayed more fervently than ever before that self-loathing wasnt hereditary. There she stayed until long after her legs had gone numb, staring out the window, willing the sky to turn from black to gray to purple; the evidence of a waking dawn.
Nelumbo nucifera
Victoria Forman
Phoenix amongst ashes, Ascending into heaven, Salutes sun. Though oft ignored, Strong roots endure, Embedded in muck and mire.
Lights crowning halo Illuminates immaculate Ivory petals.
As above, so below; Mud and bloom entwine Grace stems from humble origins.
Blossoms entice admirers, Substantial yet delicate; Beacons for the downtrodden.
Behold: beauty, strength, Hope and perseverance.
39
Lilly Rodriguez
Pretend Romance
Thoughtlessly wondering why the sheets feel so cold. Beside her the naked man no longer satisfying her lust. Last nights desire is this mornings regret. Faded lipstick, Smeared mascara, Tarnished morals, This is what remains. No room for guilt, instead just another morning of awkward goodbyes. Routine. This is what this has become. Easier to satisfy the immediate craving. Emotions kept buried like a corpse rotting away. Relinquishing all hope for a change. Reapply the ruby red lipstick, Glide on the midnight black eyeliner, Swipe the eyelashes with onyx mascara. Repeat until the eyes that stare back are those of a strangers. Forced smile. Empty laughter. Aching to be touched. A hunger that can not seem to be filled. Biting, scratching, moaning. Groping in angst. What monster is this? Callous. Feral. Livid. Intensifying with each night of company. No blood left to bleed. No tears left to cry. No voice left to scream. Only sweat and whimpers fill the silence. Desolate and useddrained of anything bursting of life. A Barbie doll is all she has become. Artificial beauty meant to be played with, not loved.
40
Ink Mergerson-Hill Leutisha

IT pops up in my head,
The image speaks to all who see IT
IT has its own story. A beginning and an end: Message conveyed differently to all, Meaning to me always the same. I chose a particular place, form will take shape. Each prick sketched into my flesh, reminds me Of why I endured the pain. To capture its mere beauty that will never fade away. I shall look upon IT, naked, in my flesh. Admiring IT, on my body, my art. How IT contours to my curves, now a part of me. Briefly unleashed for outsiders to admire. Uttered guesses of its underlined meaning. Unveiled to a chosen few, a glimpse of light through a cracked door. The message behind the image takes rest upon my flesh. Angels Tattoo
Lilly Rodriguez
41
SL33PING B34UTY
Alex Perez
42
43
44
45
46
Lazy Dreams
Lilly Rodriguez
47
Free Imprisonment Weary eyes speak a tarnished tale

Lilly Rodriguez
A dimming light
Amanda Jackson
A fleeting mirage peered through murky black windows. Time - rustling sand in a winding hour glass passes swiftly. So fast too fast; Sometimes I stop and follow their silhouettes My undoing; they dance above my grave as if I were already dead. But Im notnot yet. Light shines brilliant in the dark. A lightmy lighta quivering bulb ravaged by the blackness, A firefly just too dim. Yetwith these grizzled limbs Long walks never feel long enough. Beauty: ever lovelier through exhausted eyes. As fireflies burn away the darkness, they set my soul ablaze. Luscious scents of honeysuckle play with my mind So buoyantso sweet; At times merely sweet enough to cloak the bitter distaste of death. Funny; odd, ironic The louder the end creeps ominously toward my bed the more awake I feel. Youth is truly wasted on the young. Why must it always be too late when you finally realize? Instead of drifting, disorienteddazed You might have been alive.
48
SOUL-DIERS OF WAR
Finally, time to go home forever,
Chloe Rodriguez
joined by my fellow comrades, brotherhood. Never imagined that last endeavor would leave a lifeless body where I stood. Blessd be the departed souls of war.
Inside a wooden box I call my own, enveloped in the American flag. Deliver me home, beloved land I know; only one piece survives, silver dog tags. Blessd be the departed souls of war.
Happily free of this alien land, so long, farewell, my partings, Vietnam. Foreign fears, I carried, enchant the sand, waiting to explode, a ticking time bomb. Blessd be the departed souls of war.
Deceased soldiers, rest in peace, fear no more. A nation eternally grateful for your service and bravery at your core. Search the horizon, find a safe harbor. Blessd be the departed souls of war.
Savannah
49
The Fire Cameron Stewart

Men of Fire, I am such. My soul it consumes ever burning, everlasting. Those around me, it may scorch, for it is I who carries an eternal torch. Like any passion, it spreads, engulfing into flames, But, in the end, it is only I who am to blame. This longing, an eternal restlessness. For once I am there; the road does not end As it began; it shall only do so yet again. Men of Fire, I am such.
Eternal crusade, only others to persuade. Routine is death, damnation to Hell; Come follow to worlds end --Across Oceans of sand and water, Through Mountains high and low, Over hills and far away. Men of Fire, I am such
Never compromise, even in death Never surrender, no matter the case Never give up, even in disgrace Never doubt instinct or self. For this is the song of men of fire.
50
Horizon
Lilly Rodriguez
Silent Mourning Sun

Bright child born --
Kimberly VanKirk
From vacant womb, source of new life, seeps wretched remains
Beatless. Breathless. Still.
A heavy salt sea river flows from cheek to chin to chest...
of aspirations put to death by tragedy unseen, unknown.
to where it meets mothers milk, wept from naked breast -No light in this darkness. No warmth in this bitter cold. No ease to this pain. Nothing left of expectant joy. Wasted. Nourishing none. Steel Men Nothing born, nothing gained.
Lilly Rodriguez
51
Flying Solo
Tabitha Olive
Fine, he whispers softly in her ear. How are you? Hearing no reply, she steels herself for the moment, hesitating, now that she is here to spread his ashes. After a short internal struggle, she comes to a decision. Okay, she says to reinforce the decision she has just made. Unscrewing the lid to his urn, a strong gust blows on the steep mountain top taking the top layers of ashes into the air. Quickly she closes the lid, sobbing now that the moment she knows must come. He sits softly beside her caressing her hand, looks into her eyes, aged with lines of laughter from fifty years of a life they shared. Slowly pushing a gray strand out of her face he asks, Are you waiting on someone? Very slowly she opens the lid again. Yes. He urges her on, knowing she needs to let him go. Good to see you. His voice cracking, with regret, he knows that soon he must move on. Momentarily, she is brought back to the day he asked her to marry him, to spend every day of their lives together. Silently, she recites her nonchalant answer, Yeah. In all of their years, he only let her down once, by not telling her he was sick. Until the last days he was vibrant and active, taking their regular hikes until one morning he didnt wake up. Crying and weak from her sorrow, she barely musters the words, Goodbye. Wearily, she pours the contents into the beautiful Montana sky. She hears the voice of her beloved
Gingerly she packs the small torn hiking backpack, her dexterity hampered by years of damaging arthritis. Taking the small sealed container, she wraps it with care in her scarf, placing it inside her bag. She has walked the trail behind her house a thousand times but never alone, until now. Somehow, when she woke this morning, she felt strong enough to take the hike up to her favorite spot. The short days of summer have come to a close, the morning air crisp with a slight chill, the green foliage covered with a light misting of dew. The river she lives next to soon becomes a small squiggly line in the vast mountainous forest she calls home. Feeling a tremendous weight, she pushes forward until she crests the ridge coming upon the mountain top. The rocks she sat upon a thousand times before now hold no comfort for her. Crying quietly she pulls out her husbands remains; wrapped up in her favorite scarf, the sealed container had been her companion for weeks. She would carry him around with her everywhere. Pouring his ashes out was something she didnt know she had strength to do. Hello, she says to the cool bronze urn with longing and sadness. Hello, his spirit replies with the same sadness. He has been waiting for her at their spot for weeks, knowing she would eventually come to say goodbye. How are you? she wonders out loud. Waiting desperately for some sign or reply to let her know he is safe and happy.
52
husband in the breeze. Goodbye, he says with assurance and comfort. The mornings chill forces her from the mountain top; every step from that point gives her strength and a plan starts to formulate in her head. The squiggly line of the river soon turns into the raging water beside her. Both the river and her mind are racing at the same hurried pace to some yet unknown destination. She is brought back to their first year together: she was in college and the school offered a sailing class. Feeling silly, she signed up for it, only for him to join her that
semester on the little lake, the favorite of all her years at college. Sailing wouldnt be something she could do on the open ocean, not yet, but she is determined to start on the lake, if she must. She would live on the boat and eventually live on the ocean, a dream they both shared and never did. Not knowing where to start, she goes home; in her library are the dusty old sailing books waiting for her.
Grounded
Lilly Rodriguez
53
Painful Love
Cameron Stewart
My world was dark, sinister and bliss. In pain, though strong and brave, Laughter was but a gentle hiss. Then she came, and like an ocean wave, I loved her. On the road, in different lanes, Only seven years apart, yet so far. She was older, my heart pained; It could not be, we both would scar. I loved her.
I was so helpless, sad, defenseless; My bones broken but marrow not; What I would do for you to caress. She made my blood boil so hot, I loved her.
Though love may strike again, She will always linger, a memory. For all we could foresee, She and I understood. Things were dark, but light I see. I loved her.
I was in agony, though, by choice, cured of a malady. My jokes were a rouse, Pokes at that which hurts. Than she came, I loved her, for both heart and skirt; I do love her. Not soul mates But passion concentrates. I will love another as will she, hearts soar above, Grateful for our time but our fates apart. I love her. It hit me hard, Rocked my world. She would be hard I loved her. Our time saved me from darkness. In another I shall find happiness; Sorrow is gone; forlorn love, Our hearts bend. Chemistry, passion, desire, How could it be Things would get so dire? I loved her. Slate I loved her.
54
Lilly Rodriguez
55
Mariposa Street
Palabras Escritas en un cruce de calles En un sealamiento verde Que est encima de un poste Que reside en la acera en frente de mi hogar En este barrio en el cual he vivido desde mi niez.
Nick Zinicola
Estas palabras, las he precensiado desde mi nacimiento. Con ellas tengo una amistad; Significan mi evolucin, Significan mis paciones. Cuando las veo divago con muchos recuerdos.
Cuando paso por el sealamiento redescubro una esperanza. Los recuerdos se manifiestan cada vez que paso por ah. Despus de todas las bendiciones y las infortunas que he encontrado en el andar de mi vida, todava vivo. Estoy consciente que slo Dios puede darme vida y tomarla si l gusta. Ojal que todos tengan una seal como la ma, con las palabras dulces, con una mezcla de dos culturas. Las palabras que no puedo olvidar: Mariposa Street.
56
Target the Interloper

Kyle Jackson
Top covers danced with black magnolias and floral ballerina pointe shoe patterns rest her broken bones. Gestalt swanned feathers measure her form, Eves tongue tunneled through her to freedom, trembling her fingers in velvet waves. Tell me what you need, sweet thing. Her warden pleas like a whoremonger. Everyone so desperate to bathe in her virgins blood. Ignore them, she casts, and spirals away their world. niceties and innocence taken to slaughter, as she molts from white to black. Toes pooling, her wings wind the stage until the spotlight tires. Rushing blood clouds her harlot cheeks, orgasming fast within. Lets you see the night sky, made her love a lie. Oh, the night sky was darker in the smog. Perfect dark, perfect silence. Perfect ballerina, spinning on a music box. Every lie felt the same. Reprise the unfit, those that embraced imperfection, and feather out again.
Coming Home II
Patricia Ann Kimble
57
My Burning Conscience
Matt Cowles
The tundra that surrounds Beechers Brow no longer knows a soul. Countless years have passed, but little vegetation grows. I often wonder if nature awaits the passing of our human presence. Im among the oldest who still remember the bright verdure and pines, despite our immaterial relationship. I never experienced the intricacies of that wooden maze, but only picturesque views from glossy window frames - half frozen over. We took much for granted, lounging in our comfortable tenements. We surrendered to the dusk of tricky, seductive machinery. The machine to end all machines was created as simple eye-coverings, much like an ordinary pair of shades. Lights flashed Growth
Amanda Jackson
Brow; not only due to death, but due to the habitual occupancy of our dreams. We work; then dream. Many of our occupants explore a number of human vices: sexuality, violence, intoxication. And Im among who falsely dreamt; though my dreams took on a more decent form, or so it seemed. Although the study of ones own mind breeds egotism, this hardly mattered given my isolation. Anyhow, Im an old, lonely and dilapidated man. If not for the earths prolonged freeze, I may have lived in the wilderness like a vagabond. However, physical hikings long outdated in Beechers Brow. I worked, like all our occupants, at the south-side greenhouse. I kept a small garden there to gather food enough for a healthy dream-life. I suppose the city functions as a true, human utopia. Not to mention that vivacious bunch who traveled south with the sentiment of living in a true reality; though they numbered few. Ive remained rather satisfied with my dreamy existence for the majority of my life. You see, my nagging wanderlust regularly
across our eyelids and awakened us inside our dreams. They produced the freedom of complete lucidity and enabled us to create the kindest images. I could finally run south through the wooden maze, uninhibited. Welcome, the dream machine! Its true that at night youre lucky to find a soul wandering the streets of Beechers
58
influences my lucid dreams. Ive explored acre upon acre of pristine, mental wilderness and to the satisfaction of knowing that I created them. However, in my final dreaming days my mind often confused the world of the forest with the decrepit city of Beechers Brow. Ive long depended upon the separation of these two worlds ever since the freeze. Im no story-teller, but Ill try my best to recall a peculiar dream that intruded upon this separation. Before the machines flash, I found myself isolated in the dark, surrounded by the scattered sounds of dry, rustling leaves. Lucidity gripped me as the flash embodied the form of lighted punctures across a dark, clouded sky. The effulgence rolled across the upside-down landscape and revealed the pine forest around me. I sat atop a steep incline as I faced down over a throng of dark pines whose pointed tips caressed the remaining cloud sheets bottoms. The forest inspired a forlorn sense of enclosure. Even the seemingly harmless rays poured through each cloud break in an unusual density and illuminated the ground into gaudy greens. I ran up the incline hastily. As I peered behind me, I noticed an irregularly bright ray that illuminated the outline of an industrial edifice. Billowing smog seeped from the factories peaks and infiltrated my imagination. Despite the vast distance of the factory, I smelled its fumes and felt the tingling sensation of its acidic chemicals as they condensed onto the back of my throat. The thought implanted itself, smog pervades the clouds. Its everywhere! I thought of awakening, but I clung tight to the dream gone awry. Sleep never comes fast enough to sacrifice a perfectly functional dream. After all, a dream is an open canvas and I believed aversion from this invasion possible. The dream was correctable! I focused on the
factories disappearance, but with each turn the figure remained more ominous than ever. I began to hate the edifice and myself for creating it. I scampered upward with the hope of a more vibrant landscape over the incline, free of industrial infiltration. I doubt that any substantial part of me actually believed in the appearance of anything worthwhile over that incline. While awake, a myriad of distractions remain available to pull one away from the dark places of the mind. In a dream, the darkness manifests itself into your environment until the chaos of it all turns to blackness accompanied by the dizziest sensation. Ive long avoided this effect through practice in order to give my mind more time to dig in. I climbed over the incline. Flatness. A grid, I mumbled as I gazed out at the splay land ahead. My boots emitted dust as I walked upon the new dirt ground. Pines grew in lines ahead of me, eight by eight feet perfectly apart. They rose from the dirt like misplaced whiskers. Although a lack of greenery signaled the pines unhealthiness, they appeared unnaturally tall like some ostentatious performance begging for attention. Before the machines flash, I found myself isolated in the dark, surroundeed by the scattered sounds of dry, rustling leaves. As I turned I noticed that the grid had invaded the valleys previous position. The sense of entrapment from the forest returned to me tenfold. The weight of my phantom body felt incredible. Its over, I said to myself. I passed another line of pines before I noticed a chink in the grid. A smooth stone occupied a missing pines
59
place. The rock rose a few inches above the dirt and then gave way abruptly like a miniature plateau. I sat on the stone and awaited my return to reality. Darkness crept around the far edges of my vision as I loosened my minds constructs. The pines above me waved and creaked. As my vision darkened I began to feel the sensation of my body amid a worn cot, fifth floor. I hate that room. Before I woke, a warm hand grasped my own. I still debate whether I consciously created her; I know only the fact. She pulled me back into the grid. The lines of her face curved in familiar shapes and accentuated her gleaming, brown eyes. Locks of ruby hair descended over her freckled shoulders. Her countenance wore a troubling stamp of disappointment, but simultaneously emanated a feeling of intense compassion. She was a savior from my distant memory and she saved me before either of us spoke. Why would my mind place you here? I asked. She smiled. Dreams often summon distant memories when you havent purposely distorted them. I havent seen you in a dream since you traveled south to avoid the freeze. Ive avoided you like a plague. You; a symbol of my indecision, the lingering voice inside my head asking: what if you left this place? And yet here I am. My mind created you because it cant stand to waste a dream. Only a thing as intriguing as you could keep me on this grid. After all, I was almost awake before you came. You never could pass up a good chance at interrogating yourself. Then what do you have to tell me? She ignored my question and asked another, Do you miss me? If I missed you, I could have you in a second. I live in dreams after all!
But you know you would only banter with yourself, an illusion. Thats why you confine yourself to wandering aimless and alone night after night. The construction of people seems absurd. Youve dreamt too long and are infected with apathy. You believe in the meaninglessness of both worlds and choose to live in the more convenient. But you cant hide from your conscience forever. Youre suggesting that I secretly value the real world above this world? No. She took a pause, Im saying that you no longer value either. Such a tremendous lack of value has consequences. However, youll never again find value in this place. Then what do I do? She leaned into me. I want you to leave. At this point I noticed that her manner of voice sounded suspiciously similar to my own. Why am I doing this to myself? I asked aloud with distrust of my own undecipherable motives. She leaned back and spoke more candidly. You need to leave. Listen to yourself. I need to get rid of these damn trees! Im perfectly content with living my life this way; its you! Forty years ago you left and I stayed. Im okay with that, but you tried to guilt me for staying! She replied with a mocking laugh. Your mind created me, and the grid, and the industrial tower. Do you really believe that I guilt you? And forty years? She laughed again. Oh, how your mind distorts things. Her words bit and I shrunk back. The forest has lost much of its luster. Its a wonder I even remember the appearance of forests enough to recreate them. I dont believe I ever actually entered one. You know only the city. Yes. I admitted. So you want me to leave?
60
Yes. There was profound sentiment in her voice, even a slight pleading quality. For a moment I forgot the oneness of us both and viewed her as an entirely separate entity. The long forgotten memory of her compassion returned to me in its original strength. My dream consciousness wavered for the first time in many years, and I spoke to her in a newly vibrant, but broken speech. We spoke as old friends about nothing for an incalculable amount of time. Words flowed fluently from my tongue with no forethought or calculation. As a result, the topic of our conversation escaped
As I opened my window, it emitted a protesting creak. Overcome with emotion, I quickly tossed the machine downward to avoid the cold air that crept inward. It fell onto the snow below without a sound. The action rewarded me with intense, temporary relief. Glorious rays from the saffron sun gleamed over the bare landscape ahead as I stared outward at my future. At this sight, my relief vanished and replaced itself with fear. I swallowed that fear, collected my necessities and left the tenement. Ive argued with myself again and again on whether to include one of my most shameful actions in this report. But for the sake of truth, I recovered the machine once more. As I rounded the tenement toward the exiting gate of Beechers Brow, the machine glimmered in the side of my vision. It rested on the soft snow in perfect tact and absorbed the suns rays seductively. I slipped the frigid piece of metal into my pack and moved onward. At night, throughout my beginning travels I returned to the grid many times as I slept in my tent. My distant love never returned to me as if her task remained finished. The more I traveled, the more I borrowed inspiration from the landscapes around me. The feeling of a lucid dreams comfort faded from memory. The machine eventually settled into a permanent position in the bottom of my loaded pack. As I continued onward, I continuously scanned my environment for human figures. I write this report in my tent, below the stars and still searching. The search goads me onward. As I hold onto the memory of that distant relation, I trust my burning conscience to guide me south and then wherever else she takes me. The freeze is nothing alongside her amazing warmth.
She smiled. Dreams often summon distant memories when you havent purposely distorted them.
my mind upon awakening. Perhaps we spoke nothing more than gibberish. As our banter ceased, my mind returned to the present situation. I fear that Im too old to survive the cold. How can I travel in this condition? Much less time has passed than you believe. Remember that your age has functioned as a convenient excuse for prolonged inaction. You must travel south despite anything. Theres nothing more for you here. I glanced around at the grid and realized that my mind would never allow the creation of another forest. As we parted, I embraced her, still unconscious of our oneness and the absurdity of the comfort I absorbed from her. As we parted, the edges of my vision again surrendered to blackness and I awoke within seconds. I felt the tepid cot upon my back and the machines cold fingers resting above my eyelids. I ripped it off.
61
Missions Impossible
Kaylan Kocsis
The lights dimmed as the monstrous hangar doors slammed shut sealing the only exit and eliminating their last chance to turn around. Shirley urged the two of them forward, knowing the impossibility of the mission and feeling confident. She could feel the fledgling following her the poor girl had this as her first assignment. What was the Lead thinking? You remember why were here, right, Selexia? Shirley asked making sure the kid was focused on the task at hand. Its an in and out, no messing around, got it? In and out, got it. Youve been saying that every five seconds. I get that Im new at this, but damn. I get it already, Lexi retorted, sick of being treated like a baby by this decrepit old hag. Stop it with the lip and lets get this over with, Shirley mumbled as she adjusted the straps on Lexis chest device. When you get to the infant, remember to hit the button on your left shoulder to form the connection. Make sure, Shirley began. Alright already, lets do this, Lexi demanded, as she crouched to peak around the corner. Shirley pushed past the cautious girl and led them to the next room. The two hid in the shadows as the Cyborgs passed, robot tones trailing behind them as they headed into the room across the hall. Still leading, Shirley followed the two Cyborgs, Lexi on her tail. When Lexi was in the room, the door slammed shut behind her and Shirley was nowhere in sight. The Cyborgs had gone from two to over ten in seconds they were starting to close in. She crouched and rolled through the crowd to the opposite wall, barely missing a child curled up behind them. A distinct ping sounded from Lexis ear-bud after she stood, and again as she bolted from the room. Get back here! Shirley was screaming as she chased after Lexi. Theyre only trying to create a better world! Theyre looking out for whats best. Honest! She tripped over her own feet as she watched Lexi disappear from sight leaving the decrepit old traitor behind. We have known for quite some time that Shirley was a spy for the Cyborgs, but had yet to catch her in such a situation. We have been sending her on impossible missions with our most disposable operatives, the Lead was not the most subtle man, but she has always come back with the same story: her younger died from being careless and the mission being too dangerous. Until today. Somehow, Selexia, you survived. I will not ask why, nor how, because I do not wish to know. The Lead stopped to observe the young female standing before him. Her onyx hair tied back, yet still hanging past her shoulders. Her brown eyes never wavered in their lock on his. Her petite frame fitted with the typical covert mission garb. Now About what you picked up from the Cyborg hangar Lead, sir, I dont know what Lexi looked at the device on her chest where there had been an empty space on her abdomen, there was now a bump, covered with a collapsible material. What the- she began. From surveillance we have from your
62
mission, we have gathered that you have, indeed, captured the Cyborgs last known infant. When you rolled past the child, the device was somehow activated, causing it to latch on to the child as you escape. Lexi looked at him, astonished she had actually succeeded. Selexia, though you are not usually privileged to certain intelligence, I have chosen to allow you to be such, this once. The infant you captured has the brain activity of a human far above that of one fully matured at that. You are lucky to have made it out of Cyborg territory alive. Congratulations on your success, dear one. Return to your quarters tonight. Yes, father. Lexi turned on her heel and headed to the gym to work off some steam. Lexi had just begun to stretch when Jace stormed in, fuming. What the hell were you thinking, accepting a mission like that?! Especially with Shirley as your elder! We all knew she was a spy, and still you accepted? Can you explain your logic? Jace just stared at her, expecting an explosion of frustration and sarcasm her typical response to his outbursts. Everything you need to know is in the report that you, of course, are privy to because, as we all know, youre the Leads favorite, despite a lack of relation. So, go read it if youre so curious. She picked up her jacket and began to walk toward the exit as Jace stalked after her. Is that what all of this is about? Approval from your father? Attempts to fit into a world you feel you have no place in? Lexi stopped in her tracks. My relationship, or lack thereof, with the Lead is one: none of your concern, anymore; and two, not a factor in the missions I choose to accept. I want this war ended just as much as the next person. Never assume such things, Jace, itll come back to bite you. Hopeful
Well The Cyborg thing is refusing to cooperate with the simplest of tasks. Lead requested that you take care of it since you brought its metal-minded ass here. Thats an order. Jace left swiftly to avoid the explosion sure to come from the girl behind him. Great. When she got to the infants temporary room, she was surprised by all the things in there. It looked like an image from an old magazine that her mother used to show her. There were things hanging from the ceiling, letters decorating the walls, teddy bears all over the floor, a rocking chair, a changing table all the things one would expect in a toddlers room. She got to the crib by the far wall, but the Cyborg infant was not there. Lexi looked around, and then decided someone else must be taking care of it. She started to leave the room, only to have something grab on to her leg. Looking down, she realized it was the infant only now it was the size of a toddler. It looked up at her with two of the most beautiful violet eyes she had ever seen, half hidden by onyx hair. Well, hi there. Can you- Lexi began to ask. MOMMY! the Cyborg child exclaimed. Shit.
Patricia Ann Kimble
63
Encuentro
Mi vida no tena sentido Hasta que te encontr. Mil veces me hablaron de ti Pero yo siempre me reus. Aunque fuiste por mi rechazado Siempre estuviste a mi lado. Cuando por fin mi corazn fue quebrantado Supe que sin saberlo te haba aceptado. Y que de mi corazn te habas adueado.
Kendy Gmez
Como olvidar ese encuentro que cambi todo mi ser No pasa un da sin yo agradecer que t en mi vida te pudiste meter. Llenaste mi vida de amor, paz y plenitud Sin ni siquiera merecer tanta gratitud.
Gracias te doy porque una nueva criatura soy. Vivo por ti Seor mo para servir de testigo que en ti todos volvemos a nacer Convirtindonos en un nuevo ser.
64
The Ballerina
The Ballerina loved to dance. Though but a toy shed leap and prance. Graceful twirls, swift, romance. To make her playmate smile.
Brittany Gonzales
Painted with an artists touch. Her smile like a rose or such. Though never really showing much. But dancing all the while.
And when her playmate put her back. And zipped her in an old toys sack, Her painted smile couldnt lack, Or shed its self-denial.
She dreamed of being real some day. Dance no longer, but a play. Adored and watched and loved all day. Till then, shed never truly smile. Shadow Dancer
Lilly Rodriguez
Descry
Patricia Ann Kimble
65
Doug griffin: special agent Teacher

Mitch Wells
I got my first call from them on the special phone they gave me. You could call it a company phone, I suppose, but Im not allowed to tell anyone about the company, So if anyone asks about them, just do like I do and pretend you dont know anything. Anyway, the phone rang last night while I was grading papers. I had trouble finding the phone because its camouflaged and blends in with almost everything. Thankfully, the ringer played the theme from Mission Impossible, so I could still locate it. I made sure to tell my boss how subtle that was. He said he didnt know what I was talking about, and he didnt know who I was. I laughed at his joke but reminded him that theyre only supposed to disavow knowledge of me if I get captured and not before. I was to rendezvous at the Quick Sack convenience store with my partner Bermufto Marmolejo before going to the school. We were scheduled to meet at 0600 hours, two hours before school began. That would give us enough time to complete the mission and get changed before school started. I hoped to have enough time to finish my lesson plans before first period. I arrived at the Quick Sack in my Mercedes Benz SLK320. Its a company car. I tell everyone that Im a day trader to cover my real job. I left my car there, and we drove to the school in a borrowed Smart Car. Unfortunately, the Smart Car was too small for the rocket launcher, so we strapped it to the roof, and Bermufto ran a remote control into the car and mounted it on the dash. We parked down the street from Sam Jackson High School (where I teach), put on ski masks and walked the rest of the way. We carefully approached the school from the west side and hid in some bushes near the entrance. This is where we ran into our first snag; three Afghani spies dressed up as fifteen-yearold white males stood near the entrance. They sold the disguises well by smoking cigarettes and performing rap battles. Good disguises, but no one ever fools me. Our original plan was to shoot them with the silenced Glock 9mm pistol that Bermufto had planted in the bushes the night before. Unfortunately, Bermufto forgot to buy bullets, and there was only one round left. We decided the best course of action was to shoot the surveillance camera above the spies, then take them out one-byone while they were distracted. Sadly, Bermufto became distracted by a plane flying a banner behind it for the Beatnik Buffett, and he fired his bullet in the opposite direction. Luckily, the bullet ricocheted off some strategically placed buildings and hit the camera anyway. With step one complete, we went to step two: took out the spies. While the first spy was distracted by the broken camera, Bermufto expertly threw his gun and hit him in the head knocking him out. Before the other two could figure out what was happening, I ran up and knocked the other one out with a perfectly timed jump kick to the face that would have made Bruce Lee jealous. The third one stood there stupefied. I tried to interrogate him first. Who do you work for? Huh? Do you work for Muhammad McDonald? What chu talkin bout? Dont play games! We know youre an Afghani spy! Are you retarded? I go to school here! Retarded enough to know an Afghani spy when I see one! Before he could say anything else, I ran at him,
66
jumped up in the air and did a flying triangle choke on him, knocking him out as well. Regrettably, I forgot to say, No homo as I applied the choke, so Bermufto kicked my ass. We dragged the unconscious spies off to the side, piled them on top of each other in a latently homosexual manner, took pictures, and continued to the next step. We had to pick the lock on the west entrance. This door had multiple deadbolts keeping it shut. Picking the locks proved to be very problematic until we realized that the deadbolts were, in fact, not locked. We proceeded down the hallway with our masks removed. We decided we would attract less attention without masks as both of us were employed by the school as our cover jobs. We stopped by the janitorial closet to pick up a special weapon that Bermufto had successfully stashed there the night before. Our orders were to proceed to the boys restroom and take out subjects W240. We were told they would be waiting there. When we entered the restroom, the subjects were indeed waiting for us. Thankfully, they had not been alerted to our presence. They appeared to be asleep. Bermufto made the first move with his special weapon since he had more experience with it. With a can of Raid in hand, he sprayed the wasp nest with a solid stream, dousing the
hive and most of the wasps. The nest fell to the ground and lay in a pool of insecticide. The mission, a success; our losses, minimal. Bermufto and I sustained no injuries in the line of duty. As we were on our way out, I noticed that one of the subjects had not been fully terminated. He was angry and gathering his strength for a counter offensive. Bermufto had the can of Raid, and I had to act quickly or risk one of us dying. In a split second, I formulated a plan. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my weapon of choice: a red pen. I pulled the cap from my deadly weapon and hurled it deftly at my foe. The pen found its mark and split the wasp in half at the thorax. Now our mission was complete. Before leaving the restroom, we put our masks back on and proceeded toward the closest exit. As we reached the Smart Car, several police cars rounded the corner with lights flashing and sirens blaring. They were not informed of our operation, and their presence might compromise national security. I brilliantly devised another plan. We quickly boarded the Smart Car, and drove straight at the oncoming police officers. Bermufto used the rocket launcher to create a diversion. He launched it at the lead car which was supposed to explode when the rocket hit it. Unfortunately, Bermufto mounted the launcher incorrectly. Our
vehicle was so light that the rocket picked us up, and we glided over the police officers. We landed on the other side of the cruisers and made our getaway, sometimes reaching speeds in excess of thirty miles per hour. The police were too confused to successfully chase us down and must have known we were going too fast to be caught. Our mission remained a secret. We returned to the Quick Sack after driving the Smart Car over a cliff. I pulled off the mask, changed into my work clothes, got into my Mercedes and headed back to the school. It dawned on me during the ride back that perhaps I should have gotten into the Mercedes before taking my clothes off as some angry women began hurling bruised fruit at my nude form. The three Afghani spies had reported the assault to the principal. They recognized my voice and reported me as a possible suspect. I told the principal they were obviously liars, and showed her photos of the embarrassing positions I had laid them in order to discredit their reputations. She must have been impressed with my photography skills because she took the photos from me and refused to give them back. She let me go just the same, since there was no definitive evidence against me. All in a days work for Doug Griffin: Special Agent Teacher.
67
1st place winner in the 2012 Mike Matthews & Gloria Mills Creative Writing Contest. Entry inspired by Away From the Crowd, an oil on canvas work by Heather Braman.
Away From the Crowd

Angela Jenkins
Away from the crowd is where I see, all the crazy people looking back at me. Their world is not the same as mine, with their money, grandeur, and things divine. Away from the crowd is where I belong, For in todays society my life is all wrong. The judging eyes, and words of doubt, From all the people I could do better without. Away from the crowd is where pain ends, The power they have, I can now suspend. Their words and actions can affect me no longer, The past will only serve to make me stronger. Away from the crowd is where I foresee Good things finally happening to me The temptations of evil will forever be banned And Ill have the chance to make a firm stand Because Away from the crowd is where I see, Myself looking back, and smiling at me. Away From the Crowd
Heather Braman
68
2nd place winner in the 2012 Mike Matthews & Gloria Mills Creative Writing Contest Entry inspired by Bound, an oil on canvas work by Heather Braman.
Bound
Heather Braman
Model-citizen
Model-Citizen I fit the mold. Always type-cast. This Crazy Life, with plastic cast. The stage is set. The show is cast. And to my part, Im bound. Socially, contractually, bound. Constricted. RESTRICTED Pent up into this Stepford life. This little girl, someday a wife tied up in knots, bound to the plots.
(but plastic melts and beauty rots)
Harry Monck
that true beauty comes from without, while your Unique voice and your Own special truth and your vanity, little miss mind-of-her-own, will give up and grow up the way of all youth. Grow up and youll learn not to groan when you moan. Your opinion/sedition, doll, goes out when you come. Out with the new, in with theum Have a nice shiny trinket. A nice silver ball-gag with beautiful chain. Talk all you want, even scream out in pain so long as you dont speak. Just think it. Be a work of art, a real model-citizen. A set decoration. Scene. Of the herd. Dont blow up, doll. Let us plug up that leak. Such a pretty as you has no need to speak. Lets plug up that hole. There! Now you are whole. And sweet silence returns to the land.
Silence is golden. Duct tape is silver. A little rePEACEsion AND QUIET wont kill her if she would just keep to her place. Stick to the script or youre a disgrace, and silver again will pretty that face and sweet silence returns to the land. And this will continue till you understand
69
Cape Buffalo
Shirley Ann Gangwere
70
Git R Dun
Lilly Rodriguez
Boss
Lilly Rodriguez
71
2012 ContributorS
Analeigh
Katie Beach
Victoria-Ann Bernal

Heather Braman
Alex Chrestopoulos
Matthew Cowles

Victoria Forman

Mariah Fournier
Peter Frazis
Kendy Gamez
Shirley Ann Ganuere

Anthony Garcia Angela Jenkins
Brittany Gonzales Michelle Kaytaz

Ken Griffin
Jennifer Hines

Amanda Jackson
Kyle Jackson A.J. Marie

Patricia Ann Kimble
ED Kimmell
Kaylan Kocsis

Sandra McCurdy
Elijah Mendoza
Harry Monck
Tabitha Olive
Alec Perez
Jonathan Quinn
Chloe Rodriguez
Lilly Rodriguez
Constance Siegal
Cameron Stewart Katie Beach

Kimberly VanKirk
Arielle
Washington Braman
MItch Wells
Nick Zinicola
Analeigh
Victoria-Ann Bernal
Heather

Alex Chrestopoulos
Matthew Cowles
Victoria Forman
Mariah Fournier
Peter Frazis
Kendy Gamez
Shirley Ann Ganuere
Anthony Garcia
Brittany Gonzales
Ken Griffin
Jennifer Hines
Amanda Jackson

Kyle Jackson

Angela Jenkins
Michelle Kaytaz
Patricia Ann Kimble
ED Kimmell
Kaylan Kocsis Tabitha Olive
A.J. Marie Alec Perez
Sandra McCurdy Jonathan Quinn
Elijah Mendoza
Harry Monck
Chloe Rodriguez
Lilly Rodriguez

Constance Siegal
Cameron Stewart
Kimberly VanKirk
Arielle Washington
MItch Wells
Nick Zinicola
Analeigh
Katie Beach Forman
Victoria-Ann Bernal
Heather Braman
Alex Chrestopoulos
Matthew Cowles

Victoria

Mariah Fournier
Peter Frazis
Kendy Gamez
Shirley Ann Ganuere

Brittany Gonzales Michelle Kaytaz Elijah Mendoza

Ken Griffin
Jennifer Hines
Amanda Jackson

Patricia Ann Kimble
ED Kimmell
Kaylan Kocsis

Sandra McCurdy
Harry Monck
Tabitha Olive
Alec Perez
Jonathan Quinn
Chloe Rodriguez
Lilly Rodriguez
Constance Siegal
Cameron Stewart Katie Beach

Kimberly VanKirk
Arielle
Washington Braman
MItch Wells
Nick Zinicola
Analeigh
Victoria-Ann Bernal

Heather
Alex Chrestopoulos
Matthew Cowles

Victoria Forman

Mariah Fournier

Peter Frazis
Kendy Gamez
Shirley Ann Ganuere
Ken Griffin
Jennifer Hines
Amanda Jackson
Kyle Jackson

Patricia Ann Kimble
ED

Kimmell
Kaylan Kocsis
A.J. Marie
Sandra McCurdy
Elijah Mendoza
Harry Monck
Analeigh
Katie Beach
Victoria-Ann Bernal

Heather Braman
Alex Chrestopoulos
Matthew Cowles

Victoria Forman

Mariah Fournier
Peter Frazis
Kendy Gamez
Shirley Ann Ganuere

Ken Griffin
Jennifer Hines
Amanda Jackson
Patricia Ann Kimble
ED Kimmell
Kaylan Kocsis
72

2012 FIne arTs lITerary Journal TarranT CounTy College norThwesT Volume XIII
marine Creek reflections is a publication produced by the students, faculty and staff of Tarrant County College northwest Campus. Theresa D. Heflin, Ed.S. Faculty Editor Tarrant County College Northwest 4801 Marine Creek Parkway Fort Worth, Texas 76179 817-515-7209
Front Cover Art: Rail Walking by Lilly Rodriguez, Student Back Cover Art: Its Dun by Lilly Rodriguez, Student Editorial assistance from Angela Chilton, English Department Chair; Christine Hubbard, Ph.D., Humanities Dean.
Printed by Tarrant County College Printing services Press run: 200 copies Copies are available from: Tarrant County College Northwest Campus English Department eBook available @ http://marinecreekreflections.weebly.com/index.html
2012 Tarrant County College

NW.MCR.P30.01746.05.12.PAK: TCC is an Equal Opportunity institution/equal access to the disabled.

MCR Spring 2012 Final Small For Web Locked 1

Caricato da

Informazioni sul documento

Descrizione originale:

Titolo originale

Copyright

Formati disponibili

Condividi questo documento

Condividi o incorpora il documento

Opzioni di condivisione

Hai trovato utile questo documento?

Questo contenuto è inappropriato?

Copyright:

Formati disponibili

MCR Spring 2012 Final Small For Web Locked 1

Caricato da

Copyright:

Formati disponibili

Developing the SenSeS

Marine Creek Reflections

2012 FIne arTs lITerary Journal TarranT CounTy College norThwesT

Developing the SenSeS

Before the Seed Amanda Jackson

Patricia ann Kimble

liliana rodriguez, english major

Student Staff Editors

Redwoods Sandra McCurdy

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Daddys Own Pinocchio

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

To the Dead Man in the Bentley in North Hollywood

Crown of the Saint

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Jonathan Quinn, Faculty Guest Exhibit

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Entropy Brittany Gonzales

Marine Creek Reflections

Through the Woods

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Patricia Ann Kimble

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Patricia Ann Kimble

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Hot Strawberry Jam

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Deal with the Devil

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Birds Eye View

Developing the Senses

Descarda Jennifer Hines

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Developing the Senses

The Final Call

* Vietnamese for, at great expense.

Marine Creek Reflections

But the day of pandemonium has yet to cease.

Developing the Senses

Marine Creek Reflections

Lights crowning halo Illuminates immaculate Ivory petals.