INKLING

Volume 20 Spring 2010 Number 1

The Inkling is the creative arts magazine of Lone Star College-Tomball and Lone Star College-University Park. Students of LSC-Tomball and LSC-University Park are invited to submit poetry, essays, short stories, or artwork for this annual publication. All copyrights revert to the authors and artists. No portion of the Inkling may be reproduced without consent of the individual contributors.

Advisors: Dr. Rebecca L. Tate Amy M. Hirsch

Advisory Board: Doug Boyd Dr. Greg Oaks Katherine Reynolds Dr. Bill Simcik Melissa Studdard

Senior Editor: Robyn Arcia

Editors: Udo Hintze Mariah Medus Anthony Ramirez Chantel Sigman

Staff: Amy Ashley Charles Beacham Lauren Caldwell Julia Clancy Mary Faler Andrea Henrici Suzie Hernandez Hannah Jenney Jessica Kelly Marlene Morales Alex Villanueva

Cover Art: Via dell’ Amore, Lover’s Lane Robyn Arcia

The Via dell’Amore, or “Lover’s Lane,” is one of the breathtaking hiking paths along a portion of the Cinque Terre, five cliffside villages along the Italian Riviera coast. The “locks of love” is a romantic rite in which loving couples hang a padlock, inscribed with their names or initials, on to the railing along the path, symbolizing their eternal love. Inkling Table of Contents Ode to Pennies by Udo Hintze...... 1 First Place Poetry Winner

Hold ’em, Pookie by Tyler Fortner...... 3

Black Magic by Chantel Sigman...... 5

“Fourtune” Cookies by Greggory Adams...... 6 Second Place Prose Winner

A King Seen in Profile by Ryan T. Fischbeck...... 13

Draglife by Emma Glass...... 15

I’ll Show You the Way by Therese Crews...... 19

Sam Cody by Cecilia Granberry...... 20

Ball and Chain by Elizabeth Myles...... 25 Third Place Prose Winner—Tie

Bits by Robyn Arcia...... 31

Dawn Never Comes by Jonte Smith...... 32 Third Place Poetry Winner—Tie

What Goes Around Comes Around by Nico Gadberry...... 33

The Red Dream by Anthony Ramirez...... 39 Third Place Poetry Winner—Tie

Abandoned by Hannah Jenney...... 40

Dancing by Amanda Galvan...... 41 Third Place Art Winner

Reflection by Hannah R. Pugh...... 42

Let He Who Is Without Sin Cast the First Stone by Stacy Reneé Kuropata...... 43

Model Overlay by Lauren Miller...... 44

Study in Black and White by Eric Dela Cruz...... 45

Generations to Come by Daniel Bolduc...... 46

Bishop’s Palace by Andrea Henrici...... 47

Dragons Do Exist! by Rebecca Schrom...... 48

Life’s Destruction by Bethany Noack...... 49

Haunting Memories by Hannah Jenney...... 50 First Place Art Winner Plaid Froglett by Stacy Reneé Kuropata...... 51 Second Place Art Winner

Punk in the Morning by Mariah Medus...... 52

The Fall of the House of Usher, Exterior by H. A. Christopher Caraway, IV...... 53

Candlelight by Amanda Galvan...... 54

Staglieno Sorrow by Robyn Arcia...... 55

Plantation Window by Andrea Henrici...... 56

Clarity by Taylor Lewis...... 57

Dangerous Serenity by Bethany Noack...... 58

Ancient Gods by Oscar Lara...... 59

Artlessly Adrift by Chantel Sigman...... 60 Second Place Poetry Winner

Seasons by Susan Vanover...... 61

Tiger by Udo Hintze...... 63

Gummy Bears by Caitlin Kamrath...... 65

The Men We’ve Been Through by Therese Crews...... 67

We Wane into Darkness by Zoe Williams...... 71

Crossroads by Elina Lupin...... 72 Third Place Prose Winner—Tie

Frost by Anthony Ramirez...... 77

Dancing Under Streetlights by Greggory Adams...... 78 First Place Prose Winner

Staff Photos...... 84

Contributors’ Biographies...... 85

Submission Form for Writing...... 87

Submission Form for Art...... 88

Selection Policy and Contest Information...... 89 First Place Poetry Winner

Ode to Pennies Udo Hintze

For the centennial of the Lincoln Penny, 1909-2009

Bright like a jewel you shine, newly minted, America’s Atom: Inscrutable, indivisible, and ubiquitous, The lowest of the low, The poor man’s most faithful companion. And yet everything is made of small things, Like mountains, armies, airplanes, and deserts, And smaller still: molecules, particles and atoms. The penny is the tiny seed that gives life To the amber-colored fields of America; Thus, for necessity’s sake, you exist.

As pennies lie there, In pools of copper, shining like mini-suns, Behold in your eyes There is the democracy of description! Pennies are the signs of the times, Pieces of American history, Little time travelers: War veterans and survivors of depressions, Political crises and epidemics. And all the Past is memorialized, Cast in the unforgiving memory of metal. But as the years roll by, You collect experience and pile up with layers of history. You become obscure, burned by the fires of time. But yet life still goes on thanks to you.

The penny is universal logic, Representing the universe, Everything turning as one: The one who is God, A complete individual, The one who is eternal, alive, and remembers Because rightly There is a legend on the penny: “In God we trust” next to A profile picture of Father Abraham.

1 Pennies are the history Of a discrete numerical value With histories As diverse as Americans themselves; Pennies of the poor, Pennies on lunch tables, Pennies at the corner store, Pennies in the executive boardroom, Traveling around the country Uniting the rich and the poor, The famous and the unknown, The just and the wicked, Bringing the nation together.

One by one, pennies show How the least valuable is still the most important. Democracy’s represented in you: Pennies everywhere of equal value, So much like America: Out of many, one.

2 Hold’ em, Pookie Tyler Fortner

The bar was pretty crowded for a Tuesday night, and most people were sitting at one of the ten poker tables scattered around the dance floor. I swear the owner just inherited an old warehouse, put a bar in, got a few kegs, and put a sign outside that said “bar.” Most nights, there weren’t more than three tables in this dump. Those nights I could make a bill easy. Ten tables meant 60 players. If I played conservatively, I could walk out with 800 bones, no sweat. “’Nother beer here, J,” I called to the bartender. We had been playing for a couple of hours, and I had about 500 bucks, up from my initial $150 investment. The dealer dealt me my cards, and I cupped my hands around them and pulled up the corners. Two kings. Cowboys. Beautiful. If I worked this right, I would have the December rent. I slid my cards next to my chip stack and took a long pull of my beer. “Raise fifty,” I said. The lady next to me folded as did her neighbor. “Why would you raise fifty dollars pre-flop?”The question came from the large, balding, mammoth of a man sitting across from me. I knew him as Tim, and I had played cards with him on occasion in the past. “You only got two cards. Still five more to go.” He looked at his stack, which was considerably larger than mine, and picked up a black chip. “I’ll re-raise to a thousand,” he threw the chip to the middle of the table. “That’ll put you all in I think.” There were two things I knew for sure about Tim Hobanks. One was that he had loads of money. I’d seen him drop hundreds of dollars on Monday night bar tabs, and he was constantly wearing new suits. He would make big bets on small odds just because he could. The second thing I knew about Tim Hobanks was that he was an abysmal poker player. “Call,” I said as I pushed my entire stack to the middle of the table and flipped my cards over. “Suck it, Tim.” He smiled politely and looked at his cards one at a time. “You see, kid; you got to learn patience and control. You can’t jerk the fishing pole at the first little nibble.” He chuckled and flipped his cards over. Two Aces. Fuck. “Your pocket is singing, kid,” Tim said. “Huh?” I looked down and heard my ringtone playing. I pulled my cell out and flipped it open. The caller ID read “Heather.” I should’ve waited to answer it, but Tim’s rockets had my mind scattered. I was about to lose it all. “Hey, Pookie.” “Pookie?” Heather asked. “What have you done?” The dealer flipped the first three cards.An eight, a nine, and a two. Tim’s hand was still strong. “I haven’t done anything,” I said. The dealer flipped over the two of spades. Tim looked at me and grinned.

3 “Playing cards or losing the rent money?” she asked. “A little of both actually.” “Damn it!” she screamed. “We go through this every month. Poker is not a job.” The dealer flipped the last card. The river card. It was a king, and it gave me a full house. “You little sonofabitch,” Tim said and threw his cards at me. I raked the chips in front of me. “I got a boat, lady,” I said into the phone. “Really?” “Yup.” I stacked my chips into eight neat columns. “1600 bucks.” “Well, guess you should try for the car payment while you’re hot.” “I’m always hot.” “Snob. Good luck, babe.” “See ya when I get home.” I flipped the phone closed and put it in my pocket. I looked up, and there were two new cards in front of me. Tim still had two grand in chips. This was going to be a good night.

4 Black Magic Chantel Sigman

Love like coffee: Strong and bitter, Gives me the jitters When drank in high doses.

You permeate through the room; All thoughts drift to you. I’ll take you as is— No sugar, no milk: I like my cup o’ Joe Tall, dark, and handsome.

Brew me another pot— So seductively hot: Burns my throat, Burns my lips When I sip and kiss Your container’s porcelain rim.

Substitutes food, Substitutes sleep: You’re all I need— For in exchange of sustenance And in return for my dreams, You keep me awake And get me through Tonight, tomorrow, today.

5 Second Place Prose Winner

“Fourtune” Cookies Greggory Adams

The first day of fall surprised everyone with grey skies, cold rain, and cooler temperatures, something Houston hadn’t seen in a while but everyone welcomed, except Paul. Sitting hunched over his laptop at a little café, he could hear the hustle and bustle around him even though he was doing his best to tune out the ambiance. Trying to finish his assignment, his ears still perked up every time he heard: “Justin Banks, at your service.” Those five words made Paul glance over his laptop, eyes darting over to the pudgy, disheveled man in his early thirties, his arm extended to shake yet someone else’s hand, introduce himself to another person, invade someone else’s personal space. This time Justin was shaking the hand of a young mother, scone in one hand, baby stroller handle in the other, sunglasses worn as a headband though there definitely was no sun today. Paul was about to go back to his laptop when he saw Justin reach down to attempt to pick up the baby in the stroller. Paul nearly knocked his own table over trying to get up and around it, muttering a quick “sorry” to the couple at the table next to him, and rushed over to Justin and the mother who had a look of “are you for real” on her face but looked too afraid to say it. “Okay, pal,” Paul said, grabbing Justin’s wrist in one hand and clamping the other down on Justin’s shoulder. “I don’t think she wants you picking up her baby.” “No, it’s okay,” she said in a tone that was clear it really wasn’t. “Paul, that’s a beautiful baby. I remember when you were a baby, Paul,” Justin said. “Yeah, I know, why don’t you have a seat at my table, and tuck in your shirt.” Before they could get over to the table, Justin twisted out of Paul’s grip, extending his hand to someone new. “Justin Banks at your service.” Paul sighed and sat back down.

“I can’t handle him today. Will you please get him out of the house?” his mother requested earlier that morning, leaning over the kitchen sink, gripping the edge of the counter. Her hair fell down around her face. Paul couldn’t see if her eyes were open, but her stance communicated, “Stop the world I want to get off.” She was slowly rocking back and forth.

6 “Mom, I have a project due for class. I’m going to be spending the day on that,” Paul answered, putting the juice away and wiping down the stove from breakfast. “Paul, I just can’t handle it, okay?” “Mom, it’s the last class I need to finally get my associate’s degree.” Paul looked at his mother, still in her bathrobe, reaching for the cupboard and a bottle of pills she kept there. “Do you really need one of those right now?” he asked. She flashed a painful smile, whispering, “Yeah,” then took the pill without drinking anything and in one motion pointed to his brother sitting at the table writing in a notepad and then to the back door. In the distance there was a rumble of thunder. “Come on, Justin. Grab your backpack,” Paul said, grabbing his laptop bag and car keys and walking to the front door. “Paul?” “What, Mom?” he had his back to her. “Thanks for cooking breakfast.” “Yeah. Come on, Justin.” It wasn’t his mother’s fault Justin was autistic and would need care for the rest of his life. It wasn’t his fault his mother couldn’t cope with life and quietly took any pills she could get her hands on. Paul held the door open for his older brother, who was still making notes and speaking to himself.

“Justin Banks at your service.” Paul glanced up at Justin talking to an older couple who were having coffee. The man motioned Justin to pull up a chair. Justin could talk to anyone about anything. Paul had seen him carry on an intelligent conversation with a ten-year-old about Power Rangers and then talk to a graduate student about the intricacies of Egyptian archaeology. Paul reached down into his bag for a notebook, feeling a rough cellophane wrapper scrape across the back of his hand. He pulled out the notebook, then reached down and pulled out four fortune cookies, remnants of the last dinner with his ex-girlfriend, her voice still echoing in his head: “Paul, I’m sorry. I like you, but I just can’t handle your family.” “Fortune cookies!” “Yes, Justin,” Paul said not looking at him. “But we’re not at a Chinese restaurant.” “From the other night.”

7 “Oh, from when Alexa broke up with you.” “Yesss . . . ” “You know it’s interesting. Fortune cookies are actually an American alteration of a Japanese concept; however, there are several individuals who claim responsibility for bringing the tradition to the United States. If you study the anthropological . . . ” “Justin?” “Yes?” “Working.” “On?” “How’s the notepad coming?” Justin’s notepad was a collection of the information gathered from the people he met on each outing. Once home, he would collate the data into a massive database and spreadsheet and compare and contrast with other people he had met. It was something he had worked on for over ten years. “Almost full. Need to go to Wal-Mart.” “Okay, why don’t you see if you can fill it, and then we’ll go?” “Justin Banks at your service.” Paul glanced up to see a busboy trying to move around Justin. Justin followed him. Paul learned from an early age that Justin was special. Justin was five years older, and for as long as he could remember, Paul had been told that he had to look after Justin. Most of his friends learned to take it in stride and helped him watch out for his older brother. As much of a pain as Justin was sometimes, Paul knew it wasn’t his fault. Justin couldn’t help half the things that Justin did. Paul tried to go back to his project, but his eyes kept wandering to the cookies sitting next to him. In the background he could hear Justin introducing himself to someone else. Paul hated fortune cookies but always liked to read the comments inside. When he was out with his friends, they’d play the “In Bed” game, inserting those words to the end of every fortune to make even the lowliest of fortunes somewhat better. He tore open the first package and broke the cookie in half. Everyone feels lucky for having you as a friend. Hardy har har, he thought. He threw the cookie and the fortune down on the table and noticed the girl walking in, brushing rain out of her hair and off her shoulders. “Justin Banks at your service.”

8 Paul had to hand it to her; she kept her cool, shook Justin’s hand while giving a look around like she was trying to see if she was on a hidden camera show and even engaged Justin in conversation. Paul went back to his laptop. A couple of minutes later he was slightly horrified to hear Justin’s voice say, “And this is our table. Have a seat.” The woman sat her food down on the table, extending her hand to shake Paul’s, using the other to keep her purse from sliding down her arm. “I’m Samantha. I’m joining you for lunch,” she announced. “She’s nicer than Alexa.” “Thanks, Justin,” Paul answered, wishing he could evaporate and be deposited elsewhere in the rain. “Nurse’s assistant and athletic trainer,” Justin said. “Well,” Samantha said. “Remember, Justin. I’m working on a Nurse’s Assistant program, not quite there yet.” “Thanks, Justin,” Paul said, looking up at his brother who was still standing next to the table, glancing back and forth at the two of them. “Are you going to sit down?” “No,” Justin answered but made no move to go anywhere else. Samantha took a bite of linguini, leaning into her plate and holding her hair back with one hand, trying to hide a chuckle. “Sorry,” Paul apologized. “It’s really okay,” Samantha said. “Here I was worried about eating by myself because I hate being seen eating alone. I was going to get it to go until Justin invited me to sit with you.” “Good ol’ Justin,” Paul said. “Good ol’ Justin,” Justin echoed. “So what’s with the fortune cookies?” Samantha asked. Paul closed his laptop and glanced out at the rain still pouring down. “Alexa dumped him.” “Oh,” Samantha answered as if Paul had responded. “Those are from the dinner Justin told me about.” “Yeah,” Paul said as the door opened and Justin made his way to new quarry, notebook in hand. “Don’t you wish you could take a life hiatus sometimes?” Samantha asked. “Life hiatus?” “Yeah. Put your life on hold, take a break from everything going on. Did one of those recently, worked wonders. With you obviously looking after your brother and your recent breakup, life must be difficult. At least your job must understand to let you work out of the office.”

9 All of Paul’s friends had already graduated college and were working on careers. Due to his family and having to take so much time off, Paul was still struggling to get his associate’s degree. “Yeah, I’m still in school with a long way to go,” he said, explaining about Justin, and before he could stop, he found himself going into his mother’s issues as well. As he spoke and spilled his story all over the space between them, he could only think of how easy she was to talk to. “Dad’s been gone for a long time, so it’s up to me,” he said, wrapping up. Man, I hope I haven’t ruined anything, telling her all of this, Paul thought. Not like I have a chance with her. Samantha looked at him, brow furrowed, a look of consternation on her face. “No,” she said with authority, shaking her head back and forth, pointing with her fork. “Don’t explain. You have your circumstances, and it’s nobody’s business. In the future just hold your head up high, and remember the words of Tom Petty.” “What’s that?” “‘You could stand me up at the gates of hell,’” Samantha sang, “‘but I won’t back down.’” As she recited each word, she moved her hand, holding the fork like a baton, bouncing at every syllable, head bobbing in unison. “Like Tom Petty?” “A little,” she said smiling, letting her hair fall in front of one of her eyes, almost like she was trying to hide. “Thing is,” Paul said. “It’s been my life from such a young age; it’s all I know. To me, it’s normal. I’m not looking for pity. I just want people to know I’m not some slacker who can’t get his life together.” “Well, you’ve got your life, Justin’s, your mom’s. It’d be hard on anyone. So you gonna open them or not? You know it’s bad luck not to.” She took a forkful of linguine. “Open what?” She looked at him like he had two heads and pointed at the cookies with her nose. “Oh. Sure. Why not.” “What’s the first one say?” she asked, mouth half full. Paul held it up for her to read and noticed that the back said “Autumn, Fall” and gave the Chinese symbol for each. Irony on this day of all days. “It’s also bad luck to not eat them,” Samantha said. “Well, I guess I have bad luck,” Paul said, opening the next cookie. “I hate the things.” Samantha reached over and took a chunk of cookie, crunching down on it. Paul scooped up the other uneaten cookies and dropped them next to her plate.

10 Paul’s shoulders drooped, and he sighed as he read out loud: “‘Do not give up: the beginning is always the hardest.’” “See?” Samantha said, her eyes going wide. “Wisdom from the gods. What’s next?” “Should I even bother saying ‘in bed?’” “Don’t know, I just met you,” Samantha answered, reaching across the table and tossing the next cookie towards him. Paul blushed in response. “‘Keep true to the dreams of your youth,’” Paul read. “Oh, that’s a good one!” Samantha said. “Isn’t this exciting? Karma, fate, whatever you want is calling out to you. Sent you to this restaurant today to read these cookies so you’d be ready for the message.” “Actually, the rain brought me; otherwise, we’d have gone to the park.” “And who controls the rain?” Samantha asked. “Besides, I never eat lunch at the park. Open the last cookie.” Paul looked across the table at Samantha, brunette hair falling halfway between her chin and shoulders, a few freckles on her face, and pearl earrings that nestled into her earlobes, and wondered at the last comment. “If it hadn’t rained, you wouldn’t have come here, silly,” she said. “Yeah, but,” he started. Then he glanced down and read the last fortune. It is much easier to be critical than to be correct. She had a point. Had he gone to the park, they wouldn’t have met. Was she implying they may meet again? He just never believed in fate or some mysterious power guiding everything. After having an older brother that he had to help care for, and then in his preteen years assuming more responsibility when his mother started popping pills . . . he’d always shied away from talk of some force controlling his life, because so far . . . “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Well, what’s it say?” she asked, reaching across the table and turning his hand so she could read the fortune he held. “Hmm. Nice,” was all she said. “Listen, Paul, I have to get back, I’ve got a pretty short lunch break, but if you’re ever here around this time, I’ll look for you, okay?” “I’d like that.” “Well,” she said standing up, extending her hand again. “It was very nice to meet you, Paul Banks.” Paul took it, the shake lingered a moment, and he got a look into her brown eyes. He could swim in those eyes. He wanted to. “Well, I need to go,” she said winking. “But I can’t leave without my hand.” “Right. Sorry. Nice to meet you, too, Samantha.”

11 She turned, clicking her heels together as she did so, and threw her purse over her arm, waving to Justin as she walked out the door. Justin followed her outside. “Oh, Justin, please don’t ruin anything for me . . . ” Paul said aloud, noticing she was writing something in Justin’s notebook. She then patted him on the shoulder and walked away. Paul hoped she would turn and give him another wave and was disappointed when she didn’t. Justin came back inside and walked back over to where Paul was sitting. “Notebook’s full.” “Okay,” Paul answered, still staring at the door Samantha had just walked out of. “I just spent fifteen minutes with a woman I’ve never met before and want to see her again and was too stupid to get her phone number or her last name . . . ” “Whibley.” “What?” Justin was holding his notepad. “Samantha Whibley, 25, has a degree in athletic training, but couldn’t find a job she liked, so she is going to back to school to become a nurse’s assistant. I told her all about you when she was ordering her lunch and gave her your number.” “You gave her my phone number? When?” “Just now, outside. She asked me. Paul,” Justin said starting to appear agitated. “Did I do something wrong?” “Not at all,” Paul said. Justin immediately relaxed. “Justin? You’re the best.” “At your service.”

12 A King Seen in Profile Ryan T. Fischbeck

If this be the glory, Then why do I sit here? Alone. Unconcerned, yet constantly Aware of all these many subtleties, Within this palace, this prison Of salvation, that is my home.

Or is it? I often wonder, Or is it that I merely wander? For I cannot quite recall, The colors of my walls, Painted by my own hand In shades that surely soothed Once, yet as I said, I cannot quite remember, Though I seldom leave my home.

Walls really are a funny thing. We see them but we seldom See. For what they really are Is what’s within, or rather what they guard? What is it that I guard? Perhaps that is why I can’t recall.

I’ve traveled; I’ve seen and known And done. Which is to say, That I know how to run. Rapidly. Quite fast indeed. So I’m now quite certain That this spiral, this voracious beast, Will never once escape from me.

I once dreamt that I awoke from a dream, All the while slumbering more soundly. And this burning argument, Perched upon a pedestal. Cackling. Cawing with amusement. It seemed A slight, yet looking back today, It only wished to be free.

So, I bought a mirror and hung it from my hearth. Vanity is such a pleasant thing. Wonderfully distracting. Or is it woefully? Once again, I can’t recall. Still, I feel quite pleasant . . . quite pleased, For if I were to leave, I know That I can come home to me.

13 We all reflect what we want, What we fear. Is that ourselves Or is it just a shade? Perhaps, It’s simply shade, sheltering And cooling those passions, That froth and bubble over, Going past what it is we need.

What do I need? Seldom Will my dignity allow an answer. It cries, “You live! You eat! You breathe!” This is the truth, and yet We all know the Truth. So I say I can’t recall. Patiently waiting . . . For you to glimpse into my eyes, And see.

14 Draglife Emma Glass

Kina gazed thoughtfully at the egg in her arms through the sun’s glare reflected off her glasses. This was sometimes blocked by the downward stroke of the large, leathery wing of the silver dragon above her, pulling the dragtrain car. The world rolled slowly by as she caressed the top of the egg, shifting her future dragon’s weight to the crook of her arm. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Tonen asked, speaking for the first time since they had left the nursery. “Mm-hmm,” Kina replied. The last day of any school year was cause for celebration, of course. But this was the year’s end all schoolchildren looked forward to. At the end of every year, the entire sophomore class would travel by dragtrain (the teachers’ dragons often taking up extra cars to ensure room for everyone) to the nearest nursery, where they would receive eggs that would hatch into dragons of their very own. Kina and Tonen looked up at the silver dragon pulling their car, its long body undulating as it flew low, thick ropes held in each pair of claws, straining with the dragon’s strength. The beast was slightly off-center to avoid interfering with the dragons in front of and behind it. To their left and right, the other cars in the train were being pulled by dragons of varying colors, filled with students and eggs of their own. It was so hard to believe that every mottled ovoid would be like those great beasts above them in only five years’ time. And they would be in the arenas well before that. “Man, I still can’t believe it!” Tonen said, the words finally bursting from his mouth in excitement. He was bouncing on the heels of his sneakers. Kina thought he looked like a kid. “We’re gonna be adults, Kina!” “As if you two would ever grow up!” said a whiny voice both cringed at. There was only one girl in the entire school with an attitude problem that severe. Sure enough, “Princess Solce,” as others called her, was closing the door between cars, smiling at everyone as she flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder. Kina knew, without a doubt, that she believed the stares and glares of annoyance from her fellow students were of admiration. Finally, her gaze rested on the tan-skinned oddity in their car. Taiban Itbur had just moved from the nation of Synel. It was rare for anyone to move to another country, due to all the paperwork involved. And at the very end of the year, too. Kina found herself staring at him, as well. Heat slowly crept into her cheeks as she watched him fondly regard his egg. “He’s cute, huh?” said Tonen quietly. “Lips are a little thinner than I’d like, but check out that chest . . . ” “Yeah . . . ” said Kina.

15 “I swear!” said the brunette, whirling on them. “You two are always looking for boyfriends! Grow up, already! Besides . . . ” she added, flipping her hair yet again. She must have thought it looked cute, but Kina could only be annoyed at it. “I’ll bet he likes girls, and not losers like you, Rodent.” She sneered at Kina. “So you’re both out of luck.” Taiban looked up, the conversation having caught his attention. Both Kina and Tonen backed up slightly against the waist-high plastiglass edge of the metal car as the exotic wonder approached. They shared a look, and Kina knew Tonen was just as nervous as she was. What could they say? Whose side would he take? “Excuse me,” said Taiban. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re talking about me? Your name is . . . Solce, right?” “Yeah,” said Solce, artificial softness coming into her voice. “See, these two were being so insensitive, talking about how cute you are, and you’re right there. That’s so rude, isn’t it?” Taiban shrugged. “If that’s what they were saying, I would not be insulted.” “Ah . . . well, I . . . ” “But I doubt this one . . . eh . . . ” He looked hopefully at Kina. “K-Kina. Kina Rodenthor,” Kina stammered, realizing he was waiting for her to supply her name. “Ah. That answers it.” He turned to Solce. “You crossed the cars telling them to grow up, yet you’re the one doing the childish name-calling.” “I . . . hey, that’s not fair,” said Solce. “Rod . . . Kina is a grade-A loser. How can you take her side?” “Because you insist on calling her Rodent,” said Taiban with a shrug. He walked away, then, to stand on the other side of the car. “Well . . . don’t think I’ll let you humiliate me like that in the arena, Rodent!” said Solce, walking to the center of the car. She held her egg high above her head like it was a trophy. “My dragon will be the prettiest and strongest dragon of them all!” Kina and Tonen (along with several others in the class) glared at Solce. She felt like knocking that egg out of her hands, she wanted to hear that little brat cry at the splattered remnants—the remains of the innocent unborn dragon. Kina looked down, her angered flush fading. She’d had the grace not to say it, but someone else in the class wasn’t as tactful. “Hey, someone on the volleyball team, spike that thing out of her hands.” The dragon above them gave a low rumble, and the car shuddered violently, knocking everyone off-balance. Kina clutched her egg tightly as she leaned on the railing, Tonen doing the same beside her. Across the car, Taiban had grasped the cable the thrashing dragon held, body rocking violently with its movements, but his one-armed hold on the egg never loosening. Solce’s egg was jarred free of her hands as the motion of the car threw her off her feet. The egg tumbled, seemingly in slow motion, towards the car floor.

16 Kina was only peripherally aware she had thrust her egg into Tonen’s hands with a quick, “Hold this.” It was like she was dreaming, the dive and the impact of the hard metal floor not really registering, the egg clutched tightly in her arms and tucked to the blue fabric of her dress, but she didn’t feel its weight or its warmth. The silver dragon’s handler had managed to calm his beast because the car stopped rocking. By degrees, she became more acutely aware of the excited chatter by students and shouted commands by adults around her and, dumbly enough, the fact that her dive had pushed her skirt up, and now everyone could see her underwear. Quickly, she stood up, blushing hotly, and held Solce’s egg out to her. The girl took it silently, and, smoothing out her dress, Kina walked back to stand with Tonen, who held her egg out for her to take. “That was awesome!” Tonen said excitedly the second Kina had her egg in her arms. “It was like something out of a movie!” “I . . . hey, it’s not like I was trying to be a hero or anything. I was just . . . I mean . . . I didn’t think about it at all.” “Thank you, Miss Rodenthor,” their teacher said from somewhere towards the back of the car. “Now . . . ” she began walking slowly up and down the car, the students making an aisle for her. “Would the careless person who almost killed Miss Nelik’s dragon please step forward so I can call their parents?” Obviously, everyone was silent. “Well?” She looked around at the students. Still no reply. Taiban stepped forward. “Was it you?” asked the teacher, shocked. “No, ma’am,” said Taiban. “But I think it came from the middle of the car. On this side.” “Oh. Well, thank you, Mr. Itbur.” As she turned to harass the middle of the car, Taiban approached Kina and Tonen. “You looked like you wanted to . . . do that, yourself,” said the Syneli transfer, keeping his words vague so he didn’t upset the dragon. “Um . . . ” Kina looked down. “Hey, even if we thought it, there’s nothing wrong as long as we don’t do it, right?” Tonen said. “No. Your Head of Council has not yet formed thought police.” The distaste was evident in his voice. Before either of them could offer a reply, someone shouted, “Look! It’s a dragfight! Real wild dragons!” The three joined the packed rush to the other end, just barely managing to squeeze themselves at the front, hands on the plastiglass. Two dragons, male by the “beards,” twin bladelike projections of enamel-covered bone curving inwards from their chins, were locked in a midair struggle, copper and white, clawing at each other and tail-blades slashing, beards locked in

17 a contest of strength. The black-scaled female they were fighting over flew in circles around the struggling pair, calling encouragement, though to which male could not be determined. “They’re . . . tiny,” said Kina, squinting at them. They were at least half the size of the creatures above them. “Of course they are,” said the teacher, raising her voice above the chatter. “Our dragons are much larger because we’ve encouraged the best pairs to mate. And wild dragons are simply different. See, look. None of the dragons pulling this train are willing to stop and join in.” The silver dragon grunted, sounding much like a human’s shocked and insulted gasp. The teacher chuckled. “See? It’s a lot like asking the person next to you to go to bed with a monkey. It’s just viscerally wrong to them.” The students laughed uneasily at the mental image the teacher had provided them, some making the obligatory, “Well X is a monkey, then,” jokes. “Hey,” said Tonen. “Look, the white one’s given up.” The white male was flying away, whipping his long, bloodstained body back and forth as he flew angrily from the fight.The copper male crowed exuberantly, turning to the female and twining his body around hers. The dragons above them seemed to rumble in their throats. Kina thought it sounded like a laugh. “And a winner is decided. Your dragons will act a lot like that when they get old enough. But ours only use their beards.” The mating pair was soon out of sight as the dragons pulled the train along its tracks. The teacher’s look became stern. “Okay, back to business. Will the person that spoke up earlier please come talk to me?” The dragons rumbled. Kina was sure they were laughing.

18 I’ll Show You the Way Therese Crews

Sprawled across my bed, My fingers trace the curves you should fill. With no one around These empty spaces are aching for you, The whispered words of skin on skin.

Lust is the wrong word, It lacks that oomph. I’d go with tinder catching fire, Flash floods of desire.

It’s an electric current, Turning me on like a light. So switch me on, and I’ll show you the way.

As a friend puts it, we can get biblical. Adam and Eve won’t mind our return to their state, And when our bodies intertwine I get a hint of that original sin.

And I like the way it tastes: Sweet, sultry, deep. The way you smell making love to my senses,

Much like the way I’d like you to take me: Without warning, without stopping. Without worry, without thinking.

Our attraction? No, it’s stronger, Much like the moon and the tides, Earth and gravity, living and breathing.

Come close, and I’ll show you how it feels; We’ll be hotter than Global Warming, You and me. I can’t resist you. So keep turning me on, and I’ll show you the way.

19 Sam Cody Cecilia Granberry

The wind was blowing snow in all different directions the night I rode into Black Rock, up in the Texas Panhandle. It wasn’t just a snowstorm but a heavy blizzard, and it chilled me to the bone. The temperature had dropped at least 30 degrees, and there were little icicles in my mustache and beard. You could see my breath and that of Midnight’s in the clouds of air as we breathed. All I wanted was a saloon for some whiskey to warm my insides and a warm bed for the rest of me. It wasn’t at all hard to find the saloon for all the horses tied up out front. I tied Midnight to the hitching post, then went inside. It was the first warmth I’d felt in eight days. I’d been sleeping on the ground at night and riding all day. Tonight I was gonna sleep in a proper bed with enough covers to warm three men. Black Rock was a spit on the side of the road, only about twelve buildings in the whole place. You could ride completely through it in about a minute and a half. But there must have been something there to keep people tied to it. “Barkeep,” I said. “How ‘bout a double to warm me up. Just put the bottle on the bar and keep a tab.” He kinda looked me over, tryin’ to decide if I could pay a tab. “Coming right up,” said the bartender as he set a bottle and a shot glass on the bar. I swilled down the first shot and immediately poured the second. It felt better than the first ‘cause I could feel its warmth all the way to my stomach. After a couple of minutes, I started to thaw. “Do you have a hotel in this town?” I asked the bartender. “Just down the street on the right. You’ll find Mrs. Perkins’ place. She might have an empty bed, although, on a night like this, she may not. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean, and the prices are right good,” replied the barkeeper. I had another shot, paid my bill, and headed out for Mrs. Perkins’ place. It was at the end of town on the right side. It looked like a weathered, old two-story house with a wooden sign on top declaring it to be a hotel and restaurant. The sign was swingin’ and creakin’ in the wind. The whole place had never seen a drop of paint, but paint probably wasn’t readily available there. As long as the place had a bed inside, I didn’t give a damn what it looked like on the outside. When I spied her place, the lights were still on, so I went inside. It was only seven o’clock, but on a cold night like this there wasn’t much to do but go to bed early. No one wanted to venture out in this kind of weather. The smell of fresh home cookin’ hit me in the face like a fresh-thrown snowball. Hadn’t thought about eating until that food smell hit me in the face, and all of a sudden I was starvin’. I’d had nothin’ to eat for three days but beef jerky, and all that did was keep you alive, but I was thankful for it.

20 There were a few tables to the left of the doorway. I assumed it was the dining room. A few were occupied, but there was one empty, so I took a seat. A little short, round woman entered the dining area, I assumed from the kitchen. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled up in a bun on the back of her head, and her glasses had slipped down her nose so she had to look at me over the top of them. “A good evening to you, sir, and what may I get for you?” she asked. “About all I have left at this time is some hot chicken and dumplins and maybe some roast beef and taters. What’ll it be?” “How ‘bout a big bowl of dumplins and some hot coffee, black, please, and do you have a bed left for a frozen stranger?” I asked. “Chicken and dumplins and hot coffee, yes, sir, and I do have one bed left. It ain’t very big, but it’ll be better’n sleepin’ in the hay loft over at the livery. It’s fifty cents a night without a bath, seventy-five cents with one. The livery is across the street.” “Yes, ma’am, without the bath. Figure the extra dirt might help me stay warm tonight. You just bring the food and coffee, and I’ll go board my horse to the livery and be right back.” I paid her for the room and meal and walked out the door, across the street, and into the livery. Just that short walk to the livery set the chill back in. The kid there said he had a couple of stalls left and for one dollar he would feed and brush Midnight and put a blanket over him so he wouldn’t get chilled. So I flipped him an extra two bits to do a good job. Midnight was my solid, black stallion and my best friend. Out here you took better care of your horse than you did of yourself. He ate first, then you. Then I went back to the inn. By the time, I got back my dinner was on the table. I sat down and inhaled two bowls of chicken and dumplins and two cups of coffee. Then I was ready to hit the sack. Mrs. Perkins appeared to be about mid-40’s, grandmotherly with a kind smile and a pleasant way about her. “Check your guns at the counter,” she said. “I don’t allow no shootin’ in my place. Jest lock your door and ain’t nobody gonna bother you. I lock all the guns up so nobody can get to ‘em.” I was reluctant to give up my gun, a Colt 45, and my Winchester rifle, too used to havin’ ’em around in case of trouble. But I wanted that warm, dry bed tonight so I gave ‘em to her. I didn’t tell her about the two-shot Derringer hidden just inside my vest, so I felt a little secure. Somethin’ told me she could handle ‘bout anythin’ that came her way. Tonight I’d have to trust her. She showed me to my room and said good night. I locked the door, pulled off my clothes down to my long johns, and jumped into bed. Within five minutes I was out. I awoke to a rooster crowin’ somewhere. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and looked around for a moment. Then I remembered where I was. I put on my clothes quickly because there was no heat in the room. I pulled on my boots, grabbed my duster, and went out the door. Mrs. Perkins wasn’t at the counter, so I assumed she was in the kitchen cookin’ breakfast. It didn’t take long for her to appear at my table.

21 “What’ll it be this mornin’, stranger’?” she asked. “By the way, ain’t seen you ‘round here before. You new in town?” “A big slab of ham and some gravy over biscuits and hot coffee, please, ma’am,” I replied. “And yes, ma’am, just rode into town last night after the blizzard hit. Name is Sam Cody, headed for Fort Worth. But I can’t get much further ‘til the blizzard lets up.” “It don’t look like it’s agonna let up any too soon, so you may as well make yourself ready to stay for at least another day. Will you be wantin’ your room for another night?” she asked. I looked out the window, and the snow was blowing in gusts, drifts now about three feet tall. I had wanted to get to Fort Worth before now, but the blizzard was slowin’ me down. May as well let Midnight have a day to rest before we started out again. “Yes, ma’am. Guess I’ll be needin’ that room for another night. It’s just too cold for me and my horse to be out in this kind of weather. Ain’t neither of us partial to it.” “One breakfast comin’ up, Mr. Cody,” said Mrs. Perkins, “and I’ll keep the coffee comin’.” Mrs. Perkins was back in no time with my breakfast, and true to her word, she kept the coffee cup filled. I paid her for the breakfast and another night of boarding, got my guns and walked out into the cold. God, it was colder this morning than a witch’s titty, with the wind really whippin’ ‘round the corners. I walked down the wooden planks in front of the stores and to the dry goods store. I needed some supplies anyway. There was a pot-bellied stove in the corner with several men gathered ‘round it warmin’ their hands and talkin’. As I walked over, they eyed me suspiciously, me bein’ a stranger. I had seen some of them at the bar the night before. “Mornin’, gentlemen,” I said. “Mornin’ to you, too. Saw you at the saloon last night. You just passin’ through, or do you aim to stay?” asked a tall one in a sheepskin coat. He had steel blue eyes that looked like they had no bottom to them. I’d seen those eyes before and learned to be wary of a man with eyes like that. His face was hard and mapped with too much sun and too many hard winters. “Well, at the moment I’m just passin through, on my way to Fort Worth, but I had to hold up last night because of the weather. My horse and me been ridin’ for eight days, and we both need a rest. When the storm hit, I figgered it was time to stop and give us both a break. Name’s Sam Cody. Came down from Denver to join up with a cattle drive out of Fort Worth, taking them back to Denver.” The other two remained silent. Before long they left the dry goods store. As they left, a little slip of a lady, just a smidgen over five feet, came in the store. One of the men grabbed her around the waist and picked her up off the ground and swung her around. “Well, if it ain’t purty Miss Ginny Lynn come to visit our little town. Ain’t seen you in a ‘coons’ age. Where you been keepin’ yourself, all alone out there on that crappy piece of ground you call a ranch?” He set her down but didn’t let her go, then continued speaking. “I’ll be mighty

22 happy to come keep you company any time. With winter here and you without a man to keep you company and in wood, you’ll freeze or starve to death out there all by yourself.” All of a sudden you’d have thought a wild cat had jumped into the fight. This little lady commenced to kickin’, bitin’, scratchin’, pullin’ hair, and poundin’ on this big ugly brute with everythin’ she had. I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receivin’ end of her business. “Let me go, you repulsive jerk! I’d prefer to freeze or starve to death rather than have you anywhere around me. When was the last time you had a bath or shaved, a year ago?” she asked. “If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll claw your eyes out.” I took about three strides and landed a right hook to the big guy, and he released her. She backed up against the counter, away from the other men, and waited to see what was gonna happen. The ringleader, the one who had talked to me, grabbed the other two men and shoved them out the door. I turned to the woman who’d been attacked and apologized for their actions. “I’m rightly sorry ‘bout that, ma’am. Men like that just don’t have any respect for themselves, let alone anyone else. Are you all right?” “Thank you, and, yes, I am all right,” she said. “Those men are nothing but trouble, but you don’t owe me an apology.” “My name is Sam Cody, from Denver, headed to Fort Worth. Don’t look like they’re gonna be drivin’ cattle in this kind of weather, though. I probably got a few days if you need any help.” Ginny Lynn looked me in the face, tryin’ to study my features and size me up. She had deep green, flashin’ eyes and flamin’ red hair hangin’ down her back, lookin’ like fine silk. I thought how nice it would be to run my fingers through it just to see how silky it was. She was tiny, but a ball of fire, with skin that looked so soft it would be like tryin’ to feel a cloud. But I remembered the last woman I trusted betrayed me and run off with some rich banker. I swore off women after that. Didn’t want to go through that kind of hurt ever again. Nope, women were nothin’ but trouble. “Thank you,” she replied, “but I have my buckboard. I just came in for a few supplies to pull me through this winter. I think I can manage by myself.” “Where is your ranch located? Tomorrow I’ll probably be leavin’ this town and headin’ for Fort Worth if this blizzard lets up. Is your ranch in that direction?” “Yes, it’s in that general direction, but with my three ranch hands I think we have it covered. But thank you for your help and your offer.” “Who were those men in the store, anyway?” I asked “They are part of the Calahan gang. They keep trying to buy my ranch, and I won’t sell. It’s all my father left me when he died, and I’ll be damned if they get their hands on it. Their ranch is just above mine. The creek runs through their ranch before it gets to mine, and they keep damming it so my cattle can’t get to the water nor to any other ranches below mine.” Ginny had a very worried look on her face as she turned to face me squarely.

23 “Several times I’ve had to go and unblock the dam,” she continued. “But within three days they have it dammed again. Old man Calahan has three sons and four ranch hands. He says if I won’t sell him my ranch, he’ll starve my cattle of water. And I can’t water my hay fields for my cattle. I keep having to buy hay, and I don’t have much left in funds to keep the ranch going. He has many more resources than I have.” “What about your head ranch hand?” I asked. “Doesn’t he help you keep an eye on things?” “He’s about as worthless as a pissant. He rides the fence line during the day and stays drunk at night. He and the other cowhands are not much help when it comes to the Calahans. They’re afraid of them,” Ginny said. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t need any help, but if you change your mind, I’m stayin’ at Mrs. Perkins’ hotel. Nice to meet you, Miss Ginny. Good luck,” I said walkin’ out the door. I helped her load her wagon and rode off. By this time, I knew I would be stayin’ longer than another day or two. I could see trouble on the horizon, whether she could see it or not, and she was not able to fight off the Calahans by herself. I tied my horse down the street and waited for her to head for home. With the wheel tracks in the snow, it wouldn’t be hard to follow her. I had decided to follow her as the storm had let up. I let her get ‘bout a thirty minute head start on me, and I began to track her. Somethin’ just told me to follow her, that she may have trouble on the way. Her place was about three-quarters of a day’s ride from town and in the direction I was goin’ anyway. The snow had stopped, and the blue skies were peekin’ through by this time. The sun helped to warm the day, and the snow on the ground began to turn to slush, but it was still easy to follow her. About halfway to her spread, I saw tracks from three other horses enter her wheel tracks and had a bad feelin’ trouble was fixin’ to start.

24 Third Place Prose Winner—Tie

Ball and Chain Elizabeth Myles

In the living area of the hotel suite, Whitney perched on the arm of the couch, watching The Price Is Right. Riveted, she didn’t turn around when she heard a knock at the half-open door. “It’s about time!” she called out. From the doorway, Gena bounced a roll of hotel toilet paper off of Whitney’s shoulder. Whitney cursed and spun around. When she saw Gena standing in the doorway, she raised her middle finger and used it to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Well, that’s rude,” said Gena, crossing the room and plucking the remote from Whitney’s fingers. “Shouldn’t you be cleaning something?” “What are you doing here?” Whitney asked, ignoring Gena’s question. “I thought Patty was working this floor today.” “She is. I’m just here to bug you.” “So where’s your fellow laundry-drone? I called for linen pickup almost an hour ago.” “Hell if I know.” Gena pushed the buttons on the remote, flipping through channels at lightning speed. “Maybe she’s on break.” “Again? How many breaks does she need?” Whitney toyed with the key card dangling from a ring of plastic looped around her wrist, spinning it in circles. “She’s old,” Gena said. “She gets tired.” “She’s lazy,” said Whitney, taking the remote back and turning off the television. “Your dad oughtta fire her.” “Relax,” said Gena. “My linen cart’s on the next floor down. I’ll grab it and come get your sheets.” Whitney bent and retrieved the toilet paper from where it had rolled under an end table. “No offense,” she replied, stuffing the toilet paper into the pocket of her uniform smock. “But I’d rather you send that new guy, Jason, up here instead.” Her eyes shone. “He’s not old. And I’ll bet he doesn’t tire out too quick, either.” “You’re disgusting.” “I know you meant to say ‘awesome’.” Whitney swiped a cleaning rag half-heartedly across the coffee table. “Move, Mrs. Jensen.” She ushered Gena out of the suite. “I’ve got half a dozen rooms left to clean before I can call it a day.” The door to the suite closed heavily behind them, locking automatically. “Don’t call me that,” Gena snapped. “Why not? It’s gonna be your name when you marry Aaron.” Whitney gave the plastic loop on her wrist another spin and walked over to the housekeeping cart parked against the wall.

25 She grabbed a clipboard from the top shelf of the cart and struck a pen mark through the number of the room they’d just exited. “Jury’s still out on that,” Gena reminded her. Whitney shook her head, bits of stringy hair coming loose from the messy bun knotted at the base of her neck. “Why? You’re perfect together. You have the same twisted sense of humor.” She made a face. “Sometimes it’s like the two of you speak your own language. Don’t you love him?” “What’s love got to do with it?” “Well, Tina Turner,” Whitney, smiling, tossed the clipboard and pen back onto the shelf and gave the cart a shove. “I happen to think it’s got everything to do with it.” The cart rolled, jerking Whitney along with it. Gena walked fast, trying to keep pace with the cart as it gained momentum. “Love makes people do stupid things,” she said. “Look at Aaron. Who asks someone to marry him after only knowing them for a few months?” “It doesn’t take long to know when you’ve found The One,” Whitney winked. “At least that’s what my mother always said.” “My mother said the same thing,” said Gena. “And now both of our moms are divorced.” “So?” “So, I don’t want to end up like my parents.” Gena paused. “Like my dad.” Whitney frowned. “Loaded? Running a fancy hotel? You could do worse.” “You know what I mean. Married three times, divorced three times.” Gena held up three fingers, “Looking for number four.” “At least he’s still trying.” “What for? He’s obviously marriage poison. Like everyone else in my family.” “Is he supposed to just give up?” When Gena didn’t answer, Whitney piped up again, optimistically: “Your sister’s still married.” “If that’s your example of a successful marriage, then shoot me now.” They rounded a corner and almost collided with Aaron as he carried a guest’s dry-cleaning down the hall. “It has a nice ring,” said Whitney, not bothering to keep her voice down. “Gena Jensen.” Gena reached over and pinched the back of Whitney’s arm until she squealed.

At noon, Aaron, Whitney and Gena sat around the glass-topped dining table in another of Whitney’s dirty suites. It was preferable to having lunch in the cramped employee break room down in the basement, where it was always too hot and there was nothing to look at but faded OSHA posters stapled to the walls.

26 While Aaron’s attention was focused on the meal that Whitney had finagled out of one of the room service guys, Gena studied his face: the straight line of his nose, the hair falling into his eyes, the faintest traces of acne scars pitting the skin at his jawline. Like the other front desk clerks, he wore a dress shirt and tie. He’d loosened his collar and flipped the end of the tie over his shoulder to keep it out of the ketchup smeared across his plate. When he raised his hamburger to his mouth, his biceps stretched his shirtsleeves in a way that prompted Gena to reach for her soda and take a long drink. The television was on. Something seemingly inconsequential happened on screen, and Aaron and Gena glanced at one another and snickered. “Why’s that funny?” Whitney wondered. Standing and crossing to the sink, she scraped her plate into the garbage disposal. Gena waved her hand. “Inside joke.” Whitney put her plate into the dishwasher alongside the previous guests’ dishes and shut the door with her hip. “See what I mean? Perfect.” She looked pointedly at Gena before walking out of the room. “What’s with her?” Aaron asked, dipping a fry into the ketchup. “She’s insane,” said Gena, loud enough for Whitney to hear. “Ignore her.” Aaron obliged, changing the subject to potential weekend plans. He’d found a website that listed roadside “attractions and oddities” across the country. The American Classic Arcade Museum. The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota. The World’s Largest Coin-Operated Talking Cow. Did Gena know about the treasures to be found practically in their own backyard? There was a house decorated entirely with beer cans in downtown Houston. A prison museum in Huntsville. He was excited, and not in an ironic way. She agreed to go exploring with him.

“Why do you like me?” Gena asked. It was later in the day, and she was in the basement of the hotel, in the supply closet with Aaron. Her back was pressed against a metal rack stocked with miniature bars of soap and tiny bottles of shampoo. “I don’t like you,” he said, his mouth warm beside her ear. “I love you.” She shifted. Behind her, the shampoo bottles rattled. “Very funny.” “Not joking.” She rolled her eyes, though his face was now buried in her neck, and he couldn’t see it. “Fine,” she said. “Why do you love me?” “You’re a woman of substance.” “Are you calling me fat?” He pretended to pinch her side. “Only a little,” he joked. “Don’t worry, I like it.” “Ha.” She pushed him away and straightened her smock.

27 “You know what I meant,” he said. “You’re deep.” He added, “I could marry a girl like you, Gena.” Gena made a face. “Don’t start,” she said. “I mean it.” “Whatever.” He squeezed her upper arm and then exited the supply closet, leaving her in the subterranean gloom while he returned to the surface. When he was gone, Gena rubbed at her skin, trying to erase the feel of his fingers there. But it lingered.

In the laundry room, Whitney was restocking her cart with clean linens. “There you are.” She gave Gena a knowing look. “Shut up,” said Gena, giving her smock another tug and trying not to blush. Whitney snorted. “I was about to come looking for you. You’ve got a phone call.” She gestured at the desk in the corner. “I think it’s your sister.” Gena crossed the laundry room and plucked the telephone receiver from its cradle. She cleared her throat and pressed the hold button. “Laundry.” “When are you gonna get a cell phone?” It was her sister. “It’s 2010.” “Hey, Crystal. I’ll get one when I can afford one.” Gena fished a pencil out of a ceramic coffee mug on the desk. “I CAN ONLY PLEASE ONE PERSON A DAY,” read the side of the mug. “TODAY’S NOT YOUR DAY . . . TOMORROW’S NOT LOOKING SO GOOD, EITHER.” “When’s that gonna be?” “I dunno.” Gena tried balancing the pencil on the end of her finger. “When I go back to school . . . stop folding towels for a living . . . get my act together.” “In other words, never?” “Possibly never,” Gena admitted. The pencil clattered to the floor. “Now, what’d you want?” She wanted to meet for a drink. “I’m working late,” Gena explained, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “If I meet you, I’ll have to come straight from work . . . ” She hoped Crystal would know what that meant: that Gena would still be in her uniform, that her hair would be limp and sticking to the sides of her face. Crystal said it didn’t matter, that she just needed to see her for a minute. She had something to tell her.

Crystal looked her sister up and down disapprovingly when she walked up to the bar. “I told you . . . ” Gena started to defend herself, but then decided that she was too tired.

28 Crystal leaned off the bar stool to hug her, pretending not to notice how damp Gena’s uniform was or that she smelled like bleach. “What’s going on?” Gena demanded. “Lemme get you a drink,” Crystal slurred. She had a martini glass in her hand, and Gena confiscated it, taking a swig. “How many of these have you had?” Gena asked. “It’s good, right? You want one?” Crystal ordered her sister a drink and then told her the news: she was divorcing Ed. “God,” Gena’s heart constricted. “That sucks. I’m so sorry.” Crystal shrugged. “I think it’ll be good for me, really.” She reclaimed her martini and held it up, pinky extended. “Give me some time to find myself.” “But,” Gena blurted, “won’t you get lonely?” Crystal laughed, though her face remained stony. “Lonely?” She narrowed her eyes, not looking at Gena or anyone else, only looking at herself in the mirror behind the bar. “You want lonely? Try the past three years of my marriage.” She drained her drink and ordered another.

At the prison museum on Saturday, Gena shivered as she passed the decommissioned electric chair on display beneath a floodlamp. Beside her, Aaron chattered on about the role of criminals in popular culture, explaining why he thought people were fascinated by them. Gena wasn’t in the mood to play along with his brain-tease. She’d been edgy since the conversation with Crystal, and in the car on the way here, Aaron had annoyed her. He’d recalled reading about the “prisoner code,” the unwritten rules people behind bars followed in order to survive. Keep your head down. Don’t get involved in anyone else’s affairs. Show no emotion. Above all, don’t trust anyone. He’d only been making conversation but listening to him had bothered Gena. She couldn’t have articulated why. Her head throbbing, she’d asked to trade off driving in Conroe. Now Aaron was still dissertating, his arms crossed over his chest and his fingers tapping at his chin. Didn’t Gena agree that criminals fulfilled a purpose in the collective imagination by giving people someone to project their rebellious desires onto? Gena peered around at the displays of shackles and various other restraints. In the center of one glass case rested an iron ball and chain. The sight of it triggered something in her. “Who are these ‘people?’” she asked. “Hm?” Aaron rubbed at the acne scars. “These ‘people’ you’re always going off about—‘People project their rebellious desires onto criminals . . . ’” she quoted him. “Don’t you think it’s kind of pretentious, generalizing like that? Sometimes you sound like an ass.” She turned and stalked away, half hoping he wouldn’t follow.

29 But he did. He trailed her around the exhibits, into the mock-up of a jail cell near the entrance to the museum. Stopping behind her, he rested his arm on the top bunk. “You’re right,” he said, not angry. “I sounded like an ass.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Good thing I’ve got you around to call me on my bullshit.” He tried to put his hand on hers but she wouldn’t let him. Her back to him, Gena stared into the fake toilet in the corner of the cell. It was half full of trash and cigarette butts. She eyed the sign mounted above it, warning that the “TOILET IS NOT OPERATIONAL.” He wanted to know what else was troubling her. Even as she said “nothing” and shook her head, she knew that he wouldn’t let her get away with that. He never did. She turned around in the tight space, feeling her breath catch in her throat. She told him about Crystal’s marriage breaking up. “Look,” he said, picking at the frayed blanket on the bunk. “Your sister, your mom and dad . . . they’re not . . . ” “They’re not me,” she finished for him. “I know that.” She turned around again. But it was a jail cell. There was no escape. Aaron looked at her in his usual way with a probing intensity that sometimes unsettled her. She questioned her instinct to retreat into the jail cell and under the microscope of his gaze felt the truth being drawn from her to the forefront of her mind. It was embarrassing to admit, but the cell had seemed safe. She rubbed at her temples. “Wanna get out of here?” he asked, concerned. As he backed out of the cell, reaching for her hand again, she imagined he was eager to lead her out of this place and show her the world. Not just the house decorated with beer cans, or The World’s Largest Coin-Operated Talking Cow, or even The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota, but everything. If she married him, he would never be the metaphorical ball and chain, wouldn’t give her the excuses to stay in one place that she’d long given herself. Don’t get involved. Don’t trust anyone. The litany ran in her head. She looked Aaron in the eye. “Yeah, I do,” she said, and put her hand in his.

30 Bits Robyn Arcia

Determined bits and impatient bits— Thread a life of sighs for undeniable relief. Eyes focused forward, trying not to unravel, Unbelievably gullible while standing to my beliefs.

Naughty bits and haughty bits— Like to tease and rise above, Piles erected, put in their place, To repair self-esteem, and ultimately find love.

Loyal bits and sincere bits— Can give in to monotony. I give; I give, and give some more Until I’m siphoned into agony.

Feisty bits and catty bits— Are compelled exclusively through personality. Greeting those around a corner, I will forever hold them in captivity.

Manic bits and compulsive bits— Weave in and out of hostility. Racing thoughts seem deranged, Yet they only foster a curiosity.

Nurturing bits and honest bits— Reach to malevolent depths, Innumerable and boundless; I must remember to count each of my breaths.

31 Third Place Poetry Winner—Tie

Dawn Never Comes Jonte Smith

They say There’s no sleep for the wicked

That a man without a conscience has no regret

I used to have trouble sleeping now I just stay awake Sinning.

32 What Goes Around Comes Around Nico Gadberry

At dusk the images blazing past the window fill with shadow. The sharp lines of highway signs and concrete dividers blur into an inky haze as the sky turns purple, then grey with the coming night. Being in Jax’s car at night is like being on a midnight roller coaster ride, so I strap myself into the back seat and watch the speedometer needle hover at 120 on the dashboard as we blaze down the empty road while he turns the knob on the radio. The music is loud, but he talks over it instead of turning it down. His iPod glows softly in the console, projecting an eerie hue against his jawline as he leans over and asks Meredith—who called shotgun, damn her—if she remembered to bring the “funny cigarettes” with her, like I’m not going to know what he’s talking about. He turns and looks at me like he’s heard my thought, and a grin spreads deeply across his face, creasing his eyes at the corners. I used to push Jax in a grocery cart down the handicap ramp at Salvo’s Grocery when we were small. I’d get a running start and jump onto the cart, holding tight to the handlebar, as squeals of fear and delight exploded out of his little chest. I would watch his face, my rush coming from the starburst gleam of his deep, marble eyes watching me, like I was a god instead of his big sister. I catch a glimpse of that little kid now, who would bounce up and down and beg, “More! more,” until I’d give in again and again, leaving us both heaving and gasping for air, but his smile briefly darkens at the edges when he pushes out his jaw and snaps his teeth together, turning his mouth into a grimace against the dim light. My heart skips a beat. As the moment passes, so does his smile, and I melt deep into the soft, warm leather of the seat. I welcome the seatbelt that catches and locks tight against my shoulder, wondering what hatches that kind of darkness in a man, in my brother. “Look at the road, Jax,” I say, and he winks before turning back in his seat. He turns off the radio, and I whisper, “Thank you,” into the thick silence, and Jax says, “Anything for you,” and I press my head against the headrest, close my eyes, and listen to the vrump-vrump of tires racing over pavement, wondering if my purse is large enough to vomit in. I fall asleep as we drive on, waking when the car turns off the smooth road onto a rocky drive. I’ve been dreaming about Jax’s smile, turning it over in my head, massaging it, wondering if that darkness was really there. The music is on again, low, and he hums under his. His short, messy chestnut hair is the same shade as mine, the same texture even. I once licked the cowlick on the back of his head when were small after seeing a cow lick a calf. His hair was bitter against my tongue. That cowlick still curls cockeyed, leaving a crescent-shaped part line where none should be, so I unbuckle my seatbelt, stick my finger in my mouth, and wipe at it as he pulls into a gas station parking spot. He swats at my hand. “Hey.”

33 “Wait,” I say, as he is opening his door. Meredith is snoring lightly against the window. I run my fingers through his hair, trying without success to tame that rogue section, and he shakes his head. “Won’t help.” He adjusts the rearview mirror to look at himself, shakes his hands through his hair. “Thirsty?” He looks at me through the mirror. “I’ll go with you.” I grab my wallet from my purse. Meredith doesn’t move when the door alarm buzzes, so I shut the door quietly. Meredith’s face is smashed against the window, and her lipstick has smeared off the corner of her lip onto the glass. Jax slams his door, chirps the alarm, and laughs while twirling his key ring when I scold him with an evil eye. “Why be an asshole, Jax?” Ice-cold air roars from an overhead vent inside the small Stop-N-Shop Bait Store when he opens the door for me. “Why not?” he says, gliding past me to the drink cooler on the back wall. “She did call shotgun,” he calls over his shoulder, and I forgive him instantly for being rude. Meredith is Jax’s flavor of the month. Her face is average, but she hit Jax’s number with the long hair and longer legs. Add three inch heels to her, and she is exactly Jax’s height. When he told me that her height worked out well for things he did with her in his spare time, I had stuck my fingers in my ears and begged him to stop. I don’t want to hear what sex is like with a tall woman, especially from my brother. I’m searching the rows of candy when Jax whistles at me. He’s holding up a soda bottle, pointing at it, and I nod and give a thumbs up. I am trying to decide whether I want sour or sweet when he comes back down the aisle. “Get both,” he says, so I grab a Baby Ruth and roll of Sweet Tarts. When I take five dollars out of my wallet at the counter, Jax says, “Your money’s no good here.” A bell jingles when Meredith walks in, her red lipstick smear now tidy. She fluffs her hair and disappears down the drink aisle. We wait for her. She sets a tall bottle of water on the counter and looks at Jax. He half smiles and says, “Gotta gas up.” The bell jingles again, and I want to laugh, but I hand Meredith my $5 bill instead. “Keep it,” I say, when she holds out the change. I hold the door open as we leave because Jax didn’t. Meredith stops at the edge of the sidewalk as I step off onto the crushed rock drive. Jax has pulled his Mercedes around the back side of a gas pump across the lot. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “I’m not walking all the way over there.” She shuffles from one foot to the other. “Why not?” I twist the top off my soda and swallow a cold, syrupy mouthful of carbonated bubbles.

34 “It took me six months to buy these shoes,” she says, pointing down with two manicured fingers. She is indeed wearing a snazzy pair of black heels with gemstone buckles. To a lake house? I wonder. “Okay, so take them off.” “I just got a pedicure. I am not walking across those rocks barefoot. No way.” I mumble, watching Jax unscrew the gas cap. “What?” she asks. “Nothing.” Meredith still has the change in her hand and is trying to unscrew the top off her water. “Put that away,” I say, taking the bottle from her, unscrewing the lid. When she says, “In what pockets?” and caresses her silk dress, I trade the bottle for the change and put it in my wallet. I don’t know if Jax can see me this far away, but I bug my eyes out anyway and roll them for my own satisfaction. “Look.” I turn back to her. “I’m not carrying you. You’re going to have to walk. Okay?” She stomps her expensive heel on the ground. I leave her and cross the lot to Jax. I lean against the pump as he fills the tank. “You should do that more often,” I say. Jax doesn’t use self-service at home. When I once asked why, he said, “Why would you, if you didn’t have to?” “Ha ha.” He leans against the car. “Where’s Meredith?” “How fast is this car?” I push the octane buttons on the pump. “Stop that.” He shakes the nozzle and returns it to the cradle, screwing on the gas cap at the same time. “Gotten it up to 140.” “You sure know how to pick ‘em.” “The car or the girl?” I look at him, not sure if he’s serious. “The car’s great, Jax.” I run my hand along the roofline of the CLS550. “It’s the girl I’m wondering about.” I peek around the pump to see if Meredith is coming yet. “Can you believe that?” Across the sea of rock, she looks like someone stranded on a deserted island. Jax licks his finger and rubs a spot on the car, “Yeah, she purrs nice, doesn’t she?” “She must, if you put up with her.” I shove my wallet in my jeans’ pocket. “Not Meredith. The car,” Jax says, chirping the alarm off. Jax waves at Meredith and she waves at him. She bounces up and down on her tiptoed feet. “Well, maybe she’s not as shallow as I thought,” I say. “She won’t cross.” “She took the shoes off.” We loiter at the pump, drinking our sodas, watching Meredith stick her toes on the rocks, like she is testing water temperature, then pulling her foot back like it is too hot or cold.

35 “How do you know she won’t cross?” “She just won’t.” He waves at her again, and she blows him a kiss, stepping onto the rocks, wobbling, and stepping back onto the sidewalk. The cashier walks out and says something to her, and she points at us. We wave at him. He shakes his head, throwing a half-hearted wave our way, and goes back into the store. Meredith stares. Her shoulders have slumped like she is pouting. “She won’t do it,” Jax says. “Why didn’t you buy her drink?” I ask as Meredith opens her bottle and pours water into her palm. “She doesn’t carry a wallet,” he says. “So?” I lean against the car next to him. He looks at me. “Ever.” “She’s your girlfriend?” He nudges me with an elbow. “Strong language,” he says, and I laugh. He doesn’t. “She should.” “No, really,” I say. “If you’re sleeping with her, and if you know she doesn’t carry a wallet, why not buy her a drink?” Meredith is sitting on the sill of the store’s large plate glass window, swinging her shoes from her fingers in a pendulum motion back and forth. “I’m not sleeping with her,” Jax says, holding up a finger. “I don’t sleep with her. I have sex with her.” “Oh.” I shoot my half-full bottle in the trash can next to the pump. “Well, let’s get the semantics straight, shall we? That’s not worth a three dollar bottle of Evian, Jax?” “Do you leave your wallet at home?” “No.” I grab his hand. “But I don’t wear Jimmy Choo either. You can’t compare us. We’re not the same.” He digs his keys from his front pocket. “I’m not taking care of her,” he says. “You’re treating her like a dog. Look at her!” He doesn’t. He closes the short distance between us and points down in my face. “I refuse to do that,” he says. “What’s wrong with you?” I slap his finger away. He puts his hand in his pocket. “How can you treat her like that? She’s a person, even if you don’t sleep with her.” I walk away. Meredith stares off down the road as I cross the lot and sit on the sill next to her. “Hey,” she says, wiggling her toes, watching them. She is smoking a menthol cigarette. Funny cigarettes, I think. I get it. “Hey, back.” I can’t see Jax from this side of the pump. “He’s done now.” “Is he?” She slides her feet into her shoes, flicking the half-smoked stub away. “Let’s get out of here.” I get up and hold my hand out to her and pull her up also. Meredith brushes herself off and nods, takes a deep breath, and smoothes the front of her dress.

36 Jax starts the car and honks. Meredith takes a step, and I say, “Wait a minute more, won’t you?” Jax honks again, and she looks from the car to me. “You’ve waited this long,” I say. Jax revs the engine and pulls the car around a little too fast, spitting rocks from under the tires, and stops in front of us. He pushes the front passenger door open from the inside. Meredith looks like she is in pain, looks like she wants to run and dive into the car as she looks at me with her big, blue saucer eyes. “You coming?” Irritation marks Jax’s tone, and Meredith cringes. “He’s not always this bad,” I say, and she shuffles nervously. “Hey, Meredith, why don’t you carry a wallet?” “What?” She rubs her elbows nervously with her hands. The driver door swings open, and Jax springs out. He stares with slit eyes at me, the grim line of his mouth twitches at the corners. “I can stand here all day,” I say to him. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare. “I mean it.” “Fuck,” he mumbles, which I don’t hear, but read clearly on his lips. He walks around the car and opens the back passenger door for me. “Thank you.” I nod. “Anything for you.” His teeth are clenched and the cords in his neck flex. “Now get in.” I touch his face, and the tension in his jaw wavers, then tiptoe up and kiss him on the chin. “I love you, Jax.” Meredith has picked up the cigarette stub and is blowing at it. Jax stares at me, so I stare back until my eyes itch and water. Meredith steps toward the car, and as I’m fighting the urge to blink, I yell, “Shotgun!” too loud. Jax flinches and turns to Meredith, who has her hand on the front door frame. “Hang on,” he says, holding a hand up to her, still looking at me. The corners of his mouth curve up slowly into a smile. “Wait here,” he says to me. I sigh with relief. Finally, I think. He takes Meredith’s hand and gingerly guides her off the curb into the backseat, shutting her door quietly, then extends his hand to me. He is still smiling and opens the front door for me. I slide in. “You’re a good guy, Jax,” I say. He kisses his fingers and taps me softly on the forehead. “Thank you, Jax.” I squeeze his arm. “No.” He stares at me a moment, then leans over and says in my ear, “Thank you.” I am confused. “What?” He tugs at my seatbelt and pats my cheek.

37 I locked tightly against the seat. I reach for the button release, and Jax’s hand is covering it. “No, Jax.” “Relax.” His eyes glisten. “Enjoy your ride.” He shuts the door and taps the hood, walking around the front of the car. “Meredith?” I say, hands clammy. Meredith chuckles quietly behind me. “Just wait.” Jax gets in. “Jax, wait,” I say, reaching for the steering wheel. “No time, sis. We’ve still got two hundred miles to go. I bet we can make it in, what, two hours?” “Two hours! You’d be going a hundred—” He turns up the volume on the radio. “You drive too fast!” “What?!” He cups his ear with his hand. “You said you want to drive fast? Anything for you, sis, plus shotgun the whole way to boot!” He winks at me and squeezes my shoulder as I wonder where my purse is.

38 Third Place Poetry Winner—Tie

Red Dream Anthony Ramirez

I woke up from a dream today and the world felt a little less real, the colors and the lines, the breaths in between, not as deep—they’re blurring at the seams.

Imprinted like wine glass stains on the ghost whites of memory, you’re a red dream like blues in the wind, or orange on the sea, dancing, exploding inside of me.

While sun chases moon through the dark and the dawn, I’m running backwards and slower through the dreamscape lawn, where the sandman waits with dust in hand.

I’m screaming and begging for a grain of sand, that will burn all the lights and stars in the skies, so a red dream can whisper, what I’ve lost in your eyes.

39 Abandoned Hannah Jenney 40 Dancing Amanda Galvan Third Place Art Winner 41 Reflection Hannah R. Pugh

42 Let He Who is Without Sin Cast the First Stone Stacy Reneé Kuropata

43 Model Overlay Lauren Miller

44 Study in Black and White Eric Dela Cruz

45 Generations to Come Daniel Bolduc

46 Bishop’s Palace Andrea Henrici

47 Dragons Do Exist! Rebecca Schrom

48 Life’s Destruction Bethany Noack

49 Haunting Memories Hannah Jenney First Place Art Winner 50 Plaid Froglett Stacy Reneé Kuropata Second Place Art Winner

51 Punk in the Morning Mariah Medus

52 The Fall of the House of Usher, Exterior H. A. Christopher Caraway, IV

53 Candlelight Amanda Galvan

54 Staglieno Sorrow Robyn Arcia

55 Plantation Window Andrea Henrici

56 Clarity Taylor Lewis

57 Dangerous Serenty Bethany Noack

58 Ancient Gods Oscar Lara

59 Second Place Poetry Winner

Artlessly Adrift Chantel Sigman

Tell me how you feel Without mapped rhythms and alliterations Dictating, guiding, restraining your words.

Clumsily fumble over them.

I do not have the patience to let your oysters Harvest their thoughts into dripping pearls; Let them be the excess rope that keeps tripping you, Tied to sails guided by furious wind.

Let you be swept up in an emotional sea Stirred by a storm, known as me. Choke on its waters as you struggle to breathe— Crying out gurgled, inarticulate screams.

I am not the canvas; Your art, the muse. Drown in my palette of uncoordinated reds and blues. Do not reach for the shades you wish to paint: I am not the awaiting copy Of the masterpieces you painstakingly examine, Hoping to emulate.

The beauty is not in the details One must work so hard to portray, But in the abstract representation That captures our chaotic depths: Heavy brushstrokes mimicking The waves’ undulating sway.

60 Seasons Susan Vanover

I am here, peeking through the large rectangular window in a small, one-story, red brick house. I am squatting down with only the balls of my bare feet touching the cold, loose dirt on the ground. My weight makes me sink into the dirt, and I know there will be impressions of my toes when I decide to move. He is in there, and I watch him. At times, it seems like he is looking right at me, and I meet his gaze as if we are in a staring contest. He always shakes his head and goes back to doing whatever he was doing before. His posture is relaxed; it looks like he has no care in the world. His light brown hair is messy, but I think that’s the look he’s going for. I watch him, the cold comes, and snow begins to layer itself on top of my toes. It piles higher and higher until my legs are covered and numb, but I still watch as he comes and goes.

Now there is someone with him, a petite woman with dark-brown hair. Her green eyes sparkle when she looks at him, and she giggles almost every time I see her. The snow is gone, and the loud whistling of birds makes me want to put my hands over my ears, but I don’t move them. One of my hands is pressed against the bricks; the other is resting lightly on the ground. I see them fight, and I want to tell them I don’t like to watch that. I like when she’s giggly and twinkly and he’s relaxed. I feel large raindrops falling on me, and then my skin is scorched from the burning sun. In seconds I don’t feel it, and the coolness of the moon shining down on me feels good. The man and the woman inside look comfortable, but they also look different. Her hair is shorter now, and her belly is bulging. He looks tired, and I don’t see him as much. I blink, and now there is a young boy. He is running, and the woman is chasing him. I laugh as the sun comes down and up and back down again, like God is using it as a yo-yo. Snow comes and goes, and my toes are weary, yet I can’t bring myself to change positions. Silver streaks run through the woman’s hair, and she is no longer chasing that young boy. Instead, a man walks through the living room, and she smiles at him before he leans down and hugs her. The man disappears, and I feel leaves collecting themselves around me. The cold is coming back again, and I am almost done watching. I wait for the man to appear and before

61 long he walks through the door. He has shrunk since I saw him last and uses a cane to walk to the couch. It is hard to recognize him now. My back is sore, and there are crease marks on the top of my feet from how I’ve been positioning them. Again I hear the birds, and the air around me smells fresh and feels warm as I breathe it in. The woman in the window is crying. She keeps crying as strange people walk all around the living room. Everyone is wearing black, including her, and there is no twinkle in her eye. I don’t see the man with the cane anymore, and I almost expect him to join me at the window. Almost. I sit there by myself and just watch. Soon I no longer see the woman. It is just the younger man that I recognize, and most of the time the living room is empty. I keep watching, waiting for something to happen. I watch as the dust starts to pile on top of the mantle above the fireplace.

62 Tiger Udo Hintze

A poem for the neighbor’s cat

Tiger, Your name recalls Your ancient family tree, Your wild relatives And your genetic memory.

Your body, Your shape is liquid in motion, Floating above The surface of the Earth.

You go dancing through life So that even your lightning bolt escapes Carry enough grace and poise To say, “Thanks for the food, Thanks for the shelter, Thanks for the bed, And, oh, by the way, screw you!”

Your black stripes conceal Controlled explosions. Your legs are spring- Loaded weapons. Your mind Is a radar On constant red-alert.

You, Tiger, Have taken by Persuasion, speed, and stealth The real estate and Wealth of mankind And made it Your own.

63 And “own” is an important Word to you Because nobody owns You. Indeed, by rubbing up Against my legs, You remind me that “Nobody owns a cat, A cat owns you.”

Tiger, You are a domestic house cat But not just a house cat. You are a lawbreaker, an acrobat, A conquistador. You are the symbol Of rebellion In the modern world— The glitch in the system.

Tiger, You defy the world of men, Encroaching where your Fierce feline cousins Cannot tread. You have become great By becoming small.

Your tail twirls and waves around Like a baton at a victory parade Because all the world is your playground, And all the time in the world Is your time. You are the king of this jungle.

“Tiger,” It’s just a name But, oh, It’s such A good name.

64 Gummy Bears Caitlin Kamrath

It was too difficult. I was struggling. Here I was, facing this life-changing decision in this cold place. If I made the wrong choice, would I be scarred for life? It was hard to say. My mouth watered as I contemplated my decision. “Will you hurry up?” my boyfriend, Austin, said as he waited impatiently by the register. “Shhhh,” I said. “This is a delicate situation.” I whispered as if loud noise would disturb the process. I could feel my nose going numb from being so close to the cold display. I was never very good at choosing ice cream flavors. How can anyone choose just one? I wanted a scoop of every kind. “It isn’t that hard,” Austin said as he walked over to me and leaned down to look where I was looking. “Get the mocha.” “Hmmm . . . ” I shook my head. “No.” “But you love coffee.” “Yes, but it’s late. If I eat coffee ice cream, then I’ll be up all night.” I tapped my fingernails on the glass. “I’ll crawl into bed thinking I’m tired, then two minutes later my legs will get anxious, and I’ll realize that my heart is beating a mile a minute, and then before I know it, I’ll be dancing around my apartment like I’m one of Britney Spears’ backup dancers.” He nodded in agreement as a slight smile creased his forehead. “Okay, how ‘bout strawberry?” He pointed to the pink mush over to the right of the frozen display. It looked like frozen Pepto Bismol. “That way you’d get your daily fruit intake,” he winked. “Ew,” I could taste the pink liquid on my tongue, and it almost made me not want ice cream. Almost. “No.” Austin was getting peeved. He ran his hand through his short brown hair. “Cookie dough?” “Maybe,” I said. His eyebrows perked up a little as if I had given him hope. “But then I’ll want to bake. And again, I’ll be up all night.” He sighed and threw his arms up in an exasperated manner. “Mint chocolate chip then.” I loved that he kept trying. “It doubles as a breath freshner.” I accidentally laughed at his corny joke. “That’s what I got last time.” “So?” “Sooooo, I can’t repeat myself. That would make me boring.” “Oh, believe me, you could never be boring.” “Aw, really? You mean it? How sweet.” I stuck my tongue out at him and returned to inspecting the ice cream flavors. “Pistachio.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and cocked his head in a mocking manner. I stood up straight and gave him a look. He knew I hated that flavor. It tasted like chalk

65 and nut flavoring. “Well,” he said. “You won’t pick any of the flavors I know you do like. So I thought I would go for a flavor you don’t like. No go?” “No go.” I felt a chill run down my spine. It made the hair on my arms stand up. It was freezing in there. Austin noticed as I crossed my arms across my chest in an effort to contain body heat. “It’s warm outside.” He motioned to the front door of the ice cream shop. “If you would just freaking choose already . . . ” “Okay, okay,” I gave the case full of ice cream flavors one last go over. “Vanilla, please.” “What!” He said as he took a step backwards, almost running into a chair at a table. “What?” I gave him the most innocent look I could muster. “All that time . . . the up all night . . . the . . . and you . . . VANILLA?” “With gummy bears, please,” I said as I turned to the girl standing behind the counter. She forced an impatient smile at me. “One scoop or two?” she asked as she began to reach in to spoon the frozen treat into a cup. “Oh . . . uhhhh . . . ” It was too difficult. I was struggling. Here I was, facing this life- changing decision in this cold place. If I made the wrong choice, would I be scarred for life? “Aw, crap.” Austin grabbed his ice cream from over by the register and sat down at one of the tables behind me. “You’re impossible.”

66 The Men We’ve Been Through Therese Crews

My roommate catches me as I’m trying to sneak into the house. “Out all night and most of the morning, Therese, SPILL,” says Carmen, arms crossed in my bedroom doorway. I roll my eyes and wave her in; she sits on the bed while I try to decide how to tell her about last night. “It all started as a blind date,” I begin. “One I was unwillingly dragged to, mind you . . . ”

“He’s so hot!” “You’ll hit it off, I know it.” “Frankly, I don’t know how he’s still single.” After a while, all these reaffirmations are making me more nervous; what character flaws are they hiding? What odd quirk are they leaving for me to discover when I meet him? I keep asking myself all these questions while I try on outfit after outfit. While brushing my teeth (for the third time), I get a text from one of my gays: “Remember you are classy and just looking to get your body touched. Chillax.” I laugh and text back: “Got it, Boo. Wish me luck, love and lots of action.” I finally get out of the house and to the restaurant. I park two rows back so I can scout the outside for my possible date—I’m still determined to ditch if he’s an ogre. So much for my brilliant escape: there’s no one outside. I gather my wits and snag my purse. I get a text before I hit the door from an unfamiliar number: “Hey, its ur date stuk in traffik b thr soon.” Annoyed with not only his tardiness but with his spelling, I reply, “Who gave you my number?” I plot death to whoever gave my number out while I wait, but I have my suspicions. My phone goes off and “greg” is all I get. I huff and snap off a text to Greg: “Why does this guy have my number? I didn’t even screen him yet.” Greg replies, “Girl. You need your body touched! Calm down.” I roll my eyes and sit down at the bar. “Long Island Iced Tea.” The bartender nods and starts pouring. I’m fishing my ID and credit card out of my purse when someone sits next to me.A woodsy scent catches my attention, but before I can look at the new arrival, he asks, “What’s your poison?” I glance up and see a tan, lithe guy with a charming smile and dark hair. He cocks an eyebrow and winks. “Can I get you a drink?” Sexual, I think to myself before replying, “Got one, thanks. Long Island Iced Tea.” As I slide my ID and card to the bartender, the cute guy laughs. “Wow, trying to get drunk are we? Rough day?” 67 His eyes shine, and I feel a rush of warmth through me. I snort, “Yeah, and the worst part isn’t even here yet.” The bartender sets down my drink, and I sneak a glance at my handsome bar buddy under the guise of taking a sip. He’s already looking at me, and when our eyes meet, he extends a hand. “Hi, I’m the man of your dreams,” he gives as an introduction. I laugh and shake his hand, “Hello, the woman of your reality—if you’re lucky.” He smiles, and we flirt until my phone goes off: “im here where r u” I groan, and he looks into my hands at the phone, “Ah, a date, huh?” “Not quite,” I start, and before I realize it, I pour everything out to him from the lack of action to the creeper I’m supposed to be meeting. He leans back and sips from his lowball, “Wow.” I cringe when I replay what just happened in my head. I signal the bartender for my tab and prepare to leave before I dig a deeper hole. “Leaving so soon?” he asks. I turn surprised, “Oh. Yes and no. I figure I should at least give him an upfront ‘no,’ but I’ll be back before you miss me.” He grins, his full lips gorgeous, “You better.” I turn and grin to myself. Wow, I lucked out. Guess there is a balance to the universe. I giggle and skip a bit to the hostess. “Two for Greg?” She looks at me and chokes back a laugh. “You’re his date?” I start and cock my head. “Sorry?” Wow, what’s going on? “Sorry,” she quickly blurts. “But you’re killer and well . . . I can tell this is a blind date.” I sigh and ask, “Where is he?” She begins to lead me and turns. “If you need help, I’ll be up here. We girls have to stick together.” When we round the next corner, I see a stout bald man with a stringy beard. I grimace and whisper to the hostess, “There’s a man at the left end of the bar. Ask him if he’ll come to my rescue.” She nods and extends her hand to direct me to my chair. She pats my shoulder as she leaves me to my fate. I take a deep breath and smile at the man Greg deems a “keeper.” This “keeper” is homelier than a bulldog and eyeballing my breasts. So much for a great personality. I clear my throat, hoping to disturb his gaze, but no such luck. I roll my eyes and make a mental note to punch Greg in the throat. “I’m Therese,” I say, thrusting my hand in his sight. “What’s your name?” He finally glances upward and slips his flimsy hand in mine, murmuring, “Pedro.” His eyes quickly stray back to my chest, and I know it’s a lost cause. I desperately glance around, hoping for back up, escape, alien abduction—A N Y T H I N G. Nothing. Sighing, I resign to looking at my menu, angling it as a wall between me and the troll across the table.

68 After a few moments I hear him muttering to himself and raise my eyes enough to see him with my peripheral vision. His brow is furrowed and eyes closed. “Tracy? Tiffany?” I groan quietly; he’s trying to remember my name. I give him a break. “Pedro, right? See anything on the menu?” He looks relieved, “I was gonna ask you what you wanted. I don’t see nothin’.” I shrug and reply, “Not yet, let me take a look.” I turn back to the menu, “Don’t see nothin’”? Well, this certainly couldn’t get any weirder. I’m in the middle of wondering why Greg would think Pedro and I would be compatible when I hear, “Psst. Pssst.” I look up, distracted, and see Pedro trying to quietly get the attention of a girl at an adjacent table. I raise an eyebrow and silently watch the scene unfold. The girl finally looks up and glances about. Pedro hisses again, and she looks in our direction. He makes kissing noises and gestures over with his head. She looks disgustedly at him, then turns away, dismissing him stoutly. I laugh quietly at his rejection and keep my eyes on him as he turns to face me again. He sees me looking at him, and instead of chagrin, like I expected, he looks upset that I just watched him try to pick up another girl. Upset that he crashed and burned with a witness more like. “What’re you looking at?” he scoffs, interrupting my thought. I stiffen. Wasn’t I just the one disrespected here? I put my menu down and level my gaze, “Excuse me? You’re already rude by trying to pick up another girl while you’re on a date, and now you want to get mad that I saw you do it? Don’t think I want to be on this date anymore than you do. Let’s just call it a night.” He isn’t hearing any of it, “What? You’re lucky to be sitting here with me. I told Greg I’d do him a favor by even doing this.” I shake my head and brace my forehead on my palm. It’s not going to get easy from here. He’s still rambling as I move to grab my bag and leave. “Where do you think you’re going?” he snaps. “You ain’t leavin’.” I look at him incredulously. Does he really think I’m going to sit through this? He must not know about me. I start to reply when I see him straighten up and look past me. I roll my eyes; I’m sure he’s started eyeballing another girl. “Leaving so soon?” a familiar voice chimes. “I was just coming to join you.” I smile a little and look up; my bar friend is there, leaning against the back of my chair, smiling. I have never been so relieved to see a complete stranger, but in this moment I wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to be my knight in . . . pinstriped shirt. He sits next to me, his eyes still on my face, bless his heart, and winks at me. “Who’s this guy?” Pedro chokes out, his face purpling. “What the hell is he doing here?” We both look at him; I, for one, had forgotten about Pedro. “Oh, this is . . . ” I trail off as I realize I don’t know his name. I glance at him and nod for him to finish the sentence. He laughs and addresses Pedro. “I’m your replacement. We decided you didn’t know how to treat a gorgeous woman, so I volunteered to take her off your hands.”

69 I snort and quickly take a sip of my water. Pedro’s knuckles are white as he grips the menu; his eyes flit back and forth as he stares the pair of us down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this is my date, so leave.” My bar friend sits for a moment before muttering to me, “How’ve you lasted this long with him?” I don’t answer. I’m still looking at Pedro, frankly amazed at his sudden ownership of this “date.” More like train wreck, I think. “Pedro, I’m leaving. You’ve been nothing but rude since I’ve been here.” And that’s putting it nicely, I add silently before continuing. “But I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.” I’m completely out of the chair before Pedro spurts out, “You’re going? What? Greg said you were a sure bet!” I freeze in my retreat. “He said what?” I force out. “I’m shocked that he would say that, but that doesn’t mean that you were going to get lucky.” I’m getting more and more upset the longer I’m standing there, called out in front of two complete strangers. One who thought he was gonna bed me and the other I hoped to sleep with; oh, joy at my luck, I think bitterly before turning to my bar guy. “I’m sorry if this has given you a bad impression of me, but I’m going to leave before I’m completely humiliated.” I stalk out of the restaurant before something else can go wrong. Outside I pause to snatch my phone out of my purse; I’ve got to call my best friend and tell her what’s happened. I’m typing her name in my contacts when I hear, “Wait a sec, beautiful.” I turn around shocked. How could he come back after that? I steady myself ready for him to say some crude thing, and I’m surprised to see him calmly putting a jacket on. “I figure that’s my cue to take you out and get to know you for real this time,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulders. “I’m Christian.” “Therese,” I say as we walk. “Let’s turn this night around, shall we?”

70 We Wane into Darkness Zoe Williams

Oh, innocent children, your enemy age Sucks laughter light into his cage. Each waking breath you closer may Bring to the end of merry day. Each fall wears your skin tough, And shield created in its rough. This shield, no skin thicker: Inconsistent flash and flicker. Demon smile on Reality’s face, Earthly shadows do replace Sun’s freedom from each nook, Which from your face darkness took.

Saucers of plastic and tummies of tea Time turns to water—imagination was key. Wind under cape soars into flight, Now only blanket—used for cold night. Timeless, her beauty, the lady unicorn— Old fenced mare raped of her horn. Without companion, peace was not found. Now stuffed friend lay often on ground. Skipping on cracks and scribbles on rock. Orders of “Get in line!” and “Fix your sock!” Hand holds protection and the gift of love’s peck. Now embarrassing scene shifting eyes check. Brush strokes of words paint stories in mind. Withered sloth eyes that pictured-screens bind.

Children, your freedom of time’s hold, Of unripe minds the world’s yet to mold. Lather deep this light into my skin That I gather from dimples in your chin. Where suds fog, my world clears. A hyena, I laugh ‘til face bathed in tears. Skin like cotton and voice meek, I carelessly yell, giggle, scream, and shriek. Abandoned, rubber duck of sun, Your squeaky joy can compare to none. Flow of shower—a waterfall rush. Drain deep, a whirlpool does flush. Until the water’s turned off shut, From your fragrant youth I am cut. Mud-soaked armor wraps around my all With its weight my mind does fall. My shield keeps your freedom at arm’s length. And believing that weakness is less than strength, With soft pajamas, I clothe my corpse. The shadows enter, and time warps. 71 Third Place Prose Winner—Tie

Crossroads Elina Lupin

We rode on four wheels and a buzzing 350 engine along a highway towards New Mexico. The outskirts of El Paso looked like a crumbling desert empire, peppered with Indian paintbrushes in between the cracks of the dirt foundation that the old city was built on. Just the hot, lemon sun and waves of May heat surrounded us, and the highway was free of other travelers and big rigs. I was pretty sure we left most of the traffic behind at Fort Stockton, the moment Darren started to adjust his seat belt, push down hard on the accelerator, and then look back at me with his green eyes to see if I was impressed. I didn’t say it, but something about flying over 140 miles an hour towards a bunch of mountains made my heart pound. Six hours into the drive, I watched as the sun melted the horizon into blots of red and coral. Summer was beginning; I could see it in the transformation of the crape myrtle trees with their emerging white flowers and in the newborn grass lining the impeccable rock-lined lawns of downtown El Paso. It was seen on the sun-burnt arms and faces of people parked at gas stations with partially-lit, neon signs, their windows rolled down, smoking cigarettes and drinking forty ounces; I watched them all pass like a burst of colored lightning in my passenger-side mirror. Darren and I were taking our first road trip together in his 1994 Camaro Z28. It was one o’clock in the afternoon when we started, and it was now reaching close to seven. We were planning to stop at his cousin’s land in due course, but tonight we were just driving. I was having a hell of a time with the map; despite the fact that the car was flawless on the outside and the parts that made it run were in mint condition, the interior remained neglected as far as broken lights go. I smoothed down the wrinkles with my palms and examined our path, which had been roughly less than five hundred miles. My finger pressed at the little dot that said “Rest Area.” “Could you exit in four miles?” I said, folding the oversized paper into a thick packet. My legs needed a good stretch. “Sure, Megan,” he said. “Do you need to empty your bladder or something?” I slapped his shoulder lightly with the map to shut him up. “Besides having human tendencies,” I said, watching Darren yank the map out of my hands and then toss it out the window, “We also need a new map.” “Nah, you don’t worry about that,” he said casually, smirking. “Look, let’s stop at that restaurant on the side of the road over there,” he said. “We’ve got a few miles to New Mexico, but what the hell.” 72 He pointed to a short, turquoise building that looked like it could be blown over by a dust devil. Its wooden planks were peeling paint, and the parking lot was small, covered in thousands of white rocks. I decided to go with it, even though it did look kind of shitty. Maybe they would have a map. The ruddy haze of the afternoon sky had dissolved into a deep, blue-and-black spectrum powdered with thousands of tiny stars. Being this far from civilization, there were no street lights to pollute our view from inside the diner. We were seated in one of four decrepit booths, on red plastic- cushioned chairs, and in front of us was a wall covered in old Coca-Cola memorabilia, where a big antique jukebox sat, playing a static-laden Johnny Cash tune. Behind us was a wall-sized window, and I sat in a stool against it across from Darren. “So, this is some place,” I said, smiling a little. I pulled my clutch purse onto my lap and fished for a pack of cigarettes. I began to realize how unusual it was for us to be alone in such close quarters. I was just now getting used to sitting next to him for this long. “Nothing more charming than a crappy eatery in the middle of nowhere,” Darren said, looking peculiarly awake. His eyes were scanning the menu, only sure of his beverage, most likely a full glass of beer. “Megan?” he asked. I heard Cash singing softly, Love is a burning thing, before snapping to Darren’s question. “What?” I said. I clicked my lighter and lit a cigarette, looking at him square in the eyes. “I’m thinking of moving out to the country—kinda why I like driving out here. Think I’ll get lucky with a lonely, rancher girl?” He leaned forward, his teeth glinting as he smiled. I half-thought maybe he wanted to get a rise out of me and half that he viewed me as a little sister. I couldn’t figure him out. “Keep wearing that compelling paisley blouse, and girls from all around will think you’re a fuckin’ stud.” Darren examined himself, seeing how the leather bomber jacket clashed over a vibrant floral shirt. He smiled again. “I don’t give a shit if you don’t like my sense of fashion,” he said with a grin. He motioned to the woman standing behind the counter. “Yo, waitress!” he called. As Darren ordered us drinks, I felt my heart throbbing against my rib cage. I was thinking about how the hotel room situation would unfold, or if he had planned our sleeping arrangements at all. The only sort of intimacy we ever shared was a few years ago at a party, where he had seen me in a short dress, but even that was rather conservative. I doubt he noticed anyway. Darren appeared to me a puzzle, an intricate person riddled with varying degrees of arrogance, spontaneity, and sometimes sanity. He was the type of guy who kept his feelings to

73 himself, instead cracking jokes and brightening up everyone in the room, so that when we talked one-on-one, he shared nothing beneath the comedic surface. Still, though, I was curious how his brain worked. I wanted to know. I wanted to solve him. I fell into a burning ring of fire . . . I went down, down, down . . . “You shouldn’t smoke, you know,” he said, interrupting my thoughts. My face was burning up. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my temple. The waitress returned, balancing a tray and two glasses of beer, saying, “Here you go, sweetheart,” and then continued to smack on a piece of gum as she disappeared back behind the counter. “Don’t make me take away your little crack addiction,” Darren said. He took a large sip of his drink. “Oh, hell, let me smoke. You didn’t tell me you found it so repulsive until now,” I said. “I’m playing. So, are you okay?” he asked. “You look a little . . . off.” Darren’s face was pink and brown in places, scorched from the sun, and his hair was scattered on his head like a shimmering field of wheat. The image of an inconspicuous hotel room bed materialized in my mind again. This time it was a twin-size, blue cotton sheets, and little to no room for privacy. I grabbed my glass, looking up at the ceiling, and consumed the beer without pause. And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire . . . “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, gasping for breath. I knew my face was full-flush now. More than ever I needed a buzz. “Really? You usually don’t drink that much. I’m only, like, a third into mine,” he said, holding out his glass. He looked out the window behind me blankly. “I was thirsty,” I said. “But I feel much better now.” I fidgeted with the ragged threads on my denim shorts, pulling them out anxiously as the alcohol surged through my body. “So,” I said, “we probably have another eight or nine hours before your cousin’s place in Arizona. We’re just barely at the state line of New Mexico.” Darren tapped his fingers against his glass, clicking his tongue in thought. He let out a contented sigh. “I’d say let’s call it a night. There’s a hotel up the road about ten miles. Been there before, it’s pretty cheap and cozy,” he said. “Unless you don’t want to —” “Oh, I-I . . . No, we can, that’s cool,” I said. “Good,” he said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. Excuse me, miss,” he said to the waitress who was standing at the register, practically drowning herself in a hand mirror while applying a coat of lipstick. He gave her a twenty and motioned for me to follow him to the car.

74 I pictured the words “cheap” and “cozy” in the form of Jeopardy-style blocks, rearranging them around in my head, thinking maybe that was his bedroom style or maybe that he used those words because he wasn’t analyzing them as much as I was. The questions burning in me made each step to the car agonizing. When Darren turned on the Camaro, the engine roared and shook us in our seats. He gripped the steering wheel and slammed on the accelerator, causing us to fishtail from the rocky lot onto smooth, oily asphalt. He was making me grin incessantly even as we rode in silence for several miles. I could see an orange sign sticking out of the ground, shimmering not too far in the distance. “Welcome to New Mexico—Land of Enchantment,” I read to myself as we passed over the state line. The bits of shrubbery and dry grass that grew like blemishes on the flat and treeless plains waved in the balmy night breeze. With each passing second, the knot in my stomach turned and swelled, killing me, but in a good way. “Oh, wait,” Darren said, peering at a lit-up building off to the right, approximately half a mile away. “It’s a lot closer than I thought. Want to stop there now?” “No, I want you to drive a lot slower so it takes longer,” I said. “Yeah, just pull in.” “You’re an ass,” Darren said. I just smiled. We turned towards a channel of one-story brick structures with many cars parked out front. “We must have just lost the road trip lottery,” he said, inching the car slowly to the entrance door. “Do you mind going in and seeing if they have a room real quick?” “Sure,” I said. I unbuckled myself and went inside. The hotel office was very small and strangely silent in light of the fifty cars in the lot. I walked up to the clerk, a middle-aged woman with deep set brown eyes and thick glasses, who was reading a romance novel. “Is this place full?” I asked. The woman slowly raised her eyes at me. “Well, you’re just in luck,” she said in a quiet Southern drawl, marking the page she was reading, and pulled a set of gold keys off a wall rack. “We’ve got a one-bed suite available, and that’s it,” she said. “You better take it before someone else does.” I felt my face fill with heat again. “How much?” I asked. Although I was not entirely concerned with the price. Fate was truly interfering with our plans. I wanted to laugh, but there was no one who would understand. When I turned to look behind me, I saw that Darren had parked and was opening the door to the office. “They have one room left,” I said, discomfited.

75 “Sweet, we’ll take it,” Darren answered. He took the keys, and we walked back to the car for our bags.

Room 105. Red door, gold-plated numbers. One lone window with lace curtains behind it. I wondered what we were going to do—what was I going to wear? More importantly, where would I sleep? I tugged on my bags, and Darren had the key in the lock, turning it. The sound of metal- on-metal made me shiver. “Well, here we are,” he said. “It’s your dream hotel.” “You’re goddamn right,” I said. He grinned. As the door opened, the room had unceremoniously come into full view. There was a queen-sized bed with an olive bedspread. In the corner was a small television set, and on each nightstand sat an old Merlin telephone. The carpet looked brand new, clean and white. It was certainly less awkward than I had envisioned. Darren discarded his luggage onto a chair next to the front door and then put his hand on my shoulder, deliberately. I noticed a tattoo on his arm for the first time. “Want to watch a movie?” he asked. There was something open-ended about the question, the way his voice tapered off. “Are you sure that’s what you really want to do?” I said, slowly letting go of the vinyl duffel in my hands, my heart pounding. “To be honest, there’s something I have to tell you,” Darren said. He pulled the bag out of my grasp and dropped it, standing very close to my face. I could feel his warm breath on my skin. “Darren,” I said, touching his arm back, “I know exactly what you mean.”

76 Frost Anthony Ramirez

I’ve got needles in my fingers and frost on pale lips.

You shiver, and as I hold you to my chest, your skin drip drip drips across my icy veins.

Red and blue and red and blue and redredred.

Your muscles cry out as you hold me, stiff and starting to chill, eyes cracking, gazing into nothing. Everything.

You pull away when your head hits the pillow. I clutch the blankets close—steam billows from my lips as you burn me away.

I rub your back, “pleaseohpleaseohplea . . . ” you say. And as your life pours into my lap, I’ve got you beneath my fingertips, and you left a smudge on my mouth.

A last-ditch effort. All or nothing.

I try to give you life, you turn so blue.

There’s frost in your teeth, and as you bite my frozen smile I scrape a jagged tongue across your skin.

We shatter and coat the floor, and when someone walks over we take a little bit back, a little blue a little red alitlbluerredlbitredelbiritilbedeliriousbleidubreileudl . . .

77 First Place Prose Winner

Dancing Under Streetlights Greggory Adams

When my momma told the story of her wedding day, she always included standing in her wedding dress at a car wash after the ceremony because daddy made her wash off the shoe polish that her little sister had decorated the car windows with. She never smiled when she told that story and said that moment, six months pregnant in a wedding dress, scrubbing shoe polish that spelled out “Just Married” and “It’s gonna be a girl” off the back of the car, while Daddy sat inside and calmly smoked a cigarette (after screaming at her how the polish would get all over his paint and ruin it), was the moment she started planning on how to get out of the marriage. Then she’d gulp her double bourbon, slam the glass down on the table, glaring across the kitchen into the living room at my father’s empty recliner before looking over at Grams who would pick up the story from there. Shot-gun wedding aside, Grams always said she did her best to make the day special. She bought nearly all the cold-cuts in the Piggly Wiggly, and all the ladies’ yards in her garden club were deflowered in mid-June. After glaring at my father’s recliner for a few moments, Momma would say several cusswords, or if my daughter was in the room, she would say as sweetly as she could what a wonderful husband he was because she didn’t want to cuss in front of a toddler. Then Grams would chime in that by Halloween I was in pink hand-me-down onesies, a small ribbon attached to my head with Karo syrup, and by Christmas, Daddy had broken Momma’s eye socket in four places and was sitting in county. When I was four, and my little brother two, Daddy went at her with a butcher knife. Momma’s screaming woke the neighbors, and the wife kicked in the door and tackled Daddy while her husband clubbed him over the head with his whiskey bottle. Momma bought a new bottle the next day on the way home from her lawyer’s office after sending Daddy divorce papers in the county lockup. He refused to sign them. When I was six, she got word that he was getting out early due to good behavior. She had extra locks put on the door and made us sleep with her. She tried to be sneaky about it, but I knew she had a revolver hidden under her pillow. He never showed up at the house. Sometimes I’d see

78 him sitting in a car down the street, and if I looked up and made eye contact with him, he’d smile at me. It wasn’t a mean smile. As a child, I couldn’t quite describe it. It wasn’t until I had children of my own that I finally understood.

Daddy loved country music. I found an old box full of his 8-track tapes out in the garage. I used to try to look at the covers and guess which one might have been his favorite, settling on Hank Williams just because the cover on that one seemed the most worn. I used to run my thumb over the crackled sticker with the cover and song list on it. When Momma would go to the store, I would run and grab one out of the box and listen to it, always keeping an eye out for her car pulling into the driveway so I could hurry up and eject it and shut the stereo down. Once the tape got stuck, so I just turned the stereo off, grabbed Momma’s fashion magazines and jumped onto the couch, like it was normal. She walked right past it, didn’t even give it a second look. When she was back in her room, I said a little prayer to heaven, pulled the tape out, and after tucking it under my shirt, ran it back out to the garage. Later that summer my little brother went to vacation Bible school with a friend of his and decided to get baptized. He’d gotten saved the summer before, which was surprising. Bible school was more church than we got the rest of the year. Momma always said our family would be struck by lightning if we were caught in a church house but didn’t object to him going. The entire family was invited to the baptism, even Daddy. Daddy got a job at Ranger Tire. I only found out because I got a flat on my bike and walked it up there to get it fixed. He was sitting in his Dodge Dart smoking a cigarette when I came walking up, and he jumped out and ran over to help me. “Hey, there,” he said half waving, then reaching out for my Schwinn. “Let me help.” He was scruffy, like he hadn’t shaved in a while, and his sandy blonde hair looked like a bird’s nest, and he had just a pinch of gray in his hair and stubble, but I recognized him. Momma still hid her wedding album under her bed, and I used to sneak peeks. “It’s okay, Daddy, I got it,” I said. “Daddy,” he said in a gulp. “You remember who I am?” I nodded. I wasn’t supposed to be talking to him or calling him “Daddy.” Momma strictly forbade that, but I didn’t know he worked there, so I figured that this once would be okay.

79 “I’d love to come and see you kids,” he said, taking my bike and walking it into one of the big overhead doors. “But your mom has said she’d have me arrested if I came anywhere near you.” “That’s why you sit in the car down the block, huh?” He let out a breath, like he’d been caught stealing a peek at a wrapped Christmas present. “You see me?” he asked with an awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck. I nodded. “I guess you haven’t told your mom; otherwise, she’d have put a stop to it.” He stared at the bike tire when he said it. I shook my head. He flipped the Stingray over and started taking my front wheel apart to fix the tire. “You know,” he said. “I used to be a real bad guy. I admit it. I did some . . . pretty horrible things. You want a pop?” He nodded towards the machine in the corner. I nodded. “What flavor?” “Orange Crush?” I asked. “Well,” he said, chuckling as he put some change in the machine. “At least you get it honest. That’s my favorite, too.” He popped the cap off and asked, “Mind if I have a taste?” I shook my head. He took a gulp, then handed the rest of the bottle to me. The dirt and grease from his hands mixed with the condensation from the bottle, and now the dirty water was all over my fingers, but I didn’t care. “I wasn’t the best husband,” he said returning to my tire. “And now she won’t let me be a father. I ain’t saying she’s wrong. I guess what I am saying is,” he paused for a moment, looking up at me, “I’m sorry.” I didn’t say anything. He finished fixing my tire in silence, then mumbled, “On the house,” as he flipped my bike on its wheels, bounced the front tire a few times, and then handed it back to me. I told him thanks for the pop, and he just held up his hands like people do on TV when they’re getting robbed. For a second I thought about hugging him goodbye, but he put his hands back down. I took my bike and started walking away, then paused a moment, turned around and asked, “What’s your favorite country tape?”

80 “What’s my favorite country tape?” he repeated, almost surprised. “Man, I used to have a whole box of those . . . ” His voice trailed off, and he thought a moment before he answered, “Johnny Cash.” I’d been wrong. I walked my bike home, thinking the entire way. He didn’t talk down to me, which a lot of adults still had the tendency to do. He talked to me like I was an adult. Momma didn’t even do that. It was confusing. Here, he was supposed to be awful, but he seemed different compared to what I’d always been told. I dug three Johnny Cash tapes out of the box and hid them in my room. A few evenings later a bunch of us were playing ball in the street, and I noticed him sitting in his car. When the game was over, I cautiously ventured my way down the block. “Hey,” I said walking up to his car. “Good game,” he said taking a drag on his cigarette. “Great snag in the outfield.” “Yeah,” I said, rocking back and forth on my heels and toes and jamming my hands in my pockets. “You’re better than some of the boys,” he said, blowing the smoke so it didn’t go straight into my face. “Thanks.” I didn’t really know what all to say. Then I remembered the Johnny Cash tapes hidden in my room. “Hold on,” I said, dashing off. I ran back inside. Momma was sitting at the kitchen table with some of her friends, gossiping, normal drink glass in her hand. “No running in the house!” she shouted at me. I reached under my mattress and pulled out the tapes one by one. I tucked them in my shorts and pulled my shirt down over them and headed towards the front door. “Where are you going?” I looked at Momma staring at me, eyebrow raised almost to her widow’s peak. Before I could say anything, she asked, “Dishes done?” We both knew the answer. “Get ‘em done and get ready for bed.” I did the dishes faster than I’ve ever done them, which was quite the feat considering I was trying to keep the eight tracks in my shorts from falling out. I rushed back to my room and considered my options.

81 As quietly as I could, I slid open the window. The drop down was a little more than I expected. The only scary part was ducking under the kitchen window, which Momma had open to let a breeze come through. I ran up to the car, praying Momma wouldn’t somehow see me. “Here,” I said, shoving the tapes through the open window. While I’d been inside, the sun had gone down, and the streetlight illuminated the area around the car. I started to turn to run back when Daddy called out to wait. He sat there a moment, turning the tapes over in his hands. He put one in the car’s player, opened the door, threw out his cigarette, and ground it into the street while stepping out of the car. “Can I have this dance?” he asked, holding out his hand. “I don’t know how,” I said, my eyes darting back to the house. There was no telling when Momma and Nancy would end their drinking and come out on the front porch to sit in the swing and talk. He took my hand in his. “Stand on my feet,” he said softly. We danced to Johnny Cash singing, “I Guess Things Happen That Way.” I stood on his feet and noticed grease seemed to cover him from head to toe; even his hair shone in the streetlight. He held my left hand in his right, his left hand placing my right on his waist and covering it. As I looked up at his face, he looked away and rubbed his nose in his right shoulder. We slowly rocked side-to-side. When the song was over, my father whispered hoarsely, “Every little girl should get the chance to dance with her daddy.” I couldn’t tell for sure but I think his eyes were wet. “I gotta go,” I said. I started to run off, then stopped and ran back, hugging him around the waist like I’d wanted to do at the tire shop. It took him a moment before he put his arms around me in return. Then, mussing up my hair, he whispered, “You better get.” About an hour after, I was in my room, I heard a knock on the front door. I heard Momma open the door and low talking on the front porch before the front door finally slammed shut. I looked out my window to see my father slowly walking back to the car, arms hugging himself, his head hung low, a small glowing ember floating in front of his face. I never found out what that conversation was about. It was a few weeks after that when my little brother got baptized. Daddy called everyone in the family the night before to make sure

82 we were all going to be there. He called Momma, Grams, Uncle Walter, and even Aunt Eloise. They were all coming, they said. He was the first one there. He’d even dressed up, wearing a real nice suit, shaved and got his hair cut. He stood at the very back of the room, hands folded together in front of him. I think I was the only one he made eye contact with. As my little brother came up out of the water, my father called me over in a whisper. “Go out to my car,” he said. “I’ve got something for you and your brother on the front seat. I forgot to bring it in.” Momma glared at him from across the room as he handed me the keys, but didn’t stop me. Everyone else was concentrating on the baptism. Obediently, I did as I was told. Just as I got to his car, I heard the firecracker go off inside the church. As I walked back up the church steps, Grams came rushing out, fanning herself with her hand. Uncle Walter had my mother; she was leaning into him, and he was helping her walk out and trying to keep her from falling, her mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. The preacher who’d performed the baptism came out clutching my still wet brother to his chest. Puzzled, I continued on past them up the stairs and in the front door. Just as I was turning the corner to walk into the room we had all been gathered in, arms came out of nowhere, scooping me up, making me drop the gifts in the process. It was only then I saw my father’s neatly polished shoes, toes pointing straight up to heaven. When the rest of my family would finally talk about it, they all commented on how lucky I was that I just happened to slip out of the room just before he called for everyone’s attention, and once they were looking at him, he pulled the pistol from his suit pocket, put it to his temple, and pulled the trigger. I know better. Only Momma saw Daddy give me the keys and send me out, but she would never correct the family or speak of that moment. Even years later, empty drink glass sitting on the table in front of her, glaring at the empty recliner, she’d just shake her head at that point of the story. “I’ll never understand it . . . ” she trailed off in a whisper. I never told Momma about our dance under the streetlight. I never told her about giving Daddy back his Johnny Cash tapes or his fixing my flat tire. Once Momma succeeds in drinking herself to death, I’ll tell my children how their grandfather taught me to dance. 83 Inkling Staff and Advisors

Inkling Staff

Back Row, From Left: Anthony Ramirez, Andrea Henrici, Charlie Beacham, Marlene Morales, Jessica Kelly, Mariah Medus, Robyn Arcia, Alex Villanueva, Udo Hintze Front Row, From Left: Julia Clancy, Chantel Sigman, Hannah Jenney, Amy Ashley, Lauren Caldwell, Mary Faler, Suzie Hernandez

Inkling Advisors

Dr. Rebecca L. Tate, Amy M. Hirsch

84 Contributors’ Biographies Poetry and Prose

Greggory Adams, a devoted father, is a sophomore English major with plans to teach. He has passions in both writing and music, but lacks the ability to carry a tune in a bucket.

Robyn Arcia is an education major and a mother. She enjoys working with children, and in her spare time she likes cooking, gardening, traveling, and running.

Therese Crews is a sophomore whose interests include photography, writing, reading, and cooking. She also likes movie nights with friends, beach trips, and spontaneous adventures.

Ryan T. Fischbeck is a sophomore majoring in philosophy and wants to be an optician. His interests are philosophy, theology, and sports.

Tyler Fortner is a sophomore majoring in communications.

Nico Gadberry is an English literature major with plans to continue on to graduate school, whose primary and only hobby is writing fiction.

Emma Glass is a sophomore who works as a retail employee. Her hobbies are reading, writing and playing videogames.

Cecilia Granberry is a housewife. She enjoys reading, writing poetry and prose for children, and writing short stories. She also likes jewelry making.

Udo Hintze is an English major. His interests are writing poems, collecting comic books, and doing Tai Chi.

Caitlin Kamrath is an aspiring photographer, an odd-ball, and a dual-credit student. She likes to tell stories with a camera.

Elina Lupin is an English major. She enjoys writing poetry, drawing, and playing the guitar and violin.

Elizabeth Myles is a sophomore who draws inspiration for her short stories from her major in criminal justice. She enjoys science fiction, reading, running, comic books, and adventures with her hubby.

Anthony Ramirez is a sophomore who likes creative writing. He normally likes to eat Velociraptors with his pancakes; syrup, optional.

Chantel Sigman is an English and psychology major who spends her time working on the Inkling, and adores little, green jedi masters—whose mantras she recites for inspiration while practicing bikram yoga.

Jonte Smith is a sophomore and a biology major. A goofy-footed skateboarder, he has been writing for seven years and is inspired by confessional poets such as Allen Ginsberg and Federico García Lorca.

Susan Vanover is a Lone Star College student who enjoys creative writing.

Zoe Williams is home-schooled and a dual credit student. Writing is like breathing for her. She loves music, smiles, and the sky. In her free time she likes to love and laugh as much as she can.

85 Artwork

Robyn Arcia is a graphic artist, who enjoys photography, crafts, and working with art in every media. In her spare time she likes cooking, gardening, and traveling.

Daniel Bolduc is a sophomore and a psychology major. His hobbies include going to church, working out at the gym, swimming, creating art, and playing the piano.

H. A. Christopher Caraway, IV is a sophomore majoring in 3D animation. His hobbies include reading, drawing, and 3D animation.

Eric Dela Cruz is a sophomore and a graphic design major. He enjoys painting, abstract drawing, and photography.

Amanda Galvan is a biology major. She enjoys creative writing, photography, composing music, and cultural and modern dances. She also likes Taekwondo and reading science magazines.

Andrea Henrici is a freshman studying creative writing and photography. In her spare time she is a movie buff and critic.

Hannah Jenney is a sophomore, studying kinesiology, education, and photography. She likes singing, playing the guitar, and sports—in particular basketball.

Stacy Reneé Kuropata is a sophomore majoring in art. She enjoys painting, drawing, movies, and spending time with her friends.

Oscar Lara, born and raised in Houston, is a sophomore majoring in graphic design. He dabbles in diverse styles of photography.

Taylor Lewis is a freshman majoring in speech and language pathology. Her hobbies are photography, shopping, Starbucks, and Facebook.

Mariah Medus is a freshman. Her hobbies include extreme hide-n-seek, perfecting slides across the hood of her car, and drinking Arizona Green Tea.

Lauren Miller is a marine biology major who likes reading, tennis, and swimming with sharks at Moody Gardens. She is also a lifeguard at Lifetime Fitness.

Bethany Noack is a freshman majoring in nutritional science. Her interests are photography, lifting weights, zoology, and triathlons.

Hannah R. Pugh is a sophomore. When she’s not at school or doing homework, she likes to spend her time reading or writing.

Rebecca Schrom is a freshman. She likes acting, photography, playing piano, and figure skating.

86 INKLING (THE CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE OF LSC-TOMBALL AND LSC-UNIVERSITY PARK) 2011 SUBMISSION FORM (PLEASE PRINT CLEARLY) 1. Name: ______2. Address(street, city, zip)______3. Cell and Home Phone Numbers: ______4. Social Security Number or Student ID Number: ______5. Email address: ______6. Title of the submissions (only one title per line): 1. ______2. ______3. ______4. ______5. ______6. ______7. ______8. ______7. Major/Occupation: ______8. Circle one: Freshman/Sophomore 9. Interests or hobbies (to be used in author biographies if your submission is chosen): ______

I hereby warrant that each of the works submitted with this form are my original works and that I own any copyrights that may be applicable to them. I authorize Lone Star College-Tomball and the staff of Inkling to mechanically and electronically publish the above submissions as they determine to be appropriate and to perform the pieces at Inkling readings, subject only to any additional written instructions, which I may furnish.

______Author’s Signature ********DIRECTIONS********

1. The deadline for all writing submissions to the 2011 Inkling is November 8, 2010. 2. Only original, unpublished works are accepted. Simultaneous submissions are acceptable. Please notify Dr. Tate if your piece is accepted by another publisher. 3. Only LSC-Tomball and LSC-UP students (enrolled in academic courses at the time of submission) are eligible. LSC-Tomball and LSC-UP staff members who are also college students are also eligible. 4. All submissions must be accompanied by a submission form available on the Inkling website [http://www.lonestar.edu/ submission-procedure.htm]. Hard copy or electronic submissions are accepted. Send electronic submissions to either Amy M. Hirsch ([email protected]) or Dr. Rebecca Tate ([email protected]). At LSC-Tomball, place your hard copy submissions in the Inkling mailbox in S-150 (Office Services), or take your submissions to either of the advisors: Dr. Tate, S257C or Amy Hirsch, C223. At University Park, turn in your submissions to the front counter (B13.200). 5. DO NOT place your name on any of the submissions. Write your name ONLY on the submission form. 6. Manuscripts must be typed with 1.5 inch line spacing, using standard 11-point font, Times New Roman. 7. Use only one submission form per author. 8. Maximum entries per person: six (6) poems and two (2) short stories/creative essays. 9. Short stories/creative essays may not exceed 2600 words in length; manuscripts that exceed the word length will not be considered. WORD COUNT MUST BE INCLUDED ON THE FIRST PAGE OF EACH PIECE. 10. Writers selected for publication will be notified by mail. Expect notification by February or March. NOTE: Written manuscripts will not be returned. All written submissions will be shredded at the end of the selection process to protect the author’s work. NOTE: Submissions selected for publication are automatically entered into the Lone Star College-Tomball Inkling Creative Arts Contest. Winners will receive cash awards ($100, $75, $50).

87 INKLING (THE CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE OF LSC-TOMBALL AND LSC-UNIVERSITY PARK) 2011 ART SUBMISSION FORM (PLEASE PRINT CLEARLY) 1. Name: ______2. Address (street, city, zip):______3. Cell and Home Phone Numbers:______4. Social Security Number or Student ID Number: ______5. Email address: ______6. Title of the submissions (only one title per line): 1. ______Circle Which Apply Fine Art Photography Graphic Design Medium or Process Used______Circle Which Apply Fine Art Photography Graphic Design Medium or Process Used______2. ______Circle Which Apply Fine Art Photography Graphic Design Medium or Process Used ______3. ______Circle Which Apply Fine Art Photography Graphic Design Medium or Process Used______4. ______Circle Which Apply Fine Art Photography Graphic Design Medium or Process Used______5. ______Circle Which Apply Fine Art Photography Graphic Design Medium or Process Used______6. ______Circle Which Apply Fine Art Photography Graphic Design Medium or Process Used______7. Major/Occupation: ______8. Circle one: Freshman/Sophomore 9. Interests or hobbies (to be used in artists’ biographies if your submission is chosen): ______I hereby warrant that the works submitted with this form are my original works and that I own any copyrights that may be applicable to them. I authorize Lone Star College-Tomball and the staff of Inkling to mechanically and electronically publish the above submissions as they determine to be appropriate and to display the pieces at Inkling readings, subject only to any additional written instructions, which I may furnish. ______Artist’s Signature ********DIRECTIONS******** Deadline and form: All submissions must be received by November 29, 2010. Attach the submission form to all submissions. Eligibility: Only LSC-Tomball and LSC-University Park students (enrolled in academic classes at the time of submission) can submit. However, LSC-Tomball and LSC-UP staff members who are also college students may submit. Number of entries: Six (6) pieces. Be sure to include the artist’s name and title on back of all pieces. Format: Original artwork (drawings, graphics, photos) or 8 x 10 (300 dpi) photographs of original art (with files on disk) are fine. Color and size: Original pieces must measure no more than 20 inches x 20 inches. Either color or black and white is acceptable. Submission locations: At LSC-Tomball, place your submissions in the Inkling mailbox in S-150 (Office Services) or give them to one of the advisors: Dr. Tate, S257C or Amy Hirsch, C223. At LSC-UP, submit to the front counter on the second floor (B13.200). Notification and return: Only artists selected for publication will be notified by mail. Expect notification by March. Students can claim their original art from one of the advisors, usually in February. Prizes: Winners will receive cash awards ($100, $75, $50), and the art piece chosen for the cover will receive a $100 cash award. 88 SELECTION POLICY

All entries were submitted to Dr. Rebecca L. Tate or Amy M. Hirsch, Inkling advisors. They substituted, in place of the author’s or artist’s name, a number; thus, only they knew the identity of the individual contributor. Each staff member was then given a duplicated copy of each submission to be considered for the current issue. After final selections were made, the staff members’ copies were returned to the advisors and destroyed, thereby prohibiting the circulation of unauthorized copies of anyone’s work. The last step in the selection of materials was a staff meeting where the Inkling editors, staff, and advisors met to discuss and vote upon the final selections for publication. Only after final selections had been made did the advisors reveal the identity of those individuals whose works had been chosen.

CREATIVE WRITING CONTEST INFORMATION

All Inkling writing submissions selected for publication were considered as entries in the Lone Star College-Tomball Creative Writing Contest. Each anonymous work was then submitted to a panel of advisors and faculty judges: Doug Boyd, Professor of English; Juli Case, Assistant Professor of English; Kimberly S. Carter, Associate Professor of English; Amy M. Hirsch, Inkling Advisor; Dr. Mari-Carmen Marin, Assistant Professor of English; Dr. Greg Oaks, Professor of English; Dr. Van Piercy, Professor of English; Katherine Reynolds, Professor of English; Dr. Bo Rollins, Professor of English; and Dr. Rebecca L. Tate, Professor of English and Inkling advisor. Each judge picked his or her top five in both poetry and prose. Next, each work was assigned a point value ranging from five to twenty-five.The total for each work was added, and the top three highest numbers became the first through third place winners.

ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY AND COVER ART CONTEST INFORMATION

All Inkling art and photography submissions selected for publication were considered as entries both in the Lone Star College-Tomball Art and Photography Contest and in the Cover Art Contest. Each anonymous work was then submitted to a panel of advisors and faculty judges: Cory Cryer, Associate Professor of Ceramics, LSC-Kingwood; Amy M. Hirsch; Mari Omori, Professor of Art, LSC-Kingwood; Kelley Revuelto, Associate Professor of Art History, LSC-Kingwood; Earl Staley, Professor of Art, LSC- Tomball; Jim Stubbs, Dean of Arts and Humanities, LSC-Kingwood; and Dr. Rebecca L. Tate. Each judge picked his or her top eight pieces. Next, each work was assigned a point value ranging from five to forty. The total for each work was added, and the top three highest numbers became the first through third place winners. Additionally, the judges, in conjunction with the Inkling student staff, selected from the published artwork, the piece most artistically and stylistically suited for the cover art.

Special thanks to: • Doug Boyd, Professor of English • Robbie Powell, Office Services • Patty Blaschke, Office Services

This issue was printed by: Kwik Kopy Printing of Tomball 1215-5 W. Main Tomball, Texas 77375 281-351-8000

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