INKLING Volume 26 Spring 2016

Inkling is the creative arts magazine of Lone Star College Tomball. Students of LSC-Tomball 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 Inkling may be reproduced without consent of the individual contributors.

Senior Editors: Zaynab Ali & Wendy Palmgren

Editorial Staff: Lucy Alvear Susana Blandon Samm Fanning Kathryn Chuchmuch Jordan Smith

Advisers: Mari-Carmen Marín Catherine Olson Kyle Solak

Cover Art: Pack Up the Moon Charlene Woelfel

My interest in photography first began in 2012 while on a trip to the beach with my family. While I had initially only been interest- ed in using my camera to document family events and excursions, my interest in photography quickly grew into a passion for creating art after that trip. “Pack Up the Moon” was a piece I created after reading the poem “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden in my English 1302 class. My goal was to create a dreamlike scene that depicted the feelings described in the poem. This piece is a composite of three images that I took on separate occasions – one of the stars, one of the model, and one of the moon – and edited together using Adobe Photoshop. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Inkling

The Inkling staff, editors, and advisers would like to Table of Contents Darwinian Ideals by Lauren Clark 1 extend their sincerest thanks to Lone Star College-Tomball for the opportunity to publish this twenty-sixth edition of our magazine. First Place Poetry Winner We’d like to thank sponsors of this year’s reading series: Sky Breaks Open by Jaida Doll 3 LSC-Tomball and Community Library; the Division of Devel- Fragments by Brandon Paiz 4 opmental Studies, English, Languages, and Mathematics; the That’s What I Don’t Get by Brianna Korenek 7 President of Lone Star College-Tomball, Dr. Lee Ann Nutt; and the The Time Traveler’s Poem by Kathryn Chuchmuch 10 Office of Student Life. With their support,Inkling was able to host Falling Up by Timon Whitfield 11 an on-campus reading and an interview with poet Martha Serpas. 1,095 Days by Brianna Korenek 12 Additionally, Inkling would like to express our vast appreciation Baby Boy Blue by Lauren Roetzler 14 to Samm Fanning and Kyle Solak for their efforts in transcribing Ranting for Mine by Lucy Alvear 15 and editing the Nick Flynn interview for publication in this year’s The Underdog Will Rise by Jordan Smith 16 magazine. And, of course, tremendous thanks go to Nick Flynn, and Martha Serpas for sharing time, talent, stories, and poems with A godly Man by Jaida Doll 17 us. Prelude of Blood Moon by Allison Canty 18 We offer heartfelt thanks to current Dean Melinda Cole- Second Place Prose Winner man in the DSELM Division. Thanks also go to Shannon Marino, Dark Night by Samm Fanning 23 Danielle Thornton, and Sousan Abdul-Razzak in the Office of The Great Whale Poem by Kathryn Chuchmuch 24 Student Life, and to Pamela Shafer in the Lone Star College-Tom- This Train by Lucy Alvear 25 ball Community Library for supporting us throughout the year. We Rejection by Jordan Smith 26 must thank the Inkling faculty and staff judges, Steffani Frideres, Honeybaby by Samuel Griswold 27 Barbara Lujan, and Ava Veselis. Finally, we mustn’t forget English Thunder Clouds and Rainy Days by Cesily Brewer 28 professor Douglas Boyd, longtime Inkling judge, proofreader and How It Really Went by Amanda Donahoo 29 grammar sage, for the consistent editorial direction he has brought The Meeting by Matthew Coble 30 to the magazine over the past twenty-six years. First Place Prose Winner Most of all, special thanks go to the talented and inspired Nebula by Charlene Woelfel 40 students of Lone Star College-Tomball. Each year, we collect hun- Rainy Web by Lucy Alvear 41 dreds of submissions, and in the end, we are only able to showcase Marsh Sunset by Lisa Coryell-Niccum 42 a handful of the creative works that LSC-Tomball students have Pleasant Day by Darrell Svatek 43 to offer. Many thanks to all of the student contributors this year, Cloud 9 by Cynthia Enciso 44 in past years, and in years to come. This magazine would not be Second Place Art Winner possible without them. Snow and Ice by Wendy Palmgren 45 City Night by Lucy Alvear 46 First Place Poetry Winner Third Place Art Winner More than I Can Chew by Charlene Woelfel 47 Darwinian Ideals Frozen Tears by Jaida Doll 48 Lauren Clark The Fox by Lance Kretzschmar 49 Wishing Pond by Darrell Svatek 50 There exists only a false dichotomy between life and death. First Place Art Winner The purpose of life is to be a Darwinian success, then die. Train Coming by Lucy Alvear 51 We stop breathing Aztec Dragon by Madeleine McQuilling 52 Our hearts stop beating Hidden Treasure by Wendy Palmgren 53 Synapses don’t connect Miss Bella by Darrell Svatek 54 We are fettered by death Streams of Light by Jaida Doll 55 A Conversation between Nick Flynn and Inkling 56 An inevitable and unenviable event Transcribed by Samm Fanning Death stalks silently How to Cry by Hayden Dent 69 Creeping behind us Growing Up with Growing Fears by Jaida Doll 70 Lurking in darkness Second Place Poetry Winner Sneaking in obscurity The Statue in the Mirror by Kathryn Chuchmuch 72 Lost in the Storm by James Schulte 73 We live, we die The cycle will endure Beautiful Day by Jennifer Erickson 75 New life is born from old Timing by Samm Fanning 76 The cycle will persist Third Place Prose Winner

Steps of Deceit by Elise Gray 86 We are our genes Don’t Be a Stranger by Samuel Griswold 87 We are our beliefs Mother’s Habits by Allison Canty 90 Our morals and ideals You Think You’ve Seen her Naked by Lucy Alvear 91 Our chromosomes Math Problems by Kathryn Chuchmuch 92 Progenies perpetuate our lives Third Place Poetry Winner Our voices present through them Contributors’ Biographies 93 Our phenotype is passed on Inkling Editorial Staff and Advisers 97 They become us Submission Guidelines 98 A union of gametes Brings the miracle of life A long nine-month process

1 Of swollen ankles and morning sickness Sky Breaks Open Of babies protected in a warm, liquid bubble Jaida Doll

Soon a baby is born Just a little bit longer, Wrapped in swaddling cloth, he cries out Until the clouds move aside. He opens his eyes with blurred vision Just a little bit longer, His grasp reflex works overtime Until I don’t have to hide. A small cough bubbles up out of him Just a little bit longer, Until this rain stops pouring, Already development has begun And the wind ceases roaring. Fontanels fuse together Until the thunder doesn’t boom, Color slowly fills in his world And I can’t see my doom. Sounds become more distinct Just a little bit longer, Bones begin to calcify Until the sky breaks open. Years pass quickly, quietly The child is grown The parents are now fragile and weak Like the immature infant

Their lives are ending They hold a great-grandchild For the first and last time Death has come to reap

They are covered with earth Back where they began Life becomes invaluable As mourning cries rise in the air

2 3 Fragments The truth became a dream anew Brandon Paiz Delusion was no guarantee, bona fide Poorest boy or poorest girl, when I. My heart can bare it I devote myself You are so tall and I am so small Revealing what no one else sees I look and seem familiar, adhered Feel these tremendous eruptions Behind walls where I’m disguised Exploding beneath the skin Here meanwhile they exist unaware Surviving with varied flesh Making sense of the ambiguities Gloomy, rusty red magma burns Lightened by sickly source, wall clock Smoldering ash of prior visions Tick tocks with such unrelenting pace Manifest interred, unrecoverable The glass dinner table scarcely clean In time I wished I could love him I observe my creators and I perceive Loving preferable, but father, he Mangled marionettes left to die Taught me to hate him much more They howl and scream, bombarding Endless hatred like throwing knives III. At one another, misplaced in my bones You thrive here, broken apart Their harsh voices burst my insides Curtailing regrets with cheap booze Futile words become reminders kept Unacceptable dead-end normality I recall my barren face, pale The only woman I will ever love Devoid of pride and compassion Fading further and further away Tears of familiarity in conditions alike Three days, four days, five days I contemplate imminent happenings Where? Your absence buries me Scared of what they’ll think Like some shallow grave vacant Knowing I enable my memory Mother, don’t you get it? To dictate every foot forward Confront those demons eager Reborn a puppet of my past Observe the damage they’ve done Consider the bigger picture, spirits II. You endlessly lust to obliterate My mother carrying Of only youthful comprehension She wished for my companion Though I did not cease to exact Finally to come true, but my father In her unwillingness to abstain Answering her with corrosive apathy I beg her to put it down, look me in Dismantled and impotence subdue The eye and tell me why –“To forget”

4 5 Someone said that my love might be That’s What I Don’t Get Enough for her sooner or later Brianna Korenek Oh god, count my prayers Pull yourself apart from the shadows I don’t understand. How I constantly feel like life is this Awaken the lifeless core inside heavy bubble of things all around me. I’m surrounded. By every- A heavy heart is small but strong thing. I feel everything. But it seems like everyone else just carries on. I know everyone knows the truth--about life, about what’s go- IV. ing to happen to all of us. I just don’t get how we can all ignore it. I Tearful melancholy, engross me don’t get how I’ll be sitting on the couch and for a second I’ll lose Months passing resemble streaks of light my breath because I know after that second things will never be the The children of the universe seen as same again. I want to lie on the floor and hold it down so that the Remnants of stardust, decrepit remains earth stops spinning for just a little bit--just enough time to soak I swear I see you in every thing I do it all in. But I never can. It just keeps going. Constantly crashing Watching me from clear marine skies into me. How are people okay with it? How do they keep going? I withstand the impending blaze How do they not get paralyzed knowing that the next muscle they Refusing to let it wear me away move, word that slips out of their mouth, decision they make will A powerless, cynical conflagration change the course of their life forever. You may laugh at that, tell Pulled the plug on my reticence me that I look too hard into it. But I’m not. It’s the truth. That’s Letting go of you isn’t destructive how it is. How are they okay with not talking to people that carved Now I willingly forgive my mistakes a crater into their heart. How does the world keep going after a life Yours too, for any involved within is removed from it--when a literal body shuts off and no longer Birthrights of spite or anger exists. I don’t understand. I can’t grasp it. I can’t figure it out. How They may find shelter elsewhere is everyone okay? How is everyone so caught up? Do they just dis- A necessary word of warning tract themselves or do they seriously not feel the things that I do? I Now and again I may neglect sleep don’t think I am a realist or a dreamer, because I don’t think either Retreat inside habitual gray matter way is how humans were created to be. I don’t think we were To items concealed in this space meant to sit in a laboratory and try to figure why everything works They are my fragments the way it does and try to beat God at his own game. I also don’t think we were meant to think everyone is a fuzzy ball of love or that you could own the whole world if you get successful enough. I think there is something in between. I don’t have a word for it, but I know it’s there. You are content. You accept. You absorb. You al- low. You feel the world moving under your fingertips. You hear the beating hearts of everyone miles away. You don’t want to conquer

6 7 anything and you don’t want to be anything. You just want to be. perfectly fine with it. I cannot get myself to understand how people I think that’s how we were meant to be. But no one is. It kills me. can spend their whole lives being lukewarm and settling, when I Does no one else get suffocated at the fact that eventually we will know their soul burns for more. I cannot get myself to understand all die? Our lives will end and there’s no coming back. Our hearts why people are so brutally confused on what actually matters. I will stop pumping blood, our brains will stop producing thoughts, want to shake everyone. I want to get on a loudspeaker that the and our organs will quit. The complexity of the home that our whole world can hear and just ask what the hell everyone is doing. souls live in will no longer be important. We will be removed from Why are we split up into different countries? Are we that messed this world and there will not be any kind of mark that we’ll leave up that we honestly can’t obtain the decency to accept the fact that behind. The earth will be untouched by us--like we never even we all live on the same planet and are all that each other has? Why walked on it in the first place. We are here. Our time is so limit- are there wars? What are we even fighting about? Why are people ed. We are so lucky. We are breathing. People are dying. People stuffing their face when other people are starving? Why are people have died. We are here, yet no one is even paying attention. They buying $100,000 cars when people would do anything for money just go to work, and they are obsessed with attaining things they to save their lives? What happened to us? Who decided this is how don’t need, and gaining a title that means absolutely nothing in the it was supposed to be? Who was the first person to be so cruel that scheme of things. They get sucked into the portrayals of how life a ripple effect caught on and we all ended up so cold and bitter? is supposed to be and they follow it like they’re all brainwashed. Why is race or gender even a freaking topic to discuss? Who You can’t beat life. You can’t try and make it matter more than it decided that inferiority was a thing? How can people choose to be does. Your life matters. The fact that you exist matters. Everything misunderstanding or uncompassionate? You are born. You will die. else is meaningless: the amount of money you make, the kind of In between, those two events are up for grabs. They are what you materialistic items that lie in your closet, the number of people make of it. Circumstances will be thrown at you, pain will cripple that know you, the number of things you have accomplished. It all you, and joy will drown you. You don’t know when, and you don’t turns to dust the second that you do. The only thing, the only thing know how. You are only promised one thing, and it’s that you will that matters was simply the fact that you lived. The fact that you die. How could you possibly spend any amount of time ignor- were created. I don’t understand how people can read these things ing that? I don’t understand how vulnerability became a sign of and for a few moments they will become suffocated with me and weakness and how holding things in until you wanted to burst was even start to understand, but then moments later they choose to strong. I don’t understand how celebrations of the greatest events forget. What is the point of forgetting? What is so attractive about that have ever taken place on this earth have been made into days wasting life? What’s so glorious about being ignorant? What’s of greed, of selfishness, and of materialism. I don’t understand how the point? What’s the point? What’s the point? It makes my bones the beauty of words, the beauty of unexpected spoken sounds has ache. Maybe that’s why I’m here--to feel for all those who don’t. been minimalized and replaced with a 4” x 2” screen. I don’t get Well, let me tell you. It hurts. It hurts me. I get so overwhelmed what happened. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand with all the aspects of life that I can’t move. No matter how hard I anything. I can’t get my brain to grasp any of these concepts. I try, I cannot get myself to understand how people have the ability can’t make the aching stop hurting. to stop talking to people they talked to everyday for years and be

8 9 The Time Traveler’s Poem Falling Up Kathryn Chuchmuch Timon Whitfield Inspired by Shel Silverstein Once again I grip the wheel as I have often done before, and listen I tripped on my sin and I fell down to the noises which I’ll hear forever more. I fell down from the clouds The shouts, the screams, the joy, the pains of actions long gone by, I fell down through the sky and into this forgotten storm my tiny ship will fly. Beneath the planes and the birds and watchful eyes, I fell Some days I’ve watched with bated breath as the Trojans found a I fell towards the earth way, I’ve walked on the deserted streets of prosperous Pompeii. I fell to a place where the sky meets the dirt Flappers I have argued with, and I caught a Tombstone train. A man sits atop this empire of dirt I watched a Concentration Camp go missing in the rain. The place is so quiet besides a faint sound But though my life is slightly strange, while I dabble in the past, I The sound is so dark it almost hurts spend my time making new friends, though none of them will last. It’s the sound of scorching throats never to be quenched of a pain- There are those times when I have been a face inside a crowd, ful thirst And even if I shouted no one there could hear a sound. I am falling, but then I stop A wanderer is what I am, and I’m here just passing through, For a second, I float And when it comes to home, that’s one place I can’t travel to. And then I hear a tide eroding the earth of my soul But though I am a lonely soul, my freedom is still mine, There is a riptide in the sky and it catches me From nine to five, six days a week, I’m traveling through time. The man screams from below “How dare you defy gravity! You belong to me!” But there was something strange about the way he preached And then I heard a voice saying: “Do not be deceived. Even when you fall, you revolve around me.” So I fell But this time… I fell up.

10 11 1,095 Days of looking into your eyes Brianna Korenek seeing the colors fade for a year straight and not having enough respect for you to tell you the truth, I used to wonder why I liked writing so much how someone can take a fourteen-year-old then you came along and I remembered whose organs were filled with love and make her into an eighteen-year-old I remembered that when I didn’t write who can’t even eat correctly I ended up in my bed for days because when you broke her heart choking on oxygen that I didn’t want you broke her body too I remembered that when I didn’t write before you have to write it down to figure it out yourself I had to sit in the therapist’s office cringing at the sound of a voice I didn’t even know Yet here I am forcing it’s way into my brain two years later I remembered that when I didn’t write writing for the hundredth time the bathroom floor became my best friend and I still don’t know as I curled up on top of it Here I am, two years later trying to convince my heart to slow down and I think it’s gone so that I could feel my feet again I think it’s all better But then I’ll be driving down some random road I write because cutting your own heart open hurts less and a cloud of you washes over me than someone cutting it open for you and I can feel my heart collapsing into itself I write because flooding a screen with pain with tears furiously carving is easier than drowning in it their way into my cheeks I write because the only time vomiting is enjoyable And I don’t understand is when it consists of words For a little while I’m paralyzed I sit there gasping for air I write because there are only so many ways you can ask Then I reach for a pen how someone who put you together And I remember to write could rip your cells to shreds, how someone who talked to you everyday for 1,095 days Maybe one day I’ll figure it all out could pretend they didn’t, One day I’ll forgive how someone could drink so much poison One day I’ll let go that they let it poison themselves too, Maybe by then I’ll have a book how someone has the capability And you’ll wish you never helped me to remember

12 13 Baby Boy Blue Ranting for Mine Lauren Roetzler Lucy Alvear

For the past nine restless months, Rasp, Rasp, Rasp peeling back at the wood. we have shared every breath. It’s slowly drying, as it yearns, craves and desires just a teardrop of I’ve longed to stare into your bright baby eyes, satisfaction. and cover you in my kisses. Gently un-weave my roots with your luscious lips. Lips of drum-beat red, pulsating, pumping a rush of blood to the I have been dreaming about this day, proper extremities. for me to finally meet you. Numb with insanity for that fix, my fix; jonesin’ like a crackhead I’ve imagined your tiny hands, on the corner, begging for pennies. and your precious little baby feet. Making you believe he’ll buy food. With a selfish crack of a second a rock blazes out his hellish This day feels different in some way. dreams. I haven’t felt you move in the past few days. Dreams of what may, or could’ve been. A mother is supposed to know best, Maybe love or hell, why not condemn me. And I know something is wrong. Kick the chair from under me. Send me to the gallows. The doctor tells me you have no heartbeat, and that it’s time for me to deliver you. It’s a woman’s curse but a man’s masculinity. I feel so empty when they tell me to push, Erase the scars from all the bars. I know that you are not going to cry or scream and wiggle all around. Express, just alleviate, and levitate.

My sweet love, you are born with your tiny hands Give me mine. and precious baby feet, but no heartbeat. You look peaceful, like you’re in a slumber. I want to believe it, but your baby lips are blue.

I hold your precious body in my arms. I cover you in mommy kisses, and sing how much I love you. You are so beautiful, but still.

14 15 The Underdog Will Rise A godly Man Jordan Smith Jaida Doll

There’s that moment in life, You go to church; you say your prayers. everyone has it. You bid your daughter goodnight with a kiss, That moment when the odds are stacked against you, And after you’ve shown her just how much you love her, the doubters louder than ever You sneak into your bedroom and show your wife the same thing. and no end to the naysayers. You start to wonder if they are right, Before work the next morning, you wake to read your Bible, And glance through the pictures you’ve collected of your daughter. if you really have no shot. Halfway through your work day, you take out your pictures again, But then, you remember something. But this time, you do it alone in a bathroom stall. You have something that no doubter has. Heart, drive, motivation. When you pick your daughter up from the bus stop, You have more than anyone and You share with her your devotionals from that morning, Nothing is going to get in your Before pushing her against the car door to share something way of achieving your dreams and You are much more passionate about. aspirations, no matter the odds. This time you look in the face of doubt and failure and say, “Screw Halfway through the sermon the next morning, you! You put your arm around her shoulders, This time it’s mine.” Your mouth on her ear, you whisper, What you want to do to her after you steal her away like you plan. You charge on, beat the doubt, celebrate your accomplishment. You turn your attention back to the pastor, But then, the cycle starts over again. Preaching about the destruction of sin, Eventually, you get into a habit of “Amen,” you agree, not realizing, Always being the Underdog. That your sin is destroying the only one you say you love. You don’t try to, it just happens. Sometime, Someday, Somehow You take your communion, that will change and the doubters and naysayers will be gone Respond to the altar call; for good. You renounce your sins, Sometime, Someday, Somehow, All but the one sitting next to you. The Underdog will rise to seize the day. And on the car ride home, you sing to her, “God gave me you for the ups and downs.” But if God was the one who gave me to you, Then that’s not a God I ever want to know.

16 17 Second Place Prose Winner “Before the child of the book, there were other beings of light and darkness. Things that went bump in the night that Prelude of Blood Moon mothers whispered to their children as warnings to do right or they Allison Canty would be taken off into the night to be never seen again. Half-way Brittania: Modern day across the world, on a tiny isle, there is a testament to their work: It started out a normal day in the small town of Whitehav- Stonehenge . . . this is a story of some of those beings,” the old en on the coast of the Irish Sea. There was the constant dull crash woman started, and away the story went, long into the night. She of the waves upon the shore with the newly refurbished harbor. didn’t seem to want to stop, not even when some of the people got Time had ravaged the small town’s harbor after its disuse, yet it re- up to leave occasionally. mained a historically rich town. Situated as it was on the coast near Slowly the sun dipped down over the horizon, a beacon the Scottish border, it was more of a time capsule for the country’s of light and protection for many upon this land gripped in terror history. The old woman sat herself in the corner of the busy tavern. of all sorts of things. The people of the villages shut and bolted Those sharp old eyes missed nothing, which included the string their cottages, poked at the fire as they sat with weapons that they of people coming and going from the even older tavern. Legends could have reached easily. The moon rose to take the place of the of ghosts and odd activity circled the place and it was strangely sun, howls cut through the stillness of the air. Women paled to an modern in taste but still a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment. ash white, and they watched silently as their husbands took up The elderly wraith had been coming here for years, and the comely arms to defend the village. The men kissed their wives and headed waitress with a shock of red hair came to give her her usual: a out, primitive swords and axes gripped with determination in their hamburger with no bun, lots of cheese and pickles--with a plucky calloused hands. As in the past, the men went to stand in the mid- warm smile that she reserved for all repeat customers, even such dle, back to back with their comrades, weapons at the ready. They an elderly woman. The waitress received a warm, gapped-tooth measured each breath and felt the cool breeze on their weathered smile in return before the elderly woman grabbed onto her wrist cheeks. The sweat made their skin take on a sheen as they tasted suddenly, which caused the lass to double-take with her green eyes their own fear. slightly widened. “Lass . . . ye be wantin’ a story? What about the There was one woman in particular that strolled easily wee ones’ here, eh?” into the middle of the village, watching a particular hill with her The people that the old woman was referring to as “wee hazel eyes as if she knew that whatever ailed this hamlet came from ones” were actually adults in their early twenties, oddly enough, that hill. The young woman looked too clean to be a peasant and adults in the eyes of society and yet just barely experienced in perhaps came from the nearby holy isle to do this nightly rite. She life’s various heartaches. The elderly woman had gestured with was Igraine of the Northern Isles, a land rife with ceremonies of her bony finger, and the waitress, despite her instincts to say no, the old world and old people. Time seemed to slow as she dropped nodded and turned to face the small crowd packed into the smoky her simple hood back, revealing a shock of red hair. In a sea of room. “Anyone feelin’ like a story gather ‘round the ol’ lady here.” brown hair and brown eyes, the pale, slim figure with red hair With that invitation issued, several people had turned their heads to stood out as a target to the people and to the beasts that would- eye the old one offering before several moved closer to hear her tale. soon be upon the village. No one knew that this young, odd woman

18 19 would soon shape an entire nation’s destiny. She stood with her “I will not, Wolf. You have twisted a gift of Nature, and I staff before lifting it to whisper an incantation to the wind and slam will not let you make our brethren suffer,” she called out clearly, it down into the ground. Her faith in the nature spirits of the world unafraid of what the wolf and his pack could do, given that the remained unshaken, as the wall of magic formed halfway down the wolves were thrown together by a collective hunger. hill swiftly, shielding that part of the village. “You and your kind will suffer! You are but meat with a Soon the men stopped jostling each other when they heard little extra spice!” the alpha wolf roared in fury, and his howl car- the pounding of paws on the moist earth within the forest. Twenty ried across the tormented land, as well as the cries of the people wolves howled and yipped to each other, knowing their combined that the other packs of wolves set upon within the night. The other voices made their mortal brethren squirm in fear. Their huge paws villages were not lucky enough to hold a witch among their number ripped the earth underneath, gouging it in fierce wounds every time to protect them. they made footfall. The men of the village gripped their weapons The witch looked around at all the men, then at the cot- tighter as the sweat of fear touched their brows; however, they tages where the women and young ones hid; she frowned lightly were resolute in their defense. . . . and lifted her staff, her eyes turning upward to the stars as she The wolves were given pause by the shimmering magic. whispered incantations to anyone who would listen to her. The wall Growling their collective pack-mentality rage at the witch through quickly became a dome around the village. The dome was able to the wall, they waited for this strange, rippling wall to break. Some keep out the wolves but not the cries of the many dying men and of the wolves were spooked by its sudden appearance, and even women in villages scattered along the countryside--though the tucked their tails between their legs as they whimpered and half- witch heard nothing from the south of the village, towards the bus- yipped at the wall. Despite wolves being smart, these were were- tling towns near what would eventually become London, or from wolves, and though they had great strength, these tainted beings the north, where Edinburgh lay. of nature had given in to their hunger for human flesh, their rage . “As long as I have faith, you shall not pass, Wolf,” she . . they didn’t know that the wall of magic was simply that, a wall. growled at him, forced to hold her staff high to keep the dome Knowing that he and his pack could not pass through it no matter intact above them. their strength, the leader of the pack was able to growl words to “Your arm will tire eventually, Witch!” He turned his the woman. head slightly to growl at his pack mates, and they moved to circle “Get out of our way, Witch!” he barked, red eyes narrow- the entire village, their pack in particular being very large, count- ing on the woman. He paced and snarled. His large nostrils at the ing twenty wolves male and female, all motivated by the hunger for end of a short, wrinkled muzzle flared with the scent of the mortals, human flesh that clawed at their bellies like a toxin. and it made his mouth salivate with hunger, for he had not eaten The witch knew that the large black wolf spoke the truth, well in many moons. He bared his long, viciously curved fangs, but still she held up her staff; the men of the village circled her, suitable for ripping great chunks of meat out of his prey at Igraine, knowing that the strange woman that was not born of the village the witch that stood in his way. His limbs were stiff as he stood was their only hope of survival through the night. there, ready to pounce, and he bristled with a muddy brown fur The hours turned long as the sands of time drifted. She that stood on end. held her arm up and never faltered, until she started to look tired,

20 21 the strength of the spell exhausting her, so she asked two men to Dark Night hold up her arms and never let them drop. Samm Fanning “If my staff drops . . . the village is done for, the wolves will set upon everyone and eat the flesh of their brethren . . . ,” she That night was a night like no other whispered to them, trying not to cause panic amongst the gathered one I’ll never forget villagers. The dark roads, my car all alone The two villagers she had chosen to entrust with the Music was on the country station continued safety of their home held up her arms hurriedly, some- My hands patting along with the beat how knowing deep in their guts she spoke truth to them. This was but a small victory in the war against the tainted wolves of the tiny There you were dressed in black isle in their minds. The witch let her faith overcome her physical I didn’t see you walking and I didn’t see you jump strength, and her dome held strong long into the night. The male There was no way I could have stopped villagers would have to switch out with other men while the rest I’m sorry for what I did of the small gathering remained on edge and tense, watching their neighbors howl and snarl at the magical dome protecting the hu- They said they found a letter crumpled in your palm mans from them. Fear was replaced with anger within their minds, The words you wrote were for those whom you loved and they glanced to the east, expecting sunrise. You thought they didn’t care, but they all did The normal rhythms of the world did not disappoint the So did I trapped humans. Soon the sun was rising, hitting the afflicted isle with its warm rays. Like a balm across a wound, the sunlight I didn’t know you but now I can’t stop thinking trickled into the village, chasing away the wolves to their under- about what I did that night when you walked into the road ground dens. The strange red-headed Witch fell back, exhausted You wanted to end your life, but you ended mine but smiling as the sunlight hit her face. The people of this particu- lar village were safe once again, and as she looked around at their I can no longer drive down that street smiling faces, she knew that her sacrifice was worth their safety. The one where your body lay still Where I cried until they took you away Your mother came and couldn’t even look my way I’m sorry for what happened, it wasn’t my choice

22 23 The Great Whale Poem This Train Kathryn Chuchmuch Lucy Alvear

Do you feel that rugged wind? The kind that likes to bite? This train I’ve boarded seems to have no destination. And do you know the way back home? Are ya tired of the fight? This ticket was purchased for two seats and a hopeful love story. The ship’s sailed on for way too long, but what would a sailor know? Unfortunate for me it’s non-refundable. You feel the air of Ahab’s glare as his madness starts to grow. I distinctly remember the attendee explaining the dangers of boarding a one-way train. The whale itself is sixty feet, some say it’s higher yet. The teeth are sharp, the tail is wide, and it’s impossible to forget. A failed venture down this path can only lead to a desert of Inside its eyes you’ll see the guys who tried to tame the beast. heartache. And inside this monstrous belly is a leg that’s still on lease. My obtrusive mannerisms obviously overwhelm his apprehensive paradigm of love. The seagulls all have left the sky, for land that’s far behind. To not falter on his enigmatic soul, he’s been left to pick up broken You work the rope and severely hope that the weather will be kind. puzzle pieces as well. The rations you know will never grow, as you look to oil for night. Self-loathing creatures, maybe this train ride is right. The stars all doubt for a better route as a blowhole comes to sight. A dab of midnight lust isn’t asking much, is it? So here we go again once more, to see this creature’s face, Light your cigarette, take that first drag. And hopefully a harpoon will get me out of this frozen place. Lay it in the ash tray, while you share the rush of oxytocin I have this growing feeling that the hunt will soon be won, Bursting to the synapses. But this is not a normal whale, and none of us can run.

24 25 Rejection Honeybaby Jordan Smith Samuel Griswold

Rejection You are my cheesecake My creamy rich dessert--my lovely New York sweet thing The Mind can adjust You are my whiskey The source of my madness, the haze on my mind The Bones can replenish My pretty amber drink You are my parrot But the Heart My chatty little pet--a majestic freak of nature A dazzling sight and a dizzying sound Cannot Rebuild You are my diamond Uncut and invincible With a beauty inside only known to the wise You are my apple tree Full of sweet treats and tricks To taste on my tongue and take over my mind You are my daisy With slender white fingers That hold the sun in her hand You are my ocean My endless wonder, expansive and deep Your waves pull me inside you And I can’t breathe

26 27 Thunder Clouds and Rainy Days How It Really Went Cesily Brewer Amanda Donahoo

Maybe today will be the day Wrap me up That I finally forget you Pull me in That I’m finally able to say Take my hand It doesn’t hurt anymore. Tie a knot The sun is illuminating so why can’t I? Hold on tight Take a breath Close your eyes Hug myself Let me drift away Pretend that I’m fine Let the tide of this rainy-day-feeling ride. Send a note They say over time the pain Call my name Wears, tears, and dies Check the door But once again I have tears in my eyes. Count the days Learning to love myself more Hide your eyes Each day, I keep praying that Let it go They’re right and you’ll eventually Know I’ll do the same Just fade away. Leave some room Try a hand Find a hope Make it new Fall back in One more time You are gone for good

28 29 First Place Prose Winner around and saw more cars coming and noticed that inside them there were no drivers--only dark shadows that were like smoke in The Meeting their form sitting in the driver’s seat. I braced myself as the cars Matthew Coble were about to hit me but just like that they passed through me like fog. Again and again they went through me like I wasn’t even I woke to the glare of street lamps and the sound of there. I didn’t understand at all what was going on and tried to passing cars in a dark alleyway. As my eyes adjusted to my new look around for people but only saw more of the shadowy figures surroundings I realized that none of it was familiar to me. The walking the sidewalks and inside the passing buildings. walls, I saw nothing but high-scaling brick-lane walls extending All of the buildings extended just as high as the alleyway as far up as to touch the sky. I started to feel the sensation of bitter, was long, their rooftops piercing the dusty clouds that covered the chilling cold and realized I was lying in a pool of wastewater. This black sky and all of them made out of the same stone bricks. They caused me to shoot up to my feet, and as I did, the world around all looked completely broken down and old as well, like no one has me shifted as if to the motion of my ascension. It took a moment ever tried to clean them. As I stood there dazed in bewilderment, for me to adjust and once I recovered, I noticed strange markings the ground stopped moving and launched me forward. I caught on every brick of the building next to me. I leaned in closer and myself this time with my hands and noticed I felt nothing. I hadn’t realized that the scratchings were names, all of them of different felt any pain when I fell earlier either, now that I think about it. length but nonetheless filling the face of the rock. I reached out The only sensation I was feeling was that of unending and ever to touch one, but I quickly jerked my hand away, for some reason increasing cold. frightened. This development shook me back to focus, and I turned I looked forward and realized that I was staring at the only my attention away from the walls and instead to where I was and normal looking building around. This one made out of marble and why I was here. granite and only two stories high. Its design reminded me of an an- When I tried to grasp it, though, my mind seemed to pull cient Roman temple, yet it also had many modern enhancements, it away. The harder I tried the farther the memories seemed to go. such as dark blue curtains dressing every window frame and metal In the end I could only remember one thing, a name. I didn’t know spires that I assumed were broadcast towers extending from the where it came from, but the very thought of it only caused resent- roof. Then I saw a young woman come out of the front door and ment and hatred to fester. walk over a few feet to me. She looked like a typical secretary with “Simon,” I whispered. a professional business jacket and blouse, with a datapad in her As I did this, the ground beneath me began to swirl like hand and an earpiece hooked into her right ear. But when I looked a running river. I did not sink, but it did carry me. I tried to move at her face, I saw that her complexion was rather pale and she was against its pull and even fell over in my attempt, but I continued to pretty boney as if she was malnourished, and her hair was the color move forward. The ground rushed me out of the alleyway and into of withered apples. But the strangest feature of her by far was her the street where I was met with the sight of an oncoming taxi cab. eyes: they were like charcoal, so black in fact that they seemed to I flinched and assumed it was the end, but I didn’t hear a screech draw me in the longer I stared into them. Even with all this though, or even a horn. I opened my eyes and saw that the taxi was now I was still relieved to see something that resembled normalcy. behind me, still traveling at the speed it was previously. I looked

30 31 After a moment the woman grabbed my attention with an getting colder than it had previously. By this point, it was almost impatient wave. I brought myself back to focus and quickly stood unbearable. up, starting to tremble from the chill that was getting ever colder. “Wha- What is in there?” I asked, as we arrived at the She looked down at her datapad, tapped it a few times, and then door. looked at me with a clearly rehearsed smile and greeting. The woman turned around and motioned towards the “He will see you now, sir,” she said in a cheery voice that door. in no way matched her mood previously. “It is your destination, sir,” she rattled off like escorting “What? Who will see me?” I asked. “Where am I, even? me was the most mundane task she’d ever had the displeasure to Can you tell me what is going on here?!” perform. I stepped forward, pleading, but the woman put her hand “You can’t be serious! It’s almost subzero out here as it is. up and backed away a few steps, her previous bored expression And you want me to go in there?” having returned. She squinted her eyes like she was about to scold me. But “Whoa there, sir. Look, that isn’t my job. I’m sure you then for the first time since I had met her she seemed to relax and do have many questions, but you’ll have them answered when you showed the slightest hint of empathy. talk to Him.” “I’m sure you will soon find that to not be a problem sir.” “Who is ‘Him’?” She then started walking away, just leaving me there. I But instead of an answer all I got was her stepping aside would have reached out for her but my body was stiffening up and extending her arm out as if to show me the way. I hesitated for from the arctic conditions. a few seconds, but I knew I probably wasn’t going to find anything I was left in a trance, not only from my body slowly freez- more out here. I started walking forward, and the woman began to ing over but also from the realization that I still didn’t know how lead me inside. The rest of the way, she was completely silent, ev- I ended up here. I may not have been able to remember specifics, ery once in a while checking her tablet, but otherwise just walking but I did still have the feeling that this place was nothing like what at a hurried pace. I wrapped my arms around my chest now, trying I was used to. My reality. Well, I suppose if I wanted answers, I to warm myself up. But I never felt anything. I tried to distract would have only one option. I turned around and grabbed the han- myself by looking at my surroundings, but they really weren’t a dle of the door. As I did, it felt like I was putting my hand around pleasant sight. liquid nitrogen. I hastily pulled and was caught off guard by how The outside of the building had given me hope that it was quickly the door swung open, leaving me to shuffle around the big not like the other ones I’d seen thus far, but of course the inner iron plate to get to the doorway once more. As I looked inside, I walls and rooms were just as broken down as the rest of the city. was met with yet another set of oddities for me to question. No lights were lit either, besides small lamps in the hallways, leav- In the corner of the room there lay a large, grand fireplace ing most of the light to come from the city outside. I didn’t know and within its maw was a roaring flame--except this flame was a what to think of it, except that it all made me very uneasy. As we luminescent purple, and I could feel that it was the source of the approached the end of the main hallway, I saw a large iron-plated blistering cold that I’d felt so far. In the middle of the room stood door that looked like that of a refrigerator. I even noticed the air a dead tree--a rather small one by usual standards, but it was big

32 33 enough to have a few bare branches. On one of those branches death. Wouldn’t want to get too philosophical here now, would we? perched a black owl which stared out the window on the opposite Always drags on for far too long.” side of the room from the fireplace. Other than that, the room was The bird’s neck then shot back into place like it was barren. No decaying tapestries or cracked walls or broken furni- spring-loaded, and it dropped onto my head. Simon, it called me ture. Just the lone owl sitting within the chilling abyss of the dark Simon. Was that my name? From the moment I first said that name, room. it filled me with anger, but if it was mine then why? “Enter,” a voice called out from the shadows. “Simon, you said my name is Simon?” I stated without I tried to look for its source but to no avail. I crept for- thinking. ward slowly until I was fully inside, and as I did, the door slowly “Oh, come on,” the bird sighed as it shuffled on top of my shut behind me. The owl on the branch then spun its head around scalp. “Must we really get to business straight away? I was hoping until it was staring at me, and that was when I heard the same voice we could have a quick spout or two. But I do suppose there isn’t come out of its beak. much in that case for you to work with now, is there?” “You’ve strayed pretty far, haven’t you?” It tapped my head with its talons, talons that were scrap- The bird then swooped from its current branch to another ing and digging into my head as we spoke, and I hadn’t even felt one that was closer to me. Getting a closer look at the creature, them. I spasmed and thrashed, and as I did, the bird flew away I could see its grotesque features. It was as if all the decay that alarmed. It returned to its original branch and I fell to the floor. the room should have presented was instead all directed onto the I grunted and picked myself up and noticed I wasn’t as cold as form of this creature. It had no eyes, just sunken holes where they before. Ever since I had said the name, Simon. I said it again and should have been. And its wings had several tears and holes in felt more anger swell inside me, which seemed to make the cold them that revealed bone and rotting flesh, which also covered the vanish. I then looked up at the owl, enraged. rest of its body. I didn’t want to look at it, but it was just too mor- “What the hell is going on here!?” bid not to. I finally mustered the energy to speak and could only “Ah, so we got one of those. You may be interesting after utter one word. all. But I digress. You have questions and I just so happen to be “Where?” generous enough to answer. Let’s start with the first question you “Where?” it cooed. “Well now, that’s an interesting ques- asked, shall we? Where?” tion, if not a little dull. Of all of you that come, that is probably the The owl flew over to the window and beckoned me over one that is always asked first. Oh, how I enjoy my talks with those to it. With my newfound warmth and tenacity, I marched on over who ask why or how. Those ones really catch on quick.” and saw what it wanted me to see. The city outside. The bird then moved closer on its branch until it was “Yes, I saw all of that on my way here,” I scoffed. “When looking almost directly over me. Its neck then elongated unnatural- the street was carrying me along, and I was hit by several cars . . . . ly until its face was within reach of mine. What does it mean?” “Tell me, Simon, what is your opinion on Death?” “Yes, yes I know,” the owl reassured. “Lots to take in. But “Wha-” let’s just start by saying you’re in the Light District. My town. All “Death as a person, of course, not the concept or idea of the smokey folks that you saw on your way in are my wonderful

34 35 citizens. And, well, to put it into layman’s terms for you, they’re most displeased look upon its sunken face. dead. Every single one of them.” “Who are you?” I barely uttered. “Wait, so am I in Hell or Purgatory? Is that what you’re At this the owl seemed to find great pleasure as it fluttered saying?” down to the ground for the first time. “Hmmf, you don’t think my town resembles something “And there it is,” it said with great delight, “my favorite like heaven? Well, either way, no, that is not what I am saying. question. The living have always found such interesting ways to You can consider the Light District as both or neither if you’d like. describe me. It really is entertaining to watch the interpretations It makes no difference to me. What you need to know is that it is change over time, but of course, every one of you knows me one your turn to apply for citizenship, my friend!” way or the other.” “I, I’m dead too?” The chill started to return and I realized “Death,” I stated, the realization coming about as that the reason my heart didn’t stop from the shock was that it was smoothly as a sledgehammer to the face. already gone. “Ah, yes, someone finally took a hint. I am indeed the big “Quite right, my friend, and yet not exactly. You are at guy, the end, the inevitable fate of all life, the whole shebang. And what I suppose you could call a crossroads, on the edge. You are now your final judgment.” not exactly like the other members of this grand society, at least “Final judgment?” not yet. So, that answers both where and what for the time being, Death cocked his head to the side as the same fire from but I’m sure you are more concerned with the next question. . . . the fireplace started to fill his eye sockets, his pleasant expression Why?” not having changed in the slightest but now feeling more threaten- “Yes. Please tell me. Why can’t I remember anything ing and ominous. besides my name?” “Every one of the citizens of my town contributes in one “Well, you see….I’m not at liberty to disclose that infor- way or the other, Simon.” mation.” He then flew over to the fireplace, and next to it I could I looked up at the owl to see the slyest grin I’ve ever seen now see a set of ash-grey scales, which I know weren’t there be- a decaying face make. fore. “Why, not?!” I boomed. But this seemed to bring some- “It’s always been quite humorous that the Egyptians of thing very sinister out of the creature, as its form started to enlarge all people got the closest to the truth.” He motioned towards the until it enveloped the whole room in darkness. scales. “Here, I weigh your soul against your memory, the collec- “I’d watch your tone, Simon. If there’s one thing my citi- tion of all the deeds you have done during your lifetime. All the zens know, it’s never to address me in such a manner.” good, and all the bad. That is why you or any new citizen can’t I stood in terror for a moment, an overwhelming feeling remember anything besides their strongest feelings, Simon. Be- of dread washing over me. I didn’t think feeling such fear was cause when you die--” Death then proceeded to lift one of his legs possible; it was like an instinct, one that surpassed any knowledge and plucked a feather from his body, which proceeded to glow in a or memory, just the rawest form of fear imaginable. The darkness cascading array of color. “--your memory returns to me. I’m sure then lifted and once again the owl stood in place on its branch, a you can guess how the rest of the process works.”

36 37 I then remembered the bricks on all of the buildings, scale and released it. I then felt the cold from the fireplace slowly every one of them bearing a name, each one of them seemingly seep into me more and more as I watched the scales bob back and calling out to me. forth. My eyes just kept following the feather, watching it slow- “The, the, buildings.” I stammered. ly rise and fall. I wanted to run, to escape this fate, but I felt like “Yes,” Death concurred. “Those who have been found to this couldn’t be undone. I must live with the consequences. This not have been very constructive and meaningful to those around became ever more clear as the scales finally came to a halt, and I them, who offered little to no good purpose to the living world, couldn’t believe what I saw. Death turned back to me, his face still they will still find a positive purpose in mine. Those who have the same as it was before. The flames flowed forth from the pit and provided meaningful purpose will of course be allowed to continue I felt my entire form freeze over. Everything faded to black, but as living as they once did in my town.” it did, I could hear the voice of Death whisper to me one last quip. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But if it was true, “Welcome to the Light District, Simon. I think you’re then I should be fine, right? I know I can’t remember anything, but going to fit in just fine.” I couldn’t have been that bad of a person, could I? There’s just no way. But then again, why do I hold my name in such contempt. I looked to Death as he placed the feather on one of the scales and looked back to me like he knew exactly what my worry was. “You despise your own name, Simon,” he chuckled. “The one thing you lived your entire life with. I wonder what that could mean, don’t you?” “Hold on, this can’t be right. You can’t just judge me for a life I don’t even remember--” “AND THERE IT IS!” Death yelled, catching me off guard. “They always give the same excuse, but you lot never get it. You don’t need to remember, you don’t even need to make ex- cuses. That is the beauty of this system! Your one and only defense will be the life you lived, for better or for worse.” “But . . . but not everybody has the same definition of right and wrong! How can you possibly--” “I’ve been around since before you humans were even a thought. I have seen every possible definition imaginable, boy. Now, if you please, step back and watch.” Death then reached into his own ribcage and pulled out a glowing orb. I felt the same pull from that object as I did from the bricks and realized what it was, my soul. He placed it on the other

38 39 Nebula Charlene Woelfel Rainy Web Lucy Alvear

40 41 Marsh Sunset Lisa Coryell-Niccum Pleasant Day Darrell Svatek

42 43 Cloud 9 Cynthia Enciso Snow and Ice Wendy Palmgren Second Place Art Winner

44 45 City Night Lucy Alvear More than I Can Chew Charlene Woelfel Third Place Art Winner

46 47 Frozen Tears Jaida Doll The Fox Lance Kretzschmar

48 49 Wishing Pond Darrell Svatek Train Coming Lucy Alvear First Place Art Winner

50 51 Aztec Dragon Madeleine McQuilling Hidden Treasure Wendy Palmgren

52 53 Miss Bella Darrell Svatek Streams of Light Jaida Doll

54 55 A Conversation between Nick Flynn and Inkling INKLING: Is your writing process different when you write prose Transcribed by Samm Fanning as opposed to poetry? FLYNN: Some aspects of the process differ, but the initial as- memoirist, poet, and pects don’t. The initial aspects seem about the same; I am sorting, A playwright, Nick Flynn searching for something. Although I don’t disparage writers that was born in Scituate, Massa- start out saying “I want to write about this” (and I even read them), chusetts. His debut collection writing with intention from the outset is not really my way. John of poems, Some Ether, was Krakauer has a book called Under the Banner of Faith, and there, awarded the 2000 PEN/Joyce he clearly sees a subject, the Mormon faith, and sets out to write Osterweil Prize for Poetry, and about it. I have a hard time with that; that’s just not how I write. he has subsequently pub- Instead, I try to figure out what I’m writing about as I write it. I lished two more collections of do that with poems, but when I try to force it (as I have lately) the poems, Blind Huber in 2002 process doesn’t go that well, and it doesn’t bring me much joy. So and The Captain Asks for a I’m assuming Krakauer gets joy out of being single-minded, be- Show of Hands in 2011. He cause why else would he do it? Why write so purposefully unless it is the author of the acclaimed makes him happy? 2004 memoir, Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, which was INKLING: So how do you start when you write? awarded the PEN prize for FLYNN: I just write. memoir. The book traces Flynn’s trying reunion with his unstable INKLING: Do you write every day? father while working at a Boston-area homeless shelter. In 2012, FLYNN: Pretty much--I write every day, and then after a while, I it was made into the filmBeing Flynn, directed by Paul Weitz suddenly see a pattern emerging and connections occurring. I start and starring Robert de Niro, Julianne Moore, and Paul Dano. He to see a structure building from the writing. I see how one idea has also authored the memoirs The Ticking is the Bomb (2010), is actually speaking to another and it, in turn, is speaking to one concerning the Abu Ghraib scandal, and The Reenactments (2013), more, and so on, and things I didn’t know were connected sud- reflections upon witnessing his personal history reimagined during denly are. So, for the most part, by writing, I find my way into my the making of Being Flynn. subject. Now, sometimes, I do know my general subject before I He splits his time between his home in Brooklyn, New York, and begin—as I did when I wrote Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. his teaching position in the creative writing program at the Univer- It really began like a poem. It didn’t begin with me intentionally sity of Houston. deciding to write a memoir about how I ended up working at the homeless shelter and how my father ended up there too (but as a The following interview was conducted by the members of the In- homeless alcoholic). Initially, I wasn’t focusing on the trajectory kling editorial staff and took place when Nick Flynn came to Lone of our lives that led us there and then how we left the shelter, but Star College-Tomball to give a reading in the spring of 2015. that’s what evolved. You know that’s the basic structure of the

56 57 book, but I found that structure through the writing, and at a certain ironically and assume I intentionally used a ridiculous title for a point, I realized, Okay, I have to really examine this accidental book of poems. That’s what I call it, though. So I don’t tend to use trajectory. I couldn’t set us both in a homeless shelter without irony. Honestly, I can’t recall what passage you are talking about. explanation. I had to examine those events and understand them, so I could give shape to my narrative. INKLING: It is the passage where you are talking about having to powder some guy who is covered in mites. INKLING: So how did you end up working at the homeless shel- FLYNN: Oh, this work did give me my purpose. No, I don’t think ter--the Pine Street Inn, right? I was being ironic there. I was serious. I was actually quite serious FLYNN: Yeah, the Pine Street Inn. Sort of the same way I write, about that. I really loved taking care of those men, and powder- I guess. It wasn’t intentional. I was living on a boat, and a woman ing them was part of helping them. That was a non-ironic scene. who lived in the boat next to me was working at this shelter, and It sounds ironic, because it seems strange—at least as I wrote it: we got to know each other, and she just suggested, “Oh, you should “Nothing gives me more purpose than . . . .” It was also satisfying go check this out.” At the time, I was doing work that I wasn’t sat- to dress someone in clothes and see that man on the streets in the isfied with. It just wasn’t bringing me joy. I was doing construction clothes I put him in. I would pick out nice clothes for these men, and making condos in Boston, during a time when many neighbor- and then I would see them walking around in their stylish suits on hood were being gentrified. The wave of white flight was turning, the streets. I loved that work because, to me, it seems as much of a and now people were coming back into the cities, and so they were purpose as anything one could do. turning all these places (much like the place my father would have lived in--these big rooming houses) into condos. I was part of that. INKLING: In a sense, it’s as if you have children out there or I had been doing that work for six months, and was leaving a bad something. taste in my mouth. FLYNN: I can’t even put a finger on exactly why it gave me a purpose. I mean, there is no direct cause and effect, but it brought INKLING: What you say about finding joy in a job is interest- me some joy in some strange way, and part of writing about taking ing—especially as it applies to Another Bullshit Night, where you joy in dressing up homeless men was to admit the weirdness of that talk about experiencing moments of true purpose in your work at feeling. After all, it’s not really appropriate. That’s a strange plea- Pine Street Inn, but at the same time, you are doubting yourself sure to get from working with people that are homeless, as if what and wondering whether you really know what true purpose is. I enjoyed was dressing them up and seeing them on the streets. Were you being ironic or even sarcastic when you used the word Basically, it’s an unstable proposition if you think about it. For me, “purpose” there? this inappropriate joy reveals something of my character at that FLYNN: On the whole, I’m not very ironic or sarcastic. I mean, I time that was weird. After all, you can’t really hold my experience am in life sometimes, but in the writing, I distill a lot of that out. up and say, “That’s why people should go work for the home- Using a sarcastic or ironic tone doesn’t work well for me, which is less--so they can dress people in clothes and have them go out in strange. I have a new book called My Feelings, and though the title the street and they can see them.” It makes no sense at all, really. may sound ironic, it’s actually completely un-ironic and I’m using That’s why I thought it could fit in the book--because it’s an unsta- that title in an un-ironic way. But I’m sure people might read that ble proposition. That dissonance tweaks the book in a way, but it

58 59 seemed more real to me, because that’s really an honest, inner-sen- goes badly, too, when I do that. So maybe I shouldn’t do that. It’s sation that people might not talk about or want to talk about. as if we’re in kindergarten or something. We just continue seeing models around us, and we try to figure out whether going through INKLING: In the book, you refer several times to the futility of the world as they do will help us know some sort of happiness. I your work with these homeless men, in the sense that these people mean, following the good model seems like a good plan if the other are on their way down, and there is not much anyone can do for option is misery. And I do get joy out of reading people’s work. For them in the end. me, reading a good poem is why I’m a poet, because that’s where FLYNN: Yeah, I talk about that--and the hope of it too. I think I I find that moment when I get that insight into another existence. do both, because there are some people you can do things for and Reading just makes my world bigger, in a way. you can help. I mean both types of homeless are side by side, and it depends on the person. That’s why I had to be very specific in INKLING: What else brings you joy other than writing and read- writing about each specific person, and not treat the homeless as a ing other people’s work and making sure people are dressed in a massive block of humanity. If there was a purpose to writing the snazzy way? book, it would be to break down that stereotype of the homeless, FLYNN: What else brings me joy? I don’t know. I haven’t really and to use my father as the representative example of a person who thought about it. Well, I have a seven-year-old daughter, and about has ended up on the streets. I tried to get some insights into his life, the best thing we do together is just to go on a Dérive through the even though in the end, I don’t think I have any great insight into city. What is a Dérive? In the sixties, there was a group of French his life. He still remains a complete enigma. activists and artists called the Situationists. Guy DeBord started them, and they did this thing called a Dérive. In a Dérive, you INKLING: That remark suggests that “identity”--the quest for wander through a city without purpose. Well, you actually do have identity and the fragility of every individual’s identity—is a recur- a purpose--to subvert the structures that are in place and use them ring theme in your work. in new ways they weren’t designed for, as a way of deriving new FLYNN: Exactly, what is the self? It continues on. It is always experiences from city life. So, for example, rather than walking on changing. That’s why I use the title My Feelings. I think searching sidewalks, you walk on cars. You subvert what people are expect- for identity is what we all do. It is also what we go to art for—to ing an urban landscape to be used for. My daughter has always get some insights into the consciousness of another identity, of done that, because she’s only seven, and because that’s what kids someone else, and to give people a glimpse of our identity, even do. In many ways, I see my time with her as a Dérive. We wander though it is a futile attempt. But you know, it passes the time. through the city, we see something, and we say, “Wow, what do INKLING: Because we are constantly searching for identity? you think? Should we get a doughnut? Okay, let’s get a dough- FLYNN: Yeah, it’s as if it is that thing: the answer to how we will nut!” And we sit, and look around, and then we ask, “What is this find some peace. We observe such and such a person doing some- fruit here? It’s a cumquat! Let’s try one!” You know, we just sort of thing in particular (maybe something that inflicts self-harm), and wander around the city and do things, for the sake of experiencing then, sure enough, it wrecks that person’s life. And sometimes, we them. That’s a pretty good time. I like that! copy that person and try it too, and we discover, Oh yeah, my life

60 61 INKLING: That’s a lot of exploration. INKLING: Who inspires you? FLYNN: Yeah, and that’s also close to the way I write, too. It’s FLYNN: It’s usually whoever I’m talking to at the moment. I about letting something happen and just being attentive to the guess I could say someone like Edward Snowden, on an abstract moment. level, anyway. I’m actually friends with Edward Snowden’s lawyer. This lawyer inspires me when I talk to him, and I guess INKLING: And you write in so many genres, even film, and not abstractly when I don’t talk to him. A lot of people inspire me. just Being Flynn. Some people inspire us for positive reasons, some for negative FLYNN: But it all seems writing to me—as if maybe the genres reasons. Things always get complicated. In my last book, I write are an illusion, you know? It’s as if they are all constructs, but about Marguerite Duras, whom I read a lot of when I was in my then again, so is language, so all things are just constructs. If I do twenties. I went eagerly to her books, and I read all of them. Then a reading, often I’ll read a prose piece from one of my memoirs. I found out that in her book called the The War: A Memoir, she got People will come up to me afterwards and say, “Oh, I liked that complicated, because there, she deals with state-sanctioned torture poem.” I don’t correct them. I don’t say, “No, that was not a poem. during a time of war. In that memoir, she claims to have tortured That was prose.” Frenchmen who collaborated with the Nazis during World War 2. It INKLING: Now that you mention it, some of the chapters in An- really troubled me because I thought, Duras is advocating torture! other Bullshit Night seem like prose poems and not prose at all. That’s uncomfortable. Then I read more into it and thought she FLYNN: Yeah, that’s how I wrote it. That was my first book of probably just made that up because she was actually collaborating prose, so all I knew at the time was to write poems—or at least that with the Nazis herself, and so, over-compensating. My feelings was all I knew how to do vaguely well, because I had tried writing about her writing are really complicated. I guess I would still be prose earlier in my life. inspired by Duras. It’s good to notice little levels of complication and realize that nothing is ever that simple. There are always more INKLING: Do you have a favorite author? doors to open. During the Nazi Occupation of France, she had FLYNN: Samuel Beckett starts all of my books. He starts all of a job with the government, working with the Ministry of Paper, my memoirs. That is, I have inserted an epigraph from him at the which restricted the production of paper and decided what could beginning of all of my memoirs, all three of my prose books. be published and whatnot. Paper was hard to come by, and if it was convenient for them, the Ministry of Paper would just say, “You INKLING: So do your memoirs form a trilogy? can’t be published because there just isn’t enough paper.” Duras FLYNN: Well, that’s what I call them. The publishing house didn’t got her first couple of books published under the Vichy Regime want to market them that way, though. They were horrified by that because she worked for the Ministry of Paper, so she took deep idea. I don’t know why, but they thought that people would feel advantage of her position to get her books published. The artist and that they had to buy all three books if we called my memoirs a the work. trilogy, and I thought to myself, so? They thought it was too com- Yeah, sometimes I throw the artist under the bus if he plicated or something like that. or she goes too far. For example, Leni Riefenstahl (who directed propaganda films for the Nazis) probably goes too far for me.

62 63 INKLING: Can you talk about the significance of the six baby work for me. Then I would hear that some poets don’t write when mice in “A Bag of Mice.” Why six? they’re drunk but when they’re hungover—because they feel sort FLYNN: That was the first poem in my first book. It’s very of melancholy and they can’t really move too fast, so they just sit strange, because that’s one of the only poems I have written as a down and write about all their regrets. I know poets whose whole found poem. Basically, I had a dream. I woke up, wrote the dream career is based on hangover poems. That idea made sense to me down, and was done with the poem. I probably revised it a little for a while, but I still couldn’t write too well when I was hungover. bit; however, I usually spend years revising poems, and with that Then I discovered meditation and that’s been my mainstay. I’ve one, I had a dream, wrote it down, and then it became the first also done a lot of dream work and kept a lot of dream journals. The poem in my first book. And there is a reason for that. Because I do Ticking is the Bomb contains quite a few dreams. I also use medita- agree with David Mamet that the subconscious mind can create art, tion in my teaching in the Creative Writing Program at the Uni- and making art is about accessing the subconscious. Dreams can versity of Houston. For the last couple of years now, I have been access subconscious. I wanted to have that poem at the beginning having my students meditate. I’m not really sure how well it goes of my book to create the sense that I was setting up a pattern, as because I don’t give them a lot of instruction. I just say, “Okay, we if that poem were the blueprint for all my work. That being said, I are going to meditate for seven minutes.” Then I just close my own have no idea why I mentioned six mice—I guess because the idea eyes, and I’m not sure if they are meditating or not. Maybe some came from a dream. I never really thought about it. I never really are just checking their emails, for all I know. I don’t monitor what questioned it. A lot of people have given me interpretations of that they are doing. I just give them this chance to let their minds drift, poem. People have said many things about that poem and I never and then we write for seven minutes. I do these little fifteen minute contradict them—because, in truth, any book only exists, any poem blocks of meditation and writing in my three-hour workshop be- only exists, as an interaction with the reader. A work only exists cause I think finding a way to unleash ideas is the most important when someone reads it, and the reader has to participate in the act gift I can give my students. During the workshop, they don’t quite of making meaning. Many works contain indeterminate images, understand my goals, but maybe they will by the end. I also have images that are not fixed in meaning, and these images force the them try to write as fast as they can, that is, write as fast as they reader to participate in the act of making meaning. So I think six can think. Meditating is really important, because it clears the gar- mice are an indeterminate image that cannot be determined. The bage out of a person’s head. Some people say they can’t meditate thing is, if I said, I used six mice because . . . well, I don’t know because they have all these chattering voices, but at least if they what I would say—how I would even complete that sentence. try my method, they might have seven fewer minutes of chattering voices. So you see, meditation is a big part of my writing process. INKLING: Speaking of the subconscious, how do you get yourself in that mode when you are writing? Do you usually use dreams? INKLING: How do you determine when a piece is ready to be FLYNN: In my twenties, I tried to reach my subconscious mind published? through deranging my senses (disturbing their order, as French FLYNN: In the revision process, you start shaping and editing. poet Arthur Rimbaud advocated), but that method didn’t work I have a poem in this new book I’ve been working on for twenty too well for me. I was one of the lucky ones. When I used drugs years. I’ve kept going back to it. Now that it’s finally in there, I and alcohol, I just wrote really badly. Drugs and alcohol didn’t don’t even know if it’s the best poem in the book, really. I revise

64 65 until a piece starts getting worse, and then I go back to the one FLYNN: Yeah, I do, and right now I feel as if I’m doing nothing. before that, and then sometimes the poem just isn’t a great poem I’m spinning no plates! That’s not really true, though. I’m trying but it’s done. Then I know it is as good as it can be, and if I revise to tell myself that because I just finished fifteen years or so of it anymore, it is going to get worse. You have to know when it’s working on this trilogy, and I’m resisting getting into another huge getting worse, and that judgment call takes a little time to figure project, but I’m actually doing all sorts of writing. out. At the moment I write something, I think, Ah, I nailed it! and then a couple of weeks or months later, I think, Ah no, that sucks!” INKLING: Do you purposely plan out time to write or do you just write when the sparks come? INKLING: That idea of “later” is something that many new writers FLYNN: I’ve done both. I always carry a piece of paper in my struggle with. When they get an idea, they don’t rush to write it pocket, and a lot of my work starts there. For example, if I go to a down. Instead, they let it marinate, thinking that they will nail movie or an art opening, events where I might get inspired, I make it later, when they have more time to write. Do you let an idea sure I’m ready to jot down what flashes before me. I also get ideas marinate and then write it down later when you have a structured in the car. writing period? FLYNN: No, my advice to new writers is to write as much as they INKLING: Whose opinion of your writing matters to you? Do you can in the moment they get the idea. I do think that most of the make changes because your editor suggests them? good stuff comes from an initial spark. One of my first teachers, FLYNN: Well, I have very good editors. I have a prose editor and Carolyn Forché, talked about the “initiating spark” that gets a a poetry editor, at two different presses. I have been with them poem or other piece of writing in motion—those times when we both for about fifteen years. So I’ve had the same editor for all four get this flash of something profound, as if the key of the universe books of poems and all three memoirs. Some authors send perfect has been given to us. In that instant, we feel, I’ve got it! and ideas manuscripts to their editors, and I send complete disasters. Mine connect in our brain in ways that we hadn’t thought they could are completely rangy and weird, and when I send drafts to my before. We see how our childhood connects to eternity. So yeah, editors, I want to know, “What do you think of this?” When they new writers should write that idea down when it flashes before say, “That doesn’t work at all,” I trust them. Overall, I trust them them because three minutes later, it’s going to be gone. Use that enough that I can ask for their honest opinion after I’ve worked on key. Try to capture that “initiating spark” as soon as possible—and a piece for a long time, just seeing if I can push it into this other then spend the next twenty years trying to get a poem out of it. I try realm. Then they tell me, “This works, and this doesn’t work.” We to keep that spark lit, even if it is imperfect, stuttering, and ugly. have good conversations. More than beauty, it’s the sublime that is important. Aim for the INKLING: Is there anyone else whose opinion matters to you? realm of the sublime. Try to keep that first sublime spark intact. A FLYNN: I had a writing group for many years when I was doing lot of my work as a writer involves trying to keep a container for my first books. After grad school, I formed a writing group in New those sparks. York, and we met every week for like ten years. We brought our INKLING: Do you spin a lot of plates at once? That is, do you work in and talked about it. That was completely essential. Even- have a lot of different projects going at the same time? tually, I started traveling more and the group broke up, but that

66 67 weekly give-and-take was extremely important for me at the time. How to Cry I always suggest writing groups. With my writing group, I could Hayden Dent read my work as if for an audience and so process it into something that a general audience of readers would find interesting. They Crying isn’t so hard once you’re good at it. gave me a sense of whether something was working or not. With a bit of practice you’ll be crying every night! The first step is to do something you’ll regret. INKLING: How long do you set a piece aside after you write it You know, something you won’t be able to stop thinking about! before you go back and edit it? The more isolated it makes you, the better! FLYNN: Two to six months usually, long enough that I have for- You wanna make sure that you are nice and lonely. gotten that I even wrote it. INKLING: If you had any advice for fledgling writers to add some Now that you’ve gone and ruined your life we can focus on when discipline to their craft, what would you say they should do? it’s best to cry! FLYNN: They should keep their day job. I did. In Buddhism, This is tricky. they say that in order to have a practice, there are three legs to the Many experts would say that crying while you are alone at night is tripod: the Dharma (the teaching, system, or structure), the Sangha ideal. (the community), and the daily practice of meditation. The same I, however, must respectfully disagree. goes for your writing. The daily meditation is the writing, the If you really want to feel the cry I’d recommend Dharma is the books you read, reading other people’s work, and crying in public, the Sangha is the group you meet with. But writing?—it’s medita- very vocally, tion, and meditation is where my writing comes from, in the end. and surrounded by strangers. Not only will the embarrassment prompt more crying, it will be another reason to cry again in the future!

Now here is the final step. Never let it go. Live life regretting every decision you have ever made. Fulfill your fear of dying alone. Be the lonely person nobody wants to be. Never forget how it feels to be forgotten. Never forget how it feels to be hated. Make sure to forget how it feels to be loved.

68 69 Second Place Poetry Winner The only monster I see in the shadows is you. And I’m no longer scared that the noises I hear at night will Growing Up with Growing Fears turn out to be a murderer, Jaida Doll But I am terrified that it will be you, filled with I’m still afraid of the dark. desire all over again. It’s just for different reasons, now. Most of the time, I can’t even walk to the bathroom at night. And the monsters under my bed haven’t moved away; I never could, but it used to be because of the They’ve merely changed forms into the shape of a monster I thought would be waiting behind man. the door. The skeletons in my closet still make their bed among my These days, I wouldn’t mind seeing a monster, as long as clothes, it wasn’t you behind that door. But they don’t stem from horror movies or scary stories like And when I do sleep, I can only do so with my back to the wall, they used to. But it’s not because I think the monsters behind me might I still sleep with my lights on, like I did as a child, drag me to hell. But it’s not because I’m afraid that the vampires will It’s because you already have. bite my neck; And I never stopped having nightmares, It’s because I’m afraid that you will, instead. But they’re not about that movie I shouldn’t have watched. And the dark shapes outside my window don’t take They’re about that thing you shouldn’t have done. the forms of mummies and ghouls like they did I’m not afraid of the monsters under my bed, anymore. before. Only of the ones you planted inside my head. Now they take the shape of a man with a desire to prey on a But at least I’m no longer afraid that the ghost in my cellar is going child. to possess my body. And I used to be scared that the zombies would turn Now, I’m just afraid that you will instead. me into one of them. I’m still afraid of the dark. Now I can’t be sure, but I think you already have. It’s just for different reasons now. The demons haven’t left either, But they don’t reside in the dark corners of my room anymore. No, they’ve built a home in the dark corners of my mind. They share their bed with you nearly every night. Before bedtime, my imagination still runs wild, But it doesn’t create monsters lurking in the shadows, anymore.

70 71 The Statue in the Mirror Lost in the Storm Kathryn Chuchmuch James Schulte

The statue in the mirror was a person long ago, The rain battered the rider and his horse right and left. She used to dance in foggy fields in rain that turned to snow, His steed let loose a frustrated bray as it fought against both the Her hair was burning auburn in the sun that set for night, storm and his rider, as the elements gradually worsened. Through And she’d fly away to outer space on the tail-ties of her kite. the storm and darkness, the man fought desperately to maintain control of his balance and his horse, as the rain assaulted them With bated breath she’d look below, at the ones who’ve turned with age, from all angles. Churning in the air was what used to be his mag- And wondered how they acted like adulthood was their cage, nificent royal cape, which was now torn asunder by the prevailing For after all, her youth was hers! And she knew it would go on. winds much like the poor lad’s spirit. Try as he might to push on, Yet little did she know, in vain, her innocence was wrong. his horse finally had enough with both the chaos around it and the dead weight on its back. The steed suddenly spurred in action Suddenly a broken bone had veered her off her course, until it bucked the rider off of its back. The man sailed through the But a wise person had told her once to get back on her horse. turbulent air and landed with a splash into a gigantic puddle. His So shaking off that tiny scare she went back on her kite, mount brayed, turned tail, and galloped the way they had come, Yet silently her nightmares came, and youth flew out of sight. abandoning his rider to the storm. The rider lay in the dark water, the back of his head and She learned that trust was precious, and she had a springtime flu, most of his body submerged. Slowly, his body swayed side to side And when the in-crowd found her there--they laughed at her kite too! as he gained consciousness with his large mass causing minia- But by and by her kite sailed off, and she fell down with a crash. ture waves in the muddy water. While lifting his head out of the Her feet became her anchor weight and her hair turned white with ash. water, the young man with mud covering his features sprayed the Her skin turned wrinkled leather and her eyes began to dim, puddle water out of his mouth. His right arm emerged, but no hand (And the mirror never tells about the girl who’s left within.) was attached to it, and likewise as he raised his left arm out as A solid-looking statue has deprived her of her face, well. Using his elbows instead, the young man dragged himself But I still look high for that kite in the sky, to the puddle’s edge, and collapsed, his chin resting on an aged And I dream of outer space. cobblestone that had roughened over the years of erosion. The man’s body shook violently and quivered uncontrollably, his eyes watering up with tears, as he felt another storm rage inside himself. The man rolled feebly over onto his back and raised his legs. They, like his handless arms, were nothing but useless stumps, and like his hands, they were not forcefully made, with the exception of his right arm, which was severely scarred and slightly shorter than the left arm by just a few inches. This disheartened fellow gritted his

72 73 teeth, placed his arms down, and rose to his knees. Shaking from Beautiful Day pain and fear, he placed his right leg out on the broken cobblestone Jennifer Erickson road, and using his arms as support, attempted to stand. His knee buckled, and he fell forward onto harder ground with the hit jarring The sun was shining, merged with a cool brisk wind. his body. His head felt light from the sudden whiplash, but he The leaves on thin branches dancing with ease. remained conscious. Birds were singing their morning song. For a moment his body remained motionless until his Then, silence. chest heaved in a painful sigh. Getting back up again, he tried The sky rumbled a horrid moan. once more to stand, but fell forward again into another puddle, The clouds smothered the sun. but this one was larger than the last. His collision with the black The eerie silence of a songbird’s voice. water made it raise in a large mushroom shape, and then it came The fierce rupture of a powerful wind. bearing down upon him, and engulfed the young lad. It seemed The end of a beautiful day. that he was going to drown, but once more his large frame waded through the water. Lifting his head out, he sucked in several gulps as he dragged himself to the equally dark mud on the large pud- dle’s edge. The lad had tried his best, but nevertheless he wasn’t going anywhere. For several minutes, he shifted as if trying to will himself to go forward, but the only thing his body did now was conform to the liquid mud. A tear broke out of his eye and mixed with the heavy rain. FLASH! His head cocked to the side and for a few minutes he looked up at the storm that raged violently above. Another bolt flashed above and part of the young man wished for one of them to strike him down and end his misery, yet he dread- ed the fate of the afterlife all the same. He willed his right arm to move, and it slowly emerged onto the water’s edge next to him. His wet eyes stared at the manmade stump. He bit his lower lip and dragged his right arm into the dark waters of the puddle where it disappeared from sight. As the elements raged on, he lost all sense of time, his body exposed to the cold rain and the even colder wind, which blew like a thousand icy needles and wore down his ability to feel anything. Slowly, the lad could hardly realize that he was handless and footless to begin with, and the plights of his past seemed like a distant memory. Blinking at the flash of lightning and trembling only once at the loud thunder, the young man closed his bright amber eyes and allowed the darkness to take him. 74 75 Third Place Prose Winner old beat-up yellow Jeep. Just then a tall gorgeous man who was wearing an old radio station tee walked up and held the door. He Timing had dark brown hair and glittering green eyes. The tattoo on his Samm Fanning bicep stuck out on his tan skin. “At least you missed the rain,” he said, followed by a chuckle that made me smirk. I showed him my I packed the last things in the cardboard boxes that sat on damp clothing and thanked him for holding the door. my bare mattress. “Britney, honey, you ready?” my mom asked as “Hey, wait up!” a voice behind me yelled just as I had she walked into my vacant bedroom which was once was a grey got into my car. The guy who held the door was holding my credit room that was covered with band posters, a wall collage of pictures card. I must have forgotten to put it back into my wallet. with all my family and friends, and clothes that constantly covered “Thank you so much.” I smiled and put it safely back into my carpeted floor. Now in its place was a room with only furniture its spot in my brown Fossil wallet. that didn’t have anything to hold anymore. As I looked into my “Where you heading, Britney?” He must have picked my bedroom, tears started to form in my eyes, even though I knew it name up off the card. Or at least I hope. was time to move on. My things and I were moving to a differ- “Lubbock. I’m moving into my dorm today.” I don’t ent room, one that I would be sharing with a stranger in a place I know why he needed to know all of that information, but when I wasn’t used to being, yet. get around someone who has a smile that looked like this guy’s, I I decided last minute that I would be driving myself to can’t control my words. school. My parents didn’t have that much vacation time and I “Do you mind if I catch a ride?” I thought about this for a didn’t want them to feel guilty about having to drop and run so I really long time. What if this guy was a killer on the run? He could said my goodbyes and told them I would see them on Thanksgiv- be just a really nice guy who needed a ride, but I wasn’t going to ing. Mom cried, of course, and I could see tears forming in my take any chances. dad’s blue eyes, but he had to act tough. I was going to a college “I’m sorry. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean, you four hours away, which wasn’t terrible: my sister had decided to could be a murderer. I don’t know you.” I said too much again. marry a man from London so she won on being the farthest away. “My name is Ben. I am from Amarillo, which is not too Two hours into my drive, I pulled off at a tiny restaurant with a far from Lubbock. I was going to visit my mom--she just got diag- small maroon sign that read, Joy’s Pancake House to try to and nosed with cancer--and I don’t have a car because my psycho ex save myself from the rain. I ran fast from my car to the doors, but slashed my tires, and I don’t have money to buy new ones, because it didn’t help because I walked through the door drenched. My I’m in school right now. I go to Texas State, and I’m studying mass army green jacket was dripping, and the water squished around in communications. I intern at a local radio station. I would love to my black boots. The restaurant was full of families eating Saturday have my own radio show one day. Do you want me to keep go- brunch and rough truck drivers eating before they had to take off ing?” Ben smiled and flashed his perfectly straight teeth at me. He again. “How many?” the lady asked. had a contagious smile. “Just me!” She directed me to a table with two chairs. I “No, it’s okay. I will take you, get in.” If my mom knew ordered the famous pancakes and coffee, which I filled with sugar. what I was doing she would lock me in my room and never let me Finally, the rain stopped. I got the check and made my way to my

76 77 out because I was making a terrible decision. weaker. They gave her two to four months a couple weeks ago.” “So is that the radio show you work for?” I asked Ben. He Ben’s voice started to shake and then he just got quiet. looked confused until I pointed at the grey shirt he was wearing. It “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked, hoping had a navy blue logo on it that was some radio station I had never that would change the subject. heard of. “No siblings and my dad died when I was ten. He was a “No, this is an old radio station my dad used to work for radio show host. I’m trying to follow in his footsteps.” Ben smiled back in Amarillo.” Ben looked out the window. We all had things as he talked about his dad. “I remember for my eighth birthday, he we didn’t like to talk about, so I didn’t want to pry. took me and my mom to his studio and let me listen in on his radio “And the tires?” I laughed. show. Why do you want to be an event planner?” Ben asked. “I caught her cheating, and I thought I could trust her “I love planning and hosting.” I laughed. “Mostly plan- again so I took her back. Well, we went out to this coffee shop on ning though and I love weddings and parties. So I thought that I campus, and I ran into this girl in my class. She wanted to talk would enjoy doing it for a living.” about this class project, and my ex freaked out and said I was “So a party girl, huh?” Ben joked. the one cheating on her. She had a past of being a little crazy and “Hardly.” We laughed, and then the car became silent. jealous. I walked out of my apartment that night to find my tires I listened to Ben sing along quietly off key to the songs slashed. To make a long story short, I haven’t heard from her playing softly. When an old popular rock song came on, he started since.” to play the air drums, and I turned up the radio. As the song got “Oh my goodness.” I couldn’t stop the laughter that es- louder, so did Ben’s awful singing. caped from my mouth. “I’m so sorry.” “Doesn’t hitch hiking scare you?” I asked as the commer- “It’s okay. I understand. It’s pretty pathetic.” Ben joined cials started to play through my speakers. in on the laughter. “So what about you? I don’t know anything “Nah, it’s not too bad. Luckily a buddy of mine was about you. For all I know you could be the killer here.” heading this way so he dropped me off about an hour away from “Well, you know my name and my credit card informa- the restaurant, and I got a ride from a really nice family. They were tion, but other than that, I’m going to Texas Tech to study public heading to Abilene to see their son on the military base up there, relations.” I kept looking forward even though I could feel Ben and you’ve been pretty great.” looking at me. “I want to be an event planner.” I couldn’t stop myself from blushing and Ben pointed it “That’s really cool.” Ben smiled and I blushed. I tried to out, which only made me blush more. hide it, but I could tell he noticed. I pulled up to my campus dorm and parked the Jeep in the “So can I ask what happened to your mom?” only open spot. All the other incoming freshman who were walking “Um, yeah, she was diagnosed last Christmas. They found to my dorm had their parents trailing behind them carrying pillows the cancer in her ear originally and gave me the whole ‘It’s early and boxes. This made me miss my parents a lot and made me feel on--we should get all of it, and she’ll be better soon.’ Well, that bad for Ben because he didn’t have a choice about if his mom and lasted for about three months, but then it spread to her brain and dad were going to help him move in. she has been slowly losing her memory and getting weaker and “Thanks for the ride.” He gave me a quick hug and started

78 79 to walk off. well-known event planner, Leslie Simms in Lubbock, who had “Do you want to grab food before you leave again?” Ben taught one of my classes. She was in charge of most of the events quickly turned around and accepted the invitation. Lunch was re- that went on in Texas. We drove to Austin for an event for a radio ally good, and then Ben even helped me set up my dorm room. We station that was kicking off a new radio show. I was researching met my roommate, Chelsea. She was so nice and thought that Ben the event and our customers for Leslie just like I did before all of and I were the cutest couple ever. Those were her words, not mine. our events. She liked to know what to expect. Ben was the new ra- “It was great to meet you, Britney. Thanks again for the dio show host that we were throwing this major event for. It looked ride.” Ben smiled as we said our goodbyes. He gave me his num- like he gotten his own show, just like he wanted. Finally after three ber and said if I was ever in the area to give him a call. years of no communication, we would get to see each other in the “Goodbye, Ben. Good luck with your mom.” He gave me same room, maybe rekindle something that we could never start. a hug and left. I went shopping immediately to find the outfit that would maybe A couple of months had passed, and after not hearing make him miss me. The only time he saw me in person was when from Ben, I built up the courage to call him. I was soaking wet in my-first-day-of-college-life attire, but now “Hey, Ben, it’s Britney.” I was hoping he remembered, but I had to dress even better. So I grabbed a black dress, because it was worth a try. everyone looked good in black. I paired the black dress with “Yeah, hey, Britney, how have you been?” Ben asked. black wedges and simple jewelry, which included mostly antique “I’m great. How is your mom?” necklaces and rings. I walked into the event and felt confident “She passed away a couple weeks ago, but she left hap- until I saw Ben with a brunette girl draped on his arm. She looked py.” flawless which crushed my heart. Ben and I locked eyes, and I did “I’m so sorry, Ben. How are you?” I remembered back to a pathetic wave. I quickly turned and tried to get away, but before when Ben and I talked about his mom in my Jeep. He got choked I knew it, Ben was right behind me. He tapped my shoulder, and up every time she was brought up. Even now, I could hear him I turned. Without warning I went in for the hug and held on for a trying to hold back his tears. little bit longer than I should have. The only word that came out of “I’m better now. I just sold my mom’s house. Last week- my mouth was “congratulations!” end I packed up her things and drove them down to a storage unit “Thank you, Britney.” Ben smiled at me, and he looked in Austin.” Ben paused. “And I’m gonna graduate in two months.” sad. This was all he had ever wanted, and he finally got it. That made me chuckle a little. I could picture his excitement on the “Are you okay?” I asked. I unconsciously fixed my hair other side of the phone. and dress, feeling stupid after his eyes caught me. “That’s great, Ben! I’m so glad to hear from you, but I “Don’t worry, you look amazing.” He avoided the ques- have to get to class. I’ll talk to you soon.” We said our goodbyes tion at first, but then knew I wasn’t going to drop it. “I’m not sure, and hung up the phone. After that phone call, we didn’t talk much. I just feel like something is missing.” I sent him a congratulations text, and he sent me one wishing me a “Well, you look great, your girlfriend is gorgeous, and this Merry Christmas. whole party is for your radio show. Don’t worry, Ben, your parents During my senior year, I was interning with an extremely are so proud of you!” Ben grabbed my hand and looked into my

80 81 eyes. We stood there still until he pulled me in for a hug. and dorm walls are thin. My parents come and visit a lot which “Thank you,” was all he could say. is nice. Oh, and my sister had a baby, and now her and Trent are The party went smoothly without any problems. The DJ expecting again.” showed up on time, everyone was talking about how great the food “Are they still in London?” tasted, and everyone was so excited for Ben and the new radio “No, not anymore. They moved to California last year. So show. I gathered all my things at the end of the night and started to now I get to see them for holidays, and I’m moving in with them head for my Jeep, which was parked at the front of the parking lot. soon.” “Britney, wait up,” Ben yelled. “In California?” Ben was shocked. I flipped my long blonde hair and turned around to see “Yeah, I’m moving to California in two months. I got a Ben was running up behind me. job with this amazing event planner, and I’ll be given the chance to “Hey, Ben, where is your girlfriend?” I seemed eager and plan my own events. Leslie has been great, but I get to be working instantly regretted it. with celebrities.” “She isn’t my girlfriend. That is one of my friends who “Wait a second, are you telling me that I’m not a celebri- I convinced to come with me because I didn’t want to show up to ty?” Ben winked his green eyes. my party alone, but if I had known you would be here, I wouldn’t “Oh, no, you are definitely my favorite celebrity,” I joked. have invited her.” He paused as he unconsciously fixed his grey Ben looked into my dark blue eyes and smiled. suit jacket. This little motion made me smile, because as I looked “That is amazing, Brit. I know you are going to plan into Ben’s eyes, he was nervous for the next thing he was going to amazing parties and those weddings are going to be grand.” say: “Do you wanna go get coffee or something?” We laughed at each other all night and talked about I drove Ben to a small twenty-four hour coffee house not everything that had happened since we last saw each other. During far from the venue. I ordered coffee and he ordered decaf. I poured the night somewhere, Ben reached across the table and placed my in a lot of sugar as he made a disgusted face. He drank his black as hand in his, which felt completely right. I drove us back to the ven- I made a disgusted face back at him. ue where we said another goodbye. “Is it ever going to work with “Do you want some coffee with your sugar?” Ben joked. I us?” Ben asked. made a sarcastic face as I sipped my delicious coffee. “We both just have great lives ahead of us. I don’t know We both laughed and then it got quiet. The restaurant if it will,” I said. We hugged, and he kissed me. Sparks flew, and was empty. There was a lady wearing jeans covered by an apron, that’s when I knew, Ben was my guy. He was special and caring. doodling on her note pad, and the security guard who was reading Ben still visited his parents’ grave to talk to them about his radio a book in the booth by the door. show and life. He worked all the time, and when he wasn’t work- “So how have you been? I’m sorry we lost touch.” Ben’s ing, he was tutoring local college kids and was even a mentor to a voice was sincere and that is one thing I liked about him in the little boy from his apartment complex. He was honest and sincere. beginning. He was open and honest, but not in a rude way. He was the kind of guy that every girl waits for, the guy every girl “Well, Chelsea and I got our own apartment at the begin- hopes comes around for her one day. ning of junior year, so that was so nice. Because people are gross “I’ll see you again, Britney! I hope next time it’s longer

82 83 than two hours.” Ben smiled and leaned down and kissed me. Then talks we shared and even the feelings we expressed for each other. we went our separate ways. I moved to California right after I graduated. The grad- The next day Ben called and said that he was outside and uation was nice. My parents came, and my sister with with her was going to drive me around for once. So I got dressed in a pair family. Ben showed up with flowers and a kiss but had to leave of blue jeans and a black and white sweater and ran out of my right after the ceremony. That was the last time I saw Ben. We tried apartment to Ben’s old black Mazda. He stood outside of his car, to keep in touch, but neither of us wanted a long-distance relation- wearing dirty jeans and the same radio show t-shirt as when we ship, and as time went on, we stopped communicating altogether. first met. He looked tired, like he had been up for hours. Chelsea asked me to be her maid of honor, and I went to Austin “Hello, my lady! I have good--well, I mean, I hope it’s in July. Chelsea met Brian junior year when he moved across the good--news. I have extended my start date. So I will be working hall from us at our apartment. The wedding was beautiful, and I from Lubbock for four days and then I will start my show.” Ben had planned the whole thing from California. On the way back opened my door and I slid inside. to California, I walked into a coffee shop in Austin. I saw Ben at “That is good news, and I would love to see you all four the counter. He was wearing a radio station t-shirt, but it wasn’t days.” I smiled, and Ben drove us to a bowling alley. his father’s show. It was his. Ben had the same shaggy brown hair We went bowling, and then Ben dropped me off at my and the same half smile. He ordered a black coffee and put one too apartment. We saw each other all four days. The first day we went many packets of sugar in it. I saw on his left hand a silver wedding to the zoo and packed a picnic, which we ate on a hill near the but- band. I took a deep breath and walked up to Ben. We locked eyes, terfly garden. The next day Ben surprised me, by taking me around and the only word I could say was “congratulations!” Lubbock. “This is beautiful,” I said as we walked across an aban- doned bridge. Its weeds were growing out of all parts and had flowers growing on top of them. “I can’t believe I have lived here for four years and I’ve never been seen this.” The last day was hard because Ben and I had been togeth- er for four days in a row and I didn’t want us to be apart. “Thanks for postponing your show, Ben.” I smiled as I leaned in for a hug. Ben kissed my lips, and then we kissed again. “I love you, Britney,” Ben said. I looked into his green eyes. I knew I felt love, but I didn’t know Ben would feel the same way. We just lived so far away and the timing was never right. “I love you, too, Ben.” Once again, we said our goodbyes, and after we said “I love you,” I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that we would never say it again. I think of Ben often--about the kisses and

84 85 Steps of Deceit Don’t Be a Stranger Elise Gray Samuel Griswold

The intelligent love the lie, I take one more look at the texts on my phone before Oh how simple-minded am I, getting out of my car. My latest lover has been sending me pictures with this honest mind’s eye? of the lingerie she’s wearing while waiting for me inside the motel Seeping through their teeth, eloquent tongues where my car is now parked. Clearly, the outfit has been met with leaving rubble everywhere, some success already – there’s a little white stain on her corset that deigning the stairway to success. seems to have escaped her notice, despite the highlighting effect the flash of her camera had. I didn’t buy the lingerie for her, and I And as the diction takes its seed know that I’m not the only man in her life, nor do I entertain any it will wobble, delusion that I ever will be, so I’m not upset. Just a little grossed and it will weep, out. But I plan to take everything off of her anyway. on those steps of deceit. I can feel the chill of a cold poker face on my cheeks as The validation that is paper thin, my eyes find the faded, white splotch sticking to black lace. She shall be discarded on a whim. is beautiful; however, I feel no warmth in my body as I look at Behind these masks of lace hers in the pictures she’s sending me of her wearing her husband’s is where they deem necessity. selection. It doesn’t make me love her any less. After looking at But what of success is a mind fallen, her picture long enough to say I saw it, I get out of my car with all faded so numb that it no longer encompasses that in which it the ceremony of one getting to work early and make my way to the keeps? room she waits in. Upon her answering the door to my knocking, I leave no room for greetings as I cover her smiling lips with my The mind is bleak, own and reach around her back to start removing her husband’s the body but a warzone meant for the translucent words to bleed. eye candy and dried semen from her body. I’m only here to see her. If you are your loyalties, Her lips escape mine so that she can release the mirthful then that which you seek is nothing more giggle stuck in her throat. She also gets a few words out before her than the masquerade made, voice gives in to laughter as my lips attack her throat, “Mmh! my to fool those that you nothing less than hate. man is excited!” So, triumph on! With those shallow souls, The same words she uses to describe her husband also plastic graves entombed with the integrity that once lay. identify his number on her phone – “My Man.” Her phone’s screen Go forth with the charades, flashes with those words as it vibrates on the dresser in the motel with each fickle step you make, room. and each vapid breath that you take. “You’re getting a call,” I whisper in her ear as my remov- al of her skimpy clothing slows to a languid pace. For the intelligent lust after my feebleminded eye. “It can wait,” she replies with an ecstatic sigh as I lick the For the sake of success, all good must die. sensitive skin of her neck to cover my struggle with the corset. The incessant buzzing of the phone on the dresser distracts me from the

86 87 deliciousness of her skin, and my mind drifts into wondering why vided with the room. I look back up at the mirror to see how she’s anyone would wear something as complex as a laced corset to a coming along with the corset while I remove the last remnants of quickie hookup. moisture from between my fingers. “Go ahead and take it. I have to pee anyway,” I say with “Do you want to meet me there?” she speaks toward the kisses around her ear slipping between most of my syllables as I floor. She hasn’t made any progress toward removing the corset give up trying to loosen the tainted garment’s hold on her. while making her plans. “Okay,” she answers with a tinge of disappointment. The “Alright, honey,” she says with a hint of good-natured inaudible sigh that accompanies her disappointment is a heart- exasperation leaving her voice as she prepares for the inevitable breaking sight, although I’m spared the worst of it as her eyes fall goodbyes. Then she looks into the mirror at me. Her lips writhe off of me. I know she isn’t entirely disappointed with me. The into a seductive smile when she catches me looking at her. We interruption itself surely irks her, but I know some of that disap- stare at each other’s reflections, her eyes at once falling to my open pointment is for me. I know what she wanted. belt buckle before returning to mine with a desire tempered by the She wanted me to take her unabashedly the instant I saw promise of impending satisfaction. My eyes flick further down her her, but the texts she teased me with held the appeal of a half-eaten body to the stain on the corset she still wears. carrot dangled from a stick. She wanted me to be so attracted to her “I’ll see you later.” She makes eyes at me while wrapping that no other thought than being inside her penetrated my con- up her conversation with her husband. “Bye. I love you.” She pulls sciousness, but I could hear her man calling her not a yard away as her gaze off me for a final pause before saying again,“bye.” her phone rattled on the dresser. She wanted me to feel like it was If the affectionate timbre of her voice isn’t genuine, just me and her. But I had to get that corset off her first. it’s certainly convincing. Of course, it isn’t as though she hides The phone’s vibrations blessedly fall silent as she plucks anything from him – her meeting with me today, in particular. the device off the dresser, and I go into the restroom to pee, as He knows she regularly takes lovers outside of their union, and I said I would, leaving her to answer her phone call and finish he knows he’s her man. I feel a smile holding at the corner of my undressing. Once I am done and after a brief moment of internal lip at her attempt to say her farewells patiently, and I turn around debate as to how fastidious I ought to be, I leave my belt invitingly to start moving closer while she stares at her phone and taps the unbuckled. When I return, I see that she’s still on the phone with screen in a silent, post scriptum communique. As the distance her husband. She gives me an apologetic look before I turn around between us is closed, the text audibly whooshes from her phone toward the sink located outside the bathroom, as motel sinks often with a brush of her finger on the screen, and she looks up to meet are. As we have view of each other in the mirror where I wash my my lips expectantly. Making every effort to avoid the dried splotch hands, I watch her pace about the room while she watches the floor of cum on her breast, my arms snake around her waist to resume move under her feet as she casually moseys. Most of the conversa- peeling away the half-undone corset. It’s a shame, too. I would tion is drowned out before reaching my ears by the sound of water have loved her outfit, if it hadn’t been for the stain. running through the faucet. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be.” Her voice softly replaces the sound of running water when I stop it to dry my hands. “We can take care of that tonight,” she responds to a voice I can’t hear after a momentary pause. “Okay.” Another pause. At this point my interest is primarily on drying my hands with the coarse motel towel pro- 88 89 Mother’s Habits You Think You’ve Seen her Naked Allison Canty Lucy Alvear

I would smell her perfume, Have you caught a glimpse of destiny in her eyes? Have you given down the hall every morning her your docile gaze? You may have pierced her from within yet; as I came out of my room she still lacks your libation. Sure, you’ve caressed her bosom, in the small house. but have you journeyed her bounty? Take a roam into her wishes, My mother spritzed her tiny tanned wrists desires, and cognitions of her yesterday, and where you stand in and then her neck. her tomorrow. Grant your senses the opportunity of surrendering Etched into my memory forever to the forces of her incarnate being. Taste her honey, with a dab of was her beautiful red hair brain for dessert. Inhale her essence of dew that fills her future with plaited lust and hopes. Accept her, for her chaos is beauty, artistry for the into a French-styled braid afterwards. drunken painter who gave up on his aspirations of travel. Listen to She had work that morning her as she whispers the daunting indication that she can no longer I remember. linger on your every last word. There’s a fire within that yearns to But I never forget that simple black shirt unleash its infusing devotion. It calls to you in a delicate alluring with the golden chain nestled come-hither stroke. Have you crawled into her chamber only to on her chest proudly, discover you haven’t truly seen her naked? family heirloom. While it was snowy cold and dark as ever outside, inside, the bathroom was filled with the scent of my mother and her perfume. A comforting smell, a warm smell of class, muted elegance, and the old days of glamour reborn that morning as every morning before.

90 91 Third Place Poetry Winner Contributors’ Biographies

Math Problems Kathryn Chuchmuch Lucy Alvear is a sophomore at Lone Star College and enjoys painting, singing, photography and poetry writing. She loves the I start with something simple like an easy 1+1, printing process of photography and enjoys the quiet self-indul- And added now that makes a 2, and we are almost done. gence of being in a dark room alone with her work. Music is the But if that 2 were times itself by lucky little 3, blood flowing through her veins; with it, she finds inspiration. Then 6 becomes the answer but that’s not enough for me. ‘Cuz, 6 times 6 is 36 divided by a 2, Cecily Brewer is a communications major at Lone Star Col- -Leaves me a nasty fraction which I won’t attempt to do. lege-Tomball. But fractions are division- only that it’s on its head. (And if you were a fraction you would most likely be dead.) Allison Canty is a senior working towards her Associate of Arts. Yet what if there’s an X in mind, what do you do with that? She is twenty-seven years old and has a passion for poetry and Invisible numbers are a thing, just like the brain I lack. fiction writing. She owes her present and future successes to her So there’s a one that’s always there, and always in its place, family. And Y is just the same as X and Z as well as H. Subtraction is a funny thing, like a magic pixie wand, Kathryn Chuchmuch is a sophomore in college who loves ani- You add subtraction then the fish return to their old pond. mals, old movies, and the smell of new books in the morning. She And what about those brackets, those things never are quite clear. is the oldest of three sisters in her family, and her favorite authors They usually tell you where to start, by saying “LOOK RIGHT HERE!” include Oscar Wilde, Lewis Carroll, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mi- And if you see two brackets, those are onions to be peeled, chael Ende, and of course, the amazing Markus Zusak! In her spare And if exponents cause you pain, time she likes to read and write short stories with her two younger There are numbers not revealed. siblings, and she hopes to one day major in communications with a Because if zero is above a number at its base, focus on newspaper journalism. Then that particular number is a 1 despite its face. And if you add together 1 just like you’re supposed to do. Lauren Clark is a sophomore biology major who spends her free Then next you have to check it, time riding horses, fishing, and listening to music. She is transfer- Because 1+1 is 2. ring to Tarleton State University with plans to go to vet school. She was an editor for the 2015 Inkling Magazine.

Matthew Coble is a junior college student who likes reading sto- ries and writes his own from time to time.

92 93 Lisa Coryell-Niccum is a sophomore at Lone Star College. She Samuel Griswold has been studying at Lone Star College since has been inducted into Phi Theta Kappa and will represent Lone the fall of 2015 and began his time at Tomball in the fall of 2016 Star College in the 2016 Model United Nations competition held taking a creative writing class with professor Melissa Studdard, for in New York City. She will participate in the study abroad pro- whom he has special thanks for forcing his work into the open. gram with Lone Star College in Madrid, Spain, after winning a merit scholarship for the trip. Her plans are to transfer to Texas A Brianna Korenek is a biology major who loves too much for her & M during the fall of 2016, pursuing international studies with a own good. To prevent herself from imploding on the inside, she Spanish major. writes her guts out to anyone who’s willing to use their eyeballs. And to those that are, she is so grateful. Hayden Dent is a student of Lone Star College-Tomball who enjoys writing. Lance Kretzschmar is a seventeen-year-old dual-credit student who loves to draw and enjoys sharing his talent with others. Jaida Doll is a sophomore studying for an Associate of Arts degree and thinking about going into journalism. She loves writing, ani- Madeleine McQuilling is majoring in visual art and enjoys paint- mals, and floral design. ing pets and dragons.

Amanda Donahoo is a public relations student from Dallas, TX, Brandon Paiz started writing poetry shortly after his first trip to whose socks never match. New York City a few years ago. He’s a native Houstonian, but his parents were born in different countries outside of the United Cynthia Enciso is an aspiring artist with a passion for digital States. Even so, their paths miraculously crossed and that’s how paintings and imagery. Brandon got here. Circumstance and fate play vital roles in his poetry, as do his personal sentiments and experiences of life and Jennifer Erickson is a non-traditional student, majoring in animal what it means to be alive. sciences, who has a passion for animals and dedicating her world to her son. Wendy Palmgren is a returning student and amateur photographer who enjoys snapping photos of her pet cats, along with roses and Samm Fanning is a sophomore who has a love for writing, help- other wildlife. She loves animals of all kinds and hopes to become ing people, and worshipping the Lord. a cheetah conservationist someday.

Elise Gray is your typical twenty-one-year-old cowboy artist Lauren Roetzler is a sophomore who has discovered a new pas- currently residing in Houston, TX. Born in Denver, CO, she’s spent sion for creative writing. fragments of her tumultuous life in different states, never becom- ing fully comfortable with where she’s ended up. But Elise will not James Schulte is an undergraduate student at Lone Star College waver because if there’s one thing she knows all too well, it’s that and hopes to become an exceptionally good author, to provide the she’s destined for greatness. 94 95 world with a new and refreshing look on books. Books are more Inkling Editorial Staff and Advisers than pieces of paper; they are works of art worthy to be cherished by millions of people. Top Row: Lucy Alvear, Susana Blandon, Jordan Smith, Wendy Jordan Smith is a sophomore English major who loves writing, Palmgren sports, and hanging out with friends. Bottom Row: Samm Fanning, Darrell Svatek is a 2016 graduating art major who enjoys drawing Kathryn Chuchmuch, Zaynab and painting. Ali

Timon Whitfield is a student of Lone Star College-Tomball who enjoys writing.

Charlene Woelfel is a student who has a passion for nature and Selection and wildlife photography, math, camping, hiking, and playing her Layout Meeting violin.

Senior Editors

Top Row: Jordan Smith, Kathryn Chuchmuch, Samm Fanning, Prof. Catherine Olson

Bottom Row: Dr. Kyle Solak, Lucy Alvear, Dr. Mari-Carmen Marín, Wendy Palmgren

96 97 INKLING 7. Writers and artists selected for publication will be notified by SUBMISSION GUIDELINES mail. Expect notification by February or March of the semester for which they are selected. Go to www.lonestar.edu/Inkling, or scan the QR code on the following page. Click “Submission Procedure” and follow the NOTE: Submissions selected for publication are automatically directions. entered into the Lone Star College-Tomball Inkling Magazine Creative Arts Contest. Winners will receive cash awards (first place 1. Submissions received by December 15th will be considered for $300, second place $200, third place $100). the issue to be released in the spring semester immediately follow- ing the submission. Submissions received after December 15th will SELECTION PROCESS be considered for the spring of the next academic year. 2. Only original, unpublished works are accepted. Simultaneous All entries are submitted to Inkling Magazine advisers. Advisers submissions are acceptable. Please notify us immediately at In- replace the authors’ and artists’ names with numbers to preserve [email protected] if your piece is accepted by another publisher. their anonymity. A voting packet of all submissions is then com- 3. Only LSC-Tomball students (enrolled in credit courses at the piled and distributed to Inkling Magazine editors, staff members, time of submission) are eligible to submit. and participating faculty, who vote for inclusion in the magazine 4. All work must be submitted electronically, through the Inkling and placement for awards. A staff meeting is then held to finalize submission form. Upload your votes. Only after final selections have been made do the advisors file(s) to this form before you reveal the identity of those individuals whose works have been press SUBMIT. chosen. 5. Reproductions of artwork must be submitted as jpg files, with a resolution of 300 dpi or greater. Students may take a digital photo of their drawing(s), painting(s), or photograph(s) and upload the resulting jpg file(s) to the sub- mission form. 6. Maximum entries per person: six (6) writing submissions and six (6) Scan me to visit the Inkling website and find out more! art submissions.

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