INKLING 25th Anniversary Ed. Spring 2015 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 Editor: Jeffrey Rodriguez

Editors: Susan Strickland Canter Lauren Clark

Samantha Fanning W. Shun Foote

Lucy Goodson Khodi Jacks

Deborah L. Tritico

Staff: Susan Strickland Canter Lauren Clark

Samantha Fanning W. Shun Foote

Lucy Goodson Miguel Guzman

Khodi Jacks David Romo

Deborah L. Tritico

Faculty Advisors: Mari-Carmen Marín

Catherine Olson

Kyle Solak

Melissa Studdard

Special Advisor: Udo Hintze

Cover Art: Red Hands Louise Mallon After high school, I continued my education at LSC Tomball. For my first couple of semesters I took art classes like design and drawing, where the main focus was on black and white. This piece, “Red Hands,” was one of my first serious uses of color. I used black and red Prismacolor pencils on sketch paper. I studied multiple images of hands and used reference pictures while creating “Red Hands.” My goal was to give the effect of a liquid dripping off of two hands without defining the hands themselves.​ Inkling Table of Contents

Mint Green by Valentina Osuna...... 1 First Place Poetry Winner

Deadly Assumptions by Jackie R. Beisert...... 2 Be Someone’s Difference Today by Deborah L. Tritico...... 5 Control by Gavin Jaks...... 7 The Light of Death by Lucy Goodson...... 8 At that Moment by Shanna Dudley...... 9 Master Class in Nature Photography (A Prose Poem) by Matthew Schumacher...... 10 Chocolate and Cigarettes by Gwynn Worbington...... 11 Second Place Poetry Winner

Moldy Cake by Emily Haaland...... 13 A Life in a Music Playlist by Jessica Smith...... 18 Grandma’s House by Deborah L. Tritico...... 21 The Edge by Keith Thies...... 24 Sweet Beatrice by Madeline Maske...... 25 My Search for Nietzsche in a Psychiatric Hospital by Traynor Swanson...... 26 First Place Prose Winner

Coffin Ripples by Lucy Goodson...... 31 Dragonfly by Darrell Svatek...... 32 First Place Art Winner

Whee!!! by Ashley Durden...... 33 Monochromatic Streets by Miguel Guzman...... 34 Storm A Comin’ by Deborah L. Tritico...... 35 Ruby Glimpse by Charlene Woelfel...... 36 After the Rain by Charlene Woelfel...... 37 Third Place Art Winner

Mother Earth by Susan Strickland Canter...... 38 The Feast by Deborah Tritico...... 39 Second Place Art Winner Bipolar by Cesar Gomez...... 40 Aspen Trees by Adrianne Gerlach...... 41 Baby Ballerina by Susan Strickland Canter...... 42 Sea of Printed Works by Judith Rojas...... 43 Innocence by Judith Rojas...... 44 Hummingbirds by Darrell Svatek...... 45 Coming Out of Your Shell by Cynthia Enciso...... 46 Lighting the Streets by Miguel Guzman...... 47 A Conversation between Aliki Barnstone and Inkling transcribed by Khodi Jacks...... 48

Ulla (After H.G. Wells) by James Hope...... 53 Third Place Poetry Winner

Longing for Samantha by W. Shun Foote...... 57 The 13th Street Fear Factory by James Hope...... 59 Second Place Prose Winner

Amazon Woman by Susan Strickland Canter...... 65 A Fork in the Road by W. Shun Foote...... 67 The Champions of the Alliance of the Forests by Ryan Farmer...... 69 All that Glitters by Madison Estes...... 72 Third Place Prose Winner

Words by Jackie R. Beisert...... 75

Stardust by Madeline Maske...... 76 First Place Poetry Winner

Mint Green Valentina Osuna

It’s the color your hair turns when your mom makes you wash blue dye out of your hair because good

Christian girls shouldn’t draw that kind of attention.

It’s the color of the bottom of the chocolates you get at Olive Garden after an awkward family dinner because your parents can’t control their temper.

It’s the color of the ice cream you bought at Coney Island on the vacation your aunt took you on to avoid dealing with your cousin’s suicide attempt.

It’s the color your bruise turns after getting a stick-and-poke tattoo because you were going to be friends forever.

It’s the color of memories you wish you didn’t have.

It’s the color that just isn’t your taste anymore.

1 Deadly Assumptions Jackie R. Beisert

The strains of “Ave Maria” filtered through the huge cathedral. Samantha looked at David and felt as if her heart would explode right there as it beat wildly in her chest. She had never felt so intensely a love for anyone as she felt for David. The song ended, and as they began their vow exchanges, Samantha realized she was crying. She had waited so long for this day, almost as if she had been waiting her entire life for this one moment. They had met in college. Sam had been rushing across campus, to her next class and literally ran right into David. “Whoa, ever thought of trying out for linebacker?” Sam felt her face flush yet managed to stammer out a quick apology. David laughed, introduced himself and asked her out. They began dating and quickly became inseparable. They weathered some tough storms together. Sam’s mom had died from lupus during their junior year, which made her cling even tighter to David and vow she would never lose anyone she loved again. During their last year at college, David told her he was feeling “suffocated” and “needed space.” Samantha was devastated, and as David said goodbye and turned to leave her apartment, she barely missed his head with a crystal vase that she hurled at him with collegiate ball speed. She screamed, “You will be back!” David quickly got back into the dating game and began seeing a girl named Emma. One night, three months later, David called Sam, crying so hard she could barely understand him. Emma had left him a “Dear John” letter and transferred upstate. He told Sam he now understood her hurt when he left, and following a talk that lasted into the early hours of dawn and ended with a passionate reunion, he promised to never hurt or leave her again. Sam smiled, and as she held him close, she swore she would never lose him again to anything, but death. As the rings were exchanged and the priest pronounced them “husband and wife,” Samantha felt as if she had just won the lottery. They honeymooned on a secluded Tahitian island; stopping only long enough to eat and sleep. They made love continuously in their bungalow and on the black sands of the beach, with only the stars as their blanket. They returned two weeks later and started their life together. They had decided to rent a small apartment for a few years until they were both established enough in their careers to build their dream home in the country and fill it with the laughter of children. As a petroleum geologist, David, secured an entry-level position with a major petroleum company, and as a herpetology major, Sam, had always been fascinated by snakes and alternative medicine. She was quickly offered a research job with a phar- maceutical company, experimenting with the various positive properties of snake venom. Life was good for a while, but they quickly got caught up in their careers, and soon “keeping up with the Joneses’” took second place to their marriage.

2 For the last six months, Samantha and David had been like “ships passing in the night.” They had been married for three years now, and for the last six months or so, they had barely seen each other due to their conflicting hours, and when they were together, David always seemed preoccupied, and they ended up fighting instead of cherishing the rare moments they had together. The walls of their tiny, cramped apartment, which Sam had once loved so much, seemed to be closing in on her. On Monday, as she was preparing to do some laundry, a note fell out of David’s shirt pocket and confirmed Samantha’s worst fears. It read, “I’ll be there this weekend. I will call later to confirm we’re still on. I can’t wait until this is done and everything is out in the open. This secrecy is killing me.” It was signed simply, “Terry.” David was having an affair! She had lost him and could feel the uncontrolled rage cours- ing through her body like white heat. She couldn’t believe this had happened again! The old for- gotten memories of Emma came flooding back like rain on a windowpane. She had taken care of that problem, yes, indeed! Emma had transferred upstate about fifty miles and about one hundred feet straight down to the bottom of a lake. The vow she had made to herself quickly resurfaced, and she knew David would have to give up his earthly, physical presence and become just a won- derful memory; thus Sam began to plot her course of action. The research lab where Sam worked always kept supplies of snake venom on hand, and as she was locking up early Tuesday morning, she helped herself to a vial of black mamba venom. The deadly African snake produced a powerful neurotoxin and would arrest the heart almost immediately. David had been a diabetic since childhood and required his first injection of insulin at 10 a.m. He had always been sensitive about his illness and therefore always packed it into his lunch cooler. He always disposed of the used syringes properly, yet discreetly, so no one at his place of employment knew of his condition- a wonderful trump card that worked to Sam’s advantage! As she pulled into the drive, she could see the house was still dark, yet she knew David would be getting up soon. Samantha entered the house with the stealth of a thief in the night, qui- etly and quickly making her way to the refrigerator. Sam removed the vial of insulin and injected the contents of the venom-filled syringe into the insulin vial and disposed of the evidence. Sam was drinking a cup of coffee when David came into the kitchen. As she watched him prepare his injection, she longed to grab it from his hands and scream, “NO,” but she rationalized her thinking by telling herself that she was justified because she loved him so much and could not lose him again to another woman. Thus, she became David’s judge, jury, and executioner. David seemed unusually upbeat as he kissed her goodbye and told her that he needed to talk to her about something later.

3 As she watched him pull out of the driveway, she glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 8:13 a.m. As Sam sat, waiting for the phone call she knew would come, she thought about all the happy times they had shared- drinking wine, talking until sunrise, dancing on the rooftop on New Year’s Eve, and most of all the laughter. These memories seemed like eons ago. At 11:17 a.m., the phone rang, which caused Samantha to jump. The person on the other end was Mrs. Larson, David’s secretary. She was cry- ing so uncontrollably; yet, Sam was able to make out “heart attack” and “I am so sorry.” The funeral three days later saw Sam playing the part of the grief-stricken widow with a perfor- mance worthy of an Academy Award, yet if someone had really taken the time to look, they would have noticed that beneath her black veil her face was untouched by a single tear. She searched the throngs of mourners for anyone who might stand out as the other woman. After the service, a tall, balding man came up to her and hugged her. She did not recognize him, yet he told her he had been an acquaintance of Davids and he was in the construction business. He told her that although he had never met her, he felt he knew her, as David never stopped talking about her; she was, in his words, “David’s whole world.” The man explained that for the last six months, he had been employed by David, and they had been working on building the dream home she had always envisioned, and this weekend was to have been the unveiling. Samantha felt the wind knocked out of her. “I’m sorry,” she told the man, “but I didn’t get your name?” The man replied, “Terry, my name is Terry Owens.” Samantha felt her knees give out and buckle beneath her, and an overwhelming wave of nausea overtook her. Her vision dimmed, and just before she lost consciousness and collapsed, her mind screamed, “Oh. my God, what have I done?” Five days later, as the silver casket was lowered into the ground and placed beside a recently covered grave, one of the mourners was overheard to say, “Poor thing, she just died of a broken heart.” “Well, together forever, ‘til death do us part.’ I always say,” said another.

4 Be Someone’s Difference Today Deborah L. Tritico

It starts in many ways, Seldom out loud, Can begin with a tease And is never profound,

Could start kind of small, A look, gesture, tone or stare. We usually see it. Get involved? We don’t dare.

Most of us have done it In our own way, To make someone feel insignificant In that certain way,

The subjects of the offense Are sometimes unknown. Maybe friends, brothers, or sisters Yet, they feel all alone.

Words can’t be taken back, Hurt already done. We look away in shame; “I’m sorry” just never comes.

It’s already started. It’s gone too far. Anger creates hatred, An emotional scar.

5 Bloodshed, they feel, Will take their pain away, But innocent lives lost Won’t see another day.

Too much has happened Way too fast. Did no one see What was coming to pass?

Do mothers have to mourn Another broken heart For society to see We’re being broken apart?

Babies are buried. A new normal sets in Never to be forgotten. This cannot happen again.

Stop this senseless killing. Happiness from within, Our uniqueness a blessing, Our image in Him.

Don’t let someone hurt you Because you don’t fit in. You can help others With your smile and your grin.

Many keep asking, “What can I do?” I simply, simply say, Love one another and Be someone’s difference today.

6 Control Gavin Jaks

We stare at the stars as they reach out. Planets, galaxies, systems, universes With us at the epicenter of it all. Who are we but such small creatures? Are we as much of a nuisance to our world As mosquitoes that swarm on hot summer days? We swarm and become a collective whole, Bringing destruction in our wake Like the locust to our farms. We bring a beauty to this world no other can provide Artificial colonies we run with fear and pride. If we’re really as insignificant as a colony of ants, Why do we work harder than the bees? Building, constructing, and gaining control, We claim these lands for us and us alone. We might be small, insignificant with no importance, But like the atom that causes a fusion bomb, We will explode with might and grow like ‘shrooms. For we bring control, order, and organization to our world. We bring efficiency in tasks that we create for ourselves. We will not fall like the trees that we hide in when we sleep Or be used like the rivers we repurposed for our needs. We seek control and we will attain it. Once the world goes, We’ll go out there and take it.

7 The Light of Death Lucy Goodson

Kept to a lonely self, never dealing with health. Stumbling and falling to the sway of my own hate. Drugs ravage my heart and mind numbed by self loathing Tripping on House, heart racing, death knocks on my door.

Thoughts of the people I have wronged lurk in a blur. What will the world think of me when six feet underground?

Just a dumb kid, couldn’t handle distress in a mist. Tables turn on me; music to the beat reaper reap.

Poor woman who bore me; she will grovel on knees. Shaming my name, here I go once again in pain. Wind all in a stir, no longer on the floor. Not on this plane; I need not go home again.

White light embraces my soul with sweet smell of babe. Feelings wrapped with water, I feel warm and whole again.

8 At That Moment Shanna Dudley

I see your eyes in the mirror. I hear your squeals of joy. At that moment, I wish you were more like me.

Maybe then you would still be here Celebrating another birthday, Living out the dreams You set for yourself.

But then, I’m reminded That while we were sisters, Twins with similarities, God’s plan for our lives Was never the same.

That’s when I remember How many people you touched, How much love you were given, Even though you were not able To do as much as me, To live as long as me.

At that moment, I’m thankful To see your eyes in the mirror.

9 Master Class in Nature Photography (A Prose Poem) Matthew Schumacher

I ghost across the forest floor. Early morning sun sifts through dense canopy, casting a kaleido- scope of curious shadows. Verdant foliage floats in bright chains that weave in and out of the dappled darkness. Countless cries pierce the undergrowth, proof of the exotic avian menag- erie cloistered in the murky morass of this rainforest. My quarry is the elusive green-breasted Pompaso. Only one is known to exist, in just one place, this place. I am the sole man to ever be considered to track this remarkable rarity. I am a master nature photographer, peerless. I was born for this moment. My students and a government goon follow at a respectful distance, prepared to document the momentous meeting. In awe, they mark my every move. There is no room for error. Sensing movement, I freeze. Kneeling down, I whip out my camera in one swift motion. A viridian head pokes from the shrubbery. He gazes at me with voluminous Cimmerian eyes that brim with intelligence, as if he realizes how rare he is. Feathery chartreuse muttonchops adorn his spherical face. His beak is the bulbous blushing schnoz of a tipsy gentleman. He lurches toward me, ponderous, inquisitive. He is a small-feathered Charlie Chaplin, absurd yet dignified. He is a tiny time-traveling plumed nobleman, an escapee from the Victorian era. In wonder, I lie prone, readying the camera. Through my viewfinder, I focus on his huge velvety eyes. They are alien yet sentient. I feel an instant bond with this magnificent beast.As plumage fills my lens, I lower the camera. Sharp talons puncture my sleeve as the Pompaso marches up my arm. “Don’t move or engage with the animal,” the goon hisses. The Pompaso lumbers over my shoulder and grasps my hair with his beak, dragging himself up to perch on my neck. I flinch as he digs his claws into my nape. I blink and squint as his wings buffet my head in a frenzied tempo. “Mating behavior,” blurts one blasted student. “Hold still,” barks G-man. The Pompaso’s downy chest slaps against my neck, rhythmic and obscene. As the muffled laughter of my students fills my ears, I remain still, despising the dirty, detestable bird with my every fiber.

10 Second Place Poetry Winner

Chocolate & Cigarettes Gwynn Worbington

Some days

You tasted like Chocolate—

I sunk into your sweet laughter,

Coated in sunlight and serendipity,

Cart-wheeling infinities around the corners of your smile.

Enveloped and protected in your glittering heart,

I clung to it, because I told myself it meant everything.

We painted constellations across our desert skies,

Weaving a dustland fairytale out of loose strings

You picked from our skin,

Wondering if heaven was not truly a place,

But rather a moment,

A quick, sputtering breath of time

Where you and I find ourselves together,

Arm in arm at the crossroads of a life

Whose whole was far more magnificent than its parts.

And you made me feel

Alive.

11 Some days

You tasted like Cigarettes—

You swelled in my lungs,

Crippling and toxic, suffocating me with the smoke of your words.

Salty tears became relief from your blinding selfishness,

Choking on “After all I’ve done for you.”

Your radiating self-righteousness broke my bones

And your forked-tongue poetry tied my hands.

But I wrapped my eyes in naiveté

And stumbled helplessly back into your arms.

You became a bitter place of refuge,

My atomic drug for happiness.

I let myself believe that my place

Was at your side

On the warfront,

Ready to take a bullet for you.

12 Moldy Cake Emily Haaland

“Yes!” My favorite spy movie was on TV. Finally, a break in my exhausting day. I plopped down on my couch with cake in hand. The cake tasted kind of funny and I started to think about how old it was, and then decided that I didn’t actually care. It had been a long day, and I wanted chocolate. To be specific, I wanted chocolate in the form of cake. After a while, though, I started to not feel so good, and by the next morning, I decided that maybe I shouldn’t have eaten the cake because I couldn’t remember how I had gotten to my school and I wasn’t completely sure why I was there. But there I was, strolling out of the building towards my car. Sera had just sent me a text that she and Kenzie were waiting for me there. Again, I wasn’t com- pletely sure why. Thunder crashed, and I looked up as the first drop of rain hit my face. It was really cold. The temperature seemed to have dropped about twenty degrees in the past ten minutes. I hur- ried over the bridge that connected the school to the parking garage, chain-link fences on either side, pulling my hood over my head. I wasn’t looking where I was going, because who does when they’re wet and cold and rushing to get out of the cold and wet? I realized too late that there was an old man right in front of me. I barreled into him, and we both sprawled onto the pavement. Naturally, he started screaming an extensive list of profanities and something about murder and kidnapping. “Oh, my God. Please, excuse me, sir. I am so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was go- ing- here let me help you up.” I heaved him to his feet and to my dismay realized that he was blind. It became official. I was that guy. I was a complete and utter douchebag. “Boy! What the hell do you think you are doing? Watch where you’re fucking going! Do you run over blind men often? Think it’s funny, do you? ‘Cause I can’t see you coming? Mother of fuck…. Just hell.” He was walking around in circles at this point, and I was following behind with my hands outstretched in case the old blind man suddenly lost his balance and fell or some- thing. I wasn’t sure what to do. Do I go find help? Ask him where he lives? Ha! I couldn’t see that going well. “Boy! Make yourself useful. Find my glasses. Or buy me some new ones. I don’t care.” “Right! Yes, sir! I am so sorry. I will be right back with your glasses.” I walked over to where we had collided, searching the ground for his sunglasses. They were lying in a puddle over by the fence. Picking them up, I turned to give them back to the old man, but he was gone. I spun 13 around when I heard a noise behind me and saw too late a cane coming towards my head. And then everything went black. I opened my eyes to darkness. I was sitting in a puddle, my arms chained to the fence above my head. What the hell just happened? There was a blind old man, who knocked me out and handcuffed me to the fence. Why? The old man was nowhere to be seen. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Well, shit! I struggled against the handcuffs until my wrists were chafed and bruised. “Alex! Alex, what the hell happened to you?” This came from Sera, who was running towards me with Kenzie at her heels. I started babbling out what happened as they tried uncuffing me from the fence. After tugging a few more times, Sera pulled a pin from her hair and managed to free me. My mouth dropped open with astonishment at the ease with which she picked the lock. “Sera, where did you learn to do that? How the hell do you know how to pick locks with a hair pin?” Kenzie helped me to my feet. “Come on, we need to get out of here. I don’t know what they were trying to do, but they’re not finished. I’m sure they’re coming back.” “Kenzie, what the hell are you talking about? Who are ‘they’? How do you know what’s going on?” Sera grabbed my hand and we started running. “We’ll explain later. Right now we really need to get out of here!” We ran across the bridge and reached my car. Locking the doors after we were all in the car, I put my keys down. “I am not driving anywhere until one of you explains what the hell just happened. Why was I attacked by a blind man and chained to a fence? And how the hell do you two know any- thing about this? Who were you talking about earlier and why are they coming back? What do they want?” “Alex, we don’t have time for this!” Kenzie groaned. “Well, then make time, because I’m not going anywhere until someone tells me some- thing.” Sera sighed, and then spoke. “All right, fair enough.” “Thank you!” I quipped, before darkness enveloped me again. My head was pounding when I woke up and found that we were…. in a different parking spot. In a parking garage? “Alex? How are you doing? I’m sorry we had to knock you out. We needed to get out of there.” “But we- did we even leave?” I was too confused to even be mad that my two best friends had just knocked me out and stolen my car. Two professional, female carjackers. Who would 14 have thought? The funny thing, though, was that the parking garage that we were in now looked exactly the same…. “Alex. Of course we moved! We’re parked by the library now.” Sera was looking at me like I was a complete idiot. Oh, yeah. Blame me for being confused after getting beat up by an old man, knocked unconscious not once but twice, chained to a fence, and then carjacked by my two best friends. I couldn’t even remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I did remember one thing, though. “Sera, we don’t have a parking garage by our library!” Kenzie cut in then, “I know our school doesn’t have a parking garage by the library, Alex,” Again with condescension. I was starting to get pissed off. “We’re at a library in Orlando, Florida.” Kenzie was kind enough to inform me. Oh, right. Florida. Of course we ended up halfway across the country in my car to a parking garage that looked exactly the same as the one we just left, in less than… I glanced at my watch, less than two hours. I wasn’t even surprised anymore. “I think that it’s time you tell me what’s going on now.” “Okay. So… here’s the thing. Kenzie and I, we are... well we were test subjects. We met at a university after-school program called Offense when we were sixteen. Both of our parents signed us up for self-defense classes, except the self-defense we learned wasn’t exactly typical. To the public, we were supposed to be learning strategies to offensively defend ourselves against mugging and rape and whatnot, but instead, we learned how to pick locks, how to hack databases, how to read people and anticipate their actions, all on top of advanced martial arts training. We didn’t know why at first,” she said raising a hand to stop my question, “but they made us feel special. They told us that everything we learned would help us make a difference in the world. That because of our intelligence and skill we would be prepared for anything and everything.” I was pretty furious at this point, mostly because I wasn’t asked to join some super cool, secret after school program. I had intelligence and skill. Obviously. I mean, not just anyone can get beat up by and old, blind man. But wait! Maybe I was an extremely valuable brain-washed govern- ment spy or something! Why else would they want to kidnap me? I decided it was best to keep my suspicions to myself for now and instead practice my interrogation skills. “How long were you there? Why didn’t you tell me? I am your best friend!” “Just listen, Alex. You asked for answers and we’re trying to give them to you. So any- way,” Sera continued, “after about a year of going for a few hours every day, they started taking us on field trips to practice our skills. At first, we just walked through malls, reading people and creating profiles for them. Two years later and we were searching for terrorist groups in the U.S. 15 and leaking hints to the authorities. Honestly, it felt like we were saving the world. But then, when Kenzie was setting up a lead for the FBI to follow, she decided to go deeper into Offense’s databases to find records of the terrorist cells that we had helped bring to justice. But instead she found records of all of the cells that we had found, and protected. We discovered that Offense brought terrorists to our country in small groups and used us to send false leads in order to hide their presence. We had unknowingly been covering for a growing population of terrorists that no one, because of what we had done, could find. So we left. We had just finished our first year of college and told them that we were going to transfer. I thought it was odd that they didn’t really try to stop us. We were terrified. We still are terrified. I just don’t know how to go about stopping them. It’s been six months since we left, their visit is long overdue.” Sera closed her eyes and I could see the fear written all over her face. I was still confused, but had just one more question. “So what exactly does this have to do with me? Why was I beaten up by a blind man and handcuffed to a fence?” Kenzie reached from the back seat to grab my hand. “I am so sorry, Alex. My best guess is that they’ve been watching us. And decided to go after you, maybe to keep us from running. Your life is in danger because of us, and we will do everything we can to keep you safe. I am so sorry.” “Do you know who that blind man was?” I asked, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. I guess I wasn’t some secret weapon or genetically engineered superhero. “No, I’ve never seen him before, but his ambush was smooth and he just left you there. Probably for us to come find you or to pick you off later. He was part of Offense. I’m sure of it.” Sera looked at me with guilt in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Alex. We shouldn’t have gotten close to you, but there’s nothing we can do now but run. Kenzie and I have a plan. We-” I jumped so high my head hit the roof of my car as the alarms of all of the cars in the garage went off at once. Holy shit! What was happening? The lights in the garage began flashing, the strobing making it impossible to see anything but flashes of shadows. I was screaming my head off in panic as Sera inserted my keys into the ignition, started the car. “Drive!” Yanking the car into reverse, with me still screaming from the passenger seat, Sera peeled out of the parking spot, recklessly turning around each corner of the garage. All of a sudden, a black SUV, the bad guy car of choice everywhere, pulled right in front of us as the sirens and lights simultaneous stopped. We were left in pitch blackness with the exception of our vehicle headlights. Then Kenzie was in my ear, yelling at Sera to throw my car in reverse as two guys jumped out of the SUV. She slammed on the gas, traveling backwards towards the bridge 16 leading to the school. As Sera turned a corner, another black SUV appeared, giving chase. We reached the bridge, and she slammed on the brakes, parking sideways and effectively blocking the entrance of the skywalk that led to the fourth floor of a very massive library. Opening the doors of the cars, Sera climbed over my seat; we ran like hell towards the school. Glancing behind me I saw the first SUV arrive behind the second, and men climbing over my car and running after us. Sera grabbed my hand. “Just keep running! We’ll lose them inside!” We burst through the doors and were in the library. Kenzie started pushing shelves over as she ran, creating a domino effect that knocked over the others that remained standing. We sprinted towards two more sets of doors leading to a stairwell on the other side of the library. I tried not to fall on my face as we rushed down two flights to the second floor. At the second floor, we pelted through an office area to another stair- well. Holy shit, this place had a lot of stairs! Checking behind us as we ran, I didn’t see anyone following, and I crossed my fingers, hoping that we had successfully stopped them with the shelves in the library. Just as we reached the door to the stairs, it slammed against the wall, and about a dozen men dressed all in black poured into the office. They surrounded the three of us, guns trained and ready. We dropped to our knees. I guess this was it. The end. Panic welled inside me and I felt tears dripping down my face. I heard a click and – “Alex. Alex! Wake up!” I opened my eyes. Sera was standing over me trying to pull me up from my slumped position on the couch. I closed my eyes again. That was a really intense dream. Wow. “Alex, come on. Kenzie’s waiting for us. We’re going to be late. We need to go.” I held up my hand. “I’m not going anywhere until I write this down. You would not believe the dream I just had. Oh, and I have a question. If you were trained as a terrorist cell locator, you would tell me, right?” “Alex. Did you eat the moldy cake in the kitchen?”

17 A Life in a Music Playlist Jessica Smith

My Oh My

Life is like a playlist of songs on repeat.

The Child Is Gone,

No more verbal assaults or invisible cages and iron rules to heed.

Autumn Song,

The damage is already done

Are You Ready?

This life has barely begun.

Accidents Can Happen,

Some consequences are forever.

Dear Diary,

We have some ties that need to be severed.

Broken Girl,

She knows she wasn’t wanted.

Come On Closer

To see the secrets by which she is haunted.

Demons

Controlling every thought.

Don’t Stop Believin’

Because this life might not be shot.

Fake It

If it will get you through the day.

Fog, 18 This life in shadows of black and grey.

Here Comes The Rain Again

Falling in torrents and flash floods of pain

I’m Still Here,

Invisible and silently waiting to cleanse the stain.

Lullaby,

Never knowing what it is to be loved.

Mad World,

Always remembering the look when she was shoved.

My Own Prison,

Stuck with a lifetime of shame.

My Sacrifice,

Self playing a dangerous game.

Not An Addict,

Surely it can be stopped at any time.

Numb,

Surely it would be known if it was a crime.

Open Your Eyes

So you can finally see and

Protect Me From What I Want,

No longer ignoring the pen in hand.

Running Up That Hill,

Oblivious to what is at stake

Running Blind

Fragile and about to break.

19 Save Me,

Catch me as I fall.

She’s Falling Apart,

No longer can she even crawl.

Sin,

Falling victim to the lies.

Song To Say Goodbye

So sad no one will even realize

They

Could’ve saved her

Till I Collapse

Maybe then they will be sure.

Undisclosed Desires,

Unspoken feeling unworthy.

Voices,

They are heard filled with worry

What I’ve Done

Taking this life apart bit by bit.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Dug deep into the depths of a dark pit.

Where Is My Mind?

In a place of its very own.

Wish I

Could take it all back and groan.

20 Grandma’s House Deborah L. Tritico

Memories flow

From way back when

Let’s go back

And visit again

The house was painted

A pale gray-green

As a child I called it

Grandma Green

The blacktop driveway

In summer so hot

Grandkids jumped

From spot to spot

Alley in back

Fence all about

Grandpa’s dog Fifi

Must never get out

Pinned clothes swayed

In breeze so warm

This old house

Holds lots of charm 21 To the attic

Grandkids would fly

Fearful of darkness

But didn’t know why

The attic stair creaked

With each step

The fear of what

Would pop out next

High in attic

Breakfast memories made

To find the grandkids

The fragrance did wake

My favorite breakfast

Cinnamon toast

When Grandma made it

I loved it the most

Basement dark

Kids filled with fright

Pull the cord

Now there’s light

22 Hours we played

We liked to hide

Basement memories

Big and wide

Holidays brought

The family here

Aunts and uncles

Pizza and beer

Relatives and friends

Filled the room

Card games many

Midnight too soon

Now that I’m older

I miss things so

Grandma’s House

Where love would flow

23 The Edge Keith Thies

I saw the edge of the world today And I was not afraid at all. I saw the dolphin play on the edge And he was not afraid to fall.

The sun fell down to its watery grave And fizzled to its death. The ocean whispered in my ear With salty windswept breath.

The sand beneath my feet Was still warm from the sunny day. And the waves crashed to the shore In a thundering kind of way.

I heard the children playing And the hungry seagulls call. As I stood on the edge of the world I was not afraid at all.

24 Sweet Beatrice Madeline Maske

A star danced and you were born into this world like lightning already destined to become a forest fire.

O Lady Disdain, you were made for greater things than merry wars and mischief. Men have tried to douse you, but you remain.

Like embers after the fire has gone out, you still burn bright while buried in the ashes of yourself.

Fierce protector, your hands are worth more than just swearing by.

Sweet Beatrice, you are stronger than you think.

For man may be a giddy thing, but you are a woman and we were never given that luxury.

25 First Place Prose Winner

My Search for Nietzsche in a Psychiatric Hospital Traynor Swanson Day 1 Ever since I was a teenager with an interest in Sublime’s Robbin’ the Hood album and Daniel Johnston, it’s been a dream of mine to be admitted to a psychiatric ward. One fateful weekend on a trip to San Antonio with my sister and her astute boyfriend, during which I spent a prolonged amount of time in the motel bathroom and subsequently nodded off at a Spurs game, my dream finally came true. Because what’s a more appropriate place to rehabilitate a young, peaceful heroin addict than a psych ward filled with schizophrenics and short-tempered depressives? Perhaps the Church of Scientology has the answers, but their cure is far too expensive for a guy like me, and Top Gun was shitty, so I’ll have to pass on their cultish methadone. Anyway, in the Age of Psychology, any person can be diagnosed with a mental illness. If he were alive today saying things like, “You will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened, but no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself,” I’m sure Friedrich Nietzsche would find himself in a mental hospital next to some leather-clad heroin fiend. With a stroke of luck, I just might be able to find this modern-day Nietzsche or, at the very least, gain a refined and nuanced view of today’s so-called “mentally disturbed” people.

Day 2 I slept all day yesterday, with a healthy dose of the totally, unequivocally, non- addictive-just-shut-up-and-take-your-medicine-you-junky Suboxone. I was exhausted from the three-hour admission process, but my appointment with the doctor was unique. Nurse Ratched wheeled in the Mojo COW, or computer on wheels, with a Skype call set up with a man named Dr. Kriep. Why actually meet your patients when you can just use Skype from your bed at four in the morning? “Son, what brings you to the hospital?” “Can’t you tell from the leather jacket? I do heroin, Doc.” “I see. How long have you been using heroin?” “That’s my prerogative, Dr. Creepy.” Like I said: exhausting three-hour admission process. My roommate yesterday was a man in his 50s named Bryan. He and I were the only ones in the “overflow” unit. Bryan entered the psych ward when he got kicked out of his apartment for failing to pay rent while he was in jail for a DWI. The apartment

26 complex lost his prescription for the totally non-addictive Suboxone when they moved all his belongings to a storage facility. When he couldn’t find his Suboxone, he checked into the hospital to have his drug needs filled because he totally didn’t replace his skag addiction with a Suboxone addiction. My attempt to discuss philosophy and politics with him was quickly shifted back to wild drug stories he insisted on telling. No Nietzsche here. But he did offer me some invaluable advice, which I present as Today’s Moment of Zen: “When you get outta here, you oughta go to N.A. (Narcotics Anonymous) meetings. A lotta good looking girls go there, and they gotta replace their addiction with something.” Duly noted.

Day 3 - Part 1 Nurse Ratched moved me to Unit 4 today, where I tally ten people with mental conditions I can’t distinguish and three people who fell victim to the prescription drug epidemic (four including me). Bryan told me that Units 3 and 4 usually house drug addicts and people with “lighter” mental issues, like suicidal thoughts and mild biploar disorder, while Units 1 and 2 house people with severe schizophrenia and psychosis. At our courtyard break, where they let people from all units mingle, I was chain-smoking cigarettes when a chubby man with a lazy eye, as if at any given moment his peripherals covered 99% of the scene, approached me and complimented my hair. He said he wanted to grow his hair like mine, but we both agreed that male-pattern baldness has a different plan for his head. “My name’s Benson,” he said. “Well, my real name is Miguel, but today my name is Benson. I’m looking for a Ben, so that I can be his son.” Aha! Most people would dismiss him as crazy, but this was the kind of existentialism I was looking for. What he meant, I think, was, “Who am I?” “Well, I’ll let ya know if I find one,” I told him. “Thank you. I know there’s 9,432 Bens within a 20-mile radius. My Ben is out there.” Probably just more existential nihilism that my drug-addled mind can’t understand. “So what do you do, Benson?” “Right now I’m an actor. I like to make my own movies with my thoughts. But I used to work undercover at Burger King.” “Undercover? I didn’t know Burger King did covert operations.” “Well, I worked undercover at Burger King for the FBI. It was cool because I got

27 to wear gloves. I played music there on my iPad.” “You played music at Burger King for the FBI? How much did they pay you?” “I was making somewhere around $10,000 an hour, which isn’t bad. After all, I am 47 sometimes.” I was confused. “Sometimes?” I asked “Yeah, sometimes. Other times, I’m not sure.” As it turns out, Benson is a frequent resident of Unit 1. A nice guy, but I don’t think even he knows what the hell he’s talking about. At least that lonely bastard Nietzsche was in touch with himself.

Day 3 - Part 2 During our daily afternoon therapy session in the side conference room, we heard a loud disturbance in the main living area. “What the fuck do you mean I have to stay?!” a voice yelled, followed by a loud crash. “What’s going on out there?” I asked the man next to me. “Mike’s throwing chairs again. He gets angry pretty easily,” he said. After three more chairs were given the Bob Knight treatment, the nurses decided to give him a shot of some kind of powerful tranquilizer called Thorazine, and he was carried out on a stretcher. I spoke to Mike earlier in the day. We exchanged our reasons for being in the hospital. I’m here for a junk habit, and he’s here for smoking eleven grams of incense every day for the last two years. He used to smoke weed but had to find a legal alternative in case he ever got drug tested for his job. A reasonable thing for him to do, perhaps, but a very unreasonable thing for society to impose. His habit got to the point where he was making it with his own ingredients, which included acetone. I guess instead of removing nail polish, he used acetone to remove his sanity, which is, of course, much healthier than smoking weed. Today’s Moment of Zen: Girl: “Mike, are you paranoid all the ti-” Mike: “WHAT?!”

Day 4 I couldn’t sleep last night. The orderlies check our rooms every fifteen minutes during the night to make sure we’re still alive, and fifteen minutes is not enough time for fappery when you’re on Suboxone. Which is a shame because I met a beautiful girl named Kathryn in the psych ward, and I need an outlet for gratification. She laughs at

28 my jokes and spends her time talking to me during the breaks, which is enough for me to consider her my Rehab Girlfriend. I would make a move, but this is a psych ward, where you can’t touch anyone for any reason because of “boundaries.” Plus, I really don’t want to subject her to any diseases I may have contracted during my years of intravenous drug use and unprotected sex with a girl who turned out to be a Furry. I cut off all contact when I learned that fact. Benson found me again during one of our courtyard breaks. Unfortunately, his quest for a father named Ben who’s willing to legally adopt a middle-aged man with questionable experience in the United States’ intelligence community still hasn’t garnered any success. In spite of this fact, Benson possesses other virtues. He and I talked about the hospital’s discharge process--a system he’s previously been through. “The doctor says I’ll be discharged tomorrow,” I said. “I guess it’ll take about three hours and have a lot of paperwork involved.” “You could always call Geico,” Benson said all-knowingly. “They’ll get you out in fifteen minutes or less.” “The car insurance company?” “Yeah. With the lizard. He brings his suitcase with him and everything. It may take him awhile to get here though. He lives in Australia.” “I dunno, man. I think I need someone from the medical insurance industry. It seems more appropriate.” “But I saw it on TV…” An attentive fellow, that Benson. But as charming as he is, he’s a bit too impressionable. Still, give that man a chord organ, a four-track tape recorder, and a Greyhound ticket to Austin, and he’ll have a cult following in no time. Today’s Moment of Zen: A PCP user talking to his recently admitted girlfriend before bedtime: “I just hate being here, you know, when me and you could be at Red Lobster.”

Day 5 Well, today’s my last day in the psycho ward. The group therapist gave me this journal on Monday to use as a tool to write down anything I’ve learned from my detox this week. Ha. Ha. They let me write but only with a two-inch long golf pencil, which lasts about three sentences. My request for a pen was denied, under the guise that it’s “too dangerous” in the event that I go on an ink-based stabbing rampage. Maybe the leather jacket was intimidating. Who knows? I will miss this place. Where, oh where, will I be able to replicate such meals

29 as microwaved, seasonless mashed potatoes? Where will I be able to use a toilet with a urine-covered rim, the result of my roommate’s either piss poor penile-aiming ability or inadequate member size? Where will I be able to ironically wear my green One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest shirt? These are the questions I’ll find myself asking in the near future, none of that existentialist nonsense I had in my head four days ago. Where’s my medicine? In sum, I’m now addicted to Suboxone. Today’s Moment of Zen: The patients’ living area telephone rings. I answer, expecting to take a message for someone.

“Hello?” “Hey, honey.” “Who is this?” “It’s your mother!” It’s not my mother. “No, I mean, who are you calling for?” “I’m calling for you, silly!” “Oh sorry. I’m kinda out of it today. How ya doing, Mom?” “I’m doing fine. How’s rehab? Do you think you’re finished drinking?” “Yeah, but, the detox from heroin is killing me.” “What?! Heroin?! I knew you were hiding something!” “Yeah, it got really bad. I had a bad shot before I got here, too. The doctor says I have an abscess on my right arm.” “Oh my god! You have to be kidding me.” “If the surgery to remove it doesn’t work, they’ll have to amputate.” “Oh my god… Daniel, please tell me you’re kidding.” “Oh, shit. Daniel? This is someone else.” “Jesus Christ! Give the phone to Daniel!” “Ok, hold on. Oh, by the way, your name doesn’t happen to be Ben, does it? I’m asking for a friend.” “Give the phone to Daniel.”

30 Coffin Ripples Lucy Goodson

The days of old come rushing back Like thunder on a rainy day Love once bright Laid to rest in a coffin tight Dirt is being ripped up Roots torn to shreds As you have awoken The death of love Why Did reasoning with the brain not force love away Rotting with maggots Yet it rose up from the dead Ashes to ashes dust to dust

Can never be said

Blood rushes back through the veins Pulsating and throbbing All once again Till death do us part Shall we speak of again Coffin burst open I love you once again Till the end never Ends

31 Dragonfly Darrell Svatek First Place Art Winner 32 Whee!!! Ashley Durden

33 Monochromatic Streets Miguel Guzman

34 Storm A Comin’ Deborah L. Tritico

35 Ruby Glimpse Charlene Woelfel

36 After the Rain Charlene Woelfel Third Place Art Winner 37 Mother Earth Susan Strickland Canter

38 The Feast Deborah L. Tritico Second Place Art Winner 39 Bipolar Cesar Gomez

40 Aspen Trees Adrianne Gerlach

41 Baby Ballerina Susan Strickland Canter

42 Sea of Printed Works Judith Rojas

43 Innocence Judith Rojas

44 Hummingbirds Darrell Svatek

45 Coming Out of Your Shell Cynthia Enciso

46 Lighting the Streets Miguel Guzman

47 A Conversation between Aliki Barnstone and Inkling

Transcribed by Khodi Jacks

Aliki Barnstone is a poet, translator, critic, professor, and editor. Her books of poems are Dear

God, Dear Dr. Heartbreak, Blue Earth, Wild with It (a National Book Critics Circle Notable

Book), Madly in Love, Windows in Providence, and The Real Tin Flower (which was introduced by Anne Sexton and was published by Macmillan in 1968, when she was twelve years old). Other books are The Collected Poems of C.P. Cavafy: A New Translation and Changing Rapture: Emily

Dickinson’s Poetic Development. She has been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize twice. The books she has edited include A Book of Women Poets from

Antiquity to Now, The Calvinist Roots of the Modern

Era, and The Shambhala Anthology of Women’s

Spiritual Poetry. She also introduced and wrote the readers’ notes for H.D.’s Trilogy. As well, she has recorded a collaborative CD with musician Frank

Haney. Barnstone spent the fall of 2006 in Greece as a Senior Fulbright Scholar. Her Fulbright project is a book of poems in the voice of an imaginary poet, Eva

Victoria Perera, a Sephardic Jew from Thessaloniki, who survives the Holocaust. Barnstone teaches in the Creative Writing Program at The University of

Missouri, Columbia.

The following interview was conducted by the members of the Inkling editorial staff and took place when Aliki Barnstone came to Lone Star College-Tomball to give a poetry reading in the spring of 2014.

48 INKLING: How did you come to have Anne Sexton write the introduction for your first book,

The Real Tin Flower, when you were only twelve years old?

BARNSTONE: The publisher asked somebody else first, but she was too old. They then gave it to Sexton, who assigned my book for a poetry workshop she ran. It’s hard to talk about it. I was a shy child—an introvert who trained to be an extrovert. Can you imagine a twelve-year-old girl who was on TV, in newspapers and teen magazines? I would go to junior high, and I would get teased by the other children, but when adults saw me they would say, “Look it’s a child genius.” I claim it. I’m fifty-seven years old, and I can now claim I published a book when I was twelve.

INKLING: Many of our readers and our club members are poets themselves. Is there any special advice you would give them, as an experienced writer speaking to beginning writers, something you wish you had known when you were beginning?

BARNSTONE: I think it’s very important to know the art. Experience poems. I tell my students that you read a poem to be in the poem, not to analyze it. Go into the mystery of the poem. You can compare it to appreciating a painting. When you look at a painting, do you need to analyze it, or do you just look at it? You can go into that world, and the same is true for poetry. So, I say read poetry, go to readings, and take a lot of notes. Love the art. Love the art like you love people. If you’re in love with someone, you want to know all about them. Care for your art in the same way.

The other thing is to write a lot, practice, take notes. In addition to getting to know the art through appreciation, get to know it through practice. Try to strike a balance between giving yourself freedom and being rigorous. You are all extraordinary. You all have a voice. Even if you write a poem that doesn’t get published, you did it because you love it. The real way you’re going to get to the recognition you may want is to love the art and love the other arts. And observe the world around you. Take notes on that too. Don’t be afraid. Take risks. Take classes. Find other great resources. They are out there. My teacher, Robert Pinsky, has something online called the favorite

49 poem project. Click on these amazing videos. Pick up some anthologies. See what the canon is.

Know what people are referring to. Take it slow, and really learn it and savor it. You don’t need to know everything today. Learning it over time is why you’re in school.

INKLING: Writer’s block seems to be a big problem for beginning writers. Do you have any advice for how to overcome or avoid it?

BARNSTONE: I started writing when I was very young. I don’t remember not writing. I grew up in Bloomington, Indiana, and my family would go to Vermont in the summer and spend time with the poet, Ruth Stone, our close family friend. We would go over there and eat a big spaghetti dinner and gather around the fire. It’s cold still in the summer up there. We’d play a poetry game. We would go around the room, and everybody would say a word, and then when we had enough words, we would all write a poem. All sorts of interesting things happened. So, making a game of it is one great way to get around writer’s block. As well, for keeping your ideas flowing consistently, make writing the first thing you do in the morning. Don’t watch television. Don’t talk to people. I know it’s hard, but get out your notebook and make a quiet space for yourself while you’re still in the space between dream and waking. There are great riches there. Then, when you come back to it later, you have some notes. If you’ve written a little bit of a poem then, take a nap or take a walk. Go for a swim. Do whatever you do. Meditate, pray, do yoga. I mention these specific things because they will get you into interconnectedness with the universe.Your ego—I don’t like to use the word “ego” because in Greek it means “me”—but what I mean is that judgmental place—it’s not going to get you anywhere if you’re going to write. You’re going to use your judgment. Everybody needs to use their judgment but not during the original drafting. In order to have a draft, you need that free trial. Whatever it is—play. My formula, and what I make as a teaching statement, is “Play plus practice equals work,” which typically means that if you play freely and then you practice a lot, you end up with work.

50 INKLING: Is there a special place that you like to work?

BARNSTONE: It really depends. Some people have a specific place that they feel is their spot.

In another interview, I’ve said I’ve practiced my whole life and this is that spot. Right here, right now. I live on a small manmade lake. Our dining room window looks out over this lake. I’ve certainly done a lot of work there, but I’ve also written poems in traffic jams. So, for me, although location can enhance the writing, it is not ultimately what’s important. You can find your quiet space within yourself and let yourself go there when you can. I do have certain things that are important to me, though. I carry around a notebook all the time. I have pens and notebooks that

I really like. I recommend that everybody have a notebook that does not have lines in it and that they doodle in it too. You don’t have to be committed to one notebook, either. You can have five notebooks going at once. You can have a small notebook and a big notebook. You can have ten notebooks. Who cares? The more the better. But do carry at least one around with you. Have a pen that you like, or use a pencil you really like. And don’t be afraid to doodle. Those doodles turn into words eventually.

INKLING: We noticed you have some translations to your credit. Do you have a natural facility with foreign languages?

BARNSTONE: Yes and no. My great grandmother lived with us when I was a child, and we lived in Spain for a while. So, when I was five year old, I spoke fluently in Greek, Spanish, and

English. Now, when I’m in Greece I speak well. Language can depend on your being there. In fact, one of the nice things about coming to Texas or anywhere in the southwest, near the border, is I hear Spanish. And I understand Spanish because I learned to read in Spanish. Spanish was first for me, then Greek.

INKLING: Earlier you mentioned how important it is to love not only the art you are practicing but other arts too. What other arts are you interested in? 51 BARNSTONE: There are a couple of things I’d like to do. I’ve gotten so interested in film and really wish I could make films. Films can do anything. They can tell stories, make music, make poetry, convey vision, and just … everything. I’m particularly interested in documentary films and the possibilities for documentary film. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to that. The other thing is that when I was a kid I was in choir in elementary school. I was about seven years old, and I was being shy, and the teacher said, “Kiki, if you don’t know all of the words, you can’t sing in the choir.” And ever after that, I was totally humiliated and afraid to sing. A few years ago, a friend of mine told me she could teach me to sing. So I’ve been taking lessons. I often wonder if things would have been different if I hadn’t been afraid to sing. Would I have become a songwriter? If only I had taken classes in songwriting or taken vocal lessons, I would have come to it earlier. I sing in the car. I was on a Jewish journey, and then I converted to Christianity. I’m Episcopalian.

Now I sing the hymns, and I don’t care if I sing out of key. I don’t think it matters. I want to be the way I’ve seen people in other cultures be. I want to be like they are in Greece, where people just break out into song and don’t even care how they sound or what anyone thinks.

52 Third Place Poetry Winner

Ulla (After H.G. Wells) James Hope

No one would have believed in the last few years Of the nineteenth century, That all our dismay and deathly fears Of the planet Mars were to be.

As humankind went about their affairs Upon their God-given land, Those beings whose world was beyond all repairs Reached out with Death’s skeletal hand.

When one evening in June, all was quiet and still, An astronomer studied the stars And there saw a sight, a disturbingly ill Green flash from the surface of Mars.

Rumors soon spread from the streets to the bars, But Ogilvy spoke with no dread: “For the chances of anything manlike on Mars Are a million to one,” he said.

The eruptions continued for days by and by, And concern soon replaced with content. Then one night an object streaked green ‘cross the sky But the angel was not Heaven-sent.

On Horsell Common the star came to land And next morning a crowd gathered ‘round. It was a great cylinder, and the crowd did disband, When from inside the thing came a sound.

53 A man was inside and was trying to escape, Assumptions of which did ensue. But the clamor fell silent to a metallic scrape As the top began to unscrew.

Then the lid fell off and clattered below And a snakelike appendage emerged. Those close by turned to dust and were scattered like snow As the flash of the Heat Ray surged.

The Heat Ray now fired again at the crowd; They retreated the same way they came And smoke filled the place like a ghostly shroud As the common burst into flame.

They neared not the common again that week. The military set up their stance. And the Martians, with no need for rest to seek, Worked in a rhythmic trance.

A week later the Heat Ray fired again, But not from the cylinder base; A mechanical monster now slaughtering men And to those who dared flee it gave chase!

The machine strode by on three spindly legs, And a Heat Ray it clutched at its hood. Its tentacles uprooted trees like pegs And smashed through brick buildings like wood.

The flashes on Mars showed no signs of slowing, More war machines followed by more. Towns were left vacant to an exodus flowing, The rich rubbing shoulders with poor.

54 The refugees crowded together in packs, Aimless without spirit or goal. As the tripods advanced their inhuman attacks They exalted their hellish death toll.

“Ulla!” they cried, as they wiped out the herds, Like a savage extermination. They were followed by flocks of scavenging birds, For death was their prognostication.

They deployed their poisonous black smoke emission As across the Thames they filed And destroyed their only opposition, The ironclad Thunder Child.

The Martians had stamped out the world’s greatest nation. No salvation was left to find. It was the rout of human civilization And the massacre of mankind.

Having secured their dominion here, The invaders now planted a seed. As mankind had succumbed to the Martian fear, The Earth now succumbed to the weed.

Like a crimson snake it glided across And covered the Earth’s vegetation. O’er the ground it spread like a wet scarlet moss, Through the trees like a wild conflagration.

Huge crablike machines now came in great packs And captured survivors with cranes, Then locked them in cages that hung from their backs And siphoned the blood from their veins.

55 For sustenance, the blood they drank; The humans they butchered like swine. The air became sickeningly putrid and dank As they fertilized the vine.

No carriages on roads, no boats in the seas, For their pain the towns found no cry. But the creeper blood red soon found spots of disease And with pallor ‘twas brittle and dry.

On Primrose Hill a tripod arrived, But stumbled a drunkard’s gait. And giving misstep it faltered its stride And toppled in uneven weight.

“Ulla!” it moaned, then it crashed to the ground, There twisted and mangled it lay. But futile its efforts in blasting the sound, For no comrade came to its aid.

When the Martians arrived, they drank and they ate; An act that was done without sense, For although human weapons could not seal their fate, Against bacteria they held no defense.

And slowly the pulse of life would beat, And mankind would soon cease to grieve. But perhaps the Martians have learned from defeat, And will yet come to end this reprieve.

56 Longing for Samantha W. Shun Foote

Yesterday, I felt as though my eyes were playing tricks on me.

I was convinced that I’d seen the woman who has stolen my heart. Twice!

Half of me knew for sure that it was her I had seen, but the other side of me wanted to believe that I was hallucinating.

Truthfully, I can’t shake the feeling that she hates me.

Perhaps that is my excuse for allowing her to walk on by without my attempting to speak.

It is my way to save face.

Honestly, I cannot believe that after all of this time apart from her, she was still able to make my heart beat irregularly.

Trust me when I say, I want to take the hint and just walk away.

I want to erase her from my thoughts and leave her alone completely.

However, my pride will not let that case be the reason.

If the possibility of us ever becoming lovers or friends is over then

I have to hear her say it.

There is door in my heart I left cracked opened with the light still on so that she is able to find her way back to our home because

The way that she and I ended was never justified.

The impression that she left had such a strong hold on me that I could see her angelic face every time I closed my eyes to blink.

Everything about her is still the way I remember.

Her long jet black silky hair; her beautiful brown eyes; down to the sweet smell that has al- ways been a way for me to identify her.

She was more than just another queen to me.

She was a goddess.

She’s the reason that everything in the world made sense. 57 She was the reason that my world existed.

She was the air that I needed to breath.

The light that allowed me to see!

The food and water I needed to live.

The love that was unconditional.

She was the perfect woman I envisioned.

My second true Amor.

She is the only woman I will ever long for.

Samantha!

58 Second Place Prose Winner

The 13th Street Fear Factory James Hope

(Chapters 1 and 2)

~ “In the grand scheme of things, we are ultimately measured by how much we have accomplished. So, if it is the one thing that stands between you and progress, the concept of consent should be considered secondary and disregarded.” -Dr. Schnitter ~

Chapter 1

This is the story of the Easton BioLab and the poor, unfortunate souls who worked in it. The lab was an illegal genetic research facility in Easton, Pennsylvania, masquerading as a textile factory. It really did make textiles, good ones at that, but the main operations behind the expertly woven, high thread-count curtain were sketchy, under-the-radar genetic experiments conducted under the leadership of Dr. Heinrich von Schnitter. Dr. Schnitter’s reason for using a textile factory as a front was simple: “Lots of covering noise, very little regulation, and plenty of cheap workers.” Few employees actually knew the true purpose of the factory and were content in their daily routine of clocking in, working nine hours under often hazardous conditions for meager pay, clocking out, and repeating. The enlightened few were kept under strict scrutiny at all times. The most prominent of these was Miss Ulla B. Sory, Head of Human Resources and Personal Secretary to Herr Doktor Schnitter. Ulla kept her schedule of events more or less the same every day. At 7 a.m., she’d arrive at the factory after having done her makeup in the car, punch in, and feed the cat. Ulla had thirty-eight cats, but she’d made it a habit to bring with her to work her favorite, Jingles. Dr. Schnitter did not care for Ulla’s cat. In fact, one could say he held the utmost contempt for it. Ulla was quite aware of this and would allow her cat to play in his lab for the sole purpose of getting under his skin. She by no means liked her boss as he was constantly abusive to her and reminded her much of her ex-boyfriend. However, the pay for someone in her position was exceptional, so she stayed. At 8 a.m.,

59 she would begin her morning paperwork. This consisted of sorting through new hire applications for the textile department. For obvious reasons, positions in the factory were constantly available. Once, when questioned by OSHA about the high turnover rate, Ulla bluntly stated in her gum-smacking, abrasive Eastern Pennsylvania accent, “It’s a factory, bub. Whaddaya’ expect?” And at this answer they were satisfied or perhaps just too intimidated to press the issue any further. At 8:45, Ulla prepared the coffee for Dr. Schnitter’s arrival at 9. Ulla’s boss was very particular about his coffee, and it was the one point on which she received consistent praise. This could have been either due to the fact that it genuinely was good coffee or because the one time Schnitter criticized it he ended up with twelve cats locked in his lab over the weekend with lots of food and plenty of water but no litterbox. Given the fact it took him two days in a hazmat suit to clean the laboratory and another three to air it out, the latter was most likely. In any case, Ulla tried to be punctual with her morning duties so as to not slow down the system. Today, however, Miss Sory had woken up to one of her cats choking on its own tail. Despite dislodging the problem appendage from its throat, the cat was unresponsive, so she had no choice but to perform CPR on it. Once the cat was revived and Ulla had sutured the resulting claw slashes on her face and neck, she hit morning traffic and was an entire two hours late. When she finally walked into her office, Dr. Schnitter was waiting for her. “Good morning, Ulla,” he said in his stilted German accent. “Can you tell me where is my coffee?” Ulla smiled her fake grin she put on whenever Schnitter was around. “Good morning, Dr. Schnitter. Just about to make it.” She took off her coat and set to work placing a new filter in the machine and filling the carafe with water. “You know I don’t tolerate lateness from my employees, Frau Sory.” Ulla turned around, Folger’s can gripped tightly in her hand, with an expression of resentment. “Dr. Schnitter, would you give me a damn break? What are ya gonna do? Fire me?” She smiled. The good doctor was caught there. He narrowed his eyes, directing all of his hate toward Ulla, which was absorbed and redirected by her impressively structured beehive hairdo. Miss Ulla did not use hairspray but rather an industrial strength spray adhesive which, when left to dry, became thirty times stronger than kevlar. “The work we’re doing here is extraordinarily important, Ulla. I can’t afford any delays in my research, and not having my coffee ready for me when I walk in the door is a delay.”

60 “I think your lab rats -- I mean employees -- can wait a few minutes more before you toss a coin over their lives.” “How dare you,” Schnitter boomed, “when you know as well as I that the sacrifice of some undesirables is necessary to the greater good! I’m on the brink of curing all major diseases, and the last thing I need is my secretary poking her morality into my affairs.” Ulla withdrew slightly. As amusing as it was to provoke her boss, backing him into a corner was ill-advised. “Calm down, Doctor. You know I’m the last person to question your morals.” She handed him his mug, the one with the initials “HvS” on it. “Here’s your coffee. Cream and strychnine, right?” “What?” Schnitter took the cup gruffly. “Cream and sugar.” “Hmmm...” he glared again, eyeing her suspiciously. “You’ve made that joke one too many times for comfort.” He whipped open the door to the staircase leading down to his basement lab. “Thin ice, Frau Sory. Don’t try my patience.” He spun around and began his descent down the stairs, slamming the door shut behind him. Ulla waited until she could no longer hear his absurdly loud shoes goose- stepping down the stairs. “Fucking Nazi...” She spat and sat down at her desk to begin her paperwork. Wedging her gum between her teeth and cheek, she took out a green cigarette from her pack of Fantasias, put it in her mouth, and lit it. She drew out the smoke and, inhaling deeply, sat back in her chair as the calming effect of the nicotine washed over her. Eight years of working with that lunatic and my nerves are shot, she thought. Directly below her Dr. Schnitter was thinking the same thing, except instead of a cigarette in his mouth, it was a morphine syringe in his vein. Ulla shuffled the papers on her desk and examined an earnings chart. Schnitter did have a point about the greater need for efficiency right now. Profits from the textile department were down this quarter, so it was up to the genetics department to pick up the slack. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, either. Two years ago, during the first sales quarter of 1977, textiles had dipped into the red when the department suffered a lice outbreak, which halted production for several months. It was only when Dr. Langley released her popular line of infectious disease- scented candles that the company became profitable again. Ulla picked up her cat and stroked it. “Let’s just hope that nutjob knows what he’s doing,” she said and set to work

61 reviewing employment applications. “Otherwise, it’s all our heads.”

~ From the diary of Ulla B. Sory, 1 October 1979: “Let me tell you, Schnitter is not the easiest person to get along with. It’s like he never has any patience for anything. Today I went into his lab to tell him he had a phone call. Well, apparently the old Kraut was working on something that needed his full attention because he hurled a damn beaker at me! Then, when it missed and smashed against the wall, he ordered me to clean it up. ‘Never break my focus again!’ Turns out, it was a Sudoku.” ~

Chapter 2

Dr. Schnitter’s laboratory was not so much a traditional scientific facility as it was a repurposed boiler room. Despite being the highest ranking official in the department, his lab was the dingiest, grungiest, most sinister room in the entire building. The other offices and research areas admittedly weren’t much better, but Ulla’s office at least had a smattering of homey touches: poorly applied wallpaper, a dead potted cactus, a patch of cat piss on the carpet, etcetera. Schnitter’s lab was just pure grime. The room was illuminated dimly by gas lamps which flickered and danced, casting eerie shadows over the organized chaos of scribbled papers, dusty glassware, rusty surgical instruments, and various medical curios. There was an iron operating table covered with a red-stained cloth and an open birdcage hanging nearby. The centerpiece of the lab, though, was an old Wurlitzer pipe organ, which was, despite years of decay and disrepair, still remarkably in tune. Dr. Schnitter would play the organ to warm up his hands and sharpen his mind before an experiment or procedure, though some (particularly Ulla) might say the relative sharpness of his mind was already long gone. At least right now it was. Dr. Schnitter withdrew the needle from his arm and blotted the blood with an already visibly used rag. Just how much of the blood on it was his own was a mystery even to him. An efficient man to the core, Schnitter wasn’t known for letting little things like “hygiene” or “finding a sterile dressing” slow him down. He had but one clean lab coat, which he never actually wore for anything other than not scaring potential test subjects. As soon as the patient was out, he would change into his sickly orange and red stained lab coat, which he described as being “einfach so verdammt bequem” - “just

62 so damn comfy.” His mood, soured this morning by his secretary’s infernal snark, was visibly improved by simply donning this one beloved article of clothing. The rustling of the fabric woke up the smell of blood and decay, summoning the ever vigilant sentinel of the lab to his shoulder. “Ach, guten Morgen, Edgar,” Schnitter said to the sparsely feathered raven, “I trust that damn cat’s not been giving you any more trouble?” He glanced toward the shriveled tail knotted to a protruding nail in the wall as Edgar flitted up and into his cage. “Little scheißer had it coming.” The bird let out a raspy squawk as a reply. It sounded like a 78-year-old, obese chainsmoker had just been punched in the stomach. “I told you to give up the cigarettes. They’re not good for you,” Schnitter scorned. The raven had a bad habit of making his way up to Ulla’s office and eating the butts from the ashtray. In fact, it was probably during this act that the cat had attacked. “When you get lung cancer, do come crying to me,” he continued. “I may be able to cure it, but I’ll need test subjects.” He examined a list consisting mostly of crossed-out names in red ink. “Running low again...” he muttered to himself. “Damn woman needs to keep on top of this. What does she think I pay her for?” His voice rose as he swiveled on the metal heel of his boot, sparking on the concrete floor, and addressed his annoyance to Edgar. “To sit around all day on her arsch chewing her gum?” The bird cocked his head. Like most pets, he had no clue what a terrible person his owner actually was. Dr. Schnitter sat down at the organ. “Look at me, talking to a bird.” Edgar rustled his feathers and cawed. “Oh, shut up, you know what I meant.” He keyed the first few notes of something by a long-decomposed composer, then stopped abruptly. The doctor looked up. “What’s the status of Lot 122?” Edgar preened what was left of his feathers. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?! The condensing stage should be complete by now!” He looked at the clock. “Seven minutes ago!” He stood up in great excitement and darted over to a small alcove where a large cylindrical device was whirring and shaking. He snapped the orange switch to the “off” position and threw open the lid. Inside, amidst the ethereal fog, was a tray of what very closely resembled salmon roe. But Dr. Schnitter was not in the business of fish mongery. He was in the business of mad science. These were not fish eggs but rather tiny capsules of a genetic modification agent. This batch was the result of eight months of trial and

63 horrific error, and Dr. Schnitter would be damned if he was going to add another one to the discard list. Time was not an infinite resource for him, and results had to be produced. He picked up one of the capsules very gingerly with a pair of tweezers. “Just look at it. The ability to rewrite the genetic sequence in one tiny, little orb...” He looked at the bird. “Beautiful, is it not?” The grin that crawled across his face then could have killed a puppy. He flicked the red speck back onto the pile. “We’ll need subjects,” he said excitedly as he hurried over to his desk, picked up the phone, and mindlessly dialed the number for his secretary’s office. Dr. Schnitter was not quite ready to employ human test subjects for this project as initial animal testing had yet to produce a successful result. All he had to show for his work thus far was several vats of lab rat remains, which could have easily been mistaken for the aftermath of a night of hard drinking. Test subjects that were exposed to the previous iterations of the formula rarely retained their solid state for more than 24 hours before literally melting into a pulpy soup of flesh, hair, and bone. “Ulla,” he barked into the receiver, “did those boxes of frogs and rats arrive yet? Wunderbar! I’ll be right up.” He hung up the phone and ran to the stairs like a child on Christmas morning. Edgar squawked again. “Nein, not for you, my pet,” Schnitter cooed, “but I promise you, if Serum-X finally works, we can move onto Phase Two of Project FEAR and you’ll be getting something much better for breakfast than a boring old dead lab rat.”

64 Amazon Woman Susan Strickland Canter

Box of misery. Warriors trampled. Men Rape, Ransack. Take souls in glee of victory.

“I love you...you are such an Amazon. We could make beautiful babies together...winners on the sports field. I’ve waited to tell you until after you took the final exam. Yes...I’ve waited so it wouldn’t be improper for me to woo you.

Wait … didn’t you know? Your strength and fortitude and brains called to me every day of every class. Your face...didn’t you know? Couldn’t you see how I feel? Oh, yes...we could be together. Didn’t you know?”

Push that dick into my back while I’m trapped in a desk. “Talk dirty to me. See how many slang ways to say ‘dick.’ Do you know? Do you know what a pearl necklace is? Do you know?”

Make me sit there taking your abuse so I don’t embarrass myself. Stand there poking me while casually leaning over looking at my work. Smile your greasy smile; rub against me. Old, old enough to be my father. White haired smarmy bastard. You will win, you with the power. The men always win.

65 Your battle cronies back you. They call me a slut. A whore. A woman who doesn’t know her place. You’ve done it before.

Now she bores you, that one you married. First throw out the original; find another. Now she grows older and wiser..you WANT yet again?

Do you think I like your polyester suits that strain at the waist? Do you think I like the face of a man who drinks every day, forcing himself upon young that evening? Their grade on the line? Their livelihood encased in the grade you deign to give?

I, the Amazon... I will stand. I will fight. I will win against your army. I will win.

Even if I lose.

66 A Fork in the Road

W. Shun Foote

Today is the day that I have finally decided to start my journey down my new path in life.

After a day of walking down my new path, I approach a fork in the road with a sign that has arrows point-

ing in each direction. One is labeled “right” and the other is labeled “left”, and underneath the sign with

the arrows was a second sign with a short passage.

The right side says, “This path is mostly chosen by many people mainly because it is wide, and even dur-

ing the darkest night, this path stays lit by artificial light.”

The left side says, “This path is least taken because, unlike the right one, this path is very narrow. At night it gets close to pitch black, but if you look down, there will be preplaced footprints on the ground from the greatest man known to ever walk this earth. If you walk in the exact step of those prints, you will be fine.”

At the bottom of both signs is a third sign that says, “Either path you choose, enter at your own risk.

Choose wisely because there is no turning back after you continue your journey. However, you may cross

over at certain points during your journey. Again, do so at your own risk.”

At this point, I am faced with a choice that every person before and after me has to face.

I stand there for a minute, a bit dumbfounded. I look to the right. I see people walking down that path very clearly. They’re moving slowly, almost as if they are not moving at all. They seem lifeless yet happy.

But when I look to my left, the path seems very empty, very difficult, and very scary altogether.

I close my eyes and whisper, “Here goes nothing,” and follow my heart down the left path.

A week into my journey down that narrow path is quite easy.

But on the first day of my second week, I’m faced with a night close to pitch-dark, yet as the sign states at

the entrance, the footprints appear, and I am able to stay on path.

After that day, I fell very confident in the choice I’ve made.

As the weeks turn into months, the times when there should have been daylight turned out just as black

as the darkest nights. The footprints are there but don’t seem as clear as before. At stretches, I feel alone.

This path becomes more discouraging, and more frightening. At some points, I wanted to give up.

67 I glance to my right, and I can see the other path. It looks easy and brightly lit by the artificial light.The people on that path are walking hand in hand. They seem very comfortable. Some are sitting in one spot, not moving at all.

Others are laughing; they seem to be having a great time. A few of them look like they’ve been there for years.

I’m tempted to cross over and join those who give the impression of satisfaction.

But, I decide to move forward and finish what I’ve started. At that time, my path reappears perfectly. The foot-

prints resurface as clearly as they have always been and right in front of me.

Then, I get a feeling that restored my spirit, and it gave me strength, and somehow I completed my expedition.

At the end of that path, a sign was sitting off to the side. It said, “If you whole-heartedly committed to this path

and completed it, you have discovered your faith in God.” I realize that I was never alone.

Though I came close to straying off my path, I managed to stay on track from the faith I didn’t know I had. At

times, I did not feel like I was walking; instead, I felt as though I was being carried.

I am finished with that tribulation, but my new journey has only just begun.

68 The Champions of the Alliance of the Forests Ryan Farmer

Once there were four forests ruled by nuts. In one forest, there was a nut named Scarn. He spent most of his days hanging around with his friend Talor in the trees of Wolf Forest and drilling in King Olvume’s army. Together King Olvume of Wolf Forest, Queen Sabs of Deer Forest, King Rebtel of Bear Forest, and King Utem of Hawk Forest made the Alliance of the Forests. The forests were named so because of how their armies fought. The nuts of Wolf Forest were small but very deadly in packs. They believed that teamwork could change the tide of battle no matter what the size of the enemy was. The handsome nuts of Deer Forest were graceful with their swords and were trained to win. They held preci- sion above everything else. The nuts of Bear Forest were very large and nearly invincible once they went berserk. They trained for endurance, but they needed to learn self-control. Finally, the nuts of Hawk For- est were very quick and very, very silent; they were in and out before their enemies knew what hit them. They only concentrated on getting their objective done. The armies used pine needles stiffened with tree sap as swords, knives, bows, arrows, and spears, and they used tough tree bark as shields and armor. Although there were armies, they mainly drilled to keep themselves fit and ready for war even though the Alliance of the Forests had not seen any fighting in many seasons. But, one day, nuts started to disappear, and no one knew where they were. Worried, King Olvume asked Scarn and Talor to keep a lookout for the missing nuts and get to the bottom of the mystery. What they found was just terrible. The evil squirrel minions of Slythe the Vile were kidnapping the innocent nuts and forcing them to build his castle out of a dead tree. “We have to save them!” exclaimed Talor fran- tically. He made to get up, but Scarn stopped him. “No, we can’t do this alone,” he said. “We need help.” After seeing the squirrels, they reported their finding to King Olvume. Now, King Olvume was a good and righteous king, and because of this, he was always on good terms with the three rulers in the neighboring forests, and they knew many of each other’s people. He said, “I will send word to my friends for help, for I have just received news that Slythe is capturing their subjects as well.” Over the next few days, the army of nuts prepared for the battle that was to come. They built weapons and catapults for all the troops and gathered food for themselves and the starving slaves they were fighting to rescue. On the day before the battle, King Olvume was discussing with the other rulers of the forests the final battle plans. King Olvume then requested Scarn andTalor’s presence. When they

69 arrived, they greeted the kings and queen with a bow and were received with smiles, handshakes, and “Hellos,” except from Utem, who gave only a nod. “We have called you for a very important reason,” said King Rebtel. Queen Sabs said, “We need someone to lead the armies, for these kings are not the valiant young nuts they used to be and a bloody battlefield is a place not for a queen.” “So,” said King Olvume, “we have decided to name you Champions of the Alliance of the For- ests.” Scarn and Talor were so dumbstruck. They did not know what to say. “We have known you two since you were tiny nutlets. From what we have seen over the years, you have grown to be obedient and trustworthy. We believe we made the right choice,” said Queen Sabs. “I....we..we,” stuttered Talor. Scarn, coming to his rescue said, “We accept this great honor and we will not disappoint you.” “Good,” said Olvume. “Tomorrow I would like you to speak to the troops, and then we will fight!” That night, Scarn and Talor cleaned the excess sap off their weapons and repaired their bark ar- mor for the battle. “Can you believe this?” said Talor. “It is a great honor. Now we will actually use the skills we have trained for. For king and forest, for family and honor,” said Scarn, using the Alliance’s battle cry. “And to end Slythe!” Talor chimed in. “Yes, and to end Slythe.” In the morning, the army gathered together into their ranks near the clearing where the battle was to take place. As the seventy thousand acorns who had come from the Four Forests settled down, Scarn made his speech. “We are about to do battle with the forces of Slythe the Vile,” he said. “They are bigger, meaner, and uglier than us. They fight dirty. They are evil. But, we…we have heart! They are just cowards! Taking the weak and innocent in the dead of night! We will win this battle because we fight for freedom! Free- dom for the slaves! Freedom for ourselves! Freedom for the forests! For king and forest, for family and honor!” “For king and forest, for family and honor!!” was the reply, screamed from thousands of throats. “Our descendants will remember this day, their descendants will remember this day! The day we said ‘No!’ to being pushed around, ‘No!’ to being stepped on by those bigger than us, ‘No!’ to captivity!” Then he turned around, facing the mass of squirrels teeming around the unfinished castle. “Fight hard my

70 brethren and end the menace that is Slythe! Charge!” At that, the troops took to the battle cry of the Alliance and charged forward with Scarn and Talor at the front. The squirrels, cursed and threatened by Slythe, ran to meet them, with claws yearning for blood and teeth bared. In the middle of the field, the two armies met.The collision made a sound like thunder. Then there was just the sound of battle: the screaming of wounded, the yelling of the living, the sound of claw on shield, and the thunk of bows. After the initial impact, many of the cowardly squirrels ran away or surrendered. Scarn and Talor, being expert swordsnuts and using teamwork, defeated every squirrel that opposed them. The battle raged on for days. By the end of the week, there were not many squirrels left. Cornered by the overwhelming number of acorns, the surviving squirrels surrendered, and Slythe was captured. The battle was won but at a great cost. Four hundred of the seventy thousand nuts were either killed or wounded in the onslaught. Despite this, the nuts could not help but rejoice--for the slaves that were rescued had returned to their families. The victorious nuts celebrated with a great festival that began with the executioner’s axe descending upon Slythe’s vile neck and ended five days later. Sometime after the Battle of Nut Freedom, as it came to be known, and the nuts’ festival, a man hiking in the forest settled in the clearing for a picnic lunch when he noticed hundreds of dead squir- rels and broken acorns. He stared and stared and stared. Then the man laughed. He laughed because he thought the squirrels had eaten so many nuts that they had died. This man obviously did not see the tiny but deadly pinpricks on every single squirrel from the heroic nuts, or he would have known better. After he was done eating, he left, still laughing, and went home to tell his family what he had seen. Generations later, around fires on cold, winter nights and small beds filled with nutlets, tales of the two champions from Wolf Forest could be heard, warming the hearts of listeners and inspiring new heroes to take their place.

71 Third Place Prose Winner

All That Glitters Madison Estes

She sets the powder brush upon the table with grace as the once beautiful woman, now an elderly widow, stares at the mirror before her. The embellishments and fine details on the frame of her vanity table can no longer prolong the charade. Revlon and Estée Lauder no longer perpetuate her lies.

She is old.

She is not a diamond capable of eternal beauty but a mere woman whose aesthetic quality must inevitably diminish. Her aqua eyes plead for more time, just a little more. But time grants clemency to no one.

Her lips appear healthier and full of vitality after she picks up the crimson lipstick and reapplies.

Her fingers work with meticulous attention to detail. Decades of practice have made her precise move- ments instinctive. Once she finishes the touchups on her makeup and hair, she opens the jewelry box and chooses her final selections. She relives fragments of her life as she recalls who gave her certain items: the pearl brooch her mother gave her for her sixteenth birthday, the diamond bracelet her father bought her for graduation, and a pair of matching earrings that her brother had given her to celebrate her budding modeling career.

She glances down at her hand and the ring, the one piece of jewelry that never leaves her finger.

The wedding ring her late husband had given her as he got on one knee and promised her an eternity of happiness. The ring that still looks exactly the same as it did the day she received it, unlike its owner.

“All that glitters is gold…” she remembers her mother telling her when she was a little girl. She touches the ring. The feeling of the cold metal against her fingertips is the closest she ever feels to him.

She gently closes the box. 72 As she looks in the mirror one last time, she is pleased by what she sees. She cannot decipher whether it is a trick of the mind or reality, but for now she appears youthful, as though once more in her prime. Her hand caresses her cheek to ensure herself that her eyes do not deceive her, and her flesh does not feel aged. She puts her hand down and inspects herself in the mirror again to assure herself she did not ruin her foundation. It is perfect. Now there are no more excuses for loitering.

Her attention shifts to the closet. Has she chosen the right outfit for the occasion?That had always been her greatest concern in the past. Her selection had to be risqué enough to stand out but not so much she made her husband blush with the immodesty of it nor allow the women any opportunity for gossip.

She stands and glances at herself in the full-length mirror. Her reflection faces close scrutiny but wins her approval in the end.

She sits on her bed and straightens a wrinkle in the sheet. Her hand grazes over the photo album.

She turns it to her favorite page and stares at the photograph of a bride with eyes full of hope, her inno- cent smile staring back at her from twenty years ago. She returns the smile slightly, careful not to crease her makeup. She strokes the next page with her fingernails, longing to embrace the eager groom. Her husband who had met his demise too soon.

“I’ll be with you shortly,” she said, an expression he was used to after so many years of waiting for her to make up her mind: the dark red lipstick tonight or the fuchsia?

At their engagement party: the magenta strapless dress or the lavender one?

At his funeral: the simple black mini-dress or the long, flowing gown?

Did any of it matter?

Of course, she convinces herself. Of course it mattered. It had to matter. Everything that is desir- able comes at a price. I was desirable. I was…

73 She lies down in their bed and looks at the empty pillow where his head should be. The noise of blissful laughter echoes through her mind, converging with the sound of piano music. Their wedding song plays in the background as she still remembers the appearance of the most handsome man she had ever seen, blessed with kindness and humility as well as good looks, the counterpart to her vanity. They clashed but came together in a way two opposites must in order to fulfill each other’s needs. Without him she was only herself, her vain, selfish self. She became imperfect in her insatiable desire for perfection.

Although she knew he might disapprove of her spending so much time fussing with her appearance for his sake, she could not present herself to her husband as anything less than what she deemed to be exter- nal flawlessness. After all, this is the greatest event she has ever prepared for. How could she not obsess?

As she closes her eyes, the chatter and the music become louder. She sees all of her usual guests, and many, many more. As she descends down the stairs, making her usual grand entrance, her husband leaves his friends and associates to escort her into the room. It was a tradition he never ceased during their entire courtship. He takes her hand and kisses it. Her fingers linger on his face. She lifts his head up to hers and kisses the air beside his cheek, a gesture to display affection without ruining her face. He smiles and with a great deal of pride, for she is his forever beautiful and youthful wife. He leads her into this final and wonderful going-away party at which she is the guest of honor. The shine of the chandeliers above make them more luminescent than ever.

All that glitters…

Her last thought fades as she succumbs to her final dream with a smile.

74 Words Jackie R. Beisert

It’s been said, “An elephant never forgets.” Aside from the tough skin, humans and pachyderms are much akin. The tongue is the vessel from which the linguist’s words flow. Love, hate, honey, venom, gratitude, and sympathy are just a few crops that the tongue can sow. Yet the words that flows from the tongue are meaningless without the ear to hear the words that are being sung. Together the two vessels work, translating the vast words spoken. Many words spoken throughout life are often forgotten, yet the words spoken in hate or ignorance are like fruit that becomes moldy and rotten from being uneaten. Taunts, no matter the age at which they are spoken, are seared into the brain and forever haunt. The girl called “fat” now battles anorexia. The girl called “homely,” although now a swan, battles issues of body dysmorphia. That boy to whom you called a racial slur so long ago is now a member of a gang, and to every kind of your race he has no problem making his gun go bang, bang. That classmate you called “slow” is now in drug rehab, because he tried to make the words you spoke disappear with dope. Words of love can make the heart sing. Words of venom make the mind and heart sting. The tongue truly is a double-edged sword, and the ear is the organ through which the tip is stabbed into the brain. Sprinkle your words with love and not hate. Choose your words carefully, with caution and not haste because once they are spoken, from them the mind cannot unpaste.

75 Stardust Madeline Maske

I’ve read before that humans are made from the same ingredients as galaxies, but I never believed it until I saw the stardust flowing through your veins.

Your eyes are the moon. Tides are disrupted every time you blink.

Your skin is the night sky. The constellations are formed from your freckles.

Your mouth is a supernova. When you speak, planets collapse.

I’ve read before that humans are made from the same ingredients as stars, but I never truly believed it until I saw the universe in you.

76 Contributors’ Biographies

Jackie R. Beisert will graduate with an Associate of Arts degree in Dec. 2014 after twenty-three years in pursuing her dream of a college education. She is a single mother of four children: one son and three daughters, ages 18, 12, 10, 8, two of whom have special needs. Her children were named so that their first initials spell KISS, Jackie’s favorite band. Her children’s names are Kan- sas, Israel, Sydney, and Summer. Although currently unemployed, Jackie has been a pharmacy tech for nearly twenty-five years.

Susan Strickland Canter is a returning student who loves to learn anything new. She has taken art classes in the Lone Star College System for many years, and this semester she decided to try something new.

Shanna Dudley is a math major with intentions of becoming a high school math teacher or a math professor. She loves writing, working with numbers, and playing fetch with her big, black lab, Jasper.

Ashley Durden is a Lone Star student whose hobby is photography.

Cynthia Enciso is a student at Lone Star College-Tomball who enjoys painting and drawing.

Madison Estes writes bittersweet stories and poems when she is not in the middle of Netflix marathons, binge reading Harry Potter fanfiction, looking up baking recipes on Pinterest, and volunteering in her community. She is also a huge fan of chocolate milk.

Ryan Farmer is just your average quiet college student who likes to daydream and play video games.

W. Shun Foote loves ice cream, pickles, and football. He is secretary of the Inkling Creative Writing Club as well as an editor for the magazine. He is also a master of jokes and is graduating in May 2015.

Adrianne Gerlach is a student at LSC who enjoys painting scenes from nature.

Cesar Gomez is a freshman art major who has a passion for drawing anime and reading manga.

Lucy Goodson is a sophomore majoring in liberal arts. She loves writing poems and taking photography. She is also vice-president of the Inkling Creative Writing Club and an editor of the magazine.

Miguel Guzman is a sophomore at Lone Star College-Tomball who likes art and taking photos of light trails and architecture.

Emily Haaland has always loved to write and create art in every form, She is a sophomore and will be graduating in spring.

James Hope is a freshman at Lone Star College - Tomball. He enjoys long walks on the beach, romantic candlelit dinners, and pillaging coastal villages.

77 Gavin Jaks is a freshman who thought he’d give posting some of his work out by submitting to the Inkling and a few other literary magazines. He enjoys long walks on the beach, sunsets, and puppy dogs.

Louise Mallon is attaining an Associates in Art and has a passion for pencil drawings.

Madeline Maske is a theatre and English major whose favorite things include hot drinks, Captain America, and questionable pop music.

Valentina Osuna is a creative writing student who enjoys writing poetry.

Judith Rojas is a student majoring in psychology. She has a passion for photography, writing, and music with good lyrics.

Matthew Schumacher is a sophomore international studies major who likes hummus, tofu, and a rip-roaring tale, although not necessarily in that order.

Jessica Smith is a sophomore, who has a great appreciation for the arts. She loves music both listening and singing, writing, and creating art with her hands.

Darrell Svatek is an art major who enjoys creative drawing and painting.

Traynor Swanson is a sophomore journalism major who spends his time reading books, writing music, and studying the government.

Keith Thies graduated from Jersey Village High School and is trying to finish his AS degree at Lone Star College - Tomball. He served in the Marine Corps for six years (1988-94) and partici- pated in Desert Shield/Storm and Operation Restore Hope in Somalia, Africa. He is an occasional poetry writer and an amateur photographer.

Deborah L. Tritico loves the Arts, painting, drawing and exploring new mediums. Poetry is one of her newer adventures.

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

Gwynn Worbington began writing from a very young age, her greatest editors and proofreaders being her younger sister, her mother, and her dog, Mattie. She finds stories to tell from the world around her and often draws from her own experiences growing up on a dead-end dirt road in the backwoods of Texas, where cousins and aunts and uncles made up the majority of the neighbor- hood. Gwynn is currently finishing her fourth semester of college, and when she is not writing, she finds herself on the stage performing at the local theatre.

78 Inkling Selection and Layout Meetings

79 Inkling Editors

From Left to Right: Khodi Jacks, Udo Hintze, Jeffrey Rodriguez Lucy Goodson, Deborah L. Tritico, Susan Strickland Canter, W. Shun Foote. Not Pictured: Lauren Clark and Samantha Fanning

Inkling Creative Writing Club

Top Row: W. Shun Foote, Zachary Locke, Jaida Doll, Khodi Jacks, Bottom Row: David Romo, Prof. Catherine Olson, Dr. Kyle Solak, Dr. Mari-Carmen Marin, Shanna Dudley 80 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Inkling staff, editors and advisors would like to extend their sincerest thanks to Lone Star College- Tomball for the opportunity to publish this twenty-fifth edition of our magazine.

We’d like to thank sponsors of this year’s reading series: the LSC-Tomball Library; the Honors College; Faculty Senate; the Division of Developmental Studies, English, Languages, and Mathematics; the Presi- dent of Lone Star College-Tomball, Dr. Lee Ann Nutt; and the Office of Student Life. With their support, Inkling was able to host two on-campus readings and an interview with memoirist, poet, and playwright, Nick Flynn. Additionally, Inkling would like to express our vast appreciation to Khodi Jacks and Melissa Studdard, for their efforts in transcribing and editing the Aliki Barnstone interview for publication in this year’s magazine. And, of course, tremendous thanks go to authors Aliki Barnstone, Pamela Uschuk, and

Nick Flynn for sharing time, talent, stories, and poems with us.

We offer heartfelt thanks to former Dean Kathy Sanchez, current Dean Melinda Coleman, and Division Officer Manager Duy Nguyen in the Developmental Studies, English, Languages, and Mathematics Divi- sion. Also, thanks go to Shannon Marino, Danielle Thornton, and Sousan Abdul-Razzak in the Office of Student Life, and to Pamela Shafer in the Lone Star College-Tomball Community Library for supporting us throughout the year. We must thank the Inkling faculty judges, too, especially Earl Staley and Steffani Frideres in the Art Department. Finally, we mustn’t forget English professor Doug Boyd, longtime Inkling proofreader and grammar sage, for the consistent editorial direction he has brought to the magazine over the past twenty-five years.

Most of all, special thanks go to the talented and inspired students of Lone Star College-Tomball. Each year, we collect hundreds of submissions, and in the end, we are only able to showcase a handful of the creative works that LSC-Tomball students have to offer. Many thanks to all of the student contributors, this year, in past years, and in years to come. This magazine would not be possible without them.

81 INKLING (THE CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE OF LSC-TOMBALL) SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

Go to www.lonestar.edu/Inkling. Click “Submission Procedures” and follow the directions.

1. Submissions received by December 15th will be considered for the issue to be released in the spring semester immediately following the submission. Submissions received after December 15th will be con- sidered for the spring of the next academic year.

2. Only original, unpublished works are accepted. Simultaneous submissions are acceptable. Please notify us immediately at [email protected] if your piece is accepted by another publisher.

3. Only LSC-Tomball students (enrolled in credit courses at the time of submission) are eligible to submit.

4. All submissions must be accompanied by a submis- sion form available on the Inkling website (lonestar. edu/Inkling). Please attach the completed submission form as a Word document rather than pasting it into the body of an email. When you send the form, rename it from “Inkling Magazine Submission Form.docx” to include your last name then first name. For example, “Smith Margaret Inkling Magazine Submission Form. docx.” As well, be sure to name the files of your work to include your last and first names and the genre. For example, “Smith Margaret Poetry.”

5. All submissions (including artwork) must be made electronically. Email your pieces and the completed submission form to [email protected]. In the subject line of the email, be sure to list the titles of the pieces and whether they are poetry, prose, or art. Note: Do not paste the work or the submission form directly into the body of the email.

6. Maximum entries per person: six (6) writing sub- missions and six (6) art submissions.

7. Writers and artists selected for publication will be notified by mail. Expect notification by February or March of the semester for which they are selected.

NOTE: Submissions selected for publication are automatically entered into the Lone Star College-Tom- ball Inkling Magazine Creative Arts Contest. Winners will receive cash awards (first place $300, second place $200, third place $100).

SELECTION PROCESS All entries are submitted to Inkling Magazine advisors. Advisors replace the authors’ and artists’ names with numbers to preserve their anonymity. A voting packet of all submissions is then compiled and dis- tributed to Inkling Magazine editors, staff members, and participating faculty, who vote for inclusion in the magazine and placement for awards. A staff meeting is then held to tally and finalize votes. Only after final selections have been made do the advisors reveal the identity of those individuals whose works have been chosen.

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