Gold Mine Issue 13

Front Cover Another Dance by Krystal

Solis

From the beginning, my work began as a self-narrative of my personal struggles and failures that slowly developed into a form of resiliency, strength, and hope. My work is an interpretation of my own emotions in a contemporary and surreal manner. The women figure within my work is the connecting point into delivering my message. The concepts and styles of the Art Nouveau era in mosaics, decorative design, as well as Japanese motifs are highly referenced in my images and sculptures. Elements of design of my own Hispanic culture are introduced in emphasizing my personal connection.

Inside Cover Life over Death by

Alyssa Cox

Birds carry heavenly themes as they fly through the sky. The vast openness of the heavens in this image helps to support that idea along with the encompassing and continuous nature of the circular picture plane. The symbolism of each bird in this composition contrasts in theme as much as their physical appearance. The dove, elevated in the image, stands for peace, life, and often represents the Holy Spirit in the Bible and Christian iconography. The raven in the distance acts as a symbol or bringer of death. It can be seen that the hands emerging from the bottom are outstretched, the left index finger making contact with the dove. This shows the individual’s decision to choose life over death.

Alyssa Beth Cox, Life Over Death, pastel, 20” diameter, Fall 2022

Gold The Mine

Cameron University

Art and Literary Journal Issue 13

-Editorial Staff-

Editor-In-Chief: Kaley Muse

Managing Editor: Ryn Swinson

Editors: Nicholas Spurlin

Layout & Art Director: Kaley Muse and Ryn Swinson

Copy Editors: Kaley Muse, Nicholas Spurlin, and Ryn Swinson

Faculty Advisor: Professor Leah Chaffins

Cover Design: Ryn Swinson

Social Media Manager: Ryn Swinson

-Special Thanks-

We would like to thank Thomas Juarez and his publisher for allowing us to use an excerpt from his new poetry collection: Every Moment is Now. We also want to give a special thank you to our alums and professors who sent submissions. Finally, thank you to everyone else that submitted and to every one that is reading this. None of this would be possible without you, thank you.<3

And special thank you to Professor David Bublitz and Beverly Norman for all their help.

-Cover Artby Krystal Solis

2022 John G. Morris Poetry Prize Winner

Doorstop

by Kayla Russell

On a black shelf, in the back of my closet, sits a doorstop from my childhood home. The metal spiral is lightly rusted and the white rubber tip is hardly white. It’s warped from years of carefree children slamming doors with no regard.

I will never again fly my green Honda Civic in reverse, up the driveway that pointed toward the sky, as my brother silently prayed we would make it to school.

I won’t walk on the decks that we built over an agonizing summer of missed play dates and after-church brunches.

I’ll never walk through the back door (Because the front door is more for decoration) Into a lime green kitchen. (Who paints a kitchen lime green?)

I won’t chase my siblings in a circle, from kitchen to dining room, down the hall, back into the kitchen, around the island, shrieking like wild banshees while my mother chastises us sternly fighting the wrinkles at the edges of her mouth. I’ll never again walk into the landscape of my memories. But I have the doorstop.

by Tereasa Neeley

Love Says

by Wendy Dunmeyer

I am that man, silk shirt crisp under navy silk tie and suit, Bluetooth in ear as he pumps super-unleaded into his Lexus and dismisses all else with a leer.

I am that woman, homeless, house wares harvested from Dumpsters and hoarded in shopping bags overflowing the shopping cart she shuffles in front of her.

I am that toddler, screaming and pummeling his fists on a shopping-cart handle in the checkout line because he wants a candy bar.

I am that mother, red-faced, seventeen, who cannot make that toddler stop.

I am that college freshman, first time away from home, life support pumping his lungs, hazed into a coma for wanting to belong.

I am that man, slumped against Dollar Tree, emaciated frame stunned from huffing paint.

I am that woman, whipping her coupe across two lanes to make a left turn from the right lane after her liquid lunch.

I am that eight-year-old boy, pulling his four-year-old sister’s hand as they cross a four-lane street for free summer lunch at the elementary school.

I am that eight- and four-year-olds’ father, high on meth he bought by selling his kids’ SNAP card benefits.

I am that pastor, Bible in hand, begging a mother not to be bitter because, instead of healing her son of brain cancer, God chose to take him home.

I am that widow, wandering the nursing home parking lot, lost in Alzheimer’s and senility—

Love says, I am all of you, bleary-eye exhausted, too broken to pray.

Miss the Way

by Courtney McEunn

I miss the way… my brother annoyingly yelled at his video games in the neighboring room, and how my sister constantly tried to show me her new toys.

I miss the way… my mom pushed me to help make dinner every night, and how my dad always pestered me about my schoolwork.

Now I live alone. No noise or toys, or homecooked meals, and no one to read my poetry.

2022 John G. Morris Poetry Prize Honorable Mention

Frozen Race of Time

by Stacy Pifer

Who can truly quantify time? Stephen, with his brief history, an oxymoron for the ages, only scratches at the surface. What physics cannot explain, time surely knows. Human creativity travels back and ahead in time, while the Now, Now is a time we let slip through our fingers. To hold time is to hold smoke loosely in clasped hands – it escapes from us as we attempt to breathe it or freeze it, hoping to trap it long enough to enjoy every precious second.

What does Stephen know of true love and time? When the two are bonded, such a sweet vapor wraps its tendrils gently around us, holds us loosely and lazily so we see no time – only each other’s hearts. But somehow these frozen moments cause time to mysteriously race away. Yet when we do pay heed to time and face the Now, it becomes a dense, inescapable fog that slows to a rolling crawl, which we ardently wish to speed up and clear away, so that we may enjoy all the infinitely precious seconds of our future together.

Fallspital Rooms

by Marty Hoyte

Allow me to give you a peek into my home life using pencil, ink, and a hospital bed sheet. My work incorporates many different mediums, all with the hope that I could allow people to understand my life through my art.

For example, in my work "Fallspital Rooms," I used various things I found outside and inside of my local hospital while my younger brother stayed inside. Eventually, I brought everything that was allowed inside, and we began to work. He placed objects on the paper, and I worked to get them printed in those spaces. Eventually, we came out with a finished piece!

The process took a while, but eventually came up with something we both liked. The entire art piece centered around his childhood allergies.

2022 Leigh Holmes Honorable

Mention

The Lonesome Crowded West

by Ryan Shows

February 16th, in the year of our lord 2022. I sit, drinking lukewarm coffee that I am unsure of, in my hometown that is much less romantic than the places I wish to illustrate in this sort of requiem. Lawton, Oklahoma would not begrudge you for saying that it is, was, and probably will be at the surface level, the less desirable Oklahoma, America. One prop I can give it, is that it is honest. Its swindles can be easily seen by a familiar floating eyeball, and a little prior knowledge. Its sloppy and dirty but it is my home, so it does warm my heart, like an ugly old woman with an illustriously grotesque, amusing past.

Anyways…

Now, on with the scenery and description of my experience with what I know as the great American West. I grew to love it in theory, and in many ways practice. My family has history in the Rockies, and we return to its splendor often. Montana was, and still is a place of dreams to me. A place where my grandmother and father grew into strange, storied mystics in my mind. The Butte Montana Irishmen and women I’ve come to meet share this characterization for the most part.

The title of this essay comes from an album by the band Modest Mouse. In short, the album struggles with the recent portioning and piecing up of the American West, and it’s growing corporatization, mostly by those like me who romanticize the region. A region where hipster hiker fly fisherman, lustfully geared to the teeth, meet suppliers and demanders who intuitively make their means dealing to tourists and adventurers. I almost did not want to include the inspiration for the title, but I suppose if I am ripping it off, I should give it credit.

I do not seek to demonize the West, or those who inhabit

and homestead it, but rather willfully light some of the things I see a bit disingenuous, counterintuitive, or antithetical about it and the human presence upon it.

June 26th, the year of our Lord 2021. Our months of desperate longing had finally led up to a departure beginning at 5:00 in the morning or thereabouts. Those with families like mine can attest that the estimated time of departure usually is 5:00 A.M. One man and three young men, whose names I will decline to truthfully give, depart toward the wild known country of western Montana, with a few subsequent stops along the way.

I started in the passenger seat that morning, my grandfather “Papa” driving, my cousin “Slim”, riding in the backseat driver’s side, and my good friend “Tank”, riding behind me. Me and Tank hoped to fly-fish with all the daylight the sun would save for us. We’d fish the rivers and small streams we’d only thought of anxiously. Papa and Slim would likely relax and soak in the memories and the good time the road and the RNR had to offer. We all had expectations of this excursion of most epic or tragic proportions, commonly known as a road trip or family vacation.

Two weeks across the Rocky Mountains.

The road, as you know, can get a little hazy after a while so for now I will spare the detail of a long and mostly boring ride swapping stick in the driver’s seat of a Cummins’ diesel truck, a little large and in charge for my taste. I will stick to the keys.

The first “moment of clarity,” was a stop in a town we’d learned was roughly two to two and a half hours1 from Roswell, New Mexico, although it might as well have been called “New Roswell” with as much extraterrestrial memorabilia they intended to pawn off on unsuspecting truck stop wanderers. This was one of the more wilder tourist/gas stations I had seen up to that point, and I have seen my share. We all went in and quickly found the bathroom. It was a normal road weary bathroom with the com-

mon bad tile and the lack of stupendous sanitation.

After that business, we were able to pay due to our surroundings. We found ourselves in a quite unusual place, but I will go ahead and describe the joint2 by this one illustration. In among the sale racks of shirts and other nick knacks was T-shirt that still now and possibly forever will lay infamously in the depths of my mind. A burgundy/red, smoky, tie-dyed shirt with a graphic of an alien in a Rasta beanie (Dred-locks included). Apparently, alien’s eyes are also subject to heavy lids after smoking the “free form herbal jazz,” or more common, Marijuana.

Now I have no qualms with the wacky tobacky, or extra-terrestrials for that matter, but still it was a bit weird as you may imagine. I happened to meet an extra-terrestrial next to the “Zoltar” machine perpendicular to the entrance of the restrooms. I cannot recall his full name but the title he worked under was “fortune teller”. I don’t feel you can put a price on a good fortune, but he stonewalled my future for the price of about a dollar. I figured I’d indulge, after all it was vacation and how many times do you get to meet a fella from foreign lands, lightyears away, contained in a plexi-glass box. I obliged, slipping him my dollar, subsequently receiving my foreshadowed conclusions through his receptacle. My fortune came in the form of a hard paper card printed by what I suppose is his boss, Fortune Teller Machines By Characters Unlimited, Boulder City, Nevada.

My fortune read:

You emerge from your recent fog and get down to business. Life becomes more serious and realistic. If a person takes no thought about what is distant he will find sorrow near at hand.

There is a need for good business judgement now. When things are going well it is all too easy to become over –confident and not give proper attention to one’s duties. If this tendency is recognized early it may be corrected and no harm will be done. You will also find time after business is settled for friends and or lovers. It is easy to see, hard to foresee.3

Your guess is as good as mine. My intentions, as far as my immediate future were to walk in to the “fog” and stray about twenty-four hours drive away from said “business”. Still, I thanked him with forward lips upon inward eyes and slid out the door to the large white pickup.

I half felt I had been graced with the wisdom of the blind railman from Oh Brother Where Art Thou, but the greater half of me felt more like I had given away a perfectly good portrait of George Washington. My good friend Tank also tried to have a brush with fate, but Zoltar was not so gracious. He stole my friend’s currency, which ultimately prompted a pissed off, premature walk to the truck.

That’s the thing with tourists, they seek to find fortune in places conquered long before their feet, hands and eyes graced them. Their soothsaying inhabitants understandably knowing just what to say. A grain of salt is too hard to find in a saltshaker.

But I’m now captain, and it’s still about a half days ride (in road years) to Buena Vista/Salida, CO.

in my heart, only lost to one another by a few miles of highway. Both lie next to the Arkansas river where Tank and I spent the bulk of our time fly-fishing. We bought just about every jigged stonefly nymph the local fly shop had because for one, we lost a good lot of them on the rocks and fallen timber branches, and two that was they only fly we really had luck with. Nonetheless, the shop owner was more than happy to supply us, we gave him pretty good business for the few days he knew us. Fly shop clercs all around liked us because we were younger than their normal crowd, and they didn’t have to teach us much about the river. Tank and I practice a form of trial-and-error fishing and when we find a fly that works, we’ll buy every one of them. The highlight of our short stay, other than finally finding some cool weather and the Rockies, was an odd stretch of river we found in Buena Vista. The river wasn’t odd, but it was absolutely stunning with big boulders and deep pools. We found a few brown trout willing for a face full of our stonefly nymphs. What made this stretch odd was the small town consisting of large apartment buildings that stuck out like a rising trout out of the landscape. It was quite literally riverside, and sort of separated from the “Real Buena Vista” I suppose. It seemed quite uppity and a little bohemian, but we stuck to the river and didn’t venture to far from it.

We ended up staying in Buena Vista/Salida for a few days. I love that country. I choose to stick their names together because to me they are too similar to delineate. They’re separate but equal

A rainstorm took us back to our hotel a few miles south in Salida, where we waited for a clearing to find another fish. We found ourselves back at the river on a different stretch. This spot was tipped off to us in a vague way by the fly shop owner previously mentioned. It was across a skinny concrete bridge, next to a skeleton of a construction site. I wonder what they were building. The side of the riverbank, opposite our position on the bridge was also vaguely described as private property. Tank and I sometimes find it hard to delineate private and public when we have a rod and reel in our hands. At first, we walked down and fished the safe

side of the bridge, but the water across looked to good. We talked it over and decided on playing dumb tourist if we were found to be on off limits land. People usually will give you the benefit of the doubt and just ask you to stop fishing or move, and we didn’t see anything we could accidently malice on the other side. Suffice to say we went ahead and passed under the bridge. Over on that side we found fish and a couple of decent stature but nothing too tremendous.

Tank said he’d go upriver, past a bend and find a hole up there, going far enough for me to lose sight of him in the trees. I sat in a pool half dreaming the day away and half fishing when I saw a black pickup truck I vaguely remember as an early 2000’s ford single cab crossing the bridge. It passed from my right to my left, turned around in the gravel parking lot, and stopped mid bridge. The soul driving exited the vehicle, placing his hand on the concrete rail and half yelled “Hey you can’t fish here!”, and repeated the sentiment onceover. I gave the customary wave4, and eventually made it up the bank and on the bridge, slow enough for the man to drive off and suspect I was alone. I waited for Tank and signaled to him it was a no-go. He joined atop the bank and at the truck he asked, “What’s the deal”? To which I replied, “Private”. He nodded and understood plainly.

Private property. A plague, a rat, a right. Freedom is wonderful, but there is a strange feeling seeing fences, locked gates, and posted signs across painted fields or roaring rivers. I understand it, but it’s disorienting nonetheless. Should it be so? If it was not so, would I be here?

Did Huck see the same things floating the Mississippi? Freedom, to divide and cast lots for old earth. All well intended I suppose.

We left Buena Vista/Salida, CO in search of a bigger sky, again around 5:00 A.M. enroute to Glacier National Park.

KOA cabin in Whitefish, Montana, one of the sort of sub-cities in the area. When we arrived the temperature read 99 degrees which was unexpected as I’d never felt that sort of heat so far North and the constant heat was different in that altitude. Perhaps since we were just that much closer to the sun. I’m no scientist.

The Flathead River ran beautifully through Whitefish out of Glacier. Some of the most magnificently clear water, over almost iridescent rocks pastel in color. In the river Tank and I caught quite a few of the fabled Yellowstone Cutthroat trout the area is famous for. The river, the fish and the prospect of going into The Park was what made the heat and the crowded campgrounds, stores and atmosphere bearable. You don’t necessarily think of Montana as feeling the least bit crowded, but in this instance it was. This area is quite popular due to the simple fact that Glacier is one of the most beautiful places on God’s green earth. I too can say I’ve been awe struck by its glory.

One day about mid-way through our stay, we got up before 5:00 A.M., as tired as we were, eager to witness Glacier. The reason we awoke so very early, was due to there being limited daytime access to the park. To keep the skinny, winding mountain roads safe for passage, you had to obtain a pass for entry into The Park. However, a small caveat was offered for those willing to brave the cold mornings. Entrance to The Park was free before 6:00 A.M., and we were not paying for any more fortunes. Of this world or the next.

Glacier5, much like the road, was a blur. We stayed in a

We hit the gates about 5:30 A.M. before the sun and most of the lazy tourists. The sun rose at 6, maybe 6:15 A.M., and we were witness to it. AWE. It was quite literally the sunrise of all sunrises, shedding light to the immovable mountains, and the wise old pines. From the time the sun blessed us, to near noon or maybe after (you lose time in Glacier, it’s a funny thing) we fished the easily accessible points of the Flathead River, catching dozens of cutthroat, not wild in size, but wild in tenacity. We had the time

of our lives catching the little devils by the baker’s dozen. Eventually we got a little tired and hungry. Catching that many bite sized fish would make any man that way. By that time of day, The Park began to hatch. Not with stoneflies, mayflies, or caddis, but with vehicles, people and artifice. Middle aged men and women with sun screened noses and necks. Kids of all ages running with little regard for most anything, as most kids do. When you’re a kid, most things like nature can get a bit boring. I suppose that’s why there were so many ice-cream and vendor stands around. You must give a kid some sort of reward for looking at all those boring rocks and trees. There was also a fair share of people more kin to Tank and I. Sort of fake hippies and Chaco6 enthusiasts I suppose.

We pulled in to the crowed in the ever-big Dodge Cummins diesel truck that shadowed even the most noble of Subaru Outback, Toyota Prius, and other more ergonomic cars this crowd would deem drivable. We evacuated our vehicle we had parked a good walk away and began a ginger mosey toward the fuss. We faced a multi-faceted slough of giftshops, containing various layouts of T-shirts, bumper stickers, fridge magnets and funny enough, homemade natural soaps, so carefully branded in Glacier’s image.

I naturally am a bit taken back by a large sensory overpower of crowds and consumers. The likes of which I am no doubt contributing to for I too bought my share of memorabilia. My concentration waned nonetheless; I became quite introspective amidst it all. A weird guilt warmed me like the sun passing a cloud and on to a naked shoulder. I felt as though Glacier, who I’ve come to personify in some way, was watching me. Not in any judgement, but still watching. The whole thing began to take on a feeling of extorsion, Glacier being extorted. The act of buying and selling destination pieces in the name of some poor spectacle. Mindlessly walking through crowds on the street, I see multiple

gift shops, selling all too similar apparel and trinket. In the name of a poor spectacle. Lost in the middle. Glacier could never be beaten, but it could be pawned? I don’t know if I share a lonely sentiment, but it all felt odd again. Should I be ashamed? What could I do about it? I still know it’s beautiful, in my bones I do. Lonesome in crowded wilderness, vast but not enough.

A few days later, a shorter drive to The Madison. A home for a week and then home again.

The Madison is a dream to the right mind. Plains, Mountains and a great river. Arguably one of the greatest. Once we were settled in our most cherished, amenity filled, air bnb, Tank and I could not be taken from the mighty Madison River. The river taught us a great deal. How to really fish and live by it. From Bear Trap canyon, a place Papa grew up when his father operated the dam controlling the flow down the steep and rocky walls, to Valley Garden, a popular public access paradise for a fly fisherman. We walked up and down banks, to a through willows. Dawn until dusk. The place we cherished the most however was not that big tailwater. It was a small spring creek upcountry known to me, and my family as North Meadow Creek.

North Meadow was without doubt the seclusion we desired. The tall willows around the portion of the creek known as “The Letter S,” hide you like drawn drapes on a window. I have never seen it, and not loved it. Forgive my morbid notion, but I wish for my ashes to be scattered there when I boot that grand bucket.

I had been up there many a time past, but this time I must admit I was a bit more nervous to see it. While I do love it, unconditionally it seems, we were informed before making the climb ore the rocky road that a pack of mountain lions had moved in. Perhaps that was an “urban wives’ tale,” but I do regard the opinion of a local Madisonian to be of great import. They know their

wildlife. Baring a loose cannon mountain kitty, a slap in the face by a Grizzly bear, or an insensitive mother moose, we were determined to have a little fun up there with our more formidable ecological counterpart, the brook trout. Tank and I, like any other fisherman, are indeed enamored by the hunt of big trophy brown, but the little native brookies we were after were beholden jewels to us.

Finally, we were up there. Under a canopy of conifers, standing next to life-size willows, pitching short casts into pockets and pools with our fly rods. Brook Trout are enough to make just about any grown man turn in to a child, and I’m willing to place a bet on that. They are quite easy to catch, and each one has the capability to out due any prestigious painter’s paintbrush with their bright orange toned bellies and blue and red spots. All different but all perfect.

The two of us stayed upcountry till the day began to close. We had finally had our fill but I’m not so sure we really wanted to be filled. We took the bank back to the truck and started undressing our tackle, when Tank came to the realization that he had misplaced his box of flies in the dense green growth of North Meadow. A box of flies in total worth about $300-$400 U.S. hard earned. We both sort of made a frenzy. Tank had a tendency of misplacing this box, but this time we knew it would be more of a challenge to find this treasure.

So we started out. Crossing the banks and bushes in search of this holy grail. Up and down The Letter S and back to the truck, once, twice, and more than likely three times over. As any good friend would I gave up about twenty minutes into the process and decided to wait by the truck. After about ten more minutes, Tank came by to tell me that he would make one more pass by the creek. I decided to help his final attempt for I had a feeling we would strike gold this go around.

About fifty yards from the truck, we found the box laying

in rather plain sight on a rock. We were perturbed but undoubtedly happy and felt perhaps the elements were in our favor. All that fuss for a plastic box containing hooks, thread, and feathers. Risking twisted ankles and possible mutilation from creatures who could catch more fish than we thought possible with only their mouths. Ironic but comical. Human fragility. What a feeling, to be helpless, short of a few tools to assist. The West is lonely and crowded, and probably will be for a while.

To it all we said goodbye and made the voyage home, thankfully intact. From the Madison, a night in Colorado, and then home. My thoughts may conflict me about that wild known country, but I will be back to let it grace me soon enough.

Footnotes:

1-“Two or two and a half hours” better translates to, “whenever we get there” or, “I don’t know, so stop asking”.

2-Pun intended.

3-The format of the fortune is true to how it was written on the card.

4-This wave signals “I know I’m in the wrong. Please don’t get sore about it”.

5-“The Park” or “Glacier” referring to Glacier National Park.

6-Chaco’s are a popular sandal worn by hikers, fisherman, and fake hippies alike.

Kaleidoscope I

by Dayton Horn

Kaleidoscope I is a gouache painting that is 14 by 17 inches. It was created in the Color course to emphasize warm colors, cool colors, tints, and shades. I enjoyed the process of creating this artwork because I was able to get the experience of mixing pigments by overlapping using washes, dry brushing, and flat match color. I plan to create a series of nonobjective paintings like this because it was such an enjoyable process.

From Every Moment is Now: A Poetry Collection

A Ride Through the Night

by Thomas Juarez

I ride, and the steed on which I ride, changes as often as my mind, though I have no mind.

Today, my steed neighs, shaking the vast emptiness around me, reminding me that I have been circling a clouded, blue planet which I once called home. It is a constant reminder of what it means to be ordinary. Indeed, It is a constant reminder of what it means to be grounded, and of what it means to have skin, and flesh, and bone. All are gone, and

Today, I am what earthly beings would consider to be celestial, yet I am not Lord.

I ride, and the blue mass which I have circled for the past year releases me, enveloping me in stardust as

I re-imagine myself now, as a knight clad in armor. I imagine my stallion to be equipped in much the same manner and I imagine our path through the night of the day. On this path, I imagine each moment grants a promise of rebirth, and another day just like this.

I ride, and in this moment, I captain a porpoise, commanding every move with my mighty trident, for—

Today, I am set adrift upon the waves of celestial oceans, gliding over dream-filled starfish. Ha—

folding space into origami figures is like time travel for beginners. Tiny pockets of venture conceal themselves between rogue folds but are easily avoided by remaining centered on time. But time, it waits on no one, and none knows

time. For time is the metaphor and space, the immeasurable. Today,

I passed the ice giant as if it were a pebble. Its frosty aura reminds me of a previous life, yet

I ride, tugging on the reins of my hydra. Veering left of the bright star at the foot of the hunter, passing safely into his core as my beast and I are sucked into blue, and we are sucked into red. The history of mankind hits me like a rainstorm. Lightning crackles and thunder booms as a battered mass is granted mercy. The inherent goodness of man warms my heart as, once again, I ride, slung from reflections of a species two steps from doom, and three steps from greatness.

Today, all that was wrong was made right, and all that was fractured was mended.

As molecular clouds breathe me in and I, once again, am bathing in pools of reflection: I am the seed within the womb. Light beckons me forward as I claim the sentient being’s heartbeat. This was my life. My crawls, my walks, my falls, my falling in love, and though I died, love remains, and

Today, I emerge from my reflection, headed for absolution, headed for the mighty beetle, so

I ride atop a great horned beetle of my own making. Together, we are one. Together, we are fierce.

But the hunter plucks me from the night and laughs as he fashions my beetle into an arrow which he uses to taunt the twins, teasing both Castor and Pollux with a meal they cannot taste. Found by the hunter to be deserving, I am to be launched through the expanse of the night. Into night to search for the day.

I ride the arrow of the hunter through the night of the day. For, through

the eloquent darkness,

Today,

I see past the charioteer, to wheels which feed the night air, allowing the fires of the kiln

belonging to the Goat Star to affix fresh souls to human clay before blasting them through the night and to the blue planet which I once called home, that place— so ordinary. I feel goodness as a bright vessel whistles past me. May you be forever brave, and may you be forever kind, but as for me,

Today, I have landed so softly ‘pon shores made from the petals of the cherry blossom.

I ride no more. Be this the beginning, or be this the end, I have arrived— home.

“A Ride Through the Night” Artist Statement

I wanted to create a poem that was a unique journey through space and time. I used celestial objects in the night sky and imagined a new purpose for them. These objects are not used in any accurate or scientific method, and nothing within the work should be perceived to be fact. This was one poet’s attempt at creating his own mythology. Please, read on if you would like an explanation of this imaginary path:

1. The narrator’s soul has been circling the earth for an entire year.

2. The narrator is released from the earth’s orbit (the time has come).

3. The narrator begins the ride and discovers time travel by way of folding space, this results in the narrator’s near-instant arrival at the ice giant (Uranus).

4. The bright star near the feet of the hunter (Orion) is Rigel.

5. I envisioned the nebulae at the bottom of Orion as showing the narrator various reflections of mankind’s journey.

6. Exiting these nebulae, the narrator is thrust into one more nebula. This time, the narrator is offered some self-reflection along with the promise that love is never-ending.

7. The beetle facing the narrator is meant to be the Betelgeuse, located on what one might consider being the left shoulder of Orion (at least that’s how I see it).

8. Orion claims the narrator’s steed and transforms it into an arrow, whipping that arrow through the Gemini constellation (Castor and Pollux).

9. The narrator is found to be worthy, so is shot from Orion’s bow.

10. In transit, the narrator catches a glimpse of the Goat Star in the Flaming Star Nebula. I wanted to show human clay being formed from and the soul being attached. (more of my mythology).

2022 John G. Morris Poetry Prize Honorable Mention

Marc and Kali by Ryan Shows

Nice to me you, my name is Kali

And this is my husband Marc

Come with us we’ve got a spot off the highway

Nothing much just a few tarp tents

We’ve got a can of beans now if you’re hungry

Or you can go down to the creek if you’re thirsty

Yeah they love you, they’re just too scared to say

It’s hard to know what can go till you been down this way

If you don’t mind me asking

How’d you end up like us

See Marc lost his job about a year ago

And I’ve got cancer, Bills couldn’t get paid

Been on the streets for the better part of a 6 months

You say you had a son, Well we do too

I’d give anything to see him again

He died back in time of an overdose

But anyway it’s all the same

Yeah they love you, they’re just too scared to say

It’s hard to know what can go till you been down this way

Sometimes we go out, Peddle the median

Get a couple bucks to buy things

Sometimes you’ll get some change, Sometimes a just a stare

Cuts right through, it’s hard to say

You feel the winters in your bones, Summer in your hunger

The winds a friend you’ll get used to it

Yeah they love you, They’re just too scared to say

It’s hard to know what can go till you been down this way

Yeah they love you, they’re just too scared to say

Wouldn’t want to see too much of themselves in you, Anyway

Home by Leah Chaffins

She still dreams about the factory, the machines, The internal trucks whipping past. She dreams she is on a load of rubber, on the top, Dodging Ibeams that line the ceiling. She rolls

From one side to the others, as it speeds Down the center aisle, out of control. She jumps

From the side to the back, Trying not to be smashed

By an on-coming load that narrowly misses Her ride.

6:45 a.m. the rogue voice, forlorn, Sings out on a plant wide intercom system.

7-7 rotating between night and day, Sanity and the surreal.

Night shift, the man walks past her machine

Cradling what is left of one hand

In the other, still complete, Whole hand. A trail of blown-out flesh

And blood drip from between his fingers. Day shift: at the guard shack, a man paints the in-road With a shotgun and his brains. Night shift: where is that machine operator?

Disappeared.

Into the machine.

Into memories.

The rotation spins

Mostly out of control.

She does this for her child

And husband. What is love?

“Smile for me,” she thinks as she walks Out the door. He takes her daughter to Another woman when the night shift

Rolls in. A woman, a lover, who carves Her from her family

As deftly as a poacher cuts the tusk

From the bull. She pulls more hours, Buys him a motorcycle, a new truck. In the back yard, a Barbie jeep is parked In front of a wooden, swing set castle. The pool is lined with blue tiles.

“Smile for me.”

More overtime, and a West Coast vacation. Maps and motels, Family pictures in front of the sky needle. Temecula, California where the sand

Shaves the cacti raw, she finally measured the distance Between them. She had become a phantom

In her family’s reality. Home a lost speck

Of dust in the devil. The factory never stilled. Through dirty windows, she could not see the sky Turn a blue seen right before the sun sets.

Vertical Living by

Dayton Horn

Vertical Living Room is an 18 by 24 inches pen drawing that I created in Design I. This was for one of my first collegiate art courses in which we were educated about the repletion of lines creating value and composition. This setting is located in my parent’s living room. I chose this composition because this is where my family makes the most memories. From board game night to movie night, I wanted to capture a room that I am very fond of.

The Runt

By Ryn Swinson

As a girl, I caught shooting stars on my tongue, swallowed wishes as my mom washed my hair sitting between her legs on the porch, we waited till it rained, but my mother could never tolerate a balloon.

I befriended pigs and chickens, forced hens to tell me the truth as I shrank to the size of a pea, sleeping in their families’ nest. Hoping they’d let me stay, or swallow me like a shooting star, wish for freedom, tolerate a balloon.

Until a miasma of despair woke me, outside a mother pig’s glands were swollen with milk as a runt was carried away, screaming for momma. Frankie slaughtered the runt with a dull ax and fed it bloody and raw to his dogs.

No place for tears, I sharpened the ax, still bloody from the last runt, I cut off my own tail. Maybe now I could eat bullets rather than swallow wishes, like how my brother carries foxes in quart berry baskets and how my stepdad molests screws in the barn.

Still, no one can tolerate a balloon.

Momma Doesn’t Love Me

by Wendy Dunmeyer

That’s what she says, and what she means is she doesn’t want me. She wishes I were never born.

That’s what she says and what she means when she breaks the yardstick across my back, bruises the belt across my thighs— that’s how I learn to spell my name and tie my shoes. Stupid girl.

That’s what she says, and what she means is if she, my momma, doesn’t want me, doesn’t love me—

That’s what she says, and what I believe is true—if Momma doesn’t want me, doesn’t love me—

Why would you?

Wishful Thinking

by Kaley Muse

Toss pennies into the wishing wells in hopes that someone will love me. Pray for the bigger half of the wishbones yearning, longing that someone will love me.

Wish on the shooting stars begging the Heavens for someone to love me.

Blow on fluffy dandelion tufts careful not to utter my wish aloud that i’m wishing for someone to love me.

My birthday candles

Every year

Suffer the same futile fate— please I just want to be loved.

Homeland by Jordan Mackey

You wonder why we’ve lost our way,

Walking aimlessly in the dirt wondering the plains

Voiceless; the spirit has hidden, but not left us

Quite yet

To call her back we must relive our worth

To touch the bare grass with the twist of our toes

Rubbing lines into the dirt

Wandering, hopeful of a rebirth

Mouths full of sugar, slurs and sadness.

Repent. Refresh. Realize.

Grab your regalia, dance to the stars of the night sky

Welcome back the earth and its welcoming embrace

It has forgiven us before, when we once lost our way.

It has helped us grow, adapt to the change of the modern world.

But it cannot be forgotten, all the glory and wisdom it has given us.

We are from the earth, and for the earth we are grateful.

Untitled

by Susan Morren

As a Design 1 student, I was given a studio problem of creating a monochronic work of art using textures from objects we find. The two textures I used were a flower relief on the bottom of a glass bowl, as well as the text print on a pill bottle. I wanted to use a dominant shape motif, and I thought the circle would be appropriate. To create this work, I used two techniques, rubbing and prints. For the flowers I rubbed charcoal on recycled newspaper. For the circular test, I used an ink pad and stamped the bottle cap to the paper. If you look closely, youcan see the focal point being the stark contrast between light and dark of the flower rubbings in the top right corner.

The Moon

by Rosemarie Billings

The unsure path shrouded in darkness.

Fear Anxiety Danger

all lurking behind shadows

Quietly watching and waiting.

The dim light fades and darkness overcomes. Intuition says stop.

The outside is calm and quiet but inside insecurity and chaos reigns.

Uncertainty Illusion

Vagueness

Nothing is as it seems.

The dimly lit moon uncovers the path and intuition says step forward.

Dog and wolf, tamed and wild.

Howl together at the moon.

The Star

by Rosemarie Billings

Twinkle, twinkle, little star. It’s been hard

And it’s been rough. Everything just fell apart.

Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. Just barely a flicker, It felt so faint.

Hopelessness sparked into a promise.

Thanks you for your tiny spark. Through the chaos And destruction, Grew a strength that was never known.

And often thro’ my curtains peep. This serenity many hope to keep. Relishing in peace and calm, While healing the wounded soul.

Strength turned into courage. Courage transformed into inner peace. A new core being, one of resilience and inner power, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Jousting A Fix for the Dark

by Dr. John G. Morris

Sudden change claws open dire crisis from any exposed surfaces. Today, as sunlight flickers out on low branches and dusk rises like smoke from its embers, a squirrel chews on a circuit breaker. With a loud thud, every one of the rooms darken in the three tiny houses wired to that one power distribution pole.

The inmates plunge into the twilit gloom that clearly enlightens their chemical dependence upon the technology. After someone types a shaky report, a quickly dispatched technician expands an insulated tool and stabs with it many feet up into the dusk to unhook the charred fuse that joins the jolted corpse.

Balancing against sudden gusting breeze to keep alignment, he thrusts his lance again, bringing up the fix for those edgy and jittery for light in their darkness, latching new fuse to hook and connecting the ground to the circuit, making that which had been shattered whole again, his artistry deft and his duty fulfilled.

Instantly, lamps blaze on once again, heaters drone back to life, and customers formerly jonesing in deepening shadows stir in the reappearing glow and sigh.

China Dolls by Ryn Swinson

Daughters tend to be like pretty possessions.

The china dolls line the solid surfaces of your grandmother’s guest bedroom, painted pink, lined with doe eyes and Goldilock curls and a scent only familiar in church bathrooms, or your grandmother’s hugs.

Your grandfather insists on keeping this door shut, but you sneak in anyway. Unafraid of their wide eyes and still faces, brushing fingers along the well-kept shelves, eyeing the still glossy Mary Janes with virgin white stockings. These dolls, these girls are untouched, too fragile for human hands to grasp,

breakable and irreplaceable. You once watched your grandfather, strong hands, worn from age, grasp a doll. He was too clumsy, too quick, too rough.She smashed into pieces, glass arms and legs shattering, sliding across the wood floor. Her face, forever young, swept up by your grandmother’s broom and forever forgotten.

You wonder. If I were to have a daughter…

Doe eyes, Goldilock curls?

Would she too be so easily breakable?

So easily destroyed and disregarded by men. But I picture my daughter, clawing her way out of me, red-faced, kicking, screaming.

I’d pray she hold onto her anger, that her face keep its scowl, that her teeth become sharp, her voice remain piercing. I’d pray that she not let the men who hurt her forget her. I’d pray that one day, those men be walking through a room and a glass shard slice their feet.

I pray she never be forced to endure this world. I pray she never be born.

On a Clear Day

by Diane Denham

When I was assigned the task of doing a landscape painting in oils, the Wichita Mountains surrounding the beautiful little town I am happy to call home, was my first thought. Medicine Park offers a multitude of hiking opportunities and I remembered taking a long walk with friends and their bouncy pup. It was a beautiful day in spring with all the wild flowers at the peak of their bloom. I took a few photographs and the painting is a combination of those pictures. I am very happy with the result and especially pleased that the work shows so many of the fantastic colors in the rocks and soil as well as the remarkable vegetation. And above it the beautiful clear blue sky. A day to remember.

Fall Field Crickets

by Wendy Dunmeyer

I.

Crickets invade my aloneness uninvited, their acoustic radiations hidden discords stridulating from dark closets, darkest corners beneath the bed,

bookshelf, sofa, even between

stovetop burner coil and plate, where one trills tease chirps confident in undetection until sullen

October rains drive me to crave potato soup, and the suspect leaps out with a screech and scorched wings.

II.

November snows;

the crickets left for wherever crickets winter. Silence echoes their haunts, their call, court, and triumph songs echoic memories, sounds white as windows

frost flecked, opaque, too cold to see beyond.

Tracers by Molly Sizer

Tracers shoot from fighter jets over the Wichita mountains that stand ancient and alone in southwest Oklahoma.

Buffalo, elk, and crow hear the double sound, booms deep like a drum. Another tracer half a second further east, two white puffs with tails like commas.

The jet-roar burns closer and lower, I sense the mountains quake and expect the aircraft to erupt from the broken granite valley below.

The engine shifts and turns south to the Army post then circles back to the Air Force base sixty miles and seven minutes west.

It’s just a simple practice run, repeated there and back again except for the sound waves refracting off the mountains.

Moon Rising over Refuge and Fort Sill by Molly Sizer

Fireflies by Rosemarie Billings

When I’m deep into a depressive episode, it’s especially difficult for me to see the good in anything. It’s challenging for me to even think of any memories that are happy because the only thing that’s swirling around in my miserable, unhappy brain is the thought of being stuck in a hole where the walls continue to grow taller. No matter how hard I try to crawl out of this wretched hole, all the what if’s and all the could have beens twist and turn like a destructive tornado above me. It’s all darkness and self-hatred until I go outside to get my trashcan from the curb and hear… crickets. There is something about the chorus of chirping crickets that unlocks a memory from my childhood that reminds me, life wasn’t always so rough. I wasn’t always in survival mode.

My dad is retired Army and I was lucky enough that we spent most of his career stationed in Germany. Once a year, my parents would pack my brother and I up for the long flight back to Virginia to stay with my dad’s side of the family for a few weeks during the summer. My grandparents lived in a gated community, Lake Monticello, known for the several small lakes that were scattered around the large property. Their house was on a steep hill with the small beach to one of those lakes across the street from their house. One summer, when I was about ten years old, a new family had moved in next door to my grandparents, and I became friends with Amanda. She was roughly about my age and loved animals as much as I did. We used to spend entire days either exploring the wooded area around my grandparents’ house like we were fairy princesses on a grand adventure or pretending to be mermaids in our underwater kingdom while we splashed around in the lake.

One day, we had spent the entire afternoon splashing and playing in the water and decided to take a break for snacks on the beach. We sat together, peacefully eating chips and a peanut butter

sandwich my grandmother made for us and watched as the sky over the lake faded from bright blue to vibrant oranges and purples. A cool breeze wafted by as the crickets began their beautiful song. It wasn’t too long until the crickets were then joined in by frogs, toads and other little creatures that wake up as the night falls. My friend saw them first, the faintest little yellow twinkles flickering in the wooded area next to the lake. Fireflies.

Excited giggling filled the air as we collected our things, threw on our sandals, and made a beeline for the wooded area. Amanda and I climbed over the fallen tree logs and other vegetation as we made up a story about how these little bugs were actually little fairies in the woods and if we caught one, we could whisper a wish to the fairy and it would come true. Amanda caught her first firefly in a matter of minutes, made her wish and released her twinkling fairy back into the world. A firefly flickered around my head for a few seconds before I finally caught it and gingerly cupped it in my little hands. I moved my thumbs to create a little opening and watched as the bright yellow hue would dim and then brighten, dim and brighten. It was almost hypnotic to watch the light slowly fade away because just when I thought the light was gone forever the bright light illuminated the palms of my hands. I held magic for the first time in my little hands that evening. I pulled my hands close to my lips and whispered my wish to the little fairy before freeing it back into the world, my big wish being carried away by its tiny wings.

Just like that I’m back on my curb and the cricket serenade continues as I drag my trash can up the driveway while searching for the little blinking sprites. Instead of whimsical little lights twinkling in the late-night sky, I’m met with darkness and disappointment as the only light I see is the one by my front door, illuminating the way back to my porch. I miss how easy things were when I was a kid. The sweet childlike innocence in believing that fireflies were fairies who could grant wishes and not feeling the crushing

weight of everything on my fragile soul.

My grandfather passed away when I was a teenager and a few short years later so did my grandmother. My dad and his siblings decided that it would be best to sell the house on the lake and move on. I wish I could go back there. I wish I could visit that beach one more time. Just one more chance to sit in the sand and listen as the gentle waves lap against the shoreline, to watch the sun slowly set as the crickets begin their nightly concert. I want to make my way to the little wooded area tucked away from the tiny beach and try to catch a little glowing fairy in my hands and make a wish to be happy again. If only I had a firefly and a little bit of magic.

Oh Ophelia

by Courtney McEunn

When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, And mermaid-like awhile they bore her up, Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and endued Unto that element. But long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.

-Queen Gertrude Hamlet (Act IV scene iv)

sweet, young, innocent woman, unaware of the harsh reality that was your life, and your death.

you lie beautifully in the transparent stream surrounded by poppies, daisies, pansies. the only parental figure you have left is Mother Nature and she too aided in your downfall. where once stood an elegant woman dressed in silk and sapphires, now lie a tortured mind, victimized by loyalty and love.

the flowers that surround you wither with each slowing breath you take. your beauty holds you down as the water takes you for itself.

the decision you made was not for love

but for control. control over your body and mind one last time before you submerge fully into your muddy death.

After Ophelia by John Everett

Disassociation

by Dayton Horn

Disassociation is a 14 by 17-inch mixed media, nonobjective piece that was created in the Color course. It is titled Disassociation due to the feeling I was creating it. Its sole purpose was to explore the compliments of yellow and purple, as well as blue. I was able to use card board, book pages, and fabric to create the composition of this piece. For the pigment, I used gouache and acrylic paints. I chose to incorporate book pages because I wanted to incorporate my love for reading in this mixed media piece.

Why I Love Musicals, Film and Theatre

by Sydney Dalby

When I turned eight years old, I had an interest in my Ka-ku’s (Comanche for Grandmother) taste in music and movie’s. Whenever I would go over to her house, she would often play old movies and musicals. I loved every moment, spending time with her and learning her interests. Aunt Lisa is my Ka-ku’s third oldest daughter with special needs who lives with my Ka-ku. My sister’s and I would often play in my Aunt Lisa’s room. While Aunt Lisa helped Ka-ku cook, she would play heavy metal music in the kitchen because Ka-ku knew Lisa couldn’t be without it. While playing in Aunt Lisa’s room, Ka-ku would play random movies. In one case, she wanted us to watch something very special. The movie was called Grease. This movie still brings back so many memories from my Ka-ku in her younger days. I felt she missed her teen years and wanted to relive it by showing us the only way she could. She sat there and watched Grease with us for a while. The look on her face said it all and stayed with me. She looked so happy. After watching this movie, she showed me other musicals such as West Side Story, Singin’ in the Rain, Guys and Dolls, and other 50s musicals. It was all because of her, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. In her own way, she showed me the way to her heart. The movie brought memories and tears to her eyes. That was the first time I ever saw my Ka-ku light up.

However, it was not the last. Elvis was a big part of her life, and he became mine too. I would watch his movies like Jailhouse Rock, Blue Hawaii, and Viva Las Vegas with her. Every year, she would dress up for Elvis Presley’s birthday in August, wearing a poodle skirt, button up blouse, her high ponytail, and makeup. As I was watching her get ready for work dressing as a youthful girl from the 1950s seemed to bring her so much joy. I would do anything to see her dress up one more time. Ka-ku’s love for music

was not only for the King of Rock and Roll. She also enjoyed other genres of music.

One day when I was I was a small child, she went shopping at Walmart and she called my Mother to come pick her up. Being so young, I was not aware what chemo was or that Ka-ku was sick. My sister’s and I accompanyed our Mother to Walmart to pick up Ka-ku. On our way we were listening and singing along to Al Green. When Ka-ku and Aunt Lisa got into the car with us, Ka-ku was amazed that we all knew all the lyrics to Al Green song. She laughed and sang with us, as we took her home.

In 2007, she passed away from cancer. The magic of our beautiful bond came to an end. Our last musical we watched together was the first musical I started with her, which was Grease.

I wanted to be in theatre in middle school, but the classes were always full. I never got a chance to attend one class despite trying multiple times to get in. The school put me in choir, which I was fine with because of my love for musicals. I made my own explorations into musicals. I found many Broadway musicals that I just fell in love with, from Les Miserables, Miss Saigon, Seven Brides

for Seven Brothers, How to Succeed in Business Without Really

Trying, Hamilton, Into the Woods, Hairspray, Sweeney Todd, Dreamgirls, The Phantom of the Opera, Newsies, Sound of Music, and more. One day, I realized that with all of the musicals I watched, all I really wanted to do was to see her smile again. These movies open the windows to the past where I can still see her smile.

I still love musicals, and because of this, I have always wanted to know what it was like being in a film. I used to watch my favorite movies with the behind the scenes making of the film. I was fascinated by everything it took to make a movie, especially the actors that had to pretend at times that there were imaginary animals, spaceships, dinosaurs, and more. It was their purpose to make their reactions believable so the audience in the theater

would believe it too.

I notice behind the scenes, the director would talk to the actors beforehand and describe to them what they want to see. It was incredibly interesting to me because when they got that piece of information, the actors would know what to do, including improvise their own mannerisms in that scene as if they’re touching a mythical beast or something. It really is the magic of the movies and actors that brings the realism to life.

Even though we have evolved from silent films, I believe we can learn something from those movies. Since the beginning of film-making, silent films have shown us that expression and mannerisms matter to the audience. Such films, of course, did not have audio to give feedback to the audience. Without the audio, the film-makers had to think of a way to reach the audience while keeping them intrigued. For example, Charlie Chaplin, one of the most famous directors and actors in the world, thought of a way to keep his audience entertained. He would express to his audience without saying a word by using expressions and mannerisms. In his films, he would do outlandish things to get a laugh out of the audience but with just that he knew how to connect with them.

I wanted to be in films so much, I did multiple auditions. The first one was for Killers of the Flower Moon. For that one, I didn’t expect an audition at all. Along the ride there, my Stepdad was with me; he drove all the way to Oklahoma City at four in the morning to take me to this casting call. I am forever grateful for him for bringing me. He didn’t have to but he did and for that I’m blessed. I simply went there for a part as an extra, but they took a liking to me. They then wanted me to audition for a role. The excitement of this opportunity made me thrilled. They handed me a script, and told me to start reading and studying. I kind of knew how to read a script, but I had only limited knowledge about it.

Right next door was a room where I saw other people reading scripts. I walked into that room, and I sat down with the

script they provided me. I read the script multiple times trying to remember it, but I didn’t get the right emotions that it said on the paper. I felt stuck, and I didn’t want to mess up my chance with this amazing opportunity. With so many people in the room, it was surprisingly quiet.

Thankfully, there were these people with us in the room who help you understand the script and proceeded to stay by your side until you finally get it. I was absolutely thrilled because it was my first time, and I wasn’t at all terrified. After I read the script many times, they called me to the room with the casting director, and I felt excited. I walked in and saw the camera, chair, backdrop, and casting director behind the camera.

Just seeing her made me feel like I should be scared but, like any other person, she is there to do her job. The audition went well. I didn’t stay too long because I believe I was not the type of person they were looking for. I was too young, old, or maybe not convincing enough.

After the audition, I felt happy just knowing that they saw me, and I was in the casting system. If I didn’t get a role or a part as an extra, it wouldn’t be a downfall to me because I had the confidence to go and see how it all works. Robert De Niro said “I always tell actors when they go in for an audition: Don’t be afraid to do what your instincts tell you. You may not get the part, but people will take notice.”

The second audition I went to was a few days after. This one was for the Hulu series Reservation Dogs. It is about a group of Native American teens in Oklahoma wanting to leave their reservation. The casting call said “No experience needed,” and I wanted to try it out and see what would happen. The audition was in Oklahoma City again except not at the same location. It was at a hotel in a conference room with so many teens showing up with their parents. I was 21 at the time. I thought I was too old to be there. There were other adults showing up a bit later going for either the same

role or background characters. I was just happy to have an audition. Even though I didn’t get the role for that one either, I did get a role three years later for a Marvel show called Echo. I was absolutely excited when I got the call. I told my friends and family about it, and they were all happy for me. I didn’t audition for Echo. I simply sent in a photo of myself and information so they can contact me. I flew all the way to Atlanta, Georgia for the role, and I had an amazing experience. I can’t say too much as of the time of this writing because I had to sign an NDA. My stepdad accompanied me to this, as well.

This was an experience that I can never forget.

Now, that I am at college I wanted to get closer to my dreams of being an actor. My major is Theatre of Arts, and I am very happy with my choice. Theatre is something that I was fascinated by. I always wanted to get more involved in that area. I got involved in the crew and background when I didn’t get a part in the shows. My Mother said to never be disappointed, so I wasn’t. I am thankful for every opportunity I get no matter what. These experiences are what I am striving towards, and it makes me happy. When an opportunity comes, go for it. It’s not every day that a person gets the chance to do something extraordinary and make their mark on history.

My reasons for choosing my career path has been the highlight of my life. I’m grateful to my family and friends who have supported me over the years. Without their encouragement, I don’t think I would have had the confidence to follow my dream in life. I want to be involved in musicals, films, and theatre for the rest of my life. I still feel my Ka-Ku presents with me today. She gives me the strength to continue on our musical journeys together in spirit. God has blessed me with the best support in the world and for that I am grateful.

Lady with Fan by Krystal

Solis

A portrait of my dear friend Madison Skinner. This work was directly inspired by Gustav Klimt’s Lady with Fan as a modern-day woman. Elements of the Art Nouveau movement are displayed with expressive and detailed painterly marks.

Oil on canvas

The Woman with Two Spirits

by Jordan Mackey

Inside me there are two spirits and they are constantly at war.

One who belongs to the woman that lives in the brick corner house. White picket fence bordering the corners, giving life to the rose bushes.

A solid structure to grow alongside. She has beautiful blonde hair That rests gently above her shoulders. The Morning breeze She speaks softly, and asks for permission to feel. She wears long flowy dresses, hair up in an uninformed bun and Keeps herself presentable for the unexpected guests. In times of hardship and worry she internalizes her trauma. Keeping sweet little secrets, Whispering thanks and wishes of tomorrowland.

Her days are passed with children and laughter. Keeping the Happiness in her pocket, ready to ignite it. Flame in hand. The other woman lives on the outside of town, in a factory made home.

Her hair is braided with health, strength and wisdom passed down from her ancestors. Flowing and skimming the mid of her back.

Whisking in the wind like the cattail surrounding the tree outside her window.

Sounds of rez dogs fighting in the distance keep her calm at night. She shows power in her voice, and silences those in her path. She wears beaded earrings that she made herself, a black shirt And completed by her ribbon skirt resting at her ankles. When they see each other on the street, they make no sound. There are no hello’s or how do you do’s. No casserole made to be shared together after a loved one's passing. No long conversations on the phone sharing theories after a first date.

Inside me there are two spirits and they are constantly at war. And the one who is winning is slowly killing the other.

Her

Dance

by Krystal Solis

My work is rooted deeply to my Hispanic connections in capturing the Mexican American experience. Expressive in the mark making and gestural approach. "Her Dance" is a starting point for myself as an artist to create and interpret my life in the United States but also take tribute to my cultural beginnings.

Monarchs and Mint Ice Cream

by Kaley Muse

Walking from the ice cream parlor, Your hand brushes mine. My stomach flips and flips. My heart, a stampeding herd of cattle in my chest. Never have I ever felt like this. Never have I ever had someone want, Me.

Stopping at our cars, You look into my eyes. Surely you hear my thundering heart. “You’re just going to have to do it.” You pull me in. A kaleidoscope of butterflies explodes in my stomach. It’s awkward. Rushed. New. Exhilarating.

And then it’s over. I pull away too soon. Am I about to throw up? Is this the happiness I have been chasing my entire life?

I drive home in the dark. I can’t stop smiling. Butterflies still fluttering in my belly, At every new thought of you. The taste of mint ice cream still on my lips.

Wildflower

by Courtney McEunn

When I met you, I was only a small bud. Clinging to the only patch of grass next to the river, I wanted to thrive. The first week of Spring, the season of my birth. I was ready. I grew into a long stem, two healthy leaves sprouting onto me until the tide that was you came in too strong and swallowed me.

The river that once fed my soil grew out of control, as if it feared the beautiful organism I would become. You drowned me until the season was over, and I was nothing less than a concept, buried in the Earth, hoping I could be reborn the following year. As seasons passed, I watched your waters run rapidly, destroying everything in your path. Anger roiled you as you searched for your next victim.

That next Spring, I began to heal and come alive again, hoping for my chance to sprout. You saw me struggling to revive and, somehow, you let me. I learned more of myself as I developed a stem, leaves, and color. You watched me

become more than the sad plant I was the previous year. But you wanted more control of my growth. The fury that kept you raging became stronger, swallowing me back again,

taking my leaves with it as a souvenir of my weakness.

The cycle continued for years.

The more I learned about myself, the more you took from me. Until one Spring, you let me grow a little too much, and I blossomed into the perfect flower I was meant to be and with that, you no longer wanted to take my beauty. The stream ran clear and calm, feelings that I no longer possessed. I grew and spread all over that patch of grass like weeds, out of control.

All you could see is me.

Medical Gown

by Dayton Horn

Medical Gown is an 18 by 24-inch charcoal drawing that was created in Drawing I. With hatching and cross-hatching, I was able to create highlights and shadows on the grey-toned paper. I chose an up-close view of the gown to draw emphasis on the unique folds of the fabric, as well as the hints of pattern throughout the composition. With hatching and cross-hatching, I was able to create highlights and shadows on the grey-toned paper. The inspiration of this piece was to bring attention to the health care workers during the pandemic.

Hormone Replacement

by Wyn Jessie

“Shot day”

Chimes my weekly 4pm calendar reminder, As I sigh and try my best To pluck up the energy To begin.

To pull out the syringes, the needles. The testosterone vial and the prep pads. Last but not least, The medical waste container, Which sits idly by An idle participant in our weekly routine.

How long have we been performing this old song and dance? Microdosing masculinity week by week, Month by month, Pretending it’s not a chore, A waste.

When I first filled our prescription, I loaded the syringe up with care, With unsteady fingers and wide, hopeful eyes And when I took the plunge, I felt reborn, Newly baptized in the religion That is my transition.

Now I am older and the routine is as constant to me as waking up in the morning, As mundane as brushing my teeth, So tedious and boring that sometimes I skip doses Just to see how it feels.

Do not misunderstand -

I am grateful for these vials.

I am grateful for weekly shot days. But cis men don’t have to have weekly shot days And sometimes I wish

I could have something a little more permanent Than this.

Our Altered World

by Kaley Muse

Worlds are altered rather than destroyed. ~Democritus

A new sickness creeps in. Our world so unprepared. Blissfully unaware.

Pandemic?

Coronavirus?

Lock down?

Quarantine?

What does it all mean?

History begins To meld

With reality. Some survived Others didn’t.

Social Distancing?

Masks?

Vaccinations?

Boosters?

What does it all mean?

We must begin To adjust inside This new normal.

~it has been almost three years

Death by Rosemarie Billings

Energy cannot be destroyed, just changed. It’s not gone forever. Only transformed.

Death is feared and frightening, Full of grief and pain and sorrow. Death is so misunderstood.

Sparing no one, Death waits with A white rose in hand.

Beauty

Purification

This grand new beginning.

The sun dies every night Only to be reborn every morning.

Death is not to be feared! She Only brings you the message To embrace and welcome change.

Kayla Russell is a creative writing student at Cameron University. She enjoys writing poetry, nonfiction, and fantasy fiction. Her poem “Doorstop” was a winner of the 2022 John G. Morris Poetry contest at Cameron University. In her free time, Kayla enjoys reading, traveling, and spending time with her family.

Wendy Dunmeyer loves poetry, wildflowers, and watercolor painting. Her poetry has been selected as a finalist for the Morton Marr Poetry Prize; received honorable mention in NDSU’s Poetry of the Plains and Prairies Chapbook Contest; and has been published in Measure, Natural Bridge, The Oklahoma Review, and elsewhere.Her full-length collection, My Grandmother’s Last Letter, is forthcoming from Lamar University Literary Press. To encourage future generations of poetry lovers and young poets, she has taught poetry classes for children at her local library and volunteered as a visiting writer for National Poetry Month at local elementary schools.

Courtney McEunn is a senior at Cameron University majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing and a minor in journalism and media production. At Cameron University, she is a member of the Theta Rho chapter of Alpha Phi sorority, a member of Sigma Tau Delta English Honor Society, and the Student Life page editor for the Cameron Collegian newspaper. Courtney has lived in Lawton, OK most of her life with her parents and two younger siblings. She spends her free time reading, writing, spending time with friends, and traveling. Currently, she is working on her first novel titled “Small Town Hell.” After graduating in May 2023, Courtney will attend Oklahoma State University in Stillwater where she will study creative writing with a concentration in fiction and work as a graduate teaching assistant in the English department.

Stacy Pifer is a recent graduate of Cameron University, where she received her Master of Science in Organizational Leadership. Stacy received her Bachelor of Arts in English from Methodist University in Fayetteville, NC. During her time at MU, she published her poem “Morning with Oklahoma Cows” in the 2016 edition of Tapestry, MU’s literary magazine. Stacy was also honored by having an academic research paper published

in the MU Journal of Undergraduate Research and Creativity, the Monarch Review, in 2016. Stacy and her daughter both enjoy naps and escaping into a good book as often as possible.

Thomas (Tom) Juarez is a retired soldier, an author, and a poet. Tom currently has one published book of poetry: Every Moment is Now, A Poetry Collection. He enjoys nature, gardening, and binge-watching anything that captures his imagination.

Ryan Shows is an English Education major at Cameron University from Lawton, Oklahoma. He enjoys writing prose and poetry reflecting on personal experience and modern life. He is also an aspiring songwriter and musician in the Folk and Americana genres.

Leah Chaffins is a short story writer, a novelist, and a poet. Her primary writings are horror fiction, memoir, poetry, and journalism. Her work can be found in publications such as the anthologies Bull Buffalo and Indian Paint Brush, Ain’t Gonna Be Treated This Way: Poems of Protest & Resistance, and Behind the Yellow Wallpaper, Red Earth Review, and 580 Monthly. Leah recently published her first novel, “The God Seed”, and is currently revising her second novel, “Birthmarks: Lucille” and a chapbook “Deep Prairie Bitters.” She is an Assistant Professor at Cameron University. In her free time, Leah volunteers with organizations that are using creative writing to positively impact the world we share.

Ryn Swinson (she/her) is a sophomore at Cameron University where she is majoring in English Lit. An avid writer from an early age, Ryn has nurtured a passion for prose and a growing love for poetry. She was a 2022 recipient of the English Composition Award. Ryn has a growing collection of gnome figurines, she enjoys thrifting, sunbathing with her cat, Ginzy, and filling her bookshelf with books she has yet to read. She resides in Duncan, Oklahoma where she is more often found napping with her cat than writing.

Kaley Muse (she/her) is a sophomore at Cameron University where she is majoring in English Creative Writing. She is a PLUS scholar and plans to graduate in 2025. In her free time, she enjoys reading novels, writing poetry, and short fiction. She will be attending the East Central University’s Scissortail Creative Writing festival for the second year in Spring

2023. She loves hanging out with her younger brothers, going to musicals with her mom, and going on random trips to Walmart with her dad. She hopes to become a book editor when she graduates.

Jordan Mackey has an MFA at Lindenwood University in Writing. Her writing exhibits the impact of generational trauma while expressing the power of oral traditions kept within the Native American communities. Her writing deconstructs trauma of the Pebeahsy family, and ultimately makes this generational pain and neglect end with the her.She has had a variety of nonfiction and poetry published in The Iconoclast, The Gold Mine, The Rose, Liminal Women's Anthology, and the 580 Monthly.

Rosemarie “Rosie” Billings is a writer from Lawton, OK. She grew up with a wanderlust that she could only satisfy with reading and enjoys writing from her childhood experiences. She is currently working towards getting her Bachelor of Arts in English with emphasis in Creative Writing and when Rosie does have some free time, it’s usually spent finding ways to mildly annoy her cat, Sir Hans Ludwig or getting lost in daydreams. She is currently working on a book of poetry based on Tarot cards.

John Graves Morris, Professor of English at Cameron University, is the author of Noise and Stories, a collection of poems, and a second collection, The County Seat of Wanting So Many Things, continues to seek a publisher. His poems have appeared recently or will soon appear in Volume One, Big Muddy, and The Concho River Review.

Molly Sizer is a retired rural sociologist living in southwest Oklahoma. She spends her retirement days volunteering in the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge and studying poetry at Cameron University with Dr. John Morris and his amazing students.

Wyn Jessie (they/them) is a writer out of Lawton, Oklahoma and recent graduate of Cameron University. They enjoy horror novels and films, overthinking things, peculiar looking pins, and unreliable narrators. They primarily write stories and poems that focus on mental illness, queer love, and the horrifying ordeal of being known.

Inside Cover

Fresh as a Daisy

by Alyssa Cox

“Memento Mori” is a long-time subject and phrase for many painters and thinkers throughout history, particularly those who held spiritual beliefs and concern for what they were meant to achieve in life as well as the afterlife. Fresh as a Daisy focuses on the typical memento mori symbol of the skull along with the symbolic presence of daisies. Daisies stand for new beginnings and rebirth. This painting was inspired by the Christian belief of being born again out of the flesh and into a new individual that sets their sights to things above. The hands depicted are the artist’s hands. They serve as a reminder that this painting is self-contemplative, and it shows a look at an internal conversation that resides within the artist’s mind.

Back Cover

Another Dance by

Krystal Solis

This work is connected to my Mexican roots. The dancer depicted is me. I wanted to create an experience of movement, power, and confidence.

Alyssa Beth Cox, Fresh as a Daisy, Oil on canvas-paper, 33” diameter, Fall 22