Estuaries 2022-2023

Carolyn Mize: Moon Rising

Editorial Board

Abigail Turner: Uprooted

Patrick Berran, Visual Art s

Patrick Berran, Visual Arts

Jill Lettieri, Literature

Jill Lettieri, Literature

Kathryn Bryson

Kathr yn Bry son

Isabella Lettieri

Isabella Lettieri

Jill Lettieri

Jill Lettieri

Patrick Berran

Patrick Berran

Fay Edwards

Fay Edwards

Ashley Paskov

Ashley Paskov

COA Office of Communications and Marketing

Beth Shutrump

Beth Shutrump

Christina Weisner

Christina Weisner

This magazine is the ninth annual edition of Estuaries

It features creative contributions from COA students, faculty, staff and community members.

Visual Arts

18 Hannah Simpson: Front Porch in Fall

19 Jessica Canning: Ink Joy

20 Micah Stewart: Dreams

21 Jessica Canning: The Windshield

22 Julia Gabitova: Something They Don’t See

23 Julia Gabitova: Time for Dessert

24 Kitty Dough: Unfinished Business

28 Sharon McKennon: Hiding

29 Rhonda Bates: Untitled

31 Sharon McKennon: Deep Sea

33 Susan Molloy: Pedal to the Metal

34 Winter Simmons: Goo

36 Winter Simmons: Heart of the Bean

37 Winter Simmons: Mugged

Poetry and Literary Works

30

31 Mason Alcon: The Fall

32 Rachel Belue: Trials By Fire The Straw

33 Ashleigh Blair Russell: Dreaming to Death

Samantha Bailey: She’s Never Enough

35 Tara Hall: Belly Button

Starfish

36 Vianca Williams: Lesson Learned

Vivien Lane: Untitled

From Light to Dark, But Bright Again

Ashlynn E. Ward

The children dance around the room

Feeling nothing but pure elation

No wonder of their uncertain destination

No signs of any gloom

The now adolescents are constantly bored

Glaring at a phone

Feeling nothing but alone

What happened to the vibrant souls that once roared

Adult life resurrects them from their phase of muted emotion

Joy surrounds them again

Unbothered by the pain that was then

The question now lingers, what was the magic potion?

Giles Corey Breanne Shepherd

A man known to some as a wizard, A mean old man he was. Put on trial for the crime of witchcraft, Shunned and left to plea, He did not plea, He did not deny, He did not lie. With no confession, he was sent to die. A painful death was his luck, Stones thrown on him until he was struck, Wanting his fate to be quickly near, He cried, “Please, please, please put more weight over here.” And with one last cry, It was the wizard’s wicked way to die.

Brianna Orosco: Bleeding Heart

Brianna Orosco: Disguise

Butterflies

Bristyl T. Riddick

Time flies, they say when you used to give me butterflies. Now I’m the one who cries. I used to tell you every detail and line of my day, and it was fine and because you made a way. Now I’m sitting here with all these memories of mine, and what stings the most is you seem to be fine. And though I disguise these feelings and cries, you still give me butterflies.

Danielle Beaty: Aloha

Danielle Beaty: Seaweed

Darla Masiello: Empowerment

The Walk M. E. Riddle

The black and white bugs scampered into the muddy fringe where cultivated lawn meets underbrush. “What else inhabits the dense land?” I wondered. Every step I took on my backyard walk provoked questions despite how I tried to be present in the moment.

Swathes of vibrant green groundcover resembling lily pads blended into the lawn. The herb grew vertically up a fence and horizontally across the grass. I chewed a healing leaf. Moving forward, the earth beneath me squished from a recent rain. The sound pleasant and the scent of moist ground heady… toes, wet. A low branch parted my hair. Shade lay beneath the tree, cooling, while dappled sunlight toasted yellowing grass and exposed skin. A peephole in a peeling fence framed a not quite ripe fig alone in a tangle of vines.

Despite the beauty, I struggled to relax, to enter the wordless state inhabited by intuition, colors and shapes, my indigenous home. Where was the portal to that place I once occupied? My zone where visions are collected and comforted only turning into words when necessary. A space where philosophy arises, and in time, threads its way into written passages or paintings that tell spectacular secrets. A world where flocks of black birds and gusts of wind prompt revelations. Like the day when

the ragged silk flag, aged by weather, flapped primal messages through the open door as I lay on the couch staring. Or when I would sit in the sunny patches on the hardwood floor in my childhood home. I spent the day following the warm puddles of light until dusk. The sun spoke to me and had much to say. What use to the world were these missives? Peace would not be won by following the sun. Prose would not heal poverty or rebuild broken homes. Yet, how could I keep these dispatches to myself? Images, my native alphabet, are fading like hieroglyphics. I might evaporate once my language is gone. Into the puddle of sun or the muddy fringe.

Ellen Wells: Untitled

Ellen Wells: Untitled

Darla Masiello: Undine

Lola Michele Young-Stone

Getting Old

Daven Reese Brabble

It’s hard to think that someday we’ll be older Our bones will be old with most likely bad shoulders

Us grandmas will have mints in the bottom of our purses And our favorite grandchildren will always be the firsts

We will have that old lady smell And people will love it as far as I can tell

We will cook and clean all day long And sometimes sing an occasional song

So this is my poem about becoming old As all of our childhoods go to unfold

The most important thing about Lola Brewster, the thing that outweighs every other thing, is the discolored, puckered skin on the right side of her face. She was three when she pushed a kitchen chair up to the stove and turned the knob to the right, the burner glowing red. She must’ve kissed that burner with her face. Afterwards, she shook her mother awake. The burner was still on, the smell of burned skin and hair wafting through the trailer.

Lola wasn’t hysterical. There were two fat tears, one on each cheek. The mother filled a plastic bag with ice and carried her to bed. She drove her to the hospital the next day. A third-degree burn, the doctor said, the fiery rings imprinted on her cheek, a jar of silver paste to rub on it. She wasn’t in very much pain. The nerve endings were dead. No, she didn’t know how long her face was on the burner. She didn’t remember.

Today, Lola is sixteen and quiet. She walks with her head down, and knows wherever she goes, people feel sorry for her. This is one of the main reasons she’s a thief. People look away. She can steal nearly anything. Today, she is high on Coke and Pop-Rocks she stole from Bean’s Pharmacy before riding her bike to Woodrow’s Market. It’s Saturday. Lola squats in front of the old concrete market, the door and windows boarded up. A Coca-Cola sign groans from rusted hooks. Lola pulls her sketchpad, stolen from Kmart, from her backpack (also stolen) and settles cross-legged in the dirt. She touches her pencil to her lip and remembers sitting on the chrome and pea-green stool. It swiveled. She was two, an age impossible to remember, but when she sketches or paints, she can remember almost any age. She can see the stool and feel her thighs sticky against the vinyl. She draws the stool and the counter where the red-hot sausages floated in glass. She draws a cigarette burning in a rose-colored ashtray, the smoke rising white and fixing a haze across Woodrow’s face. He is a heap of a man with forearms like Popeye and enormous jowls, a roll of fat under his chin. She can’t see the man at her side, only his arm plunging into the salty sausage brine. She taps the glass to pick the best one.

This is the man she wants to see. This is the father she doesn’t know but wants to remember because there was something good about him.

The page stretches. Lola scribbles hungrily, hard and soft strokes, back and forth, the bar breathing: a Smokey and the Bandit poster on the back wall and a mug of yellow beer. The man’s hands—long fingers and soft palms, raising the glass to his lips. The bottom-half of his face. A good jaw, full lips—the only part of his face she’s seen.

Lola has drawn him driving away, the back of his head, and herself alone in his rearview mirror. She imagines him flipping the rearview mirror so as not to see her standing in the dust. According to Deb, Lola’s mother, he left before the incident with the stove, but he came back. That’s what he would do—leave and come back.

Deb has told Lola, I dreamed that happening to you. She means the stove. I thought it was a nightmare. I never imagined it would actually happen. Lola doesn’t blame Deb except that Deb drinks too much and imbibes too many illicit substances, and Lola suspects that if Deb had been sober, she would’ve heard Lola dragging the chair to the stove. She would’ve stopped Lola before she pressed her face to the burner. She would’ve driven her to the hospital right away—not the following morning.

In truth, Deb is a shit mom. However you slice it, Deb is a shit mom.

Lola has drawn the stove. She’s scribbled until the page turned black and the pencil was hot in her hand. She saw the stove, how the burner shone red, and she was attracted to it. She doesn’t remember the sensation or what happened next. She also draws Susie McMurrer, a girl who is homeschooled and works at the herbal stand in town square. Lola doesn’t know Susie, has never spoken to her, but there’s something intoxicating about her. Once, Deb took Lola to the herbal stand to buy an antifungal cream, and Lola watched Susie arrange homemade lip balms. She was stunning, all contrasting colors: lips like a ripe watermelon, skin as white as the moon, and hair like black vinyl. Lola remembers her mother snapping her fingers to break the spell. “Time to go,” her mother said.

Lola was seven or eight when she started watching Susie from across the street at the AG Supermarket. She bought two plastic red-stone rings from the bubble gum machine, one for her and one for Susie. She keeps them in a cloth-lined jewelry box, the kind with the ballerina that twirls when you open the box. Every weekend, this morning included, she thinks about stopping at the herbal stand and introducing herself, but she never does.

This morning, she squats at Woodrowe’s Market, gathering memories of the father she doesn’t know and wishing she were whole. Last week, she painted Susie McMurrer, a pink rope like an umbilical cord hanging down from her tight fist, Lola underneath, the rope knotted around her waist. The painting is like a Salvador Dali. The images mean something. The dreams. The drawings. Everything means something. Figuring it out is the task.

Lola is lost to the world inside Woodrow’s, sitting at the bar with the man and the red-hot sausages, until a deer and her fawn cross the parking lot where gas pumps once stood. She glimpses them out of the corner of her eye, and for a second, it’s like they’re inside Woodrow’s. The light is waning. Hues of orange and pink transform the landscape, all kudzu and oak. Lola remembers her sketchpad and takes a peek. She’s made twenty drawings, and she can only see the lower half of his face and his hairy arm in the salty brine. She packs up her things and checks her Pop-Rocks. All gone. On her way home, she rides past Susie McMurrer and her nana at the herbal stand. She stops at the AG Supermarket across the street and watches Susie McMurrer pull down the herbal stand’s shutters. Maybe tomorrow, she’ll talk to Susie. She thinks that every Saturday, but just so long as she thinks it, there’s the possibility.

The world is all about possibility.

Elizabeth Kays: Seaweed Earrings

Dawn Van Ness: Collateral Damage

Francesca Marie: System

Diamondback Terrapin

R. Wayne Gray

Sonny and I

Caught them as boys On the mud flat West of the Old Wharf.

My grandfather shipped them To Philadelphia and New York To be served in expensive soup, Thick with cream and sherry, In fancy restaurants.

Hazy Memories R. Wayne Gray

Later, I would always see you From a distance, Never really focusing on you, On your gaze, Your in-person you.

It has been a lifetime Since we let our lives Go to waste, Destroyed by more than Alcohol and infidelity.

It was never said, But we realized There was no way To switch back. There would be No big wins for us. Our changing characters Made sure of that.

So we continued On our drifting journey, Our young dreams Exploded and expired, Our silent cries Echoing in a new land.

We kept them In the old ice room Lined with cork Until one of the Wanchese Line boats Came for them.

We fed them shrimp and earthworms, Never thinking about their fate. Instead, we made plans For the many bicycle accessories We would order.

We spent hours Counting the rings on the backs Of their diamond shaped plates, Painted by an artist.

Grant Alcon: Five More Minutes Please

Gretchen Wooten: Banana In A Void

Night Heron R. Wayne Gray

I first saw you at dusk On a shoal At Little Tim Island, Fishing, like me, Moving with stealth To bush wack your prey.

You look molded By an artist, A silent shadow in the dark, A stick character In a Hitchcock movie.

Secretive, alone, Moving and swishing your bill In the shallows

To lure minnows.

Later in the day, I see you again, Like an old man, Bent over like a question mark, Your long white plume on head, A comb over.

John Lewis R. Wayne Gray

Gretchen Wooten: Down The Road

Gretchen Wooten: T-Dog Portrait

The Salt Marsh

R. Wayne Gray

A place between Land and water, A nursery to the masses, Sponges and storm barriers, Teeming with life, An undercover city.

Filtering pollutants, A productive wildlife habitat, Land of low oxygen and salt, Home to plants and plankton, A harsh environment. A place of peace and beauty.

Twice a day, Washed by high tides, Purging all garbage, You are the wetlands, You are the meadowlands, Home of the wild rose, The red-winged blackbird, And thousands of others.

I see you daily. The streams running through, A paradise of organic matter, Breathing and surging, A tidal marsh. You are no wasteland.

And later I watch A grove of cedars, Run over by spring tides, Rusty in the sunlight, Loaded down with robins.

Hannah Simpson: Front Porch in Fall

Jessica Canning: Ink Joy

Fragile Dreams

Gretchen Wooten

Dreams are fragile things Or rather, they’ve always been for me

So light, so vivid The rising ballads they sing Invite me to listen Take the very best from me And render it wistful, Before away again they fling

This one of mine is especially tricky I found it not too long ago

It’s faint, it’s fickle Bares blusterous wings And when I try to reign it in, It wants nothing to do with me!

But the more I leave it, The more restless it grows And the more I chase it, The further it goes

What do I do? With the silly old thing

I don’t want to break it, It comforts me most I don’t want to feed it, It’ll get high on hope

So it’s a fragile balance, you see To always keep a dream just out of reach

The Senses of Autumn

Hannah N. Simpson

Oh to take a walk on a crisp Autumn day!

Where the orange, red, yellow leaves doth sway, The smell of campfire and the roasting of smores, Oh how I long to be by that fire-pit in the great outdoors! The sight of the pumpkin patch fills my heart with glee, Oh how fun painting our tangerine-colored gourds will be! The taste of pumpkin spice and the fluffy white cream, Oh how disinterested I am for how stereotypical I seem! The sound of the children- little witches and ghosts, Oh how they rush to every porch and doorpost! The touch of my darling’s hands, large and frigid, Oh how our love makes us warmer, the cold fully omitted! When Winter comes, I beg Autumn to stay! “Oh how I wish your color and cheer would never decay! Please leave me a token of your joyful hue, Oh how I need it when the dark months ensue!”

Micah Stewart: Dreams

Jessica Canning: The Windshield

I am Holly Riddick

I am optimistic and curious

I wonder what the future holds for me

I hear a buzz of wonder

I see an interesting future

I want to become a person that helps people

I am optimistic and curious

I pretend to not be nervous

I feel society trying to pull at me

I touch the air that we all share

I worry what the future holds

I cry when I think about how other people have suffered

I am optimistic and curious

I understand that life is not fair

I say that life has a plan for me

I dream that I can make a difference in this society

I try to have a simple life

I hope that I will have a great life

I am optimistic and curious

This Light Has Come

Jackson Heath

this light has come again it rises again it sets following the path of the departed nights. rising forth in these dark hours comes she, in the veil urging forth breath and life to the decaying. here, the sky is burning a condition that comes from this prevailing civilization and confusion wrought from its thoughts and concepts that dig within our heads

and she, who is veiled, born in the brilliance of the endless passings brings honey to the bees water to the clouds children to the wanting mothers and as our eyes behold her our work to perpetuate continues all ride a purple horse into her magnificence and all bow before you, the awakening dawn

Julia Gabitova: Something They Don’t See

Julia Gabitova: Time for Dessert

Kitty Dough: Unfinished Business

One Saturday Morning

Jay Tynch

It’s not every day that the person who broke your heart stands in the middle of your doorway. But there she was; Bella Larkin stood right outside of Grace’s door, With her arms crossed, Bella’s diminutive stature looked even smaller. With her head tucked down, Bella’s bucket hat made it impossible to see her face; but Grace knew who it was and what it was about. Bella finally raised her head showing off her short, suave peekaboo haircut which caught Grace by surprise. She looked like Veronica Lake, but with short, auburn hair. And while Bella never left her house looking shabby, it looked like she took just a little bit more effort getting ready this morning, like she wanted to put on a show. Grace felt vastly inadequate in her worn out brown work overalls, but she lived a country life which meant that she had to do country work.

“Hey Grace,” Bella said in a soft silky voice.

Grace propped herself against the door thinking about what she was going to do. She wanted to yell at Bella and tell her how she made her feel all those years ago– then slam the door in her face. But Bella’s sea blue eyes made her stop. They were Grace’s weakness. Even after the break up, Bella still controlled a large part of Grace’s heart.

“H-hey,” Grace tried to remove the nervousness out of her voice, but failed miserably when her voice cracked. “Ahem…Want to come in?”

Bella gave her a smile and crept in while looking at the old photos on the walls. She looked into the eyes of the people then turned her head in sadness. Grace guided Bella towards the den where Grace moved the stack of books and papers occupying one of the seats. “Want something to drink?” Grace said, grabbing two glasses and a decanter.

“Grace…it’s 11 in the morning,” Bella said, sounding just a little embarrassed.

Grace stopped in mid pour. She didn’t know if she should put the decanter down, finish pouring the glass, or just run out of the room. Drinking at any time of the day had become such an addiction for her she didn’t see anything wrong with it. But she could feel Bella’s embarrassment, so to hide the evidence she gulped down both glasses then hid the second one away.

“So, what’s been happening with you?” Grace asked, already knowing the answer.

“You know, life’s been really busy in Raleigh.” She said proudly. “I have my little repurposed furniture store that I run which is doing well. I’m also a receptionist at my– at a law firm, and I craft ornaments and different things out of my garage.” The pride in her words disappeared when she looked over at Grace. Grace’s hazel eyes were on the verge of tears.

“What happened to wanting to rule the world?” Grace said softly. “I remember your dreams where you wanted to be a CEO of your own company, make billions of dollars, and I was going to keep your books… or cook them.” Bella chuckled at the small joke, but Grace’s face got longer. “And you graduated Summa Cum Laude… and all you do now is sell overpriced junk to idiots?”

Bella looked away from Grace. “It’s what I wanted to do,” Bella said softly.

“Is it?”

Bella looked out the window. “Yes.”

“You know I could always tell when you were lying,” she said. As a reflex, Grace poured a third glass and gulped it down. “If you can say that this is what you want out of your life, then I’m glad that you’re living your own life… But I need to know? Is it still your own life?”

“Does it matter?” Grace said, looking dejected.

“Of course, it matters. You may have ejected me out of your life, but I still want what’s best for you. Before we were lovers, you were my best friend. And you’ll never stop being my best friend. And not talking to you for the last five years is like having an arm chopped off. I’ve felt incomplete, inept, broken,” Grace paused. “All I want is for you to be happy.”

“So, what do I gain if I admit that you’re right?” Bella threw up her arms in anger. “This is not the way I wanted my life to turn out. Nobody’s life turns out like they thought it would. You have to take life as it comes.”

“You’re right. There are things that didn’t turn out for me either, and we make the most of them. But you had it laid out in front of you. The only thing you had to do was accept it. Even if you didn’t take me with you, it was your chance for freedom,” Grace said.

“Yet I chose to stay here. What’s wrong with that?”

Grace looked at her empty glass, not directly addressing Bella, “I guess nothing.”

“I think I’m ready for that drink,” Bella extended her hand. Grace pulled the hidden glass back out and poured a modest amount of alcohol in the glass. She knew Bella was a lightweight, and she doubted that she had changed. “So, what’s up with you?”

“I’m doing what I went to college for,” Grace said with a little bit more edge than she intended. “I work for an accounting firm, doing the books– not the front desk…And I’m almost a CPA. And every day I get to play on my little farm and be truly happy,” Grace said. She forced a slight smirk even though they both knew it was fake. Grace used to think her farm was a haven, but now it was more of a self-isolating prison.

Bella returned the smile. “So, I guess we ended up two happy people,”

“Yeah, we’re happy,” Grace said. “Want some more?”

Bella threw the glass back then began to cough uncontrollably. Grace laughed, “It’s a little strong.” Coughing and laughing at the same time, Bella held out the glass. The tension of being separated for five years and a bad break-up vanished within seconds.

“Do you remember when my uncle tore down that old barn and we built a bonfire out of that wood?” Grace reminisced.

“What were we drinking that night?” Bella’s face lit up. Her foggy memories of that night came back to her slowly.

“Turpentine I think,” Grace laughed. “God, I don’t know why I’m remembering that night.” They looked at each other in confusion. “We had stuff to eat, and threw things in the fire…What else did we do?” Slowly the smile vanished from Grace’s face. “Anyway, that was in the past.”

“I can’t… What happened that night?”

“Nothing, it’s just an old memory.”

“That meant a lot to you. I want to…” The night came into focus for Bella. “Oh Grace,” she whispered.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s NOT nothing,” Bella said, grabbing Grace’s hands, and rubbing her thumbs on the back of them. “That was a beautiful night, but… why that night?”

“It was when I knew I loved you,” Grace poured herself a fourth glass. Bella eased her hands out of Grace’s and sat back in her chair.

“I think we both know why I’m here,” Bella said.

Grace couldn’t look at Bella. “I know. I heard about it from your aunt. She likes throwing it in my face every time I see her.” Grace downed the fourth glass. “It’s quite a family you have.” The comment embarrassed Bella since she knew how both her mother and aunt could be. “I still wonder if you weren’t adopted.”

“I wonder too,” Bella said. “It’s happening the 8th of April, and I wanted you to be there to hel—”

“You really want me at your wedding? You once told me that you couldn’t imagine your life without me… That I was the only person that you could love. And you want me to watch you commit your life to someone else while I sit there?” Grace poured a fifth glass then gulped it down like the previous ones.

“Why…” Bella took a deep dry swallow, “Why do you do this to yourself?” She said, gesturing at the liquor. “Don’t you know it hurts me to see you like this. I know what’s going on, and how this has become your life. I’ve heard stories…”

Grace closed her eyes. A wicked, fragile grin soon formed on her face. She dipped her head toward her chest as her long blond locks fell over her face. Whimpering, she raised her head with sad and defeated eyes; her face trembled as tears flowed down.

“Why are you here? Do you need my permission to get married?” Grace said.

“No, you were so important to me in my life—”

Grace jumped to her feet yelling, “If I was so damn important to you, then why in the Hell did you not stand up for me? Why didn’t you fight for us? You rejected me and our love in just mere seconds when your mother told you to stop this ‘perverted’ life.”

“You don’t know the whole story; I didn’t know what to do—”

“You tell your mother to stay out of your life!” Grace barked.

Grace collapsed back into her chair. She cried into her hands as Bella cried into her own. For Grace, it was five years ago all over again. She felt sick. The churning she felt in her stomach was the same. This pain never healed, and seeing Bella again ripped at her heart.

“I’ll tell you why I’m here, Grace,” Bella said after she took several deep breaths and wiped the remaining tears from her face. “I have a serious favor to ask of you… If I were to ask you to save me, would you? Because that’s why I’m here.”

“Are you here for me or for yourself?” Grace asked. “If you’re here for me, then yes, I’ll save you. But if you’re here because you can’t stand up to your mother, then no, I won’t save you.”

Grace grabbed Bella’s hand and locked their fingers together. “I want you to know, I never stopped loving you. I should hate you. You betrayed me and hurt me so badly, and I’ve tried to hate you, but I can’t. So, I need to know, are you here for me or for yourself?” Grace eased her hand away from Bella’s. She knew the answer before Bella could even speak.

“I don’t know,” Bella whimpered.

Tears welled in Grace’s eyes, “I think that you need to leave.”

Bella didn’t say a word. She couldn’t look at Grace as she walked out. Grace slammed the door like she wanted to when Bella first appeared. She crumpled to the floor as the tears rolled down her face. Bella only needed to say that she wanted her back, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t; either way Grace knew that Bella didn’t have the power to stand up for herself. She sat there crying, agonizing over old wounds that she thought were healed.

A Poem as Incomplete as He is

Jerron Feaster

His body is weighty— heavy with the sadness of a thousand lonely sons lying frightened, in a blood-puddled field, listening to the cries of a thousand other soldiers, praying to their gods, begging for relief, weeping for what may be their final time.

He’s not a brave man— the crash of violent ocean waves keep him alone, within his room, secure in bed till morning light forces the darkness into submission, chases the fog to its rightful place within cottony cumulus clouds or drank by parched foliage of the Outer Banks.

There’s a pain that bends him, deeply creases his forehead. It holds the anger of an inlet where ocean meets briny sound. Currents tug, push and pull, like the lust of two bodies who’ve learned sex isn’t shameful. An inlet where the remains of gutsy fishermen lie, and a father who’s smoked his last cigarette, chained himself to an anchor and thought: well, isn’t this a proper Baptism?

Sharon McKennon: Hiding

Rhonda Bates: Untitled

The Stranger

Kaylee Frizzell

I will take one good look at her, but only one, because if I keep staring, my mind will start to run.

She has felt all my pain and seen me go astray. She has watched me fall, but she feels far away.

Removed from myself, I see no change. Is that really me there? It feels so strange.

She mimics my actions, her hands tugging at hair. Tears wet her cheeks while I cry my own share.

Surely it is just glass— it cannot be a mirror. The girl staring at me must be a stranger.

Look Anywhere Else

Aaron Bass

In a forest and you’ll see Winged branches blast off

From arms extending out Reaching to their brethren

In the heavens.

Tree seeds and leaves–

Communications satellites

Crashing, plowing back

Under earth

To find a network

Of chthonic roots

An underworld of fingers

Clutching at each other

In a loving embrace

The Fall

Mason Alcon

Pebble in Your Shoe

By Jerron Feaster

Death woke you that sultry morning to a windshield heavy with dew and carbon dioxide fumes filling the cab. Pulling a hair from back of your parched throat, you rolled a window down, turned off the ignition. While in a haze, you recalled dreaming of your mother, visiting her grave, and promising a polished headstone soon. Wind rushed around the car, through trees, then calmed to eavesdrop the morning message of songbirds, like ones she’d watch feed from the lighthouse you hung on a low branch just outside her dining room window.

The scent of cigarettes and booze lingered on your clammy hands as you pressed firmly, wiping your whiskey-burnt eyes to see that moment: a hospital-white room, her chest rising shallow then falling, machines sounding their farewells, that jaundice-toned skin, a swollen body coupled with death’s scent hovering as flies over a sunbaked carcass— her irises the bluest you’d ever seen.

You thought it was that memory to be the pebble in your shoe. But you’ve a granite stone within your chest, and just enough money to drink until you forget you’ll remember all this soon.

I am alone, falling into the black, Plummeting into my own oblivion. Created by the love they lack And the failure of my salvation.

Falling short is a welcome end

To a dead life I would never live. Because my parents have sinned And made a thing they’d never love.

My beautiful sanctity taken away, Smoking and shriveled like charcoal.

Burned by the home in which I lay, Dragged in pieces to a bloody bowl.

I fall in a stream of crimson strings, Casting a curse of pain unforgivingly.

I can barely wait for what the afterlife brings, As my ungiven life ends unceremoniously.

Sharon McKennon: Deep Sea

Trials By Fire

Rachel Belue

My heart, my soul, it cries. It screams in agony as it burns. It burns, scorched by the trials of life. The trials of life bring pain and suffering to all who must endure them. All different but painful just the same.

At times our hearts burn with passion and joy. We relish in that fire for it only to burn us and be lost. We continue this cycle, chasing this passionate spark. We can hold so many different perspectives as to why we must endure this wretched cycle of life. Even so, we can’t help ourselves.

Our attempts to save ourselves from pain only lead to more. If we go along with the cycle, trying to ride it out, we’re foolish, hopeless romantics.

What then must we do?

We’re only left with those two options. Either way we’re suffering through these trials by fire.

Dreaming to Death

Ashleigh Blair Russell

I have a recurring dream where I am struggling to swim Water floods me, my life is taken to its rim

I gasp for air, but I find none

My only friend is the scorching sun

Strangely, I see my mother on the shore I beg for her help, but she just ignores I fight the currents and plead for aid But darkness is enclosing, and I am feeling afraid

Just when things go black, I am brought back awake Tears stream out of my eyes for my life’s sake I know it is just a dream, but to me it means more What do I do when death finally opens its door?

She’s Never Enough Samantha Bailey

If she doesn’t eat she’s too skinny, But if she does eat she’s too fat.

If she’s too short she needs to grow,

But if she’s too tall she needs to shrink.

If she wears too much makeup she looks cakey, But if she doesn’t wear enough she’s ugly.

If she never talks she’s too quiet, But if she talks more she’s too loud.

If she starts to be herself she’s weird, But if she isn’t herself she’s boring. She’s never enough.

The Straw

Rachel Belue

My head is pounding against my skull. My heart feels like a weight in my chest. I can’t even bring myself to fake a smile. This must be a small glimpse into the depths of despair. And all it took for me to get here was one boy refusing to take a moment out of his day for me. He claimed he loved me but I can’t bring myself to feel as though that is truly the case.

He’s only become the straw leading to my inevitable fall.

I feel frozen stiff.

I have no will to move.

It was taken away.

I feel like the life was drained out of me.

I know the reason.

It’s simple.

It was the straw.

Susan Molloy: Pedal to the Metal

Winter Simmons: Goo

Belly Button

Tara

Hall

all she did was dream, like a cube of something sweet, drawing hope from her veins and screaming out your name to bring the rain, a storm, a city car horn, a war, a fire, but wishing for the better. she says, you could kill and chew your lips to nasty bits, but still you’d be the pulse in my neck and in my wrists. every day she walked on the memory of you, dragging her shoes, by strings, behind her, cutting her soles. she knew, of all her dreams, the one where the weird feeling in her stomach transfers into being thirty-somethings with you with your hand hovering over her belly button, humming some sonata until the vibration of it knocks all your teeth out, was the one she needed most, she’ll never not need you. reaching into that absence, falling in, and drowning.

the plant in her window grows in spite of itself, and days keep scratching themselves out, the itch that won’t stop. the dirt and the dust around her will always carry particles of you, if there’s something more to life, she’ll tie it back to your thin legs and pocket knife, piano keys, bad days, sorry eyes, that soft smile after an exasperated ‘hello’, new haircut, while you’re fifteen and ready to grow but somehow ready to die. four years since your last words to her, a long finger extended to paper, this drawing of a marble man, “but where’s his belly button?” all she did was sigh and scribble something out. she’s just happy you’ve lived all this time, made it to somewhere else, even without her, new orleans where bukowski once cried, talking about the love he lost to some self-loathing, prophetic poetry mission. she’ll never see you alive again.

Starfish

Tara Hall

Remind me again of that perfect medium between accepting the child, hurt, in my heart and the young woman struggling to rise up and out, trying to find better things. baby’s breath and wine, tell me it’s okay to cry. To milk the last drop out of everything that could have been mine but got away and I have to remember at least I wanted it bad enough to miss it. Otherwise, I would have wasted my time and that’s all any of us really has. We break it like bread and pass it around, one born, another dead. I wanted to clench your shirt in my fist and tell you you reminded me of what it feels like to want to stay up late, up into another day, and yearn for something as simple as to touch your pinky with mine.

I feel alone in my skin for the first time in months, forgetting that once I had trusted my bloody heart in the hands of someone so cold, downing cranberry juice and a glass of bourbon. Long are the days when we remember the dead and how they now strengthen the life that spreads through the roots beneath us.

I was once a young girl who believed beautiful things arose from the ravaged. So I’ll mend cuts and bruises, and try to sew together the spaces between us where I choke down my words of wanting to be your thing forever and make myself bitter so I don’t feel so much like a broken record. So many things made for the purpose of wasting time; jigsaw puzzles, repairing broken automobiles, writing poetry. But trying to find the right thing to say is by far the best one. I guess, if you know, you know. Not eager to drink up the last of me, nor forget time gone, bread eaten, and those passed, I feel like I can find my place in the capsule of your breath and no longer tear at the seam where I’ve attached myself on your sleeve.

You will be the best part of me; when you break off, you’ll come back renewed, the magic beanstalk, the heart beating in a womb, a starfish making the sea its own.

Lesson Learned

Vianca Williams

The saddest thing about betrayal

It doesn’t come from an enemy

The ones who hurt me most were my own bloodKin to me

I just couldn’t understand what I did

To deserve such hate and spite

Had me angry and depressed

Crying on my pillow at night

It’s been said real situations expose fake people

And that’s so true

During your darkest moments in life

God will shine his light on the actions of the people around you

Even though I didn’t want to see it

There was purpose in that lesson,

Everyone around wasn’t meant to go with me

To the next levels of life I’ve been manifesting.

What they thought would destroy me, made me stronger

And I’m grateful for that

I’m in the process of becoming the best version of myself

And that’s nothing but facts

Untitled

Vivien Lane

The trees sway in the wind

Flowers break and bend

The sun shines so bright I have no fright

The wind surrounds me I am free, I am free, I am free

Winter Simmons: Heart of the Bean

Winter Simmons: Mugged

Biographies - Visual Artists

Grant Alcon

Photography has always been a part of Grant Alcon’s life, and birds have been an influence in his photography because his career goal is to become an airline pilot. He has lived in multiple countries and states, and has experienced many different cultures.

Rhonda Bates

Rhonda Bates has a BFA from the Corcoran School of Art. She graduated in 1981 and maintained a studio in downtown Washington DC for two years. She decided she needed to be closer to nature so she moved to the countryside near Ocean City Maryland. She continued to paint landscapes for 10 years and in the meantime learned how to make pottery. She moved to the OuterBanks and started her business Red Drum Pottery on Ocracoke. After a couple of bad hurricanes she moved to Hatteras Island where she and her husband own and operate Red Drum Pottery together. Red Drum has been in business for 29 years. She decided to take a jewelry course at COA and is now completing her fourth semester. She continues to make pottery and paint paintings and is now adding jewelry making to her creative interests.

Danielle Beaty

Danielle Beaty is the owner of TurtleBay Jewelry and a recent winner for the Made in NC Awards presented by Our State magazine. With a focus on sustainability and environmental awareness, her collections touch on various coastal regions throughout the globe, incorporating the cultural influences of those areas.

Jessica Canning

Jessica Canning is currently a Sophomore at College of The Albemarle. She has always loved art and being creative. Art is more of a release for her than a task. Art helps her express her true self.

Kitty Dough

Kitty Dough graduated from the Art Institute of Atlanta, earned a certificate in Botanical Art and Illustration from the North Carolina Botanical Gardens and is a student in the Professional Jewelry Crafts Program, College of The Albemarle. She is a member of the Guild of Natural Science Illustrators and the Colored Pencil Society of America.

Andrea (Andie) Finn

Andie Finn is based in South Mills, NC, where she specializes in painting, drawing and digital art. She is a dedicated learner and aspires to become an illustrator. Raised by storytellers, Andie is inspired by folklore and urban legends - always looking to add an element of whimsy darkness to her work.

Julia Gabitova

Julia Gabitova is a Russian student. From the age of seven to seventeen, she attended Art and Design School and aspired to be a designer. Julia took advantage of the opportunity to study Visual Arts at COA.

Elizabeth Kays

Having obtained a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Painting and Printmaking from VCU, Elizabeth Kays pursued work in architectural renderings, and later, painted finishes and murals. On the Outer Banks, she is known for watercolor paintings and has pursued other creative expressions in metal at COA.

Francesca Beatrice Marie

Francesca Beatrice Marie is a photographer and filmmaker. She graduated from COA in 2018. She continued her education at Mount Holyoke College, where she graduated in 2022 with a degree in Film, Media, Theater. She is currently working as a freelance photographer, videographer and video editor on the Outer Banks.

Darla Masiello

Darla Masiello is a dual-enrolled student in COA’s Visual Arts Program. She is a visual artist that enjoys markmaking in its many forms, such as graphite, colored pencils, gouache, oil pastels, and acrylic. She plans to continue to create and expand her artistic abilities.

Sharon McKennon

Sharon McKennon is a dual enrolled student at the College of The Albemarle. She is working to obtain her Associates in Fine Arts in Visual Art.

Carolyn Mize

Carolyn Mize is a student in the Professional Jewelry program. After a long career in the corporate world, Carolyn is pursuing a second career in the creative world. Her creativity has always been an asset in finding solutions to complex business problems. Now, she hopes to utilize that talent to create beautiful wearables. She has a particular interest in creating shawl pins to compliment lovely knitted garments and using sea glass in its natural form.

Susan Molloy

Susan Molloy is taking classes in the Professional Crafts Jewelry program at the College of The Albemarle. A long time resident of Virginia, Susan and her husband moved to Kill Devil Hills in 2019. Always interested in design and jewelry, she started taking classes in 2021.

Brianna Orosco

Brianna Orosco is from Moyock, North Carolina and has been a student at COA since 2021. She has been drawing since childhood and hasn’t stopped ever since she drew her first character. She seeks to invoke conversation and emotion with her art and to someday work as a character concept artist.

Winter Simmons

Winter Simmons is a dual enrolled student pursuing an Associates degree in Fine Arts in the Visual Arts.

Hannah Simpson

Hannah Simpson is an English major with an interest in art and Creative Fiction. She is a writer, artist, hobbyist, and theme park enthusiast. She is the eldest of four children and works part-time as a ride operator.

Micah Stewart

Micah Stewart is a student at College of The Albemarle working towards his Associates degree. He enjoys painting as well as many other mediums.

Abigail Turner

Abigail Turner is a self-taught artist from Chesapeake, Virginia. She attends J. P. Knapp Early College High School and is taking courses at the College of The Albemarle in Currituck, North Carolina. She will graduate in 2024 with her high school diploma and an Associate’s Degree in Fine Arts.

Dawn Van Ness

Dawn Van Ness, a self taught artist, resides on Roanoke Island. She grew up in her mom’s suburban house on a marshy waterway and camping on her father’s country homestead. She feels most at home along the coastal waterways, believes nature is restorative and nurturing, and that developmental pollution is adversarial.

Gretchen Wooten

Gretchen Wooten is a dual enrolled senior in COA’s Visual Arts program. She has enjoyed her time spent testing the waters in various mediums, and hopes to continue doing so throughout her life.

Ellen Wells

Ellen Wells is a 2021 graduate of the Professional Arts Program at the College of The Albemarle. She has been serving as the Lab Assistant for the 2022-2023 curriculum and continuing education classes under instructor Danielle Beatty. Ellen enjoys all aspects of metalwork and is especially fond of enameling and forming.

Biographies - Literary Artists

Mason Alcon

A 19 year old world traveler, Mason Alcon lived in Europe for seven years and has experienced life on both US coasts. He is a voracious reader and gamer, and in his spare time will write additions for Dungeons & Dragons.

Samantha Bailey

Samantha Bailey is a dual credit student at Camden County Early College and is working on her Associates degree at COA.

Aaron Bass

Aaron Bass is the coordinator for COA’s Writing Center. He enjoys video games, writing, and music in his spare time –when not working his way through graduate school classes.

Rachel E. Belue

Rachel E. Belue is a dual-enrolled student at COA and a senior at JP Knapp High School. She has found solace in writing throughout her life. When she writes poetry she writes with her emotions in the moment as the Romantic poets did.

Daven Reese Brabble

Daven Reese Brabble is a first year student at the College of The Albemarle, and is a junior at Perquimans County High School. She plans to graduate in June of 2024 and attend UNCW majoring in chemistry to become a part of the medical field.

Jerron Feaster

Jerron Feaster has resided on the Outer Banks of North Carolina for five years now. He discovered a love for poetry in the 9th grade when asked to write a poem based on an image. He’s taken multiple workshops and found his voice along the way. Jerron likes to think his poetry explores the ordinary, or what may have been ordinary to him, finding the beauty and strange within.

Kaylee Frizzell

Kaylee Frizzell is an aspiring writer. She lives in Gates, North Carolina and graduated from COA in the Fall of 2022.

R. Wayne Gray

Poetry was a lifelong love of Outer Banks native R. Wayne Gray. He honed his writing skills while majoring in English at North Carolina State University, and was greatly encouraged when his works were published in his college literary magazine. Mr. Gray worked as a commercial fisherman, a high school English teacher, an elementary school assistant principal, and as a chef at his own restaurant, Queen Anne’s Revenge. Even with demanding jobs, he made time to write poetry all through the years. He wrote and self-published thirteen books of free verse poetry. His poetry often reflected the hardscrabble life of people living within the natural beauty of the Outer Banks. Mr. Gray was honored to carry the title of Poet Laureate of the Outer Banks for decades. In later years, he expanded his writing to short stories and local history. After a miraculous transplant operation and a second chance in life, he taught English at College of The Albemarle Dare County Campus from 2007 to 2017. He had a passion for helping students by inspiring them to dream big. He persuaded many students to go on to a four-year university after graduation from COA. Today, in fact, a scholarship in his name exists for this group of students. Prior to his death in August 2020, poetry again consumed his thoughts. Like a man on fire, he produced 45 poems in a twomonth period. His wife Nancy Gray shared some of that collection.

Tara Hall

Tara Hall is a NC high school student.

Jackson Heath

Jackson Heath is a senior at John A. Holmes High School and a dual credit student at COA.

Vivien Lane

Vivien Lane is a Junior at Perquimans County High School. This is her first year taking COA classes. She plans to go to ECU and major in early education.

Bristyl T. Riddick

Bristyl T. Riddick is a junior at Perquimans County High School. She is a dual credit student at COA.

Holly Riddick

Holly Riddick is a junior at Perquimans County High School and a dual credit student at COA.

Mary Ellen (M.E.) Riddle

Mary Ellen Riddle has worked as a radio newscaster, newspaper reporter, art columnist, author and educator. She has published nonfiction, creative nonfiction, and fiction. She is currently working on a novel.

Ashleigh Blair Russell

Ashleigh Blair Russell is a first year student at the College of The Albemarle as well as a junior at Perquimans County High School. Russell is currently working on her Associate of Arts degree from COA expected in May of 2024.

Breanne Shepherd

Breanne Shepherd is a junior at Perquimans County High School. She is a dual credit student at COA.

Hannah Simpson

Hannah Simpson is an English major with an interest in Art and Creative Fiction. She is a writer, artist, hobbyist, and theme park enthusiast. She is the eldest of four children and works part-time as a ride operator.

James (Jay) Tynch

Jay Tynch has worked as an archaeologist, chemical operator, nanny, and laser etching designer. But his lifelong dream is to become a writer. A graduate of East Carolina, Jay is pursuing an MFA Creative Writing degree from SNHU.

Ashlynn E. Ward

Ashlynn E. Ward is a dual enrolled student. She attends Perquimans County High School as a Junior and takes online COA courses as a first year student. Ashlynn plans on receiving her Associates in Art degree at the same time she graduates high school.

Vianca Williams

Vianca Williams is a returning graduate of COAElizabeth City. Her first major was Cosmetology and now she is pursuing a degree in Medical Office Administration. She has always had a passion for poetry since she was very young and enjoys writing as a hobby.

Gretchen Wooten

Gretchen Wooten is a dual enrolled senior at Northeast Academy for Aerospace Advanced Technology and in COA’s Visual Arts program. She enjoys testing the waters in various mediums, and hopes to continue doing so throughout her life.

Michele Young-Stone

Michele Young-Stone is the author of three novels: Lost in the Beehive, an O Magazine Book Club Pick, Above Us Only Sky , a freshman common-read at Virginia Weselyan University, and The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors. She is currently writing a new novel and teaching fiction writing for the Muse Writers Center in Norfolk, Virginia. Young-Stone was an English instructor on the COA - Dare Campus.