Crowder Quill 2023, pages 1-40

MISSION STATEMENT

The Crowder Quill is a literary-art magazine published by the Magazine Production class at Crowder College inorder to encourage and showcase the creativeabilities of local writers, artists, and photographers, as well as provide a cultural link between Crowder College and our surrounding communities.

The publication is funded through Crowder College as an educational tool and service to the community. Both the contest and publication arefree. The Crowder Quill is published each spring semester in May.

The contest deadline is Feb. 1 each year.

For more information about the contest and publication, see pages 3-4 and 72-76.

VOL. 43 | SPRING 2023

The literary-art magazine and contest of Crowder College

All rights reserved, Copyright 2023 Crowder College

Hay Bales Maggie Beachner | Seneca | Community | Gold | 2DArt |Acrylic Cover: This piece represents my own experiences growing up watching my father cutting and baling the hay fields on our family farm. The vibrant colors in the piece are meant to reflect the intense sensory experience of being outdoors in the summertime, smelling freshly cut fields, and playing hide-and-seek behind the bales when they were done. This piece was commissioned by a local community member who enjoys farm scenes and colorful art.

Beachner is a local high school art teacher who has taught at the college level as well as the high school level for over ten years in education, family and consumer science, and art. She enjoys acrylic painting and ceramics and has recently begun selling her art.

1 “Hay Bales” by Maggie Beachner

3 “Volcom Stone” by Nicholas Dean

5 “Beautiful Day by Amy Sampson

6 “In Between the Lines” by Samuel Morales

6 “The Fight” by Elizabeth Shook

6 “Hometown” by Gisela Salas

7 “Playing Wonder Woman” by Kayla Branstetter

9 “The Confort of a Foggy Night” by Jimmy Walker

9 “Face’n the Storm” by Sally Hart

10 “A Little Fawn” by Kayla Branstetter

10 “True Happiness” by Zachary Merwin

11 “Smile” by Khali Johnson

11 “My Prairie” by Alexis Barnett

12 “Love in December” by Cheyenne Lasiter

12

13

13

14

14

15

“Big Piney” by Harrison Talbott

“The Faerie Forest” by Bethany E. Hilderbrand

“Rhythmic Sunset” by Sally Hart

“Generous Love” by Winnie Estime Jekatis

“Colorado Serenity” by Latonia Bailey

“Something Smells Fishy” by Nancy Mahurin

16 “July 2nd” by Claudia Johnson

16 “Sun Rising on the Alabama Hills, Bishop, California” by Michael Kiele

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18

19

19

20

20

21

21

“Unwound” by Aubree Chisam

“Faith Is the Victory” by Ellen Arnce

“Abandoned” by Latonia Bailey

“Continental Divide” by Kaleb Fobair

“The Tones of Autumn” by Madison Elizabeth

Daniels

“Desert Storm” by David Zacharias

“The Look” by Lacey Nix

“Antelope Canyon” by David Zacharias

22 “Goodbye Owen” by Atlas Imhof

22

“A Year of Travels” by Abigail Harrold

23 “Ciao” by Amber Davidson

24

“A Love That Never Ceases” by Breanna Walker

26 “Stirling Dove” by Tyler Kelley

“Seeing into the Stars” by Kaia Tennis

27 “Jellies” by Kayden Sees

“Mr. Jelly” by Trinity Webb

28 “Blurry Memories” by Alyson Massardo

“Night Lights” by Ashlyn Snyder

29 “The Glass Bottle” by Alexandra West

30 “My Most Favorite Aunt” by Carl F. Cobb

“Juxtaposition” by Alyx Goebel

31 “Vivid Styles” by Adrienne Quiros

32 “One Week” by Lacey Nix

“A Mother Chef’s Lesson” Kaylnn Phillips

33 “Glass Half Full” by Alyssa Tosh

“Music in Quarantine” by Patti Steel

34 “Inhuman” by Zander Reynolds

“Nashia” by Macy Rayn Brookhouser

35 “Through the Hustle” by Cindy Marmon

“Driving Home” by Morgan Hughes

“Flow of Life” by Alexia Killy

36 “A Never Leaving Mark” by Noah

Freiburger

37 “Heartbreak” by Samuel Morales

38 “The Time I Almost Went to Nationals with a Made-up Speech” by Ava Coffel

39 “The Lookout” by Paige Mosley

40 “Little Chief” by Cindy Marmon

“Chillin’” by Nicholas Dean

41 “Fears and Fortunes” by Dalton Schlichting

“Beauty Through the Eyes of Nature” by Belen Mejia

42 “Lost in the Voices” by Kaylee Banta

“I’m Not You” by Lee M Summers

43 “What Have I Done?” by Tabitha Tolson

“Beautiful and Alone” by Taylor Moller

Gray

44 “The Thing About Stage Fright” by Alonha

“Peaceful Pier” by Donya Pendergraft 25

24

“Port Whole” by Joanne Russel 25

“Glassy Waters” by Alexandra Carson

Frisby

45 “Unexpected Beauty” by Maelyn Wooten

“Rewriting Adoption” by Brecklyn Matthews

46 “Listen” by Bowen Hurley

46 “Aura” by Kat Abelein

47 “The Unknown Path” by Kelly Graham

48 “Hands Bound” by Ethan Hoover

48 “Terra Ante Meridiem” by Alyssa Graves

49 “Marius’ Redemption: A Les Miserables Story” by Stephen Seim

51 “Chris’ Portrait” by David Zacharias

52 “The Flies of the Livingston Estate” by Vanessa Maize

53 “Nature’s Tea” by Whitney Dannielle

54 “Superhero Characteristics” by Jazmin Carroll

55 “Volcom Stone” by Nicholas Dean

55 “ with You” by Paul Wright

56 “Edinburgh Manor” by Billie Holladay Skelley

57 “Cyber Skulls” by Lalani Yang

58 “Cheating the Grim Reaper” by Billie Holladay Skelley

58 “Red Illumination” by Edgar Gomez Gonzalez

59 “Lightbulb” by Sierra Wilson

60 “A Gift from her Brokenness” by Nancy Mahurin

62 “The Midnight World” by Zander Reynolds

63 “Canyon Lands” by Jessica Sellers

64 “Pernicocia” by Emilee Kuschel

65 “Mountain Blossom” by Lani Yang

66 “Candy Dish” by Shaylynn Owen

67 “Mythical Strength” by Suzanne Ratcliff

68 “Thicker Than Water” by Nicholas Dean

68 “Sugary Sweet” by Tiffany Blevins

69 “Mercy” by Lani Yang

70 “Locked Away” by Eric Shelton

70 “Nashia” by Macy Brookhouser

71 “The Reader” by Ryn Hoke

71 “Desert Morning” by Amber Davidson

72 “Boats at Sea” by Joanne Rusell

73 “Time to Roll” by Lacey Nix

74 “Chaos of Laughter” by Payton Nalley

75 “Memento Mori” by Atley Wright

Volcom Stone

This piece is inspired by skateboarding. The piece is made of 6 slabs clay and once fired, it was painted, glazed and fired again. The top of one side was left open for some functionality.

Dean is a freelance photographer and produces a YouTube page called “Beanso.” The YouTube page consists of skateboarding videos that Dean has filmed, edited and solely produced.

CURRENT STAFF JUDGES AND CONTRIBUTORS

The primary task of the Crowder Quill staff is to produce the magazine from contributed contest entries, not produce the contents themselves. However, staff members are required to submit entries as a class assignment to demonstrate expertise in their field of judging. Winning entries are honorarily published but do not receive awards. The staff entries published in this issue were judged by the following honorary judges:

• Literaryentries: Quill faculty adviser Latonia Bailey with assistance by LeandraToomoth

• Photographyentries: Photography instructor Patti Richardson

• Artentries: Art instructors Joshua Knott and Josh Novak

Staff members publicize the contest, select winning entries, and design the magazine. A variety of majors are represented on the staff. See the winning entries for additional author/artist statements as well as biographical information from each contributor to the magazine.

Membersofthe2023staff:

Aubree Chisam, Crane, pp. 42-47

Nicholas Dean, Joplin, pp. 64-71

Kaleb Fobair, Joplin, pp. 5-11, 48-55

Claudia Johnston, Neosho, pp. 56-63

Cindy Marmon, Monett, pp. 36-41

Eric McDonald, Joplin, pp. 31-35

Alyx Goebel, Carl Junction, pp. 22-29

Gisela Salas, Monett, pp. 6, 18-21

Breanna Walker, Skidmore, pp. 12-17

Nicholas Dean | Joplin | Quill Staff | 3DArt

The magazine and contest was proposed and founded by Crowder College English faculty Dan Richard in 1980. With 43 years since its inception, the Quill strives to consistently move forward in producing quality content.

Initially, the Crowder Quill contest was open to students of Crowder College as well as high school students and community members. Nearly all entries were published, but winners received a “Gold Quill” certificate award and designation in the publication. The contest was expanded to include a “Junior Division,” grades 1-8, starting in 1985.

The magazine was published bi-annually until 2006 when it was changed to a yearly contest cycle. At that time, the Junior Division was also removed. In its place was an annual K-8 fine arts day, held in the fall of each year until 2011.

The feather logo was created by Mark Hollandsworth and solely graced the cover of each publication from 1981-1989. The logo is still used as a symbol of the contest and publication today, present on all publicity materials and in the magazine itself.

Color was increasingly added to the cover and contents, prompting the addition of separate color categories for art and photography in spring 2003. Digital Art was added in 2010 to reflect the new art of extensively altered photographs, particularly using photo-manipulation software such as PhotoShop, as well as computer-generated art. In 2013, the art categories were modified to reflect the academic departments at Crowder: 2D Art and 3D Art. Also, $500 scholarships were added to the prize for each high school gold winners for all eight categories. Each year, the contest receives around 1,000 entries.

Beginning with 2023 and the pivot of the journalism program to Digital Marketing to the meed the demands of a growing career field, the Crowder Quill has again undergone some modificiations. The course changed from “Magazine Production” to “Applied Graphic Design and Digital Media Campaigns.” There will be no awards ceremony; magazines and certificates will be mailed in May. Additional digital content will be available on social media.

Dan Richard served as adviser until his retirement in spring 1988. David Sherlock took over the magazine in fall 1988 to spring 1990 in addition to his duties as adviser for the Crowder Sentry and director of the theatre department. Nina Gibson’s turn was from fall 1990 to spring 1992, and Suzanne Woolever from fall 1992 to spring 1994.

Latonia Bailey has served as adviser since fall 1994. Bailey won a Quill gold award in 1987 as a high school student and then joined the staff as poetry editor in spring 1989. As adviser, her works in nearly every category have been chosen for honorary publication through the years by faculty and students.

AWARDS from theAmerican Scholastic PressAssociation, College Point, New York:

2013-2021 Best Community College Literary-Art Magazine

2010-2021 First Place with Special Merit

2009 First Place

1993-2008 Did not compete

1992 First Place

1988-1991 First Place with Special Merit

1988 Outstanding Service forthe Community

1987 Second Place

In 2017, The Crowder Quill was given the highest possible honor by the College Media Association: The Pinnacle for 1st Place for two-year literary magazines.

Beautiful Day

Amy Sampson | Monett | Community | Honorable Mention | Color Photography

Captured in a field on Long Island, NY. auto iPhoneXR

Sampson is a Fulbright Fllow, teacher, writer, photographer, and avid traveler who lives in and was born in Missouri. She has traveled to 34+ countries and all 50 states.

In Between the Lines

Samuel Morales Benton Crowder Gold Color Photography

On my way back to college I stopped by the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville to look around with the extra time I had. I saw the long and endless road, and I jumped to the middle of the road before any traffic arrived, and had enough time to capture this moment of such a low shot to capture the environment from a different world.

Hometown

Gisela Salas

Verona Crowder

Quill Staff

B&W Photography

My inspiration behind this photo is capturing how beautiful my hometown feels to me. Also, how shadows surround my hometown. I feel like this picture captures that emotion. The black and white’s purpose in this photo stands for the meaning behind those colors. The white stands for pure light and black showcases the absence of light. Showing how happy but how dark your hometown can be as well.

The fight is not over, keep going Although you may have some doubt This can not be your end, keep fighting

I can see that you are aching It does stand out The fight is not over,keep going

I know this is alarming We need you, you can’t check out This cannot be your end, keep fighting Your sickness is accelerating I am afraid you will miss out The fight is not over, keep going

You are living And you can breakout This cannot be your end, keep fighting

You must keep trying We cannot go without The fight is not over, keep going This cannot be your end, keep fighting

Elizabeth Shook Verona High School Honorable Mention | Poetry

I decided to write the poem about sickness. My grandfather recently passed and I used my experience from that to write this villanelle style poem.

am about to climb a hay bale in my grandparents’ field. Rows of freshly cut and baled hay. Rows of a country girl’s playground—jungle gyms, slides, tunnels, and swings. The rows face north and south and run parallel to my dusty dirt road. When it rains or the light changes, the hay turns from golden to a previous golden patchwork seeps through in dark brown spots like a quilt. In places, the fresh hay reveals evidence of its former self—fescue.

I accomplish my climb and stand on the bale, where my eyes open onto an expansive view over the hills of my grandparents’ fields. A hot, muggy, and wild wind reflect my state of mind. Each summer, fields, tractors, and rows of hay have a magnetic pull on me. When Cody (my younger brother) and I climb on the hay bales, we start calculating and strategizing, trying to figure out if we can escape enemy capture if we soar from one row to the next. Across the field, our visiting cousins race toward us, screaming, “You’d better run.” I laugh, look out, and see them running in the field, sweet smiles of childhood innocence.

I am years removed from this scene, but my veins still sprint from fear. As I reflect on these memories, they suddenly seem foreign to me. Hay season was exactly that—a season. June. The honeysuckles linger, and the fragrance of sweet mix with freshly cut grass fills the air. The fields look like the tractors finally kicked off their scratchy wintery blanket to reveal a vibrant, emerald green, curve-hugging attire. A moment ago, I was running on top of the hay bales, escaping enemy capture, and now I’m at it again, though I frequently slide in-between the cracks.

I am watching for the cousin invasion. Brian is a young boy, my cousin, with his long baggy jeans hanging from his small hips and his quick and confident run down the field. His eyes are dark, and he does not stop his pace until he climbs the bale. I begin to entertain the idea that he is possibly supernatural. He wipes his hair from his eyes. I hesitate to resurface or sneeze, even to cautiously climb the bale. He will not give up. Finally, I reveal my spot and bolt across the field to the next set of rows. I embark on to the rows of hay across the field when I hear screaming echoing from afar. My cousin, anxious to capture me,

yells, “I’m gettin’ closer.” He runs after me, and I run away from him, up the round hay bale and forward. I look back; incredibly, he climbs the same bale I just climbed. His is gaining on me. All of a sudden, I’m running for my life. Breathless, Cody and I split up. We could lose ourselves in the cracks and easily disappear, but we may risk being blocked and captured. I pause and consider. Cody vanishes, climbs down a hay bale, and escapes. My cousin sensibly picks me to follow. He chases me down the row of bales and up the bales: sideways as we jump to the next row, down some scratchy steps, and across the labyrinth of five rows. He chases me while yelling and laughing, bale after bale. Every time I glance back, choking for a breath, I expect him to quit. He appears just as breathless as me, as his t-shirt clings to his body. I discover he may need to fling himself, point, aim, and dive to capture me. I will use this to my advantage until I have nowhere to go. He impels me forward to the edge of the hay bale. The air is hot and humid as I fight for every breath. I stand staggering, coughing.

He stops, and I stop. We don’t look at each other. He cherishes my fear. We are wet from sweat, our hair is full of hay, and there is more hay in our socks and shoes. A grove of walnut trees borders the fence line. There is no one around. My only option is to jump. It feels like a long time before he speaks. “You have nowhere to go,” he threatens as he inches closer to me. I listen and acknowledge his threats. He chases me passionately without giving up, but I am not going to surrender my freedom. I want to make my own way to escape his capture. I stare down at the ground, knowing I’ve made this jump many times before. I position myself and fly into the air like Wonder Woman, soaring to new heights to escape enemy capture. The sky opens before me, clear and boundless. The sun feels hot and sticky against my face as I inhale the summer air.

Coming back to the ground, I roll my ankle and slam my left wrist on a jagged rock. Sharp pain shoots all the way to my chest and stops my breathing as my lungs burn and my legs become weak. I sit in the hay and dust, trying to hold back my pride and fear. A tsunami of hot tears rushes down my tan

[Continued to 8]

Kayla Branstetter Purdy Community

Honorable Mention Nonfiction Essay

Annie Dillard’s piece, “An American Childhood” inspired the creation of my own childhood experience in the piece, “Playing Wonder Woman”. I broke my arm engaging in an activity I was told a million times not to partake in, and now as a parent myself, I have a better understanding of my mother’s frustrations. Branstetter is an English professor for Crowder College, a mother, writer, artist, and photographer from Missouri. She holds a MALS degree in Art, Literature, and Culture from the University of Denver.

[Continued from 7]

and dirty cheeks. Brian leaps down. “Are you okay?” Dirt flies in my face, and tiny pebbles hit my shoes when he strikes the ground. He helps me up, and we amble our way to our grandparents’ rock house.

The pain continues to shoot through me, but the fear of facing my mother paralyzes me. Facing her is harder to imagine than the pain from my wrist. My stomach rumbles at the thought of her reaction. By the time we return to my grandparents’ house, it is filled with my family eating and drinking, members who had spent a day’s work in the fields. I feel as if I am living in a never-ending nightmare, fearing what my mother and family may do to us. The only empty wooden chair resting next to the kitchen table stares at me. I decide to take a seat and try to prepare for the lecture. My mother rushes into the kitchen. She is so young, but I can see her face, what I had seen a hundred times in her when my brother got into trouble. There is a breath of silence before I hear my mother ask, “What happened?” I hear frustration coupled with concern in her voice. There is nothing left for me to do. I cry until I have no more tears. My eyes swell from crying, as I secretly hope my tears will gain her empathy. The news of our disobedience continues to hang heavy. My mother, grandparents, aunts, and uncles specifically told us not to play on the hay bales. We listen for the chewing out—which seems like their wrath could last forever. My mother yelling at us and her wrath steadily growing in strength—a combination of feeling sorry for me and what did I tell you? My right hand closes tightly on my left wrist. The smell of dirt and hay mixing with my grandfather’s black coffee fills the room. After a few more minutes of lecturing, I feel about eight feet under.

Beneath my mother’s angry hazel eyes, I see a glimpse of worry. In the middle of her scolding, she gently caresses my wrist and stares for any sign of a broken bone. She takes a warm cloth and washes off the dirt. I hear the crackling of ice in the distance. My grandma places ice in a Ziplock bag and wraps it in a dish towel before putting it on my wrist. I quickly adapt to my injury. I master my one-handed cartwheel (almost an hour after receiving my injury). I position myself on my grandparents’ concrete sidewalk. I close my eyes and try to envision my perfect one-handed cartwheel while standing on the beam at the Olympics. I put my right arm high in the air while leaving my left arm hanging. I hold

my breath and throw myself over, mastering my one-handed cartwheel, which feels like a significant accomplishment.

The wrist, however, continues to throb.It is late afternoon when the light turns into that radiant, vibrant color I wish I could keep. It’s also sweet tea hour—a favorite pause in the day, although I never acquired the taste for sweet tea. Instead, I prefer the purple Kool-Aid that stains my upper lip. Under the tall acorn tree, my family sits in their plastic lounge chairs, sipping their sweet tea, while watching the spectacle of children running around the yard. I call my mother to watch. “Look! I can do a one-handed cartwheel!” I put my right arm in the air, leaving my left arm hanging. I turn and throw myself over, showing my mother. “Looks good. Please, don’t get hurt again,” she warns. “I won’t. I promise,” I yell back. She doesn’t leave until I effortlessly complete my one-handed cartwheel. My mom looks proud and pleased that I did not fall and injure myself more. Meanwhile, my family continues sipping their sweet tea as my grandfather tells one of his famous jokes. In the quiet twilight, we disappear into our humble single-wide trailer house for the night. As the darkness arrives, I position my arm and drift off to sleep.

The next morning, a big, round, deep purple and blue bruise stains my injured wrist, and I cry out in pain. My mom rushes in and looks down at my arm. She notices the bruise and calls the doctor. She hands me an icepack and offers me a chewable ibuprofen on our way out. The warm morning air stops the chill from the ice resting on my wrist. We drive to the doctor’s office, and along the way, I stare out the window at the glorious fields of scattered, round hay bales. As if the bales are playing chess. In other fields, baby calves chase each other in a game of tag.

One x-ray later, Dr. Smith, a young man with his white coat draped over his shoulders, enters the examination room. He speaks to us thoughtfully, as if through careful articulation, we will better understand him. “She has a hairline fracture. She will need to be in a cast for eight weeks,” he tells us. My mother stares at the doctor in confusion, “But she was doing one-handed cartwheels,” was all she can say, as the doctor’s diagnosis dangles in the room. At the same time, the nurse prepares to set my arm for an itchy and plaster cast. I suddenly realize that the summer days are long, and with my broken arm, so are the weeks. I can no longer swim in the creek nor jump off hay bales. 

Let me enjoy a foggy night

And dance in the mist of fantasy

For I am surrounded by images that one does not know But can hear their voices

Whispering to me the words I desire.

Let me enjoy a foggy night

To fulfill the thoughts of the day

For they come true in the dew of the night Shadows that should alarm me, but I welcome their touch

So real is the sensation that my mind does so enjoy As does my body with every thought

Let me enjoy a foggy night

The hidden desires go forth and take away any hesitation

Or fears I have during the brightness of the day

I do not need to imagine any during these nights For they are real

The warmth of the touch that’s so missed I shiver with delight With no shyness to be found

The mysteries of the shadows invite me to join Let me enjoy a foggy night

Before the morning and all is gone My fantasies come true with those in the heavy mist

Let me my eyes stay closed so I may envision those around me And the softness of the caress

Let me enjoy a foggy night

Before thes unrises and evaporates the night

And the comfort of the foggy night is gone until the next

Jimmy D Walker Seneca Community Silver Poetry Free Verse

I was speaking with a friend one foggy night; and the friend stated they liked it. The idea stuck.

Walker is a part-time instructor at Crowder College.

Face’n the Storm

Sally Hart

Lamar Community

Honorable Mention B&W Photography

This storm ended up producing a tornado about 30 minutes after photographing this. I like the scale of the clouds in contrast to the barn and how the clouds mimic a face. Canon EOS T3

Hart has a life long passion for art and photography. She believes all art is a form of communication and desires to share with others.

True Happiness

*Zachary Merwin

Carl Junction High School Gold

B&W Photography

Merwin eventually wants to open up his own dental practice later in the future.

*Scholarship recipient

A Little Fawn

Kayla Branstetter

Purdy Community Bronze Color Photography

I live on a 120-acre property and we often encounter wildlife among the fields. One spring day, we found a fawn resting in field and I took the opportunity to snap a shot of the baby. iPhone 13

Branstetter is a published writer and an award-winning artist from Missouri.

| Spring 2023

I kept trying to get a photo my dog, Ember. It wasn’t until a small butterfly flew overhead that she sat down and watched it freely. Canon EOS Rebel T2i, shutter 1/60 sec., f/2, ISO 640

Often times I slam the door behind me

Storming out in a hell-bound haze

Feverishly my feet find their footing

On the well worn path between each maple tree

I cannot help but to breathe deep

As the sweet smell of syrupy sap

Turns to that of nectar filled daffodils

A scent so strong, it calms the tears I weep

Quickly I find myself in waist tall grass

Meticulously making my way through the meadow

Insects fluttering and flying out of my way

Because to them I am an incredible mass

Creek number one sits at the bottom of a hill

The bridge, bent and dented, but still of good use

I stop in my tracks merely feet away

For just across a buck stands completely still

I wait for a moment, which drags on forever

He lazily leaps, knowing I wouldn’t dare

So I keep on my path and o’er the first bridge

And he’s right, I would never

My destination is still not for a while

I look to my left and see nothing but hills

To my right the sight keeps consistent

Smile

Khali Johnson Granby Crowder

Honorable Mention

2DArt

I present a fluffy doggo, with a big, adorable smile. #Serotonin boost.

Johnson loves her work and everyone that supports her. This piece comes from the heart.

Mother Earth surrounds me in an awe striking pile

Not for the first time I realize

If I were to scream out for help

Not a soul would be around to hear

And I quiver at the prairie’s amazing size

Several long minutes turn to half an hour

Maybe one or two, I’m not quite sure

Out here time has never really mattered

A smile slowly takes place of my glazed glower

Creek number two does not disappoint

Gurgling it growls at me

Cautiously I climb through the cool current

To my knees I fall reaching my breaking point

I lift my head towards the sky

My tears join the stream

Cold water threatens to freeze off my skin

And I notice the moon has already climbed high

The barren black night is my cue

I don’t take long to reach my beginning

My starting place seems to come in half the time And I turn to face the sunrises golden hue

So slowly an end must come to my roam

Back through the trees I am devoured

That brick build may be my house

But the landscape beneath will always be my home

Rhymed Verse

I live right beside old conservation land, which grants my mind great comfort at times of distress.

Barnett would like to continue writing and make it into a career.

Alexis Barnett ElDorado Springs Crowder Bronze Poetry

Cheyenne Lasiter Carthage Crowder

Honorable Mention Poetry Free Verse

I wrote this poem for my children as a way to express the depth of love I have for them and the sentiment of meeting one’s child for the first time.

Lasiter plans to practice dental hygiene and help build healthy smiles.

I discovered you when the magnolia’s bloom, So young and vibrant at twenty-two. Once again at twenty-six, My heart so full, for in my womb your kicks.

The summer elapsed and fall proceeds, So many changes occur in me. My back is aching, I cannot see my feet I dream of the day we finally get to meet.

The air becomes cold and little dry, Unbearable pain, how I want to die! I hear your cry like a sonnet of love, In that moment I know, you are a gift from above.

My child I love you, with all of my being. You’re growing so fast, I don’t believe what I’m seeing. My heart and soul will always remember, I knew not of true love until that December.

Big Piney Harrison Talbott

Lamar Crowder

Honorable Mention Color Photography

I captured this scene on a float trip down the Big Piney River. This picture captures nature and how we can miss its beauty if we don’t slow down.

Talbott is a dualenrollment student. He wants to get his engineering degree after high school.

More than I have ever known, This place brings out the worst in me. I long for something more than home, For something I can never be.

The quiet stillness takes its toll, A thrilling freshness chills my bones, And fearful wonder grips my soul More than I have ever known.

It makes me want to shout with joy, It makes me want to dance and sing. A young one’s playset, and I a toy, This place brings out the worst in me.

And so my lips were made for laughter, So my mind was made to roam. My heart to sing, my pen to craftI long for something more than home.

And so I fill these empty pages, Stuffed with hope and fantasy; Is love not when my spirit rages For something I can ever be?

More than I have ever known, This place brings out the best in me. I long for something more than home, For something I can never be.

I was on a Writer’s Marathon with my school’s Writing League, where we went to locations for inspiration. One of these stops was a large platform ringed by misshapen tree stumps in the middle of a forest area, where I was tasked with writing a poem. I began to write, calling on the breathtaking surroundings and the way I was awestruck when walking through this space, and by the time I stepped off the platform, I knew I’d remember this experience for a long time.

Hilderbrand’s stories are her passion in life. She mainly writes to get the stories that live in her head onto paper and make room for other things, like preparing for adulthood and more stories.

Bethany E. Hilderbrand Riverton High School

Honorable Mention Poetry

Rhymed Verse

Rhythmic Sunset

Sally Hart

Lamar Community Bronze DigitalArt

Hart has a life long passion for art and photography, believes all art is a form of communication and desires to share this form of communication with others.

My inspiration for this was the movement of the branches in the wind as I photographed the sunset. I liked the contrast of movement in an otherwise still moment.

Winnie Estime Jakaitis Joplin High School Bronze Poetry Free Verse

Estime hopes to become a journalist or a counselor. Estime loves writing about herself, nature, and the world around her; it has become a hobby for her to write down every single rhyme that comes to mind- creating something new.

What to the hopeless is love? What to the unfortunate is generous?

I was asked a question Worth much thought. Days went by, months skipped Along, and years dared patience; Still the question I Could not answer.

For, in life, one receives Much love from those Of unexpected measure. I was given what I dared to think Afraid of the courage to Dream and to ask; for Faith was but an unknown friend, Created to be of another world Never more mine.

Imagination was a friend, Yet its beauty was but a stance Of dazzling colors. What to the hopeless is love? What to the unfortunate is generous? It is the tenderness of words Of which makes one accept That of which they believe is

Colorado Serenity

Latonia Bailey Neosho Quill StaffAdviser Color Photography

Bear Lake is a favorite among hiking trails in Rocky Mountain National Park.

Bailey, coordinator of the Digital Mearketing and Photography programs, enjoys contributing to the contest each year in various categories.

not to be deserved. It is the compassion given to one Who has given up the search of slender care.

It is the future that has Written its own story Making a path for its upcoming Footsteps, soon to be taken. It is when one is given love

So deep, so strong; abundance in A mindset of belonging. It is when one is taken into arm When they expect to be pushed away and Run from their own fears of Failure and of forgiven memories. Generous love

The remedy of which Makes one question their Own belief; where one returns Not because it is easy, But because the truth Surpasses all hatred, no Matter how long, no Matter how unforgiven A thought may be.

I wrote this poem because sometimes we as a society are afraid to ask for the kind of love we truly long for; scared that we might never get it because of every insecurity we have. But in the end, we receive it from those we did not expect to receive it from, not because we asked for it; but because this kind of love looks beyond all the ugliness and loves unconditionally.

he air was hot and humid, not unlike any other summer day in southwest Missouri. I can recall the sight of many fisherman, ranging from little tikes in kid-themed ball caps to grown men in those strange, floppy, tan hats with lures hanging from them. The main reason I was there, though, was not to fish but just to enjoy seeing those slimy, scaly little creatures, ranging from barely hatched to full grown specimens. As a child, there was nothing more thrilling in my mind than heading to Roaring River State Park. This miniscule hatchery, nestled deep in the Ozarks, inspired my imagination and gave my heart a gift of more than just natural beauty.

This magical, inviting getaway is still making me smile today, just as much as it did when I was a kid. The winding, picturesque trails led my family to many breath-taking adventures. Finding a frightening snake slithering down the trail or a slimy snail crawling up a moss-covered rock, those were just a few of the wonders of nature we would find. We watched a fisherman use a fly and wave the pole poetically over the water, just trying to land a colorful trout on the end of his line. However, for me, it was always about those otherworldly-looking animals with the gills that flapped and the mouth making that funny, almost kissing motion.We all have mimicked that motion throughout our childhoods. I can recall it, like it was yesterday, the first time I went running up to one of those holding ponds. There were hundreds, if not, thousands of black, finned fish in those small pools of water. Those fish moved in unison with each other and would follow anyone up and down the perimeter of their little homes, including curly-haired, frecklefaced little girls. They hoped in their fishy minds that I would walk over to one of those red, converted gum ball dispensing machines and put a quarter into it. Then, the fish food will come rushing out into my hands. The pandemonium that occurs once the food hits the black water is exciting no matter what age the spectator is. This happened to me that first time and sent me rushing back with

my parents to get another handful of that foul-smelling, grainy substance those little fish adored. Multiple times we played that game, and never once did it get old. I moved from pond to pond giving each of those scaly friends of mine a tasty treat.

Then we walked up the slippery stone steps to the big pond. This is where the older, mature trout were spending their days. I excitingly tossed some more of their beloved treats in the water, but this time it seemed less dramatic. Those old, colorful fish would slowly maneuver themselves through the spring fed water and gobble up the food. It seemed like nothing in the world would make them swim fast, reminding me of my grandpa’s slowing pace to the dinner table. As we walked around the perimeter of their pond, the temperature began to fall, which seemed a little odd to me. The pond and the river are fed by a crystal, clear spring, flowing from the rocky side of that Ozark mountain. I know the walk so well to the spring and have been intrigued by it every single time I journey down that cold stone sidewalk. The beauty takes my breath away, mainly because I think how remarkable this gift of nature is and how many living things depend on its existence. The air even smells purer. It is like taking a deep whiff of nature itself. There is a small opening to the spring area; and on this day, there was one lone trout that had somehow made it to the other side. He was almost floating in one spot, letting the current caress his streamlined body. I thought to myself that he was meditating, taking a break from all the nonsense in the main pond.

The excitement of my first visit to Roaring River State Park cultivated a love of nature in that little, naïve girl. I still have that love for nature and the same excitement every time I visit the park. I have taken my son many times to this small, piece of natural heaven and have seen the same light in his eyes that I imagine my parents saw in mine. I know there will be many trips to come for my family to see those slimy, smelly creatures of the deep and many wonderful memories to be made.

Nancy Mahurin

Joplin Crowder Bronze Nonfiction Memoir Essay

I wrote this personal account from my fond memories of visiting Roaring River State Park. It has always had a special place in my heart, and I hope this memoir expresses that fondness.

Mahurin has always loved to write and hopes to publish her work one day. She is enrolled as an accounting major but knows writing will always have a place in her life.

This is similar to a situation to me. This might be sensitive to some readers.

Content Warning

n July 2nd, both fear and excitement rushed throughout my body as I laid in my bed, crying as I looked down at the positive pregnancy test in my hand. The only thing I thought of doing was not talking to my parents. Even though I was 17 at the time, I didn’t go crying to my brothers about how scared I was, I didn’t seek comfort in my sister, who had a baby young. Neither did I call my boyfriend, who I knew was the father of the baby that was now growing within me. Instead, I went to my journal, to which I wrote everything that I couldn’t talk to anybody about or didn’t know how. My journal was my safe place, I could write everything that I truly needed to say but couldn’t. I wrote:

July 2nd, positive pregnancy. I’m 17, not married, still in school, still living at home, how can I do this? I know I’m not alone; I know Jonathan (my ex-boyfriend/father) will not leave. Even though we’ve only been together a few weeks, I know he won’t leave. Please God, help me figure this out, help Jonathan and I figure this out. God, I can’t do this alone, I need you to help me figure this out Lord, please.

Eventually, after writing, I called Jonathan and told him. He listened, and I knew he was scared at the fact that we created this baby that we’ll be responsible for. A human being that we must raise, that we must protect. I knew for sure, at that moment on the phone, that I wouldn’t be doing it alone. I knew I would have the support I needed through Jonathan. I knew that we would be okay, that we would protect this baby no matter what. Because during that phone call, he told me that he’s terrified, scared to raise a baby so young. At the time I was 17 and he was 18, it would be

rough, but he told me that no matter how scared he was, he wasn’t going anywhere. That he was going to do everything he possibly could for the baby.

After a few terrifying weeks of trying to hide this secret now from not only my parents, but to everybody around me. It wasn’t hard hiding it now, but I knew it would become harder the farther along I became. On August 3rd, I once again turned to my journal:

Not much has changed, I’m still pregnant, I’m still scared. I’ve been having some cramps the past couple days, which I’m pretty sure is normal. So, no need to stress myself over it, I’ll go see my dr. and have her check everything out. Something that has changed, I’m kind of excited. Like, yes, it’s scary, having a baby at 17, I’ll be 18 when he/she comes. It’s not awful, my parents will probably think so, at first at least. I think Mom will eventually come around. But what if she doesn’t, what if she hates me? I don’t think she will, she didn’t hate Hannah (my sister) when she came home, married and pregnant to a guy she didn’t know. Especially after just leaving with him randomly, not even telling anybody. But they don’t hate her, they love Talia (my niece, the one she was pregnant with), maybe they’ll be like that with me. At least Jonathan and I have known each other and been somewhat friends for a few years. Jonathan and I have talked about the baby a few times, not a whole lot. We haven’t told anybody, except my older brother, Isaac. He was the first person I told, except for Jonathan, he seemed happy for me, which definitely helped calm my nerves. Jonathan and I even started looking at some apartments near Neosho. Figured it would help, especially when the baby does come. Jonathan also decided not

The Eastern Sierra Nevada mountains have always held deep fascination for me. Rising up from the desert, these mountains dominate the skyline, trapping the moisture laden clouds behind them.

MichaelKiele Neosho | Crowder Bronze | 3DArt

Kiele is in the Art and Design program. He returned to finish his Associate of Arts degree, focusing on ceramics and ceramic glazing techniques. He plans to attend the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville where he will continue working towards his goal of Master of Arts degree.

Claudia Johnston Neosho Staff

Sun Rising on the Alabama Hills, Bishop, California

to get a truck he was looking at, and said he wanted to save as much money for the baby.

On August 4th, I was in my English class, the same class that I had with Jonathan’s brother. About the middle of class, I needed to use the restroom. I had still been experiencing the cramps, they had been mild, not too bad. But when I got to the restroom, the cramps got so much worse, I could barely stand up. But, while in the restroom, I had a miscarriage, and lost our baby. So, I write because sometimes that’s the only way I can get anything out. I write to help myself not go insane by overthinking. I write, because sometimes, that piece of paper seems like it’s the only thing that will listen to my rants. I write to help myself.

August 5th, it’s 3 AM, and I can’t sleep. I haven’t told anybody about what happened, I can’t do it. That’ll make it more real. The fact that it actually happened is so beyond me, I can’t comprehend that it did actually happen. It feels like a dream. No, a nightmare. I know that I’m only 17, it would be hard raising a baby so young, but that part never really scared me, even though it probably should have. I knew that I wouldn’t be alone, even though I knew my parents would be super upset, and disappointed, I knew that they’d be there for me. I had so many dreams about what my baby would look like, my baby. That’s

Unwound

Aubree Chisam Crane Quill Staff 2DArt

I created this piece to show all of my favorite things. The heart is in memory of my Papa and the life saving heart transplant he received. The quote “Grow through what you go through” has become my motto.

Chisam wants to be a graphic designer and become a book cover designer for a publishing company after college. She enjoys art as an escape from how hectic life can be sometimes.

the weirdest part of it all. He or she would have been my baby, but now there isn’t a baby there anymore. I let my baby down. And I let myself down. Things have not been as bad as they have been in the past, but I can tell that they’re going to be getting worse. Maybe it’s a good thing. My baby won’t have to suffer through everything, maybe it’s better for the baby. That’s a lot for a baby to go through. But they would have been a baby, the only thing the baby would care about is being near me, its momma. I would have been a momma, but now I won’t. I don’t even know if I ever will be able to. What if that had been my only chance at having a baby. What if I blew it. I know that it’s really not my fault, it’s not like I wanted to lose my baby. I know that this just happens sometimes. But the fact that it actually happened to me. That made my biggest fear seem so surreal. What if my doctor was right? What if I really can’t have kids? Was this my only chance, and now it’s gone. I’m praying that that’s not true. I’m praying that someday, when I’m more financially stable and older, I pray I can have my own baby. Because if I can’t, that would be my biggest fear. All I truly want is to be a mom, when the time is right, that’s what I want. Maybe the time wasn’t right. Maybe God knows what he’s doing. God, I hope so, because I sure don’t.

EllenArnce Neosho Community Gold Poetry

Essentially, this is my life’s story. I was saved in a Methodist Church Camp when I was 12, but wandered away from the Lord in my late teens. After several years, marriage and birth of two children, the Lord drew me back to Him when my 2 year old daughter became very ill. Words in italics are verses of favorite hymns.

When I was young I went to church. Very still, on a pew, I’d perch. I heard the doom of doing wrong. I sang the hymns and played along. Jesus loves me, this I know.

In church camp, one summer night, My soul reached out into His light. The emptiness I’d known Left when I took Him formy own. What a friend we have in Jesus.

In time my mind and body grew But thought sand talks with Him were few. My life slipped into ways of sin As more and more Satan crept in. Just a closer walk with Thee Grant it, Jesus, is my plea.

Before a wooden cross I knelt. Oh, what a comfort and peace I felt! Before Jesus I cried and prayed. Again to Him my life I gave. Where He leads me, I will follow.

But Satan never left my side. My life for Jesus almost died. In sin I walked and cursed His name. I lay in lust and knew no shame. I was sinking deep in sin, Far from the peaceful shore.

For years I wandered all alone, Doing things my way, on my own. Blessed with a mate and babes so dear, Draw me nearer, nearer, nearer blessed Lord!

On a cross my precious Savior Paid for my sinful behavior. Praise the Lord, oh my soul! Come Holy Spirit, make me whole! Amazing grace, how sweet the sound! How great Thou art! How great Thou art!

Abandoned

Latonia Bailey

Neosho

Quill StaffAdviser

B&W Photography

Bailey, coordinator of the Digital Mearketing and Photography programs, enjoys contributing to the contest each year in various categories.

Continental Divide

Kaleb Fobair

Joplin

Quill Staff

B&W Photography

Fobair is a 20-yearold Crowder student who has a passion for storytelling which he shows through photos and film. He aspires to keep perfecting his work and to one day work in the film industry.

I took this photo on my most recent trip to Colorado. This is the very top of Monarch Mountain on a skiing trail called the “continental divide”. Because two different sides of mountains are split between the trail, which is not shown in the photo. I took this photo looking down the trail, where it continues. The trail is also called “skywalker’ because it feels like you’re walking on the sky. Panasonic Lumix g7, shutter 1/4000 sec., f3.5-5.6, ISO 200, 30 mm lens

Abandoned mining homes dot the landscape surrounding the Rocky Mountains near Ouray, Colo.

Madison Elizabeth Daniels Aurora High School Sliver Nonfiction

The purpose of writing this was to describe the beautiful effects, and experiences autumn has to offer. Typically essays are cut and dry, never having any description to them. I wanted to take my experiences in creative writing and try to combine the information that comes with nonfiction with the descriptive properties fiction has.

he autumn breeze sweeps through the small towns, swirling the warmtoned leaves; colors of reds, oranges, and yellows mixed with the monotone tones of browns, creating a maestros harmony. Tints of shades crept out of the night, making the vibrant hues prominent and exquisite; the tantalizing colors conveyed in undertones that roll in every year, like a round of storms coming through the Midwest, brought feelings of tranquility. The season is like a beautiful meadow in the dawn, an alluring scene, one that captures everything that autumn has to offer. Autumn can wrap one around in a blanket of love, sharing the spirit of the season, making autumn the best, most preeminent season.

The cool breeze brings a chilling sensation that leaves shivers down the spine. Goose bumps appear on the skin as the temperature becomes nippy. The little bumps cause giggles between kids as they mess with the texture of it. It feels like little hills on top of the skin, the surface of which is difficult to describe. It’s texture is ambiguous and indescribable, an incomparable feeling.

Autumn always smelt like cinnamon and pumpkin. The sweet smells of pumpkinflavored coffee in the morning mixed with the pleasant breeze is what makes the season. It makes autumn. The sweets mixed in with tarts

Desert Storm

David Zacharias Pittsburgh, KS Community Sliver

DigitalArt

Originally shot in full daylight at Arches National Park, with a cobalt-blue sky. A few years later, I decided to do a digital makeover and add some drama to a mundane photo.

are scents that immediately remind people of autumn, a savoring scent that smells like the perfect night, a quintessential type of day. The season has a fragrance that reminds people of home. Remembrance of a sweet time is what brings the happy thoughts in. Fragrances allow others to feel their memories once more. The scent of early, chilly autumn mornings is unforgettable and quite anxiety-reducing. Those times and flavors put others at ease, filling ones soul with quietude.

Society associates autumn with school and the start of stressful times, when in reality, if one sees the bigger picture, one would realize that it is much more relaxing than people believe. The agonizing moment of realization people as a whole have whenever they find out that people only associate summer with a good time breaks millions of hearts. People are hurt because they did not realize people have associated them that way. These people believe they hate the season for all it is when in reality, it is the prettiest season, with the most enchanting sights. This includes the terrifying corn mazes, the beautiful pumpkin patches, and the captivating, gorgeous apple trees. Society despises school and even dreads the season because of the correlation. People hate that a school is spoiling their fun times and that is why they hate the season. It ended their fun times and cause the time for ambitious

tendencies to occur. They felt animosity toward the season. This brought them back to reality. Forcing kids to go back to school will immediately condition their minds into hating it while ultimately liking summer better. People dislike this season, it has been that way for years, if not millenniums because of its portrayal.

The nights now become shorter as the day starts sooner. Hearing the bird’s ear-pleasing chirp early in the morning and watching them fly away as the sun descends, that is what it is about, not focusing on the responsibilities of life, not the times that have to change. It is about the calmness it brings. Seasons are hectic. Autumn is the only one of the four where someone can simply breathe and enjoy their time. It allows everyone to stop and slow down because life goes rapidly.It seems like the only season that brings these feelings is fall, and people do not see the beauty in that. To conclude, fall is the best season. The colors alone make the season better. The colors of the trees, the falling leaves, and the colors of the pretty skylines, everything complements each other, and everything is perfect. Sweet smells of apple pie produce the aroma that

everything is perfect, everything, including the taste and the gooey texture. Apple pie leaves a mouth-watering feeling in people’s hearts, it is so sweet and charming, and the texture is soft and easily chewable. It is so unique that the world gets to experience that because autumn is really the best time of the year. Autumn is more atypical than it seems. 

The Look

Lacey Nix McDonald County High School Bronze

B&W Photography

I met this camel and instantly fell in love; he was too beautiful not to snap a photo.

Antelope Canyon

David Zacharias Pittsburgh, Kans, Community Silver Color Photography

Ever since I can remember, I have marveled at the geological formations of the US Southwest desert regions. The colors and shapes are in a word, magnificent.

On vacation, I had the opportunity to finally photograph many of these areas including Antelope Canyon in Arizona. A must-see spot for any landscape photographer.

*Atlas

Imhof

Riverton High School Gold Fiction, Short Story

This story is based on many true-tolife experiences and emotions that I have experienced personally. The idea of creating a sort of movie to capture our lives whizzing past came to me a few years ago during quarantine.

Imhof is an active member of the Rams Writing League. She has won the Joplin Globe’s and other contests. Imhof hopes to direct and produce films based on her favorite books, and to publish her dystopian novel.

hen the summer of ‘22 rolled around, I discovered that my passion could take me further than I had ever imagined. My best friend Owen was only a few months away from leaving, and our entire friend group knew it. We had been moping around his place since school ended and he graduated.

“Man, you’re lucky.” Adam grumbled. “I’d do anything to get out of this hellhole. If I was you, I’d be gone by now.”

“Yeah well, you’re not me. And as pathetic as it is, I kinda like hanging out with you dumbasses.”

“Aw, you’re making me blush.” We let the silence hang in the air. We could joke all we wanted, but reality was closing in. See, Owen’s parents valued his education more than anything. Owen, however, valued his freedom more than anything. Soon he’d be off on his way to the college of their choice, to be a doctor or lawyer, I don’t quite remember. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

“What if-” I hesitated. I loved my friends, but we didn’t always have the same idea of fun. “What if we made a bucket list, like, all the things you’ve ever wanted to do around here? And then we filmed all of it? Like some sort of movie, and then the night before you leave we can set up my grandma’s projector and watch it? Like a last hurrah kind of thing.”

I was met with what felt like an eternity of silence and unblinking eyes.

A Year of Travels

I was inspired by each of the places I visited this summer.; Los Angeles, Chicago, Spain, France, and Portugal with MSSU.

Harrold attends MSSU for her BFA in printmaking and art history.

“We’ve always talked about that 80’s themed day.” Adam finally broke the silence. And it was a great start. We had a roller rink, steak ‘n shake, and drive in theater within an hour of Owen’s house. We’d all dress up like it was the 80’s and hit all of those spots in a single day.

“They’re showing ferris Bueler’s day off.” Adam had pulled up the websites of everywhere on our list. “The rink’s not open until the girls get here, we could start then!”

“Hell, why not?” Owen gets up and grabs a scrap paper off of his desk. Before I knew it, we had filled the entire paper with awesome things to do that summer.

Owen took a picture and sent it to the group chat with the three of us, Claire, and and Emily.

“I thought you guys were out of school?” Emily replied.

“It’s our bucket list for the summer.”

“It’s ugly as shit.”

“Hey!”

“We know he’s not the prettiest, but he’s your boyfriend!”

“HEY!”

“We’ll make one that’s less…everything,” Claire dropped in.

And it was set. Claire and Emily made a poster with pretty handwriting and glitter and doodles and the whole nine yards. They brought it with them when they visited the next week. We hung the poster up in Owen’s room, and we got to work.

“Okay, we need a game plan. Some of this stuff needs to be planned in advance.” Claire was always so prepared.

“Only if you’re a coward.” Owen spoke as we all sat in a circle.

“We should all take turns filming so nobody’s left out of the video. Can’t have Owen forgetting my beautiful face.” Adam chuckled as he posed for an invisible camera. I got my phone out and began filming secretly. All of us in a circle, laughing and joking, relaxed.

We spent every day that summer on a new adventure. Theme parks, aquariums, the whole shebang. I compiled every picture and video from those treasured days, and before any of us knew it, they were gone.

August seventeenth, 2022 was Owen’s last day in Springstown. We made the biggest batch of popcorn we could, and stocked up on

every gas-station junk food. We hung up a big white sheet in Owen’s backyard and set up my grandma’s projector to play our little movie.

The video started with a black screen. I remember it clear as day. I was the one who edited the entire thing. It shouldn’t have made me emotional, it shouldn’t have suprised me. But it did. I had talked to all of our parents before I finished the video, and had managed to find pictures and videos of each of us growing up. Owen’s first birthday. Claire singing in her fourth grade christmas program. Adam as a toddler throwing a temper tantrum.

“Dude!”

“How’d you even get that?”

“She was filming?”

As the videos flashed on the screen, my heart swelled. As far as I knew, Owen was going to go off to college and become exactly what his parents wanted him to be. I was so grateful to have the time I did with him. Claire’s video of the three of us taking the polar plunge played, dropping the beat of the song as we hit the water. Footage from us teaching Emily how to drive. The roller rink. Claire and I holding hands down the drop of the tallest coaster at six flags. All of us at a dance class. Owen getting a tattoo he still hadn’t told his parents about.

Tears rolled down my face as I mourned for the life I was watching slip away. Claire was crying, too. The summer was gone, far too soon. Just like Owen.

That next morning, I hugged him for the last time. I watched as his car disappeared into the distance, not knowing I’d never hear his laugh again, never get his advice again, never listen to that song he swore he was almost done with.

Near the end of the semester, I found out Owen had passed away.

He really had tried to follow his parent’s instructions. “No more funny business. Study hard, do well on your exams. This is real world now. Your future depends on this.” He had made it a quarter of the way through the year before he broke. He had cracked under the pressure of the lie he was living in. He planned on running, on disappearing off the face of the earth and becoming someone he could be proud of, damn his parents and their plans. But Owen, well, he never needed a plan. He took what he had and began making his way back. They think he was coming home, that he had regretted his decision, but I knew Owen. He was coming back to say goodbye, the right way. Maybe we’d watch our little movie, laugh, cry, and he’d go

hit it big in some california city. I’d see his name on billboards everywhere I went. But that’s not what happened.

Owen had been making his way back home, but he ran out of money quick. Owen never needed a plan. He was starving, doing odd jobs for a meal. Whilst passing through a larger city, he got into trouble. Small towns are much more forgiving than big cities. He didn’t fight back. The other man pulled a gun on him, and shot him point blank, taking anything he could find off of Owen’s body. The whole thing was caught on a security camera. The other man is serving a lifetime sentence in prison.

I don’t remember much of the funeral now, but I do remember Emily. She sobbed over his casket, it was closed. They had broken up just before he left, neither of them wanted to do that long of a distance. They played the movie we made on a professional screen. Would they play it at each of ours? I wanted to ask his parents if they were proud, if this is where they wanted their son to end up. Dead at eighteen with a closed casket funeral. But the words wouldn’t come. I’m glad, now, that I hadn’t said those things to them. I tell you them now only because I want you to remember, grief makes us angry. You should not be ashamed of anger, nor should you be controlled by it.

I still have that little movie, the moments of memories forever preserved within it. They asked for it at Claire’s funeral, and it will be there if Adam or Emily’s family ever wishes to see them, young and happy. Free. And I never forgot Owen. No, I will never forget Owen. 

Amber Davidson Joplin Community Gold Color Photography

When in Rome, soak up every moment! On my recent trip to Italy I set out to not only capture the major sites but also the more seemingly mundane but rich details of life in this beautiful country.

Davidson has been teaching art for 12 years, currently at Carl Junction High School. She holds degrees in art education, education, and studio painting and is active in displaying her work.

I am a Christian and my inspiration what God has done in my life and how He has never failed me.

Walker is a student at Crowder and is getting an AA in Photography.

In the light of day I see your love shine Though the waters may rise, and I may sink I will trust that there is a fine line Your love will last forever and never shrink

Though at times my eyes may be clouded When the storm of life tries to destroy all that I love But the love I have for you will be shouted All my life I have seen your beauty like a dove

When it rains I feel your peace in me As the thunder roars my heart sours The love I feel for you is the key That can and has opened all doors

After the storm, your promise will retain You are the only one that can remain

My heart and mind are at rest when on the beach. The calming sound of the waves, the color of the water, and the sand between my toes all make me feel closer to God and that gives me peace that passes understanding.

Canon EOS 5D Mark IV, 1/200 sec., f/11

Breanna Walker Neosho Quill Staff Fiction, Poetry

Donya Pendergraft Jenkins Community Honorable Mention Color Photography

Pendergraft pursued a Bachelor’s in Fine Art Photography from the University of Missouri-St. Louis.She is currently an Advisor at Crowder College where she uses her photography to promote the program.

Peaceful Pier

This photograph was inspired by the relationship that I observed between nature and man, and how these two entities often reflect each other, both in a physical and metaphorical sense.

Port Whole

B&W Photography

Russell plans to be a dental hygienist, and with aspirations to continue creating and eventually publish her work.

Glassy Waters

B&W Photography

Carson has aspirations to pursue film as a major after graduation.

Canon EOS Rebel T6, shutter 1/320 sec., f/4.0, ISO 100

Joanne Russell Joplin Crowder Silver

Google Pixel 4a

Alexandra Carson Joplin High School Silver

I like boats and I loved this marine museum. I’m glad I could capture this port hole picture of the ocean and the main building on land from within one of the ships.

Tyler Kelley Granby Crowder Honorable Mention Poetry

I wrote this poem about a dear friend of mine during a very rough point in my life.

Kelley found a love for literature during high school.

Such a beautiful dove White in all her essence, Flap her wings and spread her love Her hobbies, pure and pearlescent

Then her broker, with hate and malice Chose to clip her wings, Then he spoke to her, “You cannot fly, alas” An awfully hurtful sting

Then her caretaker, in His loving hold Went and mended the pretty wing, Then her joy came back two-fold All in accord with her wonderful King

Thus, the caretaker said, “Therefore, go fly” And so, she did, with glee and gayness To her loaner, she bid goodbye, Forever and ever, in only happiness

Seeing into the Stars

Art

This piece is a representation of African American face jugs. They were used as a water jug in the 13th century and placed as a headstone after the person using it passed.

Tennis is earning her certification in Veterinary Technologies.

Tennis also runs a small ceramics business.

Clay, acrylic paint

KaiaTennis Gravette Crowder Silver 3D

Jellies

*Kayden Sees

Carl Junction

High School Gold

Color Photography

Sees will continue on to college to pursue a doctorate in veterinary medicine. She uses art and photography to express herself, to “take a step back” and enjoy the beauty around her.

*Scholarship recipient

Mr. Jelly

Trinity Webb

Carl Junction High School

Silver

Color Photography

Webb enjoys taking pictures of everything. She plans on going to Pitt State to pursue interior design.

I took this shot at the Wonders of Wildlife aquarium and the jellyfish truly inspired me. The way that they moved was so mesmerizing and I wanted to convey that movement within a photo. Canon EOS Rebel T7, manual mode

I thought it was cool, the colors, the vibrancy, and the movement, all working together. Canon EOS Rebel SL3

Blurry Memories

Alyson Massardo Monett

Community

Honorable Mention

Color Photography

Night Lights

Ashlyn Snyder

East Newton High School

Bronze

Color Photography

I took this photo the night of my college’s fall concert. I wanted it to have the feel of an old film-style picture to give it the feeling of an old memory. iPhone 13 Pro Massardo is a college student majoring in psychology. She has competed in several art and literature competitions and enjoys photography, reading, and writing as hobbies.

This is a picture of a firework. I took the photo and let the shutter run as the firework dropped from the sky, creating the streak effect. The look of the firework is unique, and it was my first time experimenting with a slow shutter speed. Nikon D3400

Snyder is a self taught photographer who hopes to attend art college in the fall to gain more experience and enhance her creative skills.

I took this picture for one of my projects in class. The purpose of said project was to show how everyday objects can be used to take interesting pictures. It took a lot of playing around with the lighting to get it to outline the bottle just right.

West is very involved in the fine arts at her school and enjoys creating different kinds of art. She enjoys taking abstract photos of nature and everyday objects.She plans to attend college and major in education.

Alexandra West Carl Junction High School

Honorable Mention Color Photography

The Glass Bottle

Shutter 1/100 sec, f5.6, ISO 6400

Carl F. Cobb Neosho

Community Bronze Nonfiction Short Story

Aunt Ernestine was a unique person who influenced me early in life. She was a redhead and has the personality to match.

Cobb is nearly 70 years old. He is retired but not laying around. He does furniture, painting, and engraves wood, (especially butcher blocks). And writes poetry, short stories, and parody songs for fun.

ertrude Ernestine Zornes was born September 1931 near Whitesville, West Virginia. She was the fifth of seven children born to Ernest and Gertrude Zornes. She would be remembered for her red hair, quick temper, dedication to her family, love for the color “pink” and her fight with diabetes.

According to my mother, Joan Thompson, Aunt Ernestine’s red hair was befitting as her personality was rather rowdy. Ernestine was always getting in trouble. During sophomore year in high school, she invited all the teachers to her home for supper. Ernestine forgot to inform her mother that she has made the invite. As the teachers were walking to her home, Ernestine saw them coming and ran away from home. Her mother, Gertrude, was left with explaining to the teachers about the situation and apologized to the teachers for all the trouble that her daughter had caused. Ernestine stayed away for two days before returning home

Juxtaposition

Alyx Goebel

Carl Junction Quill Staff

2DArt Graphite

Goebel is a current student at Crowder pursuing an associate’s degree in business and marketing.

to an upset and embarrassed mother.

When I was 12 years of age, we were visiting Aunt Ernestine and her family, I walked into a heated discussion between my mother and Aunt Ernestine. It soon turned into an argument with the two adults slapping each other. As I was watching, Ernestine hit my mother with a strong uppercut that literally knocked her over the couch. At that moment, Ernestine became my most favorite aunt! Mom was okay and later the two women would make up as they could not remember what started the argument in the first place.

Aunt Ernestine loved her immediate and long-distance family. She started sending birthday cards to everyone in the family when I was about 8 years old and would continue sending cards until I was in my 40s. In 1999, Aunt Ernestine turned 70 years old. The family (and everyone else she had sent birthday cards) were invited to send her a birthday card in a way to say “thanks” for what she had been doing for many years. It was reported back to us that she received around 100 birthday cards. She was surprised and very happy with so many cards.

Aunt Ernestine was plagued with diabetes most of her adult life. Near the end of 2004 the family told us that her health was deteriorating. She was in the hospital, so I decided to call her. When we were connected, I cheerfully asked her, “How is my favorite red-headed aunt?” I heard a chuckle for her, but the diabetes made her voice sound like she was underwater. She responded in her slow Midwestern accent, “Honey, I haven’t been a redhead in over 30 years.” I had accomplished what I had intended in the conversation. I got her to laugh and we had a great conversation. Aunt Ernestine would succumb to the diabetes three weeks later.

Aunt Ernestine had a love for the color “pink”. She and several of her sisters (including my mother) were fans

of anything in pink. So, at Ernestine’s funeral, she was dressed in pink. Her casket was completely pink. The flowers on and surrounding the casket were

Vivid Styles

Adrienne Quiros Cassville Crowder Gold

2DArt

I used graphite to sketch out the base, and proceeded to use oil pastel to color it in. Instead of using neutral colors for a base, I chose to use more bright tones, like a crimson red or a deep, dark blue. I kept building and building, then put patches of bright colors in areas that wouldn’t normally occur. This was my first time using oil pastels, but I had fun using them and learned a lot.

This piece was actually the first assignment for one of my art classes to see where I stood. I was told to do anything, and so I used oil pastels as my medium and decided to color the musician, Harry Styles. I was attracted to his overall aesthetic and colors, so I wanted to portray that in my own way by using vivid colors and putting them in places you don’t see.

variations of pink. It was a beautiful salute to a woman whom I considered my most favorite aunt. 

Lacey Nix

McDonald County High School Silver Poetry Free Verse

At twelve a.m. I was doing some deep thinking and the thought struck me: What would I do if I only had one more week to live? This lead to me scrambling to write down all the thoughts that were coming to me, which turned into this poem.

Nix is currently a student at McDonald county high school. She loves adventure, the outdoors and all things creative. After graduating Nix hopes to live a life of service, creativity and travel.

What if I knew I had one week left? If I had one week left to live?

Would I keep doing the same things, stuck in a dull routine?

Would I keep drowning the world out, hiding from my pain?

Would I let others control my actions, telling me how to live my life? Would I keep my head down, too scared to live my dreams, Too afraid to be who I want to be?

Would I keep pushing others away, So they couldn’t see my scars, or have the chance to notice that I’m broken? Would I continue to be irritated, Impatient,

Indifferent to those close to me? No.

I would break out of my mindless routine, And seek adventure. I would live with purpose.

I would face my pain and let it heal, Instead of pushing it down further.

A Mother Chef’s Lesson

Kaylnn Phillips Noel Crowder Honorable Mention B&W Photography

I captured this while my mother was teaching my brother Jaydaan how to debone the turkey for Thanksgiving. It was his first time wearing a chef’s jacket, and it was one of her first jackets she bought after the house fire. The amount of connection between mother and son was too perfect to pass up. So, I asked for her phone to take the photos.

Noel is pursuing a photography degree and works as a freelance photographer for the McDonald County Press. Kaylnn aspires to someday be a photojournalist and win awards for her photos.

I would lift my chin and face the world. I would embrace change, Even if it comes with difficulties. I would enjoy trials, Knowing they’re a chance to learn.

I would be able to look past the faults of my loved ones. I would cherish the time I spend with those close to me. I would be more patient. Give more hugs. Listen better. Smile.

I would live the life I should be living.

All it would take is knowing I have one week left. One week left to really, truly live; To put the most important things first. One week.

I have one week ahead of me. I don’t know if it’s my last, but,

I’m going to treat it as though it is. What do I have to lose?

For some, pictures are simply images captured in time. For Steel, a photo is a conduit for sharing one’s experience, knowledge, beauty, and inner-truth. With her documentary-style approach to photography, she depicts the essence of life by harnessing the intrinsic magic of film and digital media. While learning and teaching photography in her home state of Missouri, Steel has shown how a fresh perspective and command of the camera can enable us to transform everyday images into prize-winning works of art.

Glass Half Full

AlyssaTosh Verona Crowder Bronze B&W Photography

I took this photo while sitting in my dorm room and reading Rupi Kaur’s “Homebody” book of poems. I wanted to capture the beauty of the words while leaving room for imagination as to what the author means. Nikon D3000, 1/15 sec., f/4.5, ISO 400

Music in Quarantine

Patti Steel Fayetteville Community Bronze B&W Photography

This photo was taken during 2020 when musicians found alternative ways to perform for audiences by broadcasting to empty auditoriums and recording it live to share later. This was a photo I took during the set up before the performers were fully on stage. When you are used to performing for LIVE audience and that is stripped away. Canon 6D

Reynolds Lockwood High School Gold Poetry Free Verse

The purpose of my writing was to show that no matter what people see me as and or for, no matter how they treat me for my differences, I would keep being me beside it all

*Scholarship recipient

In their spider eyes, I am prey. In their eyes, I am the red flag of the bull. They try to catch me with their nets of lies and rumors, but I always find my way out of the entanglement.

I am object

I am inhuman

I am the white sound and the mummer in a crowd

My name floats around from mouth to mouth of those who waste their breath on words Words that are defined as ugly, as untruthful but to them the words are defined as funny or joke. They laugh at the tears shed as if they say the jokes themselves.

I am the wind

Making my way in and out, about Just for another gust to come through I hold a different sound, and that means the world to these people

A different label

A different tag. But I am human.

Macy Rayn Brookhouser Life Way Christian Honorable

Mention

3DArt

Nashia is a recycled material art piece. She’s made entirely from everyday objects such as paper, tinfoil, painter’s tape, and yarn. I was inspired when my teacher handed me some cassette tapes and my brain somehow jumped to a girl with dreadlocks, and the piece slowly started forming a life of its own.

*Zander

Nashia

Life has me in a hustle, Pulling me one way or another. Does this world need my hustle? Does it need my ideas, my dreams? When the weight feels like too much Remember your hustle matters, The world needs your hustle.

has us in a hustle.

Sometimes I must take a step back and remember this life is worth the hustle.

Driving Home

Morgan Hughes

Carl Junction High School

Honorable Mention

2DArt

I started this by painting the background with a light blue, then I started to sketch the painting with oil paint. I just kept adding the paint onto the canvas until I was done with the piece.

Cindy Marmon

Monett

Quill Staff Poetry Free Verse

Marmon is majoring in Photography and Digital Marketing.

I feel like life in general

Flow Of Life

Alexia Killy

Carl Junction

High School

Honorable Mention

3DArt

This piece was inspired by how I viewed society, that good and evil are always linked by life.

Killy is a student who has a passion for art and has taken art classes all four years of high school. As of right now, she plans to minor in ceramics in college and focus on art as a hobby.

Noah Freiburger Verona High School

Honorable Mention Nonfiction

I wrote this essay in hopes that it would inspire others to be the best versions of themselves. This story has a lot of meaning to me personally and always reminds me that I am stronger than I think.

Freiburger is a junior and studying for his prerequisites. Once graduating Freiburger plans to go to Pittsburg State University to study predental. He is an active student and athlete in many clubs and sports.

t was Sept. 4, 2021, a Saturday during my sophomore year of high school. I had a baseball tournament to go to an hour away and I knew that playing those two games was going to be tough. What I did not know was that something that day was going to happen that would change my life and mindset forever. That morning, it had rained a substantial amount so our team and coaches were surprised we would be able to play. As normal, we loaded the bus with our purple jerseys on and were on our way to where our games were being played. This was the first time our school’s baseball team had ever played at this tournament.

When we arrived, we were scheduled to play the hometown team, whose name I will keep disclosed, and another nearby town. The first game was against the home team who we knew we would struggle against. Our team was ambitious to win and ready for a challenge. The last game we would play was against a team with a bad record so we knew we would win. The field was insanely muddy from all the rain and members of the home team were trying to make the field playable using “quick dry.” “Quick dry” is a sandy substance that can retain water very easily. The only downside to the substance is it does not solidify like normal dirt does. This left the field very slippery, like a wet sandpit. I kept this rough atmosphere of the field in mind before the game started. Everything started out great during pregame warmups. Our coach ran us through our regular on-field routine, which had been the same for two years. Finally, it was game time, and it was going to be a memorable one.

“Play ball,” the home plate umpire announced, to signify the game had begun. To start off our game against an exceptionally talented team, something incredible happened. Our leadoff hitter, one of my longtime friends, Jake, hit a homerun off the very first pitch. It was a high inside pitch that he sent to left field clearing the fence with lots of room to spare. Our whole team went ecstatic, we all rushed out of the dugout to congratulate him once he touched home plate. This we believed was the spark we needed to start a remarkable rally against a particularly good team. After Jake’s homerun, the next three batters sadly got out from simple ground balls. The game proceeded

like most baseball games, with both teams scoring a run here and there. It all changed in the 5th inning when it was my third at bat.

As I walked up, I was feeling confident because my last two at bats went very well. I stepped in the batter’s box and was ready to face the pitcher. The first pitch came, and it was a ball. The second pitch was a strike, and the one following was a strike as well. Now I was starting to get worried, and I anticipated a curveball was coming because the pitcher had the advantage. The pitch came in, I saw the ball was spinning sideways which meant it was a curveball. I swung where it was going to be and hit it. It was a nice line drive to right field, but I hit it so hard the right fielder was able to throw it to the first baseman in quick succession. While I was running down the line, I was watching the throw come in from the outfield. The throw was going to be away from the base, so the first baseman had to step off to catch it. As he stepped off, his foot was in my path to run to the base. I was about to touch the base and become safe when I tripped on the other player’s foot sending me flying into the mud.

When I was falling, I tumbled over the bag, so I had to go back to touch it. To ensure that I touched the bag, I dove back headfirst with my right hand out. As I reached for the bag, the other player stepped on my hand with his sharp, metal cleats. At the time, I did not know if he did this on purpose or by accident. When he stepped on my hand, he spun to face the pitcher causing there to be large cuts all over the back of my hand, some of them being very deep. This hurt extremely badly and there was a sizable amount of blood. The batting glove that I was wearing got torn to pieces. I did not want to look at my hand because it was so gross. So had one of my teammate’s moms wrap my hand and apply an antiseptic so I could continue to play.

The rest of that game, I remember playing extremely well, my throws were on point, and my hitting was phenomenal. Throughout the game the players of the opposing team were trash talking a lot and were getting overconfident. They would harass and yell at us while we fielded or made rude remarks while we were on base. Another unsportsmanlike play happened at third base when we were fielding. The opposing team

had a runner that was trying to steal third, I was the catcher that game and made a throw to third to try and get him out. My brother caught the ball and was going to tag him on the ground, but the runner jumped up and landed on my brother. Both teams started yelling at each other for the rough housing. This made me believe that their first basemen stepped on my hand on purpose.

We ended up losing the game 7-3 unfortunately. While shaking hands after the game the first basemen never apologized for stepping on my hand. My hand was wrapped in a large bandage, so it was obvious what happened. I still have real animosity towards that home team who we faced. The second game was an easy game, we won 14-1 in just a couple of innings. That whole time I was still

Heartbreak

Samuel Morales Benton Crowder Gold B&W Photography

This picture was all about capturing the moment for an athlete. This is such a delicate moment after competition that most do not get to see it after a heartbreaking loss. It brings out the human feeling of pain that we can all tie a moment to.

Morales shoots for Crowder’s public information office. He shoots events around the school as well as the athletic games. To Morales this is a very personal experience where he gets to keep a moment forever.

Canon EOS Rebel T100, 55mm, shutter 1/640 sec., f/5.6, ISO 400.

playing with my hand wrapped and it felt like needles were being pushed deep into my skin. I had never played a baseball game while being in that much pain let alone two games. This crazy story in my life taught me a lot about myself. I learned that I am a lot stronger than I thought. I also learned that my love for the game of baseball is stronger than I ever had imagined. Any day that I am struggling or facing a serious challenge, I just look at the scar on my right hand and remember how much of a challenge that one game my sophomore year was. If you are ever going through a tough time or a struggle, recall a time you were able to exceed what you thought your limits were. We are stronger than we can ever imagine, and I have a never leaving mark to prove it. 

*Ava Coffel McDonald County High School Gold Nonfiction

Essay

I have been in Speech and Debate since my freshman year. Since this experience I have written two more speeches that have won districts. I learned a valuable lesson from this speech about perseverance and going on even if it seems impossible!

Coffel has a lot of experience writing, including speeches, poems, and essays. She is a hard worker who will try everything at least once!

y palms were very sweaty. The long skirt I was wearing was starting to hang in an uncomfortable way, and the poplin material was beginning to sweat as much as I was. I rang my hands together nervously, twisting my fingers in a restless way. My over-the-top blouse was showing signs of my nervous sweat and my hair was beginning to reek of the heat-tool I had used.

I was standing awkwardly in the hall, watching people who looked far more put together than me. Everyone was walking together in small clusters, wide smiles on their faces. I knew I should be practicing my speech but all I could think of was the way my stomach was rolling and how my heels were far too painful to be standing here for an hour. I momentarily thought about what my judge may look like but it was all clouded out when I heard the person beside me practicing.

She sounded so put together, like this was just another Tuesday night for her. She rolled her shoulders back and pushed hair from her face, meeting the wall she was practicing on with a warm smile. When she began to speak, her voice was so melodic that I felt my stomach give another wide-sweeping flip. As much as I wanted to turn away from her tantalizing smile and confident posture, I couldn’t look away.

I swallowed harshly and tried to think of the words of my speech which I had spent the last two weeks memorizing. The words danced in my head and soon enough began to jumble together, running sentences together and causing my chest to heave up and down quickly. I fumbled with the hem of my skirt, yanking it downwards roughly. I closed my eyes, and tucked a stray lock of misobeintent hair behind my ear. I was trying to keep myself together and not think about my competition, only my speech.

I was rubbing my hands down my skirts front, trying to dry them when the door to the classroom swung open. A man in his late thirties stood in the doorway, looking down to a clipboard in his hand. His forehead glistened with perspiration, and his hair was pushed back as if he had been carding his hands through it all night. He looked almost as put together as me. I straightened immediately, trying to steady myself and think clearly. Suddenly, I was hyper aware of the pit stains

starting to show through the light peach color of my blouse. He looked at the three of us, all waiting for our turn, standing awkwardly along the wall and then looked back down to his board.

“Is there an Ava Coffel here? Number A25.” I swallowed around the lump in my throat, trying to force words from my mouth. I stepped forward, my heels clicking obnoxiously in the now almost silent, almost empty hall. The man gave me a weary smile, and stepped aside to allow me inside the small classroom.

The room smelt of stale sweat and whiteboard markers. All the desks were pushed to one side of the class, and I could see the open spot in the middle made especially for me to stand in. It seemed as though the room was dark except for in that one spot, giving it the look of a spotlight. I smiled weakly and moved to the board. My hands shook violently as I picked up the marker, the cap squeaking off the top very loudly. I winced slightly, and began to write out my name on the board. Beside my name, in all caps I wrote out the name of my speech.

The judge leaned forward slightly in his seat and narrowed his eyes at the board. I took my place in the middle of the room under the blinding light and watched him for a moment. He looked back down at his clipboard and scratched something to the face of his page then sat back and looked me over.

I could feel his stare as if they were lasers pointing directly at me. I shuffled from foot to foot anxiously under his gaze, I smoothed my hands over the front of my skirt and adjusted my blouse, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way I kept fidgeting. He kept staring at me without saying anything, which did nothing to calm my fraying nerves. He gave me a small smile and crossed his legs mumbling something about how I could begin now.

My mind was racing, and at the end of the track all I could see was the girl in the hall, calm, cool, and collected as she gave her speech to a line of lockers. I closed my eyes and drew in a shaky breath, using my fingers to trace the small lines of fabric in my skirt. I clutched the hem in my hand and finally began. I could hear my voice shaking and could feel all my hard memorization skills slowly dissipating until I remembered nothing of it. Words came out of my mouth that I knew were not a part

*Scholarship recipient

of my speech and slowly, my speech warped into something completely different.

The judge looked at me with narrowed eyes and would look down at everyone once in a while to the pad in his hand to write something quickly. He would sometimes look at his watch to make sure I was still on time and that only caused me to race through whatever nonsense I was making up at the time.

By the end of my ten minute speech that I had completely made up on the spot the judge looked as done with me as I felt. He stood and walked towards the door, only turning when he was at the door. He spun on his heels and looked me dead in the face.

“I loved your story Ava, we come from a similar background and I finally feel like someone has put it into words.” He gave me a small smile and opened the door.

I could feel my heart slamming against my ribcage and flopping around like a fish out of water. I smiled warmly at him and thanked him for being my judge. Once in the hall I couldn’t contain my excitement, I smiled broadly as I pranced down the hall, looking everyone in the eyes as I passed.

I made it back to the table where the rest of class was sitting. I slid into my seat, happily spouting about what my judge had said to anyone who would listen.

The fear I once had was slowly turning into a new found confidence and I no longer was worried about my next judge, I no longer thought about the girl in all her calmness, I only thought about my judges words.

I went into the next round and was no longer a sweaty mess, standing awkwardly in the hall. I practiced my speech to the wall of lockers and kept focused on the words this time, trying to keep them in the forefront of my mind.

Once the round was completed I found my coach standing in the hall. He came up to me and ushered me away from the other kids. He told me, I had scored the highest in the first round and would be going to the semifinals. I wanted to scream, but he insisted I was to stay calm and tell no one.

For the rest of the night I was jittery, pacing back and forth, never sitting still, constantly toying with things. When they finally called us all back to give our speeches again, I got a look at my competition. The girl from the first round was there, again

The Lookout

Paige Mosley

Carthage Crowder Bronze

2DArt

This picture was a gift to my dad for Christmas last year. He loves owls, so I wanted to give him a drawing of one. I hope you like this owl as much as he does!

giving her speech to the wall, and there were some new faces also practicing to the wall.

I was called in first due to my number and, again, I stood in the middle of the room. I tried not to jitter with my hands or skirt this time, but the judge had a serious and hard look on her face. She was looking down at her clipboard and writing furiously. I watched her for a moment, the fear I had in the beginning was slowly taking over again, and all the confidence I had was seeping away.

I rambled through my speech again. She didn’t look at me, she didn’t smile or frown, she just kept her head down and kept writing. I finished and rushed from the room. I went back to the table and waited, worried and fretting, about whether or not I had placed. They finally called us into the gynasmim and I sat, bouncing my leg furiously as they went through all the other categories.

Finally they called out for Original Oratory, they started at first and moved their way down. When my name was not called, my hopes were dampened. They called third place and it seemed like the whole world paused, spun on its side, and then started up again.

When they called my name and number, I immediately stood, almost like a robot. I moved down the steps, taking much too large steps for the skirt and heels. They handed me my medal and the rest of the team cheered for me as I made my way up the stairs. Even though my weeks of memorization crumbled away as soon as I stepped in front of the judge, I still managed to pull off third place at the Big Eight competition. 

Mosley loves animals and is studying Veterinary Technology. She is scheduled to graduate in May 2023.

Little Chief

Marmon is a current student in Neosho. She is majoring in Photography and Digital Marketing.

Canon Rebel6. 1/500 sec., f/1.8

Chillin’

Dean aspires to be a director of photography in the movie business.

Canon m200

1/640 sec., f/3.5, ISO 200

Nicholas Dean Joplin Quill Staff B&W Photography

Cindy Marmon Monett Quill Staff B&W Photography

I had so much fun capturing the love between little chief and his pony, Lil Gunner.

I really liked seeing my child in such a relaxed position juxtaposed by the chaos of everyday traffic at a convenient store. Her name is Bowie and she’s cool.