Crowder Quill 2023, pages 41-76

We made it,” I proudly said to my again? “Coke,” I blurted. girlfriend, Kyleigh, as we pulled into “I’m sorry,” the waitress explained. “We the Chinese restaurant. It was our don’t serve that. Is Pepsi okay?” anniversary. We had been waiting for this Jesus, Pepsi? If I wanted to drink cat piss, moment for a long time, likely for different I would have just asked for it. “That’s fine,” I reasons. replied, I had too much going on in my head “Yay!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go in, I’m to find suitable beverage alternatives. The hungry.” waitress left us to make our way to the buffet. I I gave her a quick hug and we exited my had to act fast; there wasn’t much time. car. I discreetly reached into my left jacket I used my picky appetite to my advantage. pocket—yep, they’re still there. Grabbing Only getting egg rolls and chicken on my her hand with my right, we started to walk first plate, I had ample time to make my move. up to the doors of the establishment. I was I’d get more later, of course, but right now nervous—the thought that the contents of my I had much larger metaphorical fish to fry. I pocket could become sentient and jump out at rushed back to our table; she would be done any moment was unjustifiably in my mind. In filling her plate soon. Sitting down, my hands just five minutes, it will be done. I had put in started shaking as I unloaded the contents of far too much work to crack under the pressure my pocket: two fortune cookies. I looked them now. After what felt like an eternity of over to see which one had the small slit in the traversing through wrapper, then putting the landscapes of that one in front of her Middle-Earth itself, freshly placed water.

I opened the double The hard part was doors to Mount over. A tsunami of Doom and we were relief swept through greeted. my body. The only The waitress question left on my was standing behind mind was how I could the counter. “Hello! screw it up now.

Welcome to Bamboo I saw Kyleigh Gardens! How many walking back As a kid, flowers and butterflies fascinated me the will be dining with most. I have a deep love for nature; this art piece is towards me, plate in one of the many artworks that I will express my you?” hand; thousands of love for nature.

“Just her and I.” butterflies rustled in “Awesome, my stomach. I thought just follow me!” She moved from behind the the hard part was over?! When she sat down, counter and we followed. she was a bit surprised. “They don’t usually Oh no, I thought to myself. What if she bring the fortune cookies out this early, do puts us right next to the buffet? What if I’m they?” facing away from the buffet? Should I have “No, I don’t think so.” I tried my best called ahead? Are they still in my pock— to act oblivious. I reached for my cookie and WAIT! Oh God, they aren’t there?! Where started to open it. “Eh, why not.” I opened my are the—oh here they are. Am I acting too fortune cookie and read my fortune aloud. She nervous? Can she tell? What if I mess up? giggled while she reached out for hers. The Did I forget to feed my goldfish? Hold on, time had come.

I don’t even have a goldfish! My brain was Kyleigh tore open the wrapping and about thirty seconds away from spontaneous cracked open her cookie, removing the slip of combustion when the waitress stopped at the paper. “A lifelong friend will soon be made,” back of the restaurant and a lovely table-forthe same fortune I received on our first date. two. She sat us down at the table and asked She flipped it over and stared at the slip. Tears what we would like to drink. started to well in her eyes. “Of course I will,” Drink? What’s a drink? she said, dropping the paper that read, Will “I’ll have a water,” Kyleigh ordered. you go to prom with me?  Oh yes! That’s it! What do they have

Dalton Schlichting Lamar Crowder Gold Nonfiction Narrative Essay I wrote this essay to work on the pacing and fluidity of my narration when dialogue is present.

Adding on to the spoken dialogue, I included inner dialogue to cue the reader in on my nervousness at that moment, as well as adding in a hint of comedy. I think my portrayal of anxiety and vulnerability will resonate with many readers.

Schlichting is currently a Freshman at Crowder this year. He is majoring in English education with hopes of becoming a high school English teacher in the future.

Beauty Through the Eyes of Nature Belen Mejia Neosho Crowder Silver 2D Art

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 41

Kaylee Banta McDonald County High School Bronze Fiction I wrote this story to entertain my fellow peers in my creative writing club. I loved how everyone reacted and it made me feel super positive and want to write more.

Banta wrote this story after being inspired by her creative writing club. She plans on obtaining a degree in secondary education after high school.

o you not hear them? Do they not constantly bug you at night? I stay up trying to find them. Hunting for the monsters who whisper in my ear constantly. Everyone tells me I am crazy. They do not know what they are talking about. I hear them clearly. They tell me what to do.

This hospital captured me and will not let me go. The voices are trying to help me get out or are they trying to hurt me worse? Does the world want my voices, because they are jealous? I do not know how I got here.

They told me my name is Darell Hart and I am twenty-three years old. I drove a 1976 Blue Mustang GT and they took it from me. They called it scrap metal, my gorgeous car. No one will tell me how I got here. The voices tell me to leave. Run away and never come back. I feel trapped like I am about to be murdered in cold dead blood. I hear the voices especially at night. They are always taunting me with what will happen to me. I want to rip them out and murder them. I know they are hiding from me. Nothing makes them go away. The more I hear them the more I start to listen, believing that it will make them go away. My doctors don’t talk loud enough. My voices drown them out. I want to leave and

I’m Not You Lee M. Summers Carl Junction High School Bronze Digital Art I did this piece a year or so back in the representation of new transitions in my life. I always felt as if people were trying to paint me the way they wanted me to be.

Summers is currently a senior who plans on attending Pittsburg State University to obtain a degree in art.

42 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

find out who I am, but I cannot move. Why am I still here?

A bright light flashes. I wake up to a different doctor, my mother yelling at me to come back to her. My whole body aches and I see my body fully wrapped with layers and layers of bandages. I have been shot and in a car crash. Where was I for the last couple days? Why can’t I remember? I was not in this hospital. Where are the voices? Are they gone forever? Will I ever know what truly happened? I see nothing. Awakening with bolts electrocuted my heart back into action. I am awake again in the same warm room with my mother. “You’re safe for now,” the voice said. The voices traveled with me this time. I cannot escape them. I remember who I am. I remember that I have a fiance (Layla Fernadez) and I live with my college roommate (Jared Whitehead). They have not come to see me, and I cannot help but think about how strange that is. The voices keep bringing me flashbacks, narrating them, torturing me with memories. The man who shot me was caught, and they say he was an inmate who escaped prison. The theory is he shot me for my car, but he failed. The voices are flowing in my head telling me the cops are wrong and I need to keep digging. I remember seeing him. I have seen him before and I know him. I tried to tell the cops, and explain that they have the wrong guy. No one listens to what I am saying once again. I am trapped, but not in my body in real life. Jared comes to see me but he seems off. I want to ask him if he recognized the inmate too, but I did not get the chance to before he left. The voices whisper to me a secret, but I cannot believe it. Maybe the voices are right, and no one will protect me but myself. I wake up to the voices screaming at me to hide. I run to the bathroom and leave the door slightly open with the noise of water running. I see Jared come back into my room and inject insulin in my IV bag.

It was him. The voices were right; Jared is the one who wanted to kill me. 

The hurt and pain, pounding from inside Confusion sets in, what have I done?

Remember things to be altered, Yet, changes I made none.

You gave your life, before it began So tiny, my only son.

You brought to me your brothers love, As if you knew and guided my need.

Strength and fearless restraint, Allowing my heart to find his seed.

Pushing forward, having lost too, Finding your place as you lead.

The loss of one, the gift of another My two babies, how I love you As I hold just one, I feel the spirit of both Holding on, as if I have two.

The hurt and pain, what have I done?

Tabitha Tolson Neosho Crowder Gold Poetry Never forgetting the loss of my twin son, while feeling his presence within my daughter, his twin sister.

Tolson has four daughters she tries to inspire every day. She refuses to let the past define her but instead lets it strengthen and lead her to higher aspirations.

Beautiful and Alone Taylor Moller Gray Monett Community Gold Digital Art This art was captured and edited to display a feeling that often is felt by beautiful girls everywhere. To display even the most beautiful person on the inside feels alone, dark, cloudy, and lost. Not every thing can be seen at eye level, especially matters of the heart.

Gray is an up and coming artist on a journey of selfdiscovery. She attended the Crowder College nursing program, but has since found she needed a new purpose. She now aspires to capture raw and unique photos to help others see beauty for what it is rather than what others say it is.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 43

Alonha Frisby McDonald County High School Bronze Nonfiction Frisby is a Goodman native who has grown up in Missouri, Oklahoma, and New York. She is a junior and an avid theater kid.

She is a member of the Rhapsody and Rhythm show choir group at her high school.

he curtain just opened, and all I could hear was the applauding fall, which followed with complete silence. The lights had blinded me and my throat was as dry as Death Valley. I could vaguely make out the faces in the audience, barely any I could immediately recognize.

An ensemble that I was a part of stepped down all at once from the main set platform.

My heart was beating so hard in my chest.

Everything felt so wrong. Like I shouldn’t have been there. As I tried to listen to the dialogue of my peers, my queue had said her line. I suddenly froze.

I didn’t know what to do. The past six to eight months was the only experience I ever had with a theatre class at the time. Never in that time did we ever practice scenes with more than just two people with long lines of dialogue.

I knew the lines– at least until the curtains opened.

“I–,” I start to say. I couldn’t say anything more.

The girl that had my line as a queue said her line and then my heart sank. And the same thing happened again.

“I–.”

“I–.”

“I–...”

I f***ed up. This was my job. I was chosen to do this and, quite frankly, I missed my opportunity. My one chance to show the seniors, Mr. Hester, and my own family that I could do this. That I could be in the advanced theatre class.

I was so diffident, so unbelievably insecure in my own ability to do anything that I knew I could do. For years I wanted to be in this group…and I blew it. I completely blew it.

As the lights went out and I exited stage right, I felt tears brimming in my eyes and I thought of last night. The decision I made that I then regretted…

“Do you want to step up and take the part…?” My theatre teacher asks me in a stressed and strained tone that night.

At that moment, it felt as though a boulder got thrown at me. And I honestly had no idea why he would choose me, a freshman, to take the role of an upperclassman. Maybe it was being at almost every after school practice for the Little Women show. Or maybe it was that I was more dependable and dedicated than the upperclassmen that were the main cast.

I do not know how long I stood there, or how long I looked like a complete idiot, but I was certain that this wasn’t real. That this was some sort of hallucination or dream.

Who are you kidding? Why me? Why me out of everyone else, who are so much more talented than me?

The whole reason why I stepped up for three people got into some serious trouble which caused them to be demoted from their roles. I couldn’t let the seniors down, because if I were in their places I would want to have a good one last show too.

I knew I hesitated too much. I was aware that I had only one choice for what I was going to do.

Later that day of the performance, we had a second show. I was so scared to get on stage again, just to possibly humiliate myself once again. When 7 o’clock hit, I had about fifteen minutes to get myself together. Fifteen minutes to get myself to actually not tear myself apart.

When I stepped on stage for the second time that day, all the stress melted. I felt weightless and I said my line with clarity and confidence. Was it my best performance? No. Did I get an award for it? Yes, I did. And even though the stage fright I had overtook my ability to act, I never let it fully take me down.

“Yes, I will take the part.” I said that night, trying not to sound like I was absolutely terrified, and I was. 

This personal narrative is about the time where I stepped up in my theatre class. It describes the feelings I felt and the uneasiness of the whole situation. The narrative takes place at the end of my freshman year, the time where I didn’t have much confidence in myself to do things that I did.

44 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

Unexpected Beauty Maelyn Wooten Carl Junction High School Bronze 2D art After high school, Wooten plans on going to college to become an occupational therapist.

The purpose of this drawing was to show something that I think is beautiful that many people might not recognize as beautiful. I decided to pick vitiligo, which isn’t talked about or recognized enough.

t´s 2005, and 46,000 International children were given up by parents who deemed themselves unfit, not financially stable, or too young; the list continues. I was among those 46,000 kids. This is my story.

As a young kid growing up, I had never read any books by or about adopted people.

However, lots of the adoptees I know today, including myself, are natural storytellers. I sometimes wonder if this could be because I never had a choice; I grew up explaining my life, my family, and my history for as long as I can remember.

My adoption was never a secret. Not that it might be, since my parents aren’t Taiwanese and I am. Growing up I knew I had a mom, dad, and a brother that loved me; I had grandparents that lived right down the road who treated me like their own, and who would take me to the park on a daily basis. This was my family, the one I regularly saw, the one that welcomed me with open arms, and the one that sacrificed everything for me to come to the states.

However, as a child, a part of me still

wanted to know about my birth parents who were halfway across the world. I’d wish to understand their reasons for giving me up. I wanted to discover who they were in the past, what they were like, and how I could have been the missing puzzle piece to their family.

This could have been due to the fact that I was relatively unacquainted with the culture in Taiwan.

My adoptive parents´ opinion on why I was surrendered was always the same. They said I was small. They said I was sick. They said my birth family didn’t have much money.

That was it, that was all I believed I´d ever know of my origin story.

By the age of 9 or 10, I had memorized what little I knew of my beginning story which my mom had told to me in pieces. When asked, I could recite to others the spare little story I knew. In school, at the mall, at church, I always told the same identical tale. For years, I assumed power is found in repetition: If I just told my story often enough, then maybe everyone would see me and my adoption as “normal.¨ [Continued on 47]

Brecklyn Matthews Webb City High School Gold Nonfiction I wanted to bring awareness to the misinterpreted meaning of adoption and how many adoptees feel ashamed.

Through this writing, I am displaying a powerful sense that impacts every reader.

Telling my story from start to finish has allowed me to find a bigger meaning in my life and has shown me what it means to be surrounded by people who love you.

Matthews is a senior and plans on attending the University of Kansas City to pursue her dreams of becoming a travel nurse.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 45

Listen Bowen Hurley McDonald County High School Honorable Mention Digital Art I created this piece with one of my characters. I wanted to learn more about different colors, so I focused on that a lot in this piece.

Hurley is a senior who hopes to continue his artist endeavors through digital art and photography.

Aura Kat Abelein Joplin High School Silver Digital Art I drew this self-portrait so viewers could get a good understanding of who I am as a person and try to see how I act, feel, and love people. I want people to know that I am a loving person I try to keep a positive aura.

Abelein’s skills lean more towards graphic design and traditional pencil/ marker artwork but she is broadening her horizons with painting.

46 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

[Continued from 45] Every now and then I found myself wondering about the sparse narrative that I’d been told by my parents. I felt tempted to press them for more information about my history, but those were questions that they had no idea how to answer. For the most part, I buried those rebellious thoughts.

It wasn’t just me that had questions, either. Just the simple act of visiting the store wound up in double takes followed by questions about how my family was “made.”

Today, I sit here wondering why I did not ask all the questions that I had as a child, all of the complicated feelings that came along with being adopted. Why had I assumed the role of the oblivious adoptee?

But now, I realize the answer is simple.

I thought that if I had spoken up, asked those hard questions, or inquired about what my life could have been, people might have assumed that I was ashamed of my family. They could have inferred that I didn’t want to be judged because I came from a family who couldn’t afford me or merely didn’t want me.

This may seem childish, or even cowardly, but that’s how most adoptees feel. They feel ashamed to tell their story because of how outsiders could react. Not one story or perhaps ten could possibly represent the assorted array of adoption stories within the world.

However, these kids should not be scared to share their experiences due to the fear of being judged.

Adoption is such

a beautiful thing and makes for a powerful, inspiring story that deserves to be shared. No adoptee should be ashamed of their past.

As one of the 46,000 international children in 2005 who were set up for failure, I’ve learned a lot about what it means to be ashamed. The word itself means ¨embarrassed or guilty because of one’s actions, characteristics, or associations.” But now, reading that definition, I realize that being an adoptee does not automatically make me fall into one of those categories.

I am so much more than my past. I am so much more than a stereotype. I am my future, I am unique, and I, I am UNASHAMED. 

The Unknown Path Kelly Graham Carl Junction High School Silver 3D art I wanted to convey the feeling of uncertainty while also conveying determination. The girl protects herself by keeping a hold of her sword and cloak. She seems unsure of where she is going, but she still takes a step forward into unknown territory.

Graham is a junior and enjoys reading, watching fantasy/ sci-fi stories as well as creating art that reflects her interests. She hopes to become a storyboard artist and be a part of the movie-making process.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 47

Ethan Hoover Aurora Crowder Gold Fiction Short Story Hands Bound was unusual for me to write; tall came together in a quick creative burst, and the result quite honestly surprised me. I hope it leaves you, as it left me, with a moment of appreciation for the faculties we so often take for granted.

Hoover is pursuing a degree in Communications and intends to become an editor or graphic designer.

hands. I just sat there, staring at the bandages emptily, as I had been doing for hours, the same thought coursing through my shuddering mind over and over again. My hands. Or what broken remnants of them I had left, the mangled, twisted shapes hiding behind the bandages. I tried again in vain to bend my fingers, still stubbornly refusing to believe that all I could produce was this pathetic twitch and the sharp, agonizing pain.

I kept trying anyway. A small portable radio sat beside my hospital bed on a flimsy end table, the phantom tones of a grand piano haunting me. Every note reminded me of those beautiful black and white keys, the ones I could never play again. I used to be— used to be— a pianist, before the war. A good one, too. I played at Carnegie, Vienna, Geneva— everyone used to say I was a prodigy. Dad always called me “his little Mozart” when I played for him. But more than that, music was my life, my breath, it was everything to me.

Letting my fingers roam free on the cool ivory keys was how I cleared my head, how I felt things I needed to feel. It was the language I spoke when my words couldn’t do their job.

Telling my wife I loved her couldn’t even scratch the surface of what I felt for her, only my music could even come close to that. Or

Terra Ante Meridiem Alyssa Graves Carl Junction High School Honorable Mention 2D Art Graves is a senior with dreams of becoming a psychologist and opening her own clinic.

She hopes that her art carries emotions, tells stories, sparks memories, and inspires passion in its viewers.

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telling my daughter I— Something seemed to catch in my throat as I thought of her, my deadened eyes moistening and my useless hands starting to tremble. My daughter. I thought of her tiny, beautiful face, the way it was a year ago as we hugged our goodbyes. Her big blue eyes framed by her tresses of curly brown hair, welling up with tears of her own as she begged me not to go. I took her delicate little hands in mine, I trying to explain to her that I didn’t want to, that I’d have given anything to stay there with her and her mother, but I simply couldn’t stay. She had asked why, but I didn’t have the heart to explain the war and the draft to a four-year-old girl. I didn’t answer her, instead I just promised that I’d be back home with her again in no time at all, and then we’d play catch and tag and everything else she wanted to do together.

She forced a smile and hugged me tighter and quietly told me to be safe, and I swore I would be. My Lord, I didn’t think I was lying. Tears streamed down my face now as I thought of everything I could never do with her again.

I couldn’t play with her when she wanted a father, I couldn’t hold her when she needed me close, and I could never take her hands in mine to tell her I loved her. I would never walk her down the aisle at her wedding, I would never hold my grandchildren when they were born, I would never—I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to clench my fists, my hands coming closer to moving than they had in days. This was too much. I couldn’t handle any more, I just... couldn’t. My tears fell harder as I started to rock back and forward in my prison of a bed, the maddening sound of the radio still playing incessantly. I wasn’t even strong enough to turn it off. A cry of anger mingled with despair fled my lips as I slammed my shoulder into the end table, sending the radio and a dozen other useless objects crashing to the floor. At last, after a moment of clattering, I was left alone in silence, my broken sobbing the only sound in the room. I collapsed against the side of my bed, weary from, and of, everything, a single thought coursing through my mind as it slipped into darkness.

What am I without my hands? 

arius Pontemercy gazed at himself in the mirror. What had become of him? Hanging from his shoulder was a long rifle with a massive scope mounted on the barrel. The handle of his pistol as well as a sheathed dagger peaked out of his trenchcoat. His scarred face revealed an incurable resentment.

Marius hardly recognized himself. He was no assassin… until hatred had turned him into one. He’d never forget the look on the face of Gavroche, the young revolutionary who had been murdered in Paris just months before: wide eyes on pale skin, a single tear crawling down his cheek. As Marius cradled the boy’s lifeless body in his arms, he’d vowed to avenge his death. Looking beyond the barricades at the ranks of French officers, he caught sight of the colonel, who had shot Gavroche in cold blood. Marius glowered at the man and screamed at him with rage. The voice of the colonel reverberated through Marius’ skull.

“Stupid boy.” Wiping a tear from his face, Marius shook the memory from his mind. This was a time of action, not emotion. Marius and his wife, Cosette, had fled to a small town north of Paris following his role in the June Rebellion. Cosette had gone to visit friends, but Marius had been so preoccupied with his mission that he hardly noticed her absence.

That day, the very colonel who had murdered Gavroche would be parading through the town where Marius had found refuge. Marius would be ready for him. He didn’t care whether he lived or died in the process. He had made a vow. The colonel must die. Cosette Pontemercy felt like she was at home again, staring at the walls of the convent where she had grown up. The beautiful courtyards, the stained glass, and the well-kept grounds provoked wonderful memories of her childhood from deep within her. Her life could’ve been so much different! Here, as a young girl, she had trained to be a nun. That was before her father, Madeline, had decided that she should get to know the outside world before she renounced it. When she had left the convent, however, she fell in love with Marius and lost all desire to live as a nun. The two of them spent every minute together, and Cosette couldn’t have imagined a more wonderful romance. Now Marius seemed to live in a world of his own. All he could think of was defeating that colonel. Feeling lost without her

husband’s company, Cosette put on a brave smile, trudged to the main gate of the convent, and knocked. After a couple of moments, she heard the shuffling of feet. The gate creaked open, and an older man opened the door. He looked surprised and overcome with joy all at the same time. “Cosette!” The two embraced.

“Fauchlavent! How I’ve missed you.” “Not as much as I’ve missed you,” the kind man said with a twinkle in his eye.” Marius sat perched in the bell tower that overlooked Main Street on which the colonel would pass. Proud citizens awaited him, waving French flags and praising him for his victory over the revolutionaries. For his victory over Gavroche.

In the distance, Marius saw the small parade.

Surprisingly, only three guards accompanied the colonel. With sweaty palms, Marius loaded his rifle and peeked through the scope. He focused in on his target, and the face of Marius’ nightmares aligned with his rifle’s crosshairs. Cosette was overjoyed to reunite with Fauchelevent, who had been her father’s closest friend. After visiting with all of her old friends, Cosette told Fauchelevent of Marius’ obsession with murdering the French colonel.

Fauchelevent looked very troubled. “You know, my dear girl, that your father viewed Marius as his successor in the matter of keeping you safe.” He paused as if searching for words.

“And well, at least I believe, without the grace your father was shown in his life, you’d never have married Marius.” Fauchelevent hesitated, gazing into space. “There’s something that I know about Madeline… em, your father… that very few people alive know. I understand that he told Marius–who was sworn to secrecy about the matter–before his death. But under the circumstances, I think your father would want you to know.” Fauchelevent stood from his chair and stared out the window of his small living room. “The first thing you need to know is that your father’s real name was not Madeline.” He looked intently at Cosette, who was stunned. “Madeline was an alias. Your father was…” Fauchelevent hesitated. “He was a fugitive of the law.” Cossette gasped.

Fauchelevent seemed less hesitant now. “Your father’s real name was Jean Valjean. When he was a boy, his nephew was starving, so he broke into a house and took a loaf of bread.

An officer named Javert captured him.

Nineteen years of hard labor and several failed

Stephen Seim Homeschool Honorable Mention Fiction Short Story This is a summary of the climax of the book I am writing, Marius Redemptiomn.

The story features Marius Pontemercy, a character from Victor Hugo’s 1862 novel Les Miserables,. The story is a product of my idea of what might have happened in Marius’ life after the novel concluded.

Seim is a high school senior from Bentonville, Ark., who has made telling stories a hobby for much of his life.

He hopes to publish his first novel within a few years.

[Continued to 50]

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 49

[Continued from 49]

escape attempts later, he was finally released on parole. A bishop gracefully allowed him to sleep in his convent. But your father stole away in the night with a sack filled with the bishop’s silver. He didn’t get far before he was caught and returned to the convent in chains.”

Fauchelevent paused. He seemed to be holding back tears, and a soft smile played with the corners of his lips. “But the bishop showed him grace and let him go. He even gave him all the silver he had stolen. Your father was so moved, so convicted, he tore apart his papers and started a new life, a better life. He gave his life to God and used the silver to start a business. He became mayor of his town and made a real impact for God’s kingdom. That’s when I met him.” Fauchelevent fell heavily into his easy chair and folded his hands in front of him. “When I was a young man, I was repairing my boss’s cart in my shop when a wheel collapsed and crushed me underneath. I thought I was a goner.”

Fauchelevent was no longer holding back his emotion. “All of a sudden, here comes Jean Valjean.

With his magnificent strength, he lifted up the cart while my coworker pulled me out. He saved my life.” “Why was he in your shop?” Cosette asked.

Fauchelevent chuckled.

“He said it was a divine appointment.” He continued with his story. “After your mother died and he took you into his care, he came stumbling into this very convent… said he needed a place of refuge. Well, you know the story from then on, but there’s one more thing you need to know.” He stood again and paced the room. “When he was at the barricades the night of the rebellion, Javert, the man who had pursued him his whole life, was caught as a spy. It was your father’s chance to finally even the score.” He took a deep breath. “He pulled out his knife. He was ready to do his deed. But instead of stabbing him, he cut him free.” “I’m telling you all of this because your father was a great man of mercy. His whole life was built on the mercy he had been shown, and he exhibited the same quality when he released Javert. I believe he would want Marius to show this French colonel the same

mercy.” Marius held his breath and fired.

Screams filled the town. The soldiers scattered, but the colonel was still atop his horse. Marius aimed his rifle again for another shot, but the soldiers had surrounded the colonel, making a clear shot impossible. They pointed at him and gave chase. Knowing he’d never make it down the stairs before they reached him, he leaped from the window and landed on the church roof. He jumped from the roof and landed atop a soldier, knocking him out. Another followed close behind, and Marius disabled him with a shot to the chest.

Marius’ heart filled with a rage that he knew would never leave until his knife plunged through the colonel’s throat. Marius looked around and saw the colonel and his last guard retreating in the distance, both on horseback.

He mounted his horse and made pursuit. As he charged, he saw the guard turn back and gallop toward Marius, blade drawn. The guard was without a gun, Marius realized. The colonel hadn’t suspected resistance. Marius pulled his handgun from his coat and fired, knocking the man from his horse.

Marius spurred his horse on. He caught up to the colonel and rode up beside him. The colonel cursed at him. Marius dove onto him from his horse, bringing the colonel to the ground with him. The two wrestled, but it was clear that Marius had the upper hand over the older man. Marius pulled his dagger from his belt and held it up to the colonel’s throat.Marius growled. “Are you ready to die, you old fool?” The man’s face showed no emotion. “Do it,” he dared. “Stop!”

Marius hesitated. The shrill voice was unmistakable. It was his wife, Cosette. He brought the dagger closer to the colonel’s throat and looked up. “Why should I?” he screamed wildly. He was so close to accomplishing his goal. He felt his wife’s small hand on his shoulder, her soft words somehow comforting him. “This isn’t the way, Marius.

Don’t you remember my father’s story? I know he told you.” “What about it?” Marius spat, his voice laced with anger. He continued to hold the colonel pinned to the ground. “He found freedom in forgiveness. Killing this man will never make you feel what you want to feel.”

“He tore apart his papers and started a new life, a better life.”

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Marius was overcome by visions of the barricade where he had fought this man… the dead Gavroche in his arms… the bombs flying into his encampment… this very colonel commanding cannons to be fired into the barricade. But more significant than all of these memories was the memory of Jean Valjean’s smiling face. Marius remembered his last conversation with Cosette’s father.

“Remember,” Jean’s voice seemed to echo in the distance, “to love another person is like seeing God’s face.” This man embodied grace and

forgiveness. He knew what Jean would want in this situation, and he knew Cosette was right.

This wasn’t the way. Marius let out a frustrated cry and drove the knife into the earth. He slowly rose to his feet. The colonel lay in shock. Overcome with emotion, Marius fell into Cossette’s arms, weeping. He felt her hands running through his hair. Cosette shed tears with him. “I love you so much. And I know my father couldn’t have been more proud than to see the man you’ve become.”

Chris’ Portrait David Zacharias Pittsburg Community Gold B&W Photography I decided on the spur of the moment to take this picture of Chris in my living room because I thought his hat was interesting. D7000, shutter 1/60 sec., 1.4 lens at f/7.1, ISO 100, 50MM flash exposure.

Post-processing in Photoshop Creating visual statements in film or digital photography have always held a special attraction for Zacharias. He has recently expanded his art with graphic renderings, from selfdeveloped software, incorporating mathematical formulas.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 51

Vanessa Maize Miller Community Bronze Fiction Murder Mystery This short story is about a woman who goes missing, and a teenage girl plans to secretly figure out her disappearance.

Maize plans to become an event planner and a possible writer in the future.

On the Livingston estate, flies were the first indication that someone had died”.

That’s what everyone had said while living near this property. Flyers saying that the Livingston estate has been listed for sale about every other year. Neighbors say that a year after each resident moved in, the resident disappears, and flies arrive about a week later. You’re probably wondering who I am. Hi, my name is Jess. I am a seventeen year old girl who just moved into the neighborhood with my parents about a year ago. The owner of the Livingston estate was a thirty year old woman named Lucinda. Lucinda was always outside of her house either sitting on her lawn, or somewhere else in town talking to anyone she met. She was the type of person who would do anything she could to help others, even if it was baking a casserole for someone to have for dinner, or buying products from the school’s fundraisers. Almost everyone was friends with Lucinda. All except for Arthur Robinson. Arthur was a grumpy fifty-seven year old man who wasn’t seen outside of his house for very long. He was born an only child who was raised by his widowed father.

His mother died in childbirth right after Arthur was born. While raising a kid by himself, Arthur’s father was led to drinking, and eventually took his own life right before Arthur’s seventeenth birthday. Arthur was then forced to drop out of school, so that he could get a job and support himself. But we’ll talk more about him later.Remember Lucinda, well she hasn’t been seen all week.

All the students at school are talking about her so-called “disapearance”, wondering why she hasn’t been see. Especially when she comes out of her house for several hours each day.

The principal sent an announcement through the speakers telling us that they are aware of Lucinda’s disappearance, but that we shouldn’t worry about it. Anytime students talked about the situation, we were told by the teacher to quiet down and go back to our work. By the eighth day of her disappearance, flies started appearing around Lucinda’s house. I then decided I was going to do whatever it took to figure out what happened to Lucinda. Since we weren’t allowed to talk about it in school, as soon as it was over students would group up with their friends and try to come up with reasons for what could have happened. I didn’t

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have anyone to talk to, so I just stood near a group and listened to what they said. Many people thought she died. Some thought that maybe she just moved away in the middle of the night, but others think she could have just randomly died. As if she had a heart attack. Which I thought was weird, becuase she was thirty years old. I mean, how much stress would you have to be under? Personally I think she could have been muderered, but I need to do more research.At dinner later that night, I asked my parents about what their take on the situation was. They told me not to worry about it, and leave it alone.

Saying that it was none of my business, and that I wasn’t allowed to talk about it anymore. I instantly knew that I was gonna have to figure this out, without talking to anybody. I finished out the week at school just trying to eavesdrop on what ideas people were coming up with for the disappearance.

By now everyone has noticed the amount of flies surrounding the Livingston estate.

This wouldn’t have been unusual if the flies were everywhere, but they were covering the area around the estate. There was a heavier amount inside the Livingston estate as well. I was listening to people talk, and I overheard “On the Livingston estate, flies were the first indication that someone had died”. The next day was Saturday, and I decided to get up that morning really early and go investigate the Livingston estate. I arrived at 6.a.m. at the front door, and I was able to just push it open.

The inside of the house was a mess. Not only was there a bunch of dirt, dust, and trash, but I also noticed that there was a bunch of blood splattered all over the floor. I looked around the room and I saw the ititials: A.R. on the wall. I knew from that moment, that Lucinda was murdered, I had an idea of who did it. I continued to walk through the estate paying attention to all the cabinets and closets. I found a linen closet in the hallway and decided to open it. I instantly realized that linen closets are not that big, and I started to regret my decision of opening the door. As soon as the door to the closet was opened, a cut up body fell to the floor. Lucinda’s body. I assumed that the murderer was Arthur, since he never leaves his house. I walked over to his house and tried to talk to Arthur. He admitted to killing Lucinda, but said that I couldn’t do anything

about it, because I did not have any proof. I left him, and went outside where I noticed a shed in the backyard. I looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then walked over to the shed and opened the door. I then realized that I was gonna have to do some digging to find my evidence. After looking for about ten minutes, I spotted an axe with its blade covered in dried blood. I knew that this was the evidence I needed. Later that day, I took the axe to the police station, and told them what I saw. They said they would have to do paperwork, and investigate to make sure there really was a body. They ended up arresting Arthur, and he admitted to them that he had

killed Lucinda, and other residents who lived in the Livingston estate. When asked why he did it, he said that he spent his life mourning the death of his parents without having anyone he could go to, and that it wasn’t fair.

So he decided that he wanted other people to feel the same internal pain he did. A few weeks later there was a funeral held for Lucinda, and everything in town went back to how it was before. The Livingston estate stopped getting listed for sale, and Arthur went through a trial, where he received life in prison. The flies slowly left the property, and never came back.

The end… 

Nature’s Tea Whitney Dannielle Yelverton Anderson Crowder Gold 3D Art Yelverton is a nontraditional student who has chosen to come back to school after ten years of being a stay-at-home mother. Yelverton has chosen to follow her love for art and pursue a degree in threedimensional ceramics where she hopes to pursue her art career at the highest level and in some way be an influence to others to follow their dreams as well.

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Jazmin Carroll Golden Crowder Silver Nonfiction Essay “Superhero Characteristics” is based on a true story. I used a narrative assignment for an English 101 class at Crowder to remember my aunt because I wanted to bring awareness to a disease the average person most likely does not know about. While reflecting on the past was emotionally difficult, I used my feelings as a measure to solidify my piece’s accuracy.

Carroll is currently attending Crowder College with ambitions regarding literature: her goals include being published and pursuing a career as an editor or a proposal manager.

ow many of us hear the word superhero and picture someone in a tight outfit who is flying through the air with a cape billowing out behind them? I bet most of us do. How many of us hear the word superhero and think of policemen, firefighters, paramedics, nurses, doctors, or soldiers? I bet some of us do.

How many of us hear the word superhero and picture someone on the brink of death wearing a hospital gown? I bet just me. By Merriam Webster’s first definition a superhero is “a fictional hero having extraordinary or superhuman powers”, even by its secondary definition of “an exceptionally skillful or successful person”, no one would think to include a dying individual as such. However, these definitions lack the characteristics of a hero. Therefore, I still consider my aunt to be one. She fell short of superpowers and by society’s standards she was not successful: she did not even have a job. But she had compassion, forgiveness, and acceptance. Her name was Melisa Jones Bisom and she died at the age of 44. She contracted a disease known to the medical world as Lou Gehrig’s Disease or ALS. I had never heard of this disease, nor did I understand what it meant. Looking back on the memories, the details are vivid in my mind, although I wish I could forget.

Day One: The sun is mockingly perky with its rays reflecting off of the pristine white floor. I do not understand how something inanimate seems more alive than the living.

My aunt is still alive, but she is laying in an upright position on a hospital bed. Her gown is light blue. It looks nice on her fair complexion. What looks even nicer is her smile. Aunt Missy has never been afraid to smile whole heartedly and as a result displays her crocked teeth. I wish I was more like her.

Instead, I am on my first year of braces and refuse to smile from my royally messed up mouth. My mom and I are both in the room with her, but I am not listening to the words exiting my mother’s mouth. I am focusing on my aunt. The doctors do not know why, but she no longer has the ability to talk.

Instead, she tries to write her thoughts down on paper. Her hands do not grip the pencil correctly, so it is like attempting to decipher a kindergartener’s letters. Yet, she smiles. She is brave. It is hard to believe she is sick because

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of how normal she acts and how normal she appears. Regardless, mom seems to be barely keeping herself composed. When we leave, I am not sure if the action hurts my mom or my aunt more. I hate abandoning my aunt because we have no answers. Day Two: The hospital called my mom today. They gave us our answer. Aunt Missy has something called Lou Gehrig’s Disease. They do not know if the condition is hereditary or if a back surgery she had years ago triggered the illness. My family is faced with the grim reality that there is no cure. Eventually, she will die from the disease. Death sounds painful. I am not sure I can handle this fate, then again, I am not the one dying. I wonder, how is my aunt handling this? Day Three: She has given up!

Emotions are swirling and bubbling over from inside of me: rage, hatred, despair. I feel like a kettle being neglected at the stove. How can she do this to me? How can Aunt Missy willingly surrender herself over to the unknown? She can not be serious. She…she can’t end her own life.

Can she? Day Four: It is finals week for my sophomore year of high school, but I am not attending classes. Rather, I visit my aunt in the hospital again. This part of the building is dimly lit and quiet; quiet enough the footsteps on the linoleum floor echo above the beeping and buzzing of the hospital machines. Just a few days ago, I sat in a different room, a better room. One where my aunt was still able to communicate with us- now there is nothing.

My family gathers, trying to make the best of a nightmare. We all wear purple in honor of her since it is her favorite color. Today, my aunt will die- she has decided to be taken off her respirator. I am not claustrophobic, but this tiny room feels so suffocatingly small: so many people, so many emotions. Moments ago I met people I did not even know existed.

Apparently, I have an uncle and cousins I have never met. Funny how death unites the rest of the living. For hours now stories have been exchanged. A room that should be full of sadness is exploding with laughter. The sound spills out into the hall and the room suddenly seems alive. A doctor comes in multiple times and asks my aunt if she is ready. She mouths she needs more time. She eventually decides tomorrow she will go away-permanently. But for today she lived like she had no disease.

Day Five: The sadness is tangible. In the heart

of the room my aunt still smiles, her crooked teeth proudly showing. Even in a dark room, happiness fills her eyes.

I begin to break down in tears, my face exploding in red blotches. At her request, my aunt and I take a picture just as we are. She is laying in bed in the light blue hospital gown and me cryingboth of us smiling. She knows death is waiting for her, but she smiles. She appears to be fearless. Her final gift to us is a gut-wrenching blow that reminds us of what we are about to lose. A nurse comes and moves around the trillions of tubes poking out of every surface of my aunt’s body. Some kind of device is placed in her throat…and then she speaks. It was a miracle. There is not a signal dry eye in the room. We received thirty minutes to say goodbye before the nurses shut off the respirator machine.

Hours passed before she lost the fight.

I was not brave enough to stay in the room and watch her die. I returned once though. My mother sat lifeless in a chair while my older sister and cousin, Melisa’s daughter, clung to my aunt’s hands. She appeared pale, like porcelain.

Her skin was a washy white with the veins sticking out in stark contrast.

I couldn’t look at her lying there; I wanted to remember her smile being so warm it showed in her eyes. Now I know that Lou Gehrig’s Disease causes the nerve cells to deteriorate until they detach from the spinal cord, resulting in complete loss of all body functions.

This disease ate away until there was nothing but a shell of someone I once knew. To make the condition more horrific, there is no cure. ALS is a death sentence. That is why my aunt chose to be fearless. She faced death because living was worse. In her final days, she displayed compassion, still mouthing words to the best of her abilities to ask each of us about our lives. She demonstrated forgiveness towards her daughter for not visiting sooner.

She displayed acceptance for when she died, she looked peaceful. I choose to believe this is because she died on her terms. My aunt chose to play the cards she was dealt to write her own destiny.

Melisa Jones Bisom is MY superhero for showing me what it means to be courageous. 

They met in St Louis, he was on his way West, He was tall and quite handsome, and she was Impressed, She had just turned sixteen, she was cute and quite shy, But with a heartwarming glance, she caught his eye, She had walked to the market, was there all alone, He offered his buggy, for a ride back to home, When he took her hand, her head seemed to swim, As he sat down beside her, she did her best to look prim, They talked as he drove, she found him quite witty, She thought he was smart, and hoped she looked pretty, Over days then that followed, they met when they could, They spoke of their futures, things bad and things good, And when the day came, that he started West, She met him once more, and she did her best, She smiled wide as she hugged him, tried not to tear, To write often he promised, and return in a year, So started her waiting, a young girl with a dream, So filled with excitement, she would burst it would seem, Their future together, in her mind contrived, In less than a month, his first letter arrived, He spoke of the wagons, the first two hundred miles, The fresh air and the prairie, the hardships and trials, The campfires and laughter, and the forever view, He closed this first letter, signed “my heart is with you,” As the weeks passed, he wrote again and again, Describing the grass and the heat and the wind, Long treks between water, and bison there too, Always saying he missed her, signed “my heart is with you,” Then no word for two months, her worry set in, She hoped and she prayed, that he’d write once again, Until nearly to winter, a tattered letter arrived, Her shadow was lifted, her hope was revived, This letter was lengthy, filled with fantastic tales, Of rivers and mountains and mysterious trails, He talked about Indians with stripes on their chest, Of lives that were lost, on this road to the West, This made her uneasy, and worried once more, He’d not mentioned the death of his comrades before, But he went on to speak of tall trees that grew, And he closed with the words, “my heart is with you,” She read and she re-read each page and each line, Breathing faintly the lingering odor of pine, In her mind she could see him out there in the West, Until teardrops fell on the page at her breast, Days became months and months became years, But no more letters came to sooth her hot tears, A heart wrenching lesson for someone so frail, Never knowing what became of her man on the trail, But as the years passed, so life carried on, She married another, ‘til he too was gone, Decades later sorting papers in an old wooden chest, On some old yellowed letters, her eyes came to rest, Her hands fairly trembled as her memories led, Each page as familiar as the first time she read, Every letter still ending with words still so true, Signed in his hand, my heart is with you.

Paul Wright | Carthage | Community | Bronze | Poetry

This poem tells a story of love and loss set against the backdrop of the old Road West.

Rhymed and metered verse. Wright is full-time electrical engineer, part-time farmer, and occasional writer who enjoys all things creative!

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 55

Billie Holladay Skelley Joplin Community Silver Fiction Short Story I wrote this short story for a middle-grade audience as Halloween entertainment. It was inspired by various myths and legends I heard while living in Iowa.

Now retired from working as a clinical nurse specialist and nursing educator, Skelley enjoys focusing on her writing. Her work has appeared in various journals, magazines, and anthologies. She also has written 10 books for children and teens and has won many awards for her writing.

very year on Halloween, my dad, my Uncle Charlie, and I explore places that are reportedly haunted. We’ve never really been scared or seen anything we couldn’t explain, but last year all that changed when we visited a place called Edinburgh Manor.

My dad had arranged with the Manor’s tour guide, Paul Eastman, for us to visit on Halloween. As soon as we arrived, a man approached our car.

“Are you Mr. Carl Johnson?” the man asked my dad.

“Yes, but you’re not Paul Eastman,” my dad answered. “Although, you look a lot like him.”

“I’m Peter Eastman, Paul’s younger brother. Paul got tied up with a family matter tonight, and he asked me to fill in for him.”

Chuckling a little, Peter added, “We both give tours here, but I give a better one. I’m always telling Paul that I may be younger, but I’m smarter and I work harder.”

“That’s what I tell Carl, too,” said Uncle Charlie. “I’m younger than him, but I’m much more intelligent and better looking!”

Laughing, Peter asked, “Were you two competitive growing up?”

“Always,” answered Uncle Charlie. “I had to do everything Carl did. The only difference was I did it better.”

We all laughed.

“Paul and I are the same way,” said Peter.

“We’re always competing over something … even on these tours. We keep track of who gives the most tours each year, and the loser must buy the winner a steak dinner. We were even, but after tonight, I’ll have one more!”

We laughed again.

“If you’re ready, we better start,” Peter told us. “Did Paul tell you phones are not allowed? We don’t want any ringing disturbing the setting.”

“Yes,” my dad answered. “We left our phones in the glove compartment.”

As we walked toward the front door, Peter continued talking.

“Inside, in the foyer, there’s bottled water if you’re thirsty. I’ll show a short video, and then, we’ll start the tour.”

We entered Edinburgh Manor, and Peter started the video.

According to the video’s narrator, the site used to be a poorhouse and an insane asylum.

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Many residents were horribly abused, and over a hundred died. They were buried in an adjacent cemetery. The video indicated that the Manor is only open for tours and paranormal investigations now, but the restless spirits of those who died at the site continue to haunt the property.

When the video finished, Peter said, “Okay, let’s go meet those poor souls who never really left.”

One by one, over the next two hours, Peter took us through all the old and neglected rooms in Edinburgh Manor. It looked like the residents had just left. Sheets were still on beds. Clothes remained in closets. It seemed like the people were in such a rush to get away, they just left their belongings behind.

In one room, Uncle Charlie saw a dark shadow move. In another, my dad saw a face in a mirror. I heard footsteps in the hallway.

In the kitchen, pots and pans were scattered about, and there was a strong smell of burnt toast. I was relieved when Peter pointed out the calendar on the wall where he and his brother kept track of who did what tours. The calendar seemed like a modern, useful thing you could touch and understand, as opposed to all the other old and discarded items.

We walked to the nearby cemetery, and Peter and my dad studied the headstones.

Uncle Charlie and I examined a stone marker surrounded by an iron fence. I tried to read the words on the marker, but suddenly, a yellow, glowing orb rose up and headed toward us.

The yellow glow surrounded Uncle Charlie’s head. He put his hands around his neck, started gasping for air, and fell to his knees.

I yelled for my dad, and he and Peter came running.

When my dad lifted Uncle Charlie up, the cloud of yellow light vanished.

“I couldn’t breathe,” Uncle Charlie gasped.

“Something sinister was choking me.”

“That would have been The Joker,” Peter said. “He’s a particularly malevolent and aggressive spirit that haunts Edinburgh Manor. Many visitors have felt his hands choking them.”

Already pale, Uncle Charlie turned white as a sheet. He looked ill.

“You two take Charlie back to the foyer and get him a drink,” Peter said. “I’ll lock up

and meet you there.”

Back in the foyer, I got Uncle Charlie a chair and some water. We waited almost an hour, but Peter did not return. Uncle Charlie wanted to leave, and we were just getting ready to go, when the front door flew open.

“Are you all okay?” asked the man who rushed inside.

“We’re a little rattled, but we’re okay,” said my dad. Looking at us, he added, “This is Paul Eastman, the man who got us the tour.”

“How did you all get in?” Paul asked. “I tried calling you, but there was no answer. I’ve been so worried.”

“Peter let us in. He gave us the tour.”

Now, it was Paul’s turn to turn white as a sheet.

“No … impossible,” he mumbled. “My brother … was in a car accident. He’s been in the hospital all evening.”

“He’s been here,” my dad said. “He just

left us a little while ago.”

“My brother died in my arms about an hour ago,” Paul declared. “I only came here because I was concerned something might have happened to you.”

Shocked and confused, my dad muttered something about us leaving, so Paul could get back to his family. We got in our car and quickly drove away.

A week later, we ran into Paul Eastman.

He told us, after we left Edinburgh Manor, he checked the place over and someone had written on the calendar in the kitchen, “I won!”

When we heard this news, the three of us gasped.

We can’t explain what happened, but it was disturbing enough that we’ve decided next year we may just stay home on Halloween. 

Cyber Skulls Lalani Yang McDonald County High School Honorable Mention 2D Art Pen and Ink I was inspired by pictures of colorful sketches and decided that I wanted to create a colorful piece. I had used ink wash before, but I never tried to use colored ink.

Yang is a senior who plans to pursue a career in art.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 57

Billie Holladay Skelley Joplin Community Silver Nonfiction

ddie Vernon Rickenbacker was a daredevil of a man who had many military and civilian accomplishments.

He was extraordinary not just for what he did, but how he did it. A fighter, who did not believe in giving up, Rickenbacker once said that he would “fight like a wildcat until they nail the lid of my pine box down on me.”

His attitude served him well, because during his lifetime, he escaped close brushes with death over a hundred times!

Born in 1890, Rickenbacker had his first close encounter with the Grim Reaper at age eight. While trying to slide in a steel cart into a gravel pit, the cart flipped over onto him. He easily could have been killed, but he survived with only a badly injured leg.

At age twelve, when his father died, Rickenbacker had to leave school to get a job to support his family. He actually took on several jobs, ranging from selling newspapers and eggs to working in a foundry and a

Red Illumination Edgar E. Gomez Gonzalez Carthage Crowder Bronze Color Photography In order to capture this photograph, a buddy of mine was in the process of taking a picture of someone else. Instead of the actual subject, I took a picture of the photographer themselves.

Gomez, a freshman in Crowder College, plans to continue education in order to become an architect. While doing so, he plans to continue his hobby as a photographer.

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brewery. He eventually became an automobile mechanic and a race-car driver. In 1914, he set a speed record at Daytona and went on to gain an international reputation for his racing, but he also had numerous accidents and several narrow escapes while participating in motor races.

When WWI started, Rickenbacker enlisted in the Army and served as a staff driver for Colonel Billy Mitchell. With Mitchell’s help, he became a pilot and was assigned to the 94th Aero Pursuit Squadron.

Flying six to seven hours some days, he had 134 aerial enemy encounters, shot down 26 enemy planes, and became America’s leading ace. He was awarded the U.S. Congressional Medal of Honor and the French Croix de Guerre, but he also experienced numerous close calls in the air and had several crash landings.

After the war, Rickenbacker started his own automobile manufacturing company, and

he owned the Indianapolis Motor Speedway for several years. He also continued to promote aviation and the airline industry. Flying around the country for speeches, he was involved, as a passenger, in several crashes. On one of these near misses, the plane hit a house and a two-by-four missed Rickenbacker’s head by two inches.

In 1938, Rickenbacker became the president and general manager of Eastern Airlines. While working at Eastern, in 1941, one of the planes he was traveling in crashed landed into trees on its approach into Atlanta.

The pilots and several passengers died in the crash, and Rickenbacker suffered multiple injuries—including broken ribs, a fractured skull, an injured leg, crushed pelvis, and a ripped-off eyelid. For days, he lingered between life and death. While trying to recover, Rickenbacker heard the radio voice of commentator Walter Winchell announce that he was dying. It made Rickenbacker angry. He tore his oxygen tent apart and threw a pitcher at the radio, scoring a direct hit. “The radio fell apart,” he recalled, “and Winchell’s voice stopped. Then I got well.”

During WWII, Rickenbacker helped create the Military Air Transport Service. In 1942, after inspecting air bases in the Pacific, he and seven other men had to make a forced landing in their B-17 plane. Battered and bleeding, they scrambled into three life rafts.

With little food or water, sharks swimming around them, and the sun roasting their skin, their situation was desperate. One man did die, but as conditions worsened, others believed they too would succumb. Eventually, one of the men actually prayed for death and another tried to commit suicide to make more room for his comrades, but Rickenbacker wouldn’t hear of it. He yelled at them to focus on survival.

Finally, a seagull landed on Rickenbacker’s head. He grabbed it and divided the meat among the men. He used the bird’s intestines to catch two small fish. After twenty-four days of drifting in the ocean, Rickenbacker finally was spotted by a plane. He was barely alive, badly sunburned, covered in salt-water ulcers,

Lightbulb Sierra Wilson Anderson Community Silver B&W Photography I really like how the bulb can be seen in a different light. It is easy to picture the electricity zooming through the bulb. This image reminds me that there is beauty in everything if you look for it.

Wilson enjoys photography and takes photos as a hobby. She is a student at MSSU and plans to work in the community after she graduates.

and had lost 60 pounds. Once again, however, he’d cheated death. The Boston Globe described him as “The Great Indestructible.”

“The sensation of dying is sweet, sensuous, placid,” Rickenbacker remarked. “It is the easiest thing in the world to die. The hardest is to live.” He also noted that he’d cheated death more times than anyone he knew.

Rickenbacker’s final encounter with the Grim Reaper came in 1973. That year he succumbed to pneumonia, but he is known for not giving up, for fighting like a wildcat, and for living life to the fullest. 

My father was a pilot for Eastern Airlines, and he knew Eddie Rickenbacker. I’d heard so many “stories” about Rickenbacker that he seemed “bigger than life.” I wanted to do my own research and discover what he was really like, but the “facts” I unearthed were even more amazing than the stories.

Now retired from working as a clinical nurse specialist and nursing educator, Skelley enjoys focusing on her writing. Her work has appeared in various journals, magazines, and anthologies. She also has written 10 books for children and teens and has won many awards for her writing.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 59

Nancy Mahurin Joplin Crowder Silver Fiction Short Story This story is the beginning of a longer piece I am working on. I want this story to inspire the readers to never lose hope, even in hard times. I believe life is full of gifts coming out of brokenness.

Mahurin enjoys writing and hopes one day to have some of her work published. Currently, she is enrolled at Crowder pursuing an Accounting degree. However, writing will always be an important part of her life.

ow are we ever going to pay for this? I can’t believe you got us into this mess. It’s bad enough you slept around, while you were living under my roof, but now we’ve got a sick baby too.”

“Mom, I’m sorry. How many times do you want me to say it? All I know is I love this baby girl and all I care about is her being okay.

I’m concerned about nothing else.”

“I just hope you realize you’re going to have to live with this mistake forever. What if she’s got brain damage? How could you possibly handle that?”

Just two days earlier, Anna had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. Her tiny toes and fingers were captivating. Her delivery had gone well. She screamed right out of the gate, even the doctor had commented on her healthy lungs. Anna had fallen in love with her little Lacey as soon as she saw her.

The last year had been horrible, but the first glimpse of her tiny face glimmered with hope for better tomorrows. As they had been preparing to leave the hospital for home, Anna noticed Lacey’s face changing to a bluish color.

“Someone!!! Please help me!!”

The nurse rushed into the room and ripped Lacey from her arms.

“What’s going on? Please someone tell me what’s happening!! My baby!!”

“You’ll have to wait outside.” A nurse pushed her out of the room.

Lacey had been fine. Everything was fine.

This was a nightmare. She thought to herself if she could just wake up. Then, it would all be okay. This would not be happening. After what seemed like an eternity, the nurse came out of the room.

“We have stabilized her breathing, but she needs to be airlifted to Midwest Hospital in Springfield. We’ll let you come in the helicopter. Please hurry.”

And now, standing here in this hospital, listening to the words her mother said, infuriated Anna. She could not say anything though because she needed her mom. As hopeless as that sounded, it was true. Anna could not afford a place of her own. After her divorce, a year ago, she had been forced to move in with her mother. None of what had happened since was ever planned. She was in a low place, and Lacey’s biological dad had swept in at her most vulnerable moment.

Her ex-husband Rick had left her with

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a terrible heartache. He was her first love, if one could call it that. They met in junior high school. She enjoyed the attention he gave her.

To him, she was his possession. She should have seen that then, but she was blinded by his charm. Her heart melted every time he took her hand and led her down the hall at school.

Anna was young and naïve. The times she wished she could go back and shake herself into reality were countless.

Rick would break it off with her at least four times over the course of the rest of their school years. Anna remembered the way he would parade other girls past her locker. Why she was foolish enough to take him back time after time is something she will never know.

The fall of her senior year was hell. Her dad had been sick for as long as she could recall, and he finally lost his chronic battle. Anna had no more allies in her home, and Rick had called if it off the first day of school. She was alone.

When he found out about her dad, he showed up on her doorstep. He always knew exactly the right words to say. It still echoed through her mind.

“Anna, I want you. I know I’ve been a jerk, but you’re not alone. I’m here. I love you and need you.”

Her mom was not home. She let her guard down again and let him back in. It was not long before he had her in his arms in her bed. The memory sickened her. The way she let her body be his because of her vulnerability. The following month she missed her period. The horror overtook her. Her mother was the least bit supportive.

“You stupid slut! I should’ve known this would happen.” The words she hurled at Anna still stung to this day, but she had no defense against them because her mom was right.

Anna walked across the stage at graduation with a monstrous burden on her back. Her life was in shambles. Rick was not worthy of her deepest love. In fact, she highly doubted she loved him at all. Lust, not love radiated from his eyes. Her heart was ready to be her baby’s mom. However, it was reluctant to be Rick’s bride. Yet, by the end of their graduation day, she had accepted his proposal.

Her dreams of college drifted away like a piece of driftwood at sea. She had received a full ride scholarship to a local university, but that dream was out of the question. How would she be able to be a wife and mother, plus

go to school? About five months from her due date, she experienced unexplained pain in her abdomen. After mentioning it to her mother, her mom’s fix was to take her shopping.

“The exercise will be good for you. We need to get you some baby clothes.”

“Mom, I don’t really feel like walking.”

“Nonsense, Anna, we’re going shopping.

You haven’t been walking enough, and it will help.”

As they were walking the aisles in the local JC Penney, Anna’s pain turned into an excruciating one, as if someone were ripping her insides out.

“Mom, it’s hurting really bad.” The tears began to roll down her face.

“You’ve never been able to handle pain.

Fine, let’s go home.”

Around midnight, she felt the urge to go to the bathroom.

“My baby!” She broke into a wailing sob, when she saw her baby floating in the toilet water.

Like a fool, she married Rick anyway.

The struggle to love Rick was a daily one, but she endured. After a few months, he returned to his old ways. Anna was never enough for him. Finally, after a year of marriage and a mountain of hurt, he decided to be decent and admit his infidelity. She had known it all along, but her heart was incapable of knowing what to do about it. The next day they filed jointly for divorce.

Anna’s grief over the mess of her life sank her into a deep depression. She eased the pain by exercising. She would work her forty hours, then, spend the rest of her waking hours working out. Anna met Ben at the local gym. He was handsome and athletic. He had the flare and charisma that was Errol Flynn like. Her thoughts would wander imagining him as Robin Hood and her as Maid Marion.

She should have never let her guard down. It had only been a little over a month since Rick and her split up, but Ben’s charm had easily won her broken heart.

Her ex-husband had never looked at her the way he did. She found herself captive to his desire for her. He was a man used to getting his way; and although she never intended on sleeping with him, that is exactly what happened. Never in a million years would she have imagined she would end up pregnant, but sure enough she did. Of course,

when she told him, he suddenly lost his desire for her. The idea of abortion never crossed her mind, but the anguish she felt when she told her mother was enough to last a lifetime.

But now, none of that mattered. She wanted God to heal her darling daughter, and she would figure out the rest in time.

Ten long days had passed since they came to Midwest Hospital. Anna had spent her nights in an adjoining room to the nursery. Now, the doctor told them they could go home. The excitement bubbled in Anna’s heart, but there was panic there also. The doctor told Anna Lacey had asthma and would need albuterol treatments every three hours until they could check her again. This little girl had a rough beginning, but Anna knew God had saved her for a wonderful purpose.

Pulling into the driveway of her mother’s house, Anna envisioned what the next few minutes would hold. She pictured her mother poised like a rattler, ready to strike with venomous words. As she turned the knob to open the door, her vision became a reality.

Her questions were masked as concern, but the disdain easily showed through. Anna did her best to answer them with civility, but exhaustion was settling in.

“Mom, I’m extremely tired. It’s time for Lacey’s treatment. Then, we are both going to bed!”

Before her mother could respond, Anna had whisked Lacey down the hallway to her room, shutting the door behind her. The glare from her mother felt like a thousand daggers piercing her in the back.

Three hours later she awoke to an alarm reminding her of the next treatment. She fed Lacey and then gave her the treatment.

Afterward, she held her in her arms for the longest time. She still could not believe she was her mom. That God would bless her with something so priceless and beautiful, despite the reckless disregard she had for His will the last few years, amazed her.

She endeavored in her mind then and there to be the best mom she could be, which meant focusing on God more, as well.

There was a sense of hope like she had not known in her lifetime. Although her current circumstances were challenging, Anna now had a precious gift from her brokenness, and somewhere glimmering in the distance, she glimpsed a better life ahead. 

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 61

Zander Reynolds Lockwood High School Silver Fiction Short Story This was a concept that I’ve had in mind about dreaming of something better while truly you have good in front of you but are blinded by what your mind is telling you. The story’s main idea is how mental illness can affect you and give a look at what those might see and how they are deceived.

Growing up he was always into his books whether it was reading, art, or writing. Inspired by all others wrote, he wanted to give the same impression to others while also expressing himself. Something others can see the emotion put into it and relate in different or the same ways as he.

ight would fall over and Jax would lay in his bed after the long day he had. School ended early for him today since that day the professor would cancel, sick. Being a young college student, he had his work set out for him, but still instead of taking advantage of that free time he hung out with his friends, which he sought t be just as important as his work.

Getting home late, books would take up the rest of his night. Lying down for the end of the day, he felt his world around him spin away as he slipped into sleep.

Eyes flickering open, sleep had felt as just a snap in time to him, until he realized it wasn’t morning nor was this his home where he had fallen asleep. Big grand walls, filled with rows and rows of books, replacing his normal heighted dark blue ones. Rich dark red would spot out where books weren’t but no windows were seen. The ceiling pointed up, taller than ceilings he’s ever seen before, holding a dark bronze gold look to it. Candles lit this large room, but they never seemed to burn down. The beauty of this new place caught all of his attention.

Wandering around, he picked up a book from the shelf , skimming the pages. Just as he was reading the words they started lifting off the book, surrounding him, replacing the room with darkness, then before him a new room.

This place looked much different than the last. Windows lighting up the room, setting a much different mood. Lights strung around the room, a short table with cushions for sitting at it in the middle and small plants surrounded the room, a shelf of books took place on the opposite side of most of it. A chair sat next to the window with a small one person table. It had a very warm feeling to it, comforting, Quite a peeper aren’t you” said a females voice Her voice was soft but full, not a sound coming from her appearing.Turning towards the voice he saw a taller woman, much different than others seen before. First noticeably was her eyes, dark and the iris took up most of her eye leaving little white. Her face was well structured but soft and rounded at the same time. Her physique was slim and her hair was choppy and short, a dark black.

A dark green dress that would fall right above her ankles, puffed cinched sleeves with a corset like middle.

62 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

“Where is this exactly?” He questioned ¨Well specifically this is my home, but overall I can’t answer that” she would state, vaguely.

Walking over to where she was at, he felt a calmness in her aura, not feeling any danger, he looked through the window, seeing it wasn’t just this one room. Outside there weren’t any other houses but this one, but it held beautiful green grass, a pond with a dock and a singular large tree.

“Why am I here? if I can ask that” He asked, muttering out the last bit “You’re here because you want to be, here is everything and nothingness at the same time and it is whatever you want it to be” she answered in a almost riddle Confusion buzzing his head a bit, he sat down at the short table.

“Do you have a reason why you’d want to not be there” she asked?

“There?” He copied with question “There as in, well, your home i suppose” He sat in thought for a second “Things are stressful for sure, but not that bad I guess” He would reply in his own time.

“Make sure to take a look around you and think a bit more on that question, you are here for a reason, love” She said as if to remind him.

She would take him by the hand and lead him to the door, which he knew what he had seen outside the window and expected that when she opened the door, but instead there held an almost glowing white taking up the frame, and with that he walked through the door at his own surprise.

Opening his eyes again he was in his own room. Since it was now a weekend, he wouldn’t have to do much of anything besides to hang out with his friends for lunch. When that time came he would tell his friends all about this weird realistic dream he had.

“It wasn’t scary or anything, it was just strangely calm. I don’t know, it’s weird!” he would exclaim to them.

“Dude I think you need to just get some more sleep, just a bit sleep deprived is all” His friend Ben would say without hesitation, his other friends would snicker and nod then to change the topic. Keeping in mind what the strange lady in his dream had said earlier, he felt a sinking in his chest. Shaking his head to rid the thought, paying his attention to his friends. It was just a dream, he would think.

Spending the rest of the day and evening getting caught up on his studies and reading, he would fall back to his bed, thinking about what the lady said before, thinking back on everything he would fall asleep and feel his world spin around him like once before.

Opening his eyes he found himself back in the similar place of the night before. “ Hello again” the lady would say, sitting at the table reading a book. “ I’m.. here again?” he would ask, even though he knew the answer. “ indeed you are “ she answered, putting her book down “ I see you thought about what I said” She stated He walked over to her table and sat down “Maybe..” He mumbled out, recalling all he thought yesterday Tell me about it” she said.

Taking the next bit of untrackable time, he would talk about how dismissed he felt, almost invisible. They would talk about this, having him think more about it. Naming all the reasons that his real life was rougher. A lot he didn’t even realize. Soon it would be his time to leave again, at the door they stood. “ What is your name?” he would ask Before he could get the answer he was through the door and he was once again in his bed.Sitting with confusion. This was more than a dream.

As days went on he would always go back to this place in his sleep. During this time he found her name, which was ven, and found out a lot about her too. They would spend nights talking about anything and everything. He loved being there, it truly was a dream.

Soon days turned to weeks and he would start spending more time asleep to be there.

He would go to school and do his work then right to sleep. He had come to realize that his friends didn’t notice much about him not being there, but he didn’t mind, he was enjoying his free time. He didn’t understand why this was happening at all, but he didn’t care much. He found it easier and found her to be right, there were reasons and as time went on he was able to point them out. Certain things were weird about these supposed dreams, things would feel a bit more off, each time, but nothing too noticeable.

“I want to stay here. “ He would claim to her “ You.. do know what that entails right?”

She responded, cautiously.

He would nod, understanding it all.

Ignoring an off feeling he had.

“It’s better here for me” He stated strongly, confident about it.

She would nod, understanding.

They talked the rest of the time, and he could tell she felt uneasy. He did too.

The next day His friends, taking notice of his absence, question if he’s okay. Wrapped around the idea that his friends didn’t really care much, convinced by Ven too, he would just shrug and nod, going on his own way.

Night would come and he would dress his best for her. When he got to his sleep the world was eerie, Ven looking at him with fear behind her eyes, not enough for him to notice.

“What did you do?” she would say, voice written with concern. And with that he felt the world shake a bit. The world’s tones become dark, the beauty that once stood in front of him grew taller, her eyes filling with red, body becoming longer and monstrous as her skin became a pure black, voice distorted, falling back in fear the house started shaking, becoming dark. Outside becoming a glowing red. Standing petrified he shook himself from his shock, running past her legs, throwing books at her to keep her, no, the thing now, away.

“I WANNA STAY” He would yell out.

Tugging at the door, fighting for it to open, scared, regretting the option he had chosen. The now large hand would try to hold the door shut, but with a big enough fight the door flew open and with a flash his eyes opened quickly as he gasped for air, no longer in that place. But also no longer home.

“Hello???” he would call out. He looked over to see his Ben in a chair next to his bed, in the hospital?

“Oh thank god you’re ok!?

We’re gonna get you some help okay?” He would exclaim out to him and with a heavy head he would nod, knowing that things got out of hand. 

Canyon Lands Jessica Sellers Carl Junction Community Gold 3D Art Canyon Lands National Park inspired me to do a series of jewelry pieces echoing the textures, arches and formations found in nature.

Sellers, a local artist and art educator, creates and sells her art in a variety of mediums including jewelry, drawing, mosaics, and glass.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 63

Emilee Kuschel Ozark Community Gold Fiction Pernicocia is about a yearning for freedom and a chance for a new hope.

Kuschel is a Crowder College graduate who continued her education to earn a Bachelor’s in Communication and is currently pursuing a Master’s in Strategic Communication at the University of Denver.

endrils of smoke stretch up from the remnants of the fire to meet the setting sun. Tonight, on the 26th of November, the sun is setting for the last time.

The sun will re-emerge around the middle of March. But until then, Summer’s world will be plunged into darkness.

As her tear-filled eyes trace the waning whispers of smoke and the dying embers gasp for one last breath of oxygen, she wonders if she will live long enough to set her eyes on the sun again.

Snow never looks deadly until you’re caught in a blizzard. In the daylight, it looks clean and unblemished. Sometimes it even sparkles. But snow quickly becomes fatal with the smallest change of weather: a shifting of clouds, a drop in temperature, or a strong gust of wind. The most insignificant breeze can cause an avalanche.

Life and death are held together by a taut string, and tonight, the tension is palpable.

The wind seems to whisper danger on the horizon, and the goosebumps that form on her skin are brought on by more than the cold night air alone.

Her blueing fingers clutch at the metal bars as she gazes out into the night. There is only darkness. But, somehow, with her face pressed against the cold iron, she feels a rush of exhilaration at the thought of climbing the gate and throwing herself into the snow on the other side.

She has no doubt- she would be dead before she reached the outside of the gate, but the thought of freedom still thrills her. So much so that, for a moment, she grips the bars and brings a foot up onto one of the horizontal bars near the base of the gate.

Her second foot is just off the ground when she hears it- the unmistakable crunch of snow signaling someone’s approach. “This is it,” she thinks. “No more than a foot off the ground, not even really climbing, and I’m dead.”

But she hears no gunshot and feels no sudden pain. Instead, she hears a voice and loses her balance, tumbling backward into the thick blanket of snow beneath her.

Then hands are wrapped around hers, quickly pulling her to her feet, and strange brown eyes dart across the snow to the guardhouse, presumably checking to ensure no

64 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

one else has seen what she has just done- the death sentence she has brought upon herself.

Then the eyes narrow and alight with fury.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

He whispered. “Out here, hours after curfew, climbing the gate in full view of the guardhouse?! Do you have a death wish or something?”

The fire in his eyes faded a little, but his words only stirred up her own anger. Still, she remained silent. Did she have a death wish?

Not exactly, but she was alone now, friendless, in a place that was already bleak to begin with, a place where she had no future. How could he lecture her for wanting to escape?!

No, she didn’t want to die. She wanted to live, and if climbing the gate and risking her life is what it takes, then maybe it’s worth it.

Because life in this ice prison isn’t a life at all.

It’s just waiting for death to come.

When she looked about to explode with anger, he quickly changed tactics. “Look, calm down. I saw you trying to climb over, and I don’t want to see anybody get killed, alright? I was trying to help, that’s all.”

He watched as she dusted off her jacket and leaned against the gate to shake the snow out of her boots one at a time. In a careful tone, he asked, “What are you doing out here, anyway, on the wrong side of camp, hours after curfew?”

She stiffened and stood up straight, meeting his gaze. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business, and unless you’re just waiting for me to turn my back before shooting me down, you’re out after curfew as well. And at the gate, no less. If you were caught, you’d be just as dead as me whether you touched the gate or not,” she replied.

His lips twitched as he attempted some sort of pseudo-smile, which only served to make him look uncomfortable. “You’re more clever than you look. Are you Neccian, then?” he asked.

At his words, her heart sank. “No, I’m not from around here. I was brought over on a plane almost three years ago.”

His eyes sparked with something that felt like familiarity, and he replied, “Me too, actually. I grew up in Grenadia, on the West Bank of the La Renci River.”

When she only raised her eyebrows and [continues on page 66]

Mountain Blossom *Lani Yang | McDonald County High School | Gold | 3D Art My inspiration was my Hmong culture and heritage. I remembered my grandma’s intricate cross stitch patterns and wanted to do something similar for my sculpture.

Yang is a senior who plans to pursue a career in art. *Scholarship recipient

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 65

[Continued from 64]

stared blankly, he continued. “My name is Ben. I work in food requisitioning and distribution.

What’s your assignment?”

Slowly, her eyes met his again, and she spoke in a tight tone. “If I tell you my name and job, you could go tomorrow morning and report me for climbing the gate. You’d probably get a good reward for it too.”

Ben sighed, “And you could report me just as easily for being out after curfew, and I’d be as good as dead within the hour.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” She spoke without inflection.

“Well neither would I, but you should stay away from here, especially this late at night.

Clearly, you’re smart enough to know that some would kill you before you could take a breath to explain what you’re doing out here.”

Ben’s breath froze in the air like smoke.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Maybe so, but I’d rather not see anyone else dead if I can help it.”

“Is that why you’re here? Do you just scan the gates at night, hoping to save someone from certain death like some kind of hero?”

His eyes shot to her, flecks of gold in his brown eyes seeming to swim for a moment, maybe with anger? No, something stronger.

Candy Dish Shalynn Owen McDonald County High School Bronze 3D Art I made this because I have been really wanting to learn how to make pots with lids it reminds me of the dish my granny always had full of Butterscotch candy.

Owen has found in the past few years a profound love for pottery.

66 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

He shook his head and cleared his throat, coming back to himself. “It was a favor for a friend. Throwing her ashes over the gate towards freedom was the least I could do for her.” He spoke in a strangled voice, pulling a metal container from the pocket of his jacket.

Her eyes dropped to the snow-laden earth.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard of another death in Camp since... since three days ago…” she trailed off.

Ben’s eyes flicked up to hers and that same unreadable expression returned. “Did you, did you know-” “Yeah. It was my best friend, Darcy.” her lips trembled.

Ben leaned against the gate and paid special attention to the snow beneath his feet instead of looking up at Summer.

“What happened to her?” he asked.

Summer’s eyes flickered down. “She was taken. She was chosen for initiation.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben murmured, “What was she like?”

Ben moved away from the gate and sat down on the steps of a nearby cabin.

“She had just turned 16. She was born here. She never got to see beyond these gates,” she sighed heavily, “I knew she would never agree to complete the initiation ritual. Darcy

was the kindest and most loving person I have ever met. She had eyes as green as the sea in a storm and hair as fiery as a brilliant sunset.

Every day with her made this awful existence worth living. She made me hope to escape someday.

“She always said that our bodies were trapped here in the ice, but that our souls could never be captured as long as we believed that someday we could be free. Darcy Day was always singing, always smiling, and always the first to make sure others were cared for. That’s how she ended up being chosen. She took my place.”

Ben listened with raptured attention, trying to imagine the girl being described. She reminded him of his little brother, Owen. As she continued, he felt as if he knew this girl.

She seemed so familiar to him, but he could not grasp how he could know her.

Of course, he knew many “members” of Camp Pernicocia. He served meals to almost all of them twice a day and knew many by name. But he did not recognize this girl’s name.

She had stopped speaking, and it took him a moment to realize that he was expected to offer up a reply. “That’s awful. I hate those rituals and all the Officials’ ridiculous ‘Rites of Passage.’ As if working us to death wasn’t enough.”

“My name is Summer,” she said suddenly, blurting out the words as if she hadn’t quite meant to say them out loud.

“It’s nice to meet you, Summer. Although saving you from gruesome death isn’t usually my preferred way of meeting people,” Ben said lightly.

Mythical Strength Suzanne Ratcliff Neosho Community Honorable Mention 2D Art I challenged myself with my largest drawing of one of my favorite characters and subjects of my favorite stories. Dragons are such beautiful mythical creatures.

My inspiration was Smaug the Dragon from The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolken.

Ratcliff is a proud mother of two children and multiple dogs. She sketches to work on the world she envisions around herself.

“I’d better be getting back to the cabin,” Summer said, standing up quickly, looking more than a bit dazed. “I’ll barely lay my head down before it’s time to get up again as it is.”

“Good idea,” Ben hummed in agreement.

Summer started walking towards the women’s side of camp, and Ben quickly fell into step next to her. She looked up at him with squinted eyes but said nothing. Ben hid a smirk and clasped his hands behind his back as he walked.

Summer’s mind raced as she trudged through the snow, her boots slipping once on a patch of ice. She could have died tonight. She certainly would have if this boy hadn’t called out to her before she truly began climbing.

But if she had made it over the gate, she could have been free! Maybe the snow would have frozen her over before she reached home.

Maybe she would have starved in the icy wilderness. But she would have died a free woman, instead of living to see another day as a slave, a prisoner, in this palace of snow and death.  Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 67

Thicker Than Water Nicholas Dean Joplin Quill Staff Digital Art Dean enjoys contrasting dark colors with bright neon lines. Bizarre images and graffiti are themes that add a through line to most of his artwork and photography.

First, the lighting was set for the photos shoot. Then, a collage was made in Adobe Photoshop. Finally, the shapes were drawn over the faces and colored according to highlights and shadows. Adding neon to the image was the final touch.

Sugary Sweet Tiffany D. Blevins Anderson Community Honorable Mention 2D Art Blevins is a Crowder College Alumni and the current Crowder College Fine Arts Division Assistant.

One of my favorite inspirations in my art is my husband, Robert. I decided to create an abstraction of him as a sugar cube because he is so sweet. I take sugar in my tea.

68 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

Mercy *Lani Yang McDonald County High School Gold Digital Art *Scholarship recipient

I was inspired by my friend and the stories that she creates. I wanted to create an almost goddess-like character.

I used opalescent colors to try to give an ethereal feel. Although the character I’ve created has armor on, she does not wield any weapons. In a way I wanted this to symbolize her peace.

Yang is a senior who plans to pursue a career in art.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 69

Eric Shelton Neosho Crowder Silver Poetry

He lived a love in secret, he never let it show.

He locked it in an iron box so the world would never know.

He lived a love in secret, he kept it to himself.

He placed it in an attic room upon a cobwebbed shelf.

The words “He lived a love in secret” came to me one day out a blue clear sky and this image of a love locked in a box in an attic in an empty house all kind of fell together. I like it.

He lived a love in secret, it hurt him every day.

He left it in a dark house so the pain would go away.

He lived a love in secret, like a fool who was blind.

He couldn’t help believing that the darkness must be kind.

Shelton is currently attending Crowder to obtain an Associates Degree in History. In his spare time, he writes poetry and stories.

He lived a love in secret, he couldn’t let it go.

He was held with iron chains from the box where it was stowed.

He lived a love in secret, a war within himself.

He could neither win nor lose and the clock was striking twelve.

There was only one way out, he saw, at the end of time.

His soul may yet live truly when the world needs no more rhyme.

Nashia Macy Brookhouser Carl Junction High School Honorable Mention 3D Art 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.

Brookhouser’s biggest passions are theatre and art. Her main aspiration for the future is to find ways to always stay creative.

70 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

The Reader Ryn Hoke Carl Junction High School Honorable Mention 2D Art Hoke has taken art classes in and outside of school since elementary.

My inspiration for this piece was my close friend. I thought she looked so peaceful reading her book, so I took a picture.

Desert Morning Amber Davidson Joplin Community Bronze 2D Art Davidson has been teaching art for over 12 years and currently teaches at Carl Junction High School.

I often work from my own travel photography as references for my paintings. This painting originated from a photo I took through a window in New Mexico.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 71

ABOUT THE CONTEST Art and literary submissions are accepted at CrowderQuill.com from May 1 to Feb. 1 each year. All entries should be submitted online except by special permission; contact Quill@ Crowder.edu to make arrangements. The maximum number of entries per category per person is four. Only one award per category is allotted per person. Entries are judged by staff members. Divisions are high school, Crowder College students, and community members. All participants must live within 100 miles of a Crowder College campus.

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

Disclaimer: Some content may be inappropriate for younger audiences.

For more details about the contest guidelines and an entry form, go to www.

CrowderQuill.com.

COLOPHON This publication is designed annually by Crowder College students enrolled in DIGM 104 Applied Graphic Design and Digital Media Campaign. Text was set in Bell MT 10 point regular.

Story titles were set in Myriad Pro. Credit information was set in Arial fonts.

The Crowder Quill was produced using Adobe InDesign. The magazine was printed at Sun Graphics in Parson, Kansas. The cover stock is Sappi Flo Gloss Digital Cover 12 x 18 80 lb.

7TP coated, and inside pages are on 11x17 60 lb. white Husky Opaque Offset Domtar.

Funding of the publication comes from the college as a means to provide a cultural link with the community and for an outlet for creativity and expression.

For the 2023 contest, 957 entries were received, and 104 entries were chosen for publication. Award winners were published and received certificates to be recognized as part of the 2023 annual publication.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Special thanks to the following individuals and departments for making this publication and contest possible.

Cindy Brown, Public Information Office Jacklyn Kidd, Graphic Design Chase Burgett, Social Media Leandra Toomoth, Educational Technology Josh Novak and Josh Knott, Art Department

Kady Hoover, Communications Division Administrative Assistant Lily Powell, Communications Division Work Study Patti Richardson, Photography Instructor

Boats at Sea Joanne Russell Joplin Crowder Silver Color Photography Russell plans to be a dental hygienist, but also to continue writing and one day publish her work.

72 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

Wind is needed for sailing, but this day there was little, and the sea was calm.

So, I looked to see how well the other boats were fairing and thought the image looked like pure bliss, although I knew in reality they were rowing themselves into exhaustion. Nikon COOLPIX W300 on auto

CONTEST CATEGORIES The magazine is a compilation of winning entries in the following literary and art categories.

Various forms of each genre are welcome as publication submissions. The following are common terms and explanations within each category. For more detailed contest guidelines, see www.CrowderQuill.com.

Nonfiction

Essays, character sketches and other trueto-life writings should be limited to 1,800 words.

Fiction

B&W Photography

Black and white entries may be reproduced from film or digital files with only minor corrections and adjustments.

Color Photography

We seek film or digital files that emphasize vibrant color. Files should be uploaded online. All photography is judged on originality, contrast, composition, and artistic merit.

Clear plot development and well-defined characters are expected; also limit of 1,800 words.

Poetry

Whether free verse, blank verse, rhymed or metered verse, poetry should make a point, state emotion, or relate an experience.

2D Art

Original two-dimensional art may be black and white or color. Entries may be scanned and uploaded online, hand-delivered, or mailed. Art should be created based on real life (still life, landscape, or live model), memory, or imagination rather than copied from published materials. If a source is referenced, credit must be given. Model consent required. See entry form on pages 87-88 for more detailed information.

3D Art

Qualifying art must include a relief that protrudes at least 1/8 inch off the surface.

Photographs of the art (front and side view required) may be uploaded online instead of bringing the art for judging.

Digital Art

This graphic art category includes computergenerated art or extensively manipulated photographs in order to create special effects. Photography with only minor adjustments should be entered in one of the photography categories. Digital art, photography, and literature entries should be uploaded online. See www.CrowderQuill. com for more information.

Photo manipulations include using layers and filters for creative effects.

Time to Roll Lacey Nix | McDonald County | High School | Honorable Mention | 2D Art I was inspired by the idea of freedom skates convey, they make me want to go on an adventure.

Nix loves adventure, the outdoors and all things creative. After graduating, Nix hopes to travel and live a life of service and creativity.

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 73

INDEX OF PUBLISHED WORKS 9 “The Comfort of A Foggy Night”

by Jimmy D Walker 24 “A Love That Never Ceases”

by Breanna Walker 18 “Faith Is The Victory” by Ellen Arnce 14 “Generous Love” by Winnie Estime 34 “Inhuman” by Zander Reynolds 70 “Locked Away” by Eric Shelton 12 “Love in December” by Cheyenne Lasiter 55 “ With You” by Paul Wright 11 “My Prairie” by Alexis Barnett 32 “One Week” by Lacey Nix 13 “The Faerie Forest”

by Bethany Hilderbrand 6 “The Fight” by Elizabeth Shook 26 “The Stirling Dove” by Tyler Kelley 35 “Through The Hustle” by Cindy Marmon 43 “What Have I Done?” by Tabitha Tolson

60 “A Gift from Her Brokenness”

by Nancy Mahurin 56 “Edinburgh Manor” by Billie Holladay Skelley 22 “Goodbye Owen” by Atlas Imhof 48 “Hands Bound” by Ethan Hoover 16 “July 2nd” by Claudia Johnston 42 “Lost In The Voices” by Kaylee Banta 49 “Marius Redemption: A Les Miserables Story”

by Stephan Seim 64 “Pernicocia” by Emilee Kuschel 52 “The Flies of The Livingston Estate”

by Vanessa Maize 62 “The Midnight World” by Zander Reynolds

36 “A Never Leaving Mark” by Noah Freiburger 58 “Cheating The Grim Reaper” by Billie Holladay Skelley 41 “Fears and Fortunes” by Dalton Schlichting 30 “My Most Favorite Aunt” by Carl Cobb 7 “Playing Wonder Woman” by Kayla Bransetter 45 “Rewriting Adoption- Lost to Found: Unashamed” by Brecklyn Matthews 15 “Something Smells Fishy” by Nancy Mahurin 54 “Superhero Characteristics” by Jazmin Carroll 44 “The Thing About Stage Fright” by Alonha Frisby

Chaos of Laughter *Payton Nalley | McDonald County High School | Gold | 2D Art | Graphite This is based on a story line in Batman comics. It is a story of the dark multiverse variations of Batman. I tried to show the horror and fear of these dark creatures of the night with only using graphite and making this black and white.

Nalley has been a artist for as long as he can remember.

With new talents, like acting and playing the drum set, he has found much success in life already. From 1st place in the Big 8 art show, playing the drum set for his church, and even going to audition at Juilliard in New York. Nalley strives to improve in all that he does, and he is determined to try many different things. * Scholarship recipient 74 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

22 “A Year of Travels” by Abigail Harrold 41 “Beauty Through the Eyes of Nature” by Belen Mejia 74 “Chaos of Laughter” by Payton Nalley 57 “Cyber Skulls” by Lani Yang 71 “Desert Morning” by Amber Davidson 35 “Driving Home” by Morgan Hughes 1 “Hay Bales” by Maggie Beachner 30 “Juxtaposition” by Alyx Goebel 67 “Mythical Strength” by Suzanne Hoke 11 “Smile” by Khali Johnson 68 “Sugary Sweet” by Tiffany Blevins 48 “Terra Ante Meridiem” by Alyssa Graves 39 “The Lookout” by Paige Mosley 71 “The Reader” by Suzanne Ratcliff 73 “Time to Roll” by Lacey Nix 45 “Unexpected Beauty” by Maelyn Wooten 17 “Unwound” by Aubree Chisam 31 “Vivid Styles” by Adrienne Quiros

66 “Candy Dish” by Shalynn Owen 63 “Canyon Lands” by Jessica Sellers 35 “Flow of Life” by Alexia Killy 65 “Mountain Blossom” by Lani Yang 34 “Nashia” by Macy Brookhouser 53 “Nature’s Tea” by Whitney Yelverton 26 “Seeing Into The Stars” by Kaia Tennis 16 “Sun Rising on The Alabama Hills” by Michael Kiele 47 “The Unknown Path” by Kelly Graham 3 “Volcom Stone” by Nicholas Dean

Memento Mori Atley Wright Carl Junction High School Honorable Mention B&W Photography For my advanced photography class, I had a prompt to take photographs based on an adjective of choice: dark. Canon EOS Rebel T7 1/200 sec., f1.8, ISO 125

46 “Aura” by Kat Abelein 43 “Beautiful and Alone” by Taylor Moller Gray 28 “Blurry Memories” by Alyson Massardo 20 “Desert Storm” by David Zacharias 42 “I’m Not You” by Lee M. Summers 46 “Listen” by Bowen Hurley 69 “Mercy” by Lani Yang 13 “Rhythmic Sunset” by Sally Hart 68 “Thicker Than Water” by Nicholas Dean

10 “A Little Fawn” by Kayla Branstetter 21 “Antelope Canyon” by David Zacharias 5 “Beautiful Day” by Amy Sampson 12 “Big Piney” by Harrison Talbott 72 “Boats at Sea” by Joanne Russel 23 “Ciao” by Amber Davidson 14 “Colorado Serenity” by Latonia Bailey 6 “In Between the Lines” by Samuel Morales 27 “Jellies” by Kayden Sees 27 “Mr. Jelly” by Trinity Webb 28 “Night Lights” by Ashlyn Snyder 24 “Peaceful Pier” by Donya Pendergraft 58 “Red Illumination” by Edgar E. Gomez 29 “The Glass Bottle” Alexandra West

32 “A Mother Chef ’s Lesson” by Kaylnn Phillips 19 “Abandoned” by Latonia Bailey 40 “Chillin” by Nicholas Dean 51 “Chris’ Portrait” by David Zacharias 19 “Continental Divide” by Kaleb Fobair 9 “Face’n The Storm” by Sally Hart 33 “Glass Half Full” by Alyssa Tosh 25 “Glassy Waters” by Alexandra Carson 37 “Heartbreak” by Samuel Morales 6 “Hometown” by Gisela Salas 59 “Lightbulb” by Sierra Wilson 40 “Little Chief ” by Cindy Marmon 75 “Momento Mori” by Atley Wright 33 “Music in Quarantine” by Patti Steel 25 “Port Whole” by Joanne Russel 10 “True Happiness” by Zachary Merwin

Spring 2023 | The Crowder Quill 75

2023 CROWDER QUILL CONTRIBUTORS

CROWDER STUDENTS & COMMUNITY MEMBERS Anderson Carl Junction Carthage Cassville Crane Diamond El Dorado Springs Fayetteville, Ark. Golden Granby Gravette, Ark. Jenkins Joplin Loma Linda Lamar Miller Monett Neosho Noel Ozark Pittsburg Purdy Seneca Verona

he magazine is a compilation of winning entries in fiction, nonfiction, poetry, photography, and art from aspiring authors, artists, and photographers. Entrants generally reside in the communities within a 100-mile radius of the ten Crowder College campuses in southwest Missouri, including Cassville, Neosho, Nevada, McDonald County, and Webb City. They may be high school students, Crowder College students, or community members. The employees of Crowder College are classified as “community” in order to avoid competition with Crowder students.

Each entry includes an artist/author statement, which is a short reflection from contributors about their goals or reasons for writing a particular piece as well as insight into the creative process, inspiration, or subject matter of their entries, as well as a biographical statement.

For graphic entries, the technical process is included, if provided. There were 86 individuals published, including staff entries.

The following high schools participated with winning entrants: Aurora High School Carl Junction High School East Newton High School Homeschool (Benton, Ark.) Joplin High School Life Way Christian School Lockwood High School McDonald County High School Riverton High School Verona High School

2023 TRAVELING AWARD

This special award is presented to the mostwinning high school for its entries in this issue.

The award is calculated on points: gold winners count as four points, silver as three, bronze as two, and honorable mention as one.

1st Place McDonald County High School 2nd Place Carl Junction High School 3rd Place Joplin High School

76 The Crowder Quill | Spring 2023

SCHOLARSHIP RECIPIENTS Zach Merwin, B&W Photography “True Happiness” Carl Junction High School Kayden Sees, Color Photography “Jellies” Carl Junction High School Zander Reynolds, Poetry “Inhuman” Lockwood High School Payton Nalley, 2D Art “Chaos of Laughter” McDonald County High School Ava Coffel, Nonfiction “The Time I Almost Went to Nationals...”

McDonald County High School Lani Yang, 3D Art “Mountain Blossom” McDonald County High School Lani Yang, Digital Art “Mercy” McDonald County High School Atlas Imhof, Fiction “Goodbye Owen” Riverton High School Gold high school entrants in each category win a $500 scholarship eligible upon enrollment in a course corresponding to the winning category.

See more information on www.CrowderQuill.com.

W

e recognize and honor J.P. Dickey upon the announcement of his retirement from Crowder College. Dickey has been employed at Crowder since 2000, first as instructor and director of the theatre, later in administrative roles, and finally as Director of Admissions. As a student, however, Dickey was on the original Quill staff in 1980, serving as fiction co-editor and codesigner of the cover, which was solely graced by the Quill logo the first and many years to come.

“When I came back to Crowder to teach, I was quite surprised to see the Quill was still being published! We did it as a class project, probably something our teacher, Mr. Richards, assigned to keep us busy in that hot spring of 1980. It was a joy to see it embraced as part of Crowder. I am extremely James Paul (J.P.) Dickey grateful to be a small part of its inception,” said Dickey about his historical role with the Quill. He noted they published every entry in the first edition on a mimeograph machine.

Parting advice from Dickey: “Never assume what you do now doesn’t matter; a class project can be a lasting tradition. A class period that strays from the lesson into a heartfelt discussion of life can have a lasting impact on students and teachers.

Play productions that fail to live up to expectations still contain gems of creativity and joy. Follow your heart; how much money you make in a job never equals the love and passion you have for it. Finally, never make the same mistake twice.”

Past Recipients 2014 - The first Quill dedication was for James B. Tatum, who helped found the college in 1963 and served on the Board of Trustees for more than 50 years, distinguishing himself as the longest-serving board president of a community college anywhere.

2015 - As Print Shop supervisor, Jon Finley printed more than 50 editions of the publication from the time he was hired in fall 1987 until 2015.

Jon Finley

James B. Tatum

2016 - Dr. Kent Farnsworth, former president of Crowder College, was a great support to the Quill. Now a successful published author, Farnsworth serves as a model for aspiring authors, artists and photographers.

2017 - Dan Richard founded the Quill in 1980 to create an outlet for aspiring authors and artists and continued to advise the publication until 1988 when he retired. His legacy lives on.

Kent Farnsworth

2018 - Dennis and Charlene Bergen, retired art instructors from McDonald County High School, have been strong supporters of The Crowder Quill, helping many students through the years to enter the contests. They both were published in the Quill many times, demonstrating an example to their students.

Dan Richard

2019 - All area high school and homeschool instructors who encourage their students to Dennis & Charlene Bergen enter the contest were recognized. They inspire and influence their students in many positive, remarkable ways and foster an environment in which students gain confidence to pursue publication and awards with their creative works.

Terry R. Clarkson

2020 - Produced during the beginning of a global pandemic, this edition was dedicated to all those effected by Covid-19, including Terry Ray Clarkson, beloved employee and supporter of the magazine, who passed away April 16, 2020. All campus activities were suspended during the last half of the spring 2020 semester, including hosting the Quill ceremony, which would have commemorated the 40th anniversary of the publication.

2021 - Nina Beaver, retiring chair of the Communications Division, has been a great support to the magazine and contest. Employed at Crowder since 1992 first as instructor of English and literature, Beaver encouraged many students to enter the contest.

Nina Beaver