Seaswells 2010

Seaswells 2010

• Lacy Bell • Matthew Borders • Jennifer Borland Amanda Breland • Renée Bragg • Mills Briggs • Stephen Brooks • Devon Buck • Corey Burnett • Marissa Byrd • Kim Cagle • Melissa Cagle • Mattie Carpenter • Angelique Cole • Kaci Coleman • Paula Collado • Lonie Donovan • Melodie Floyd • Garrett Frye • Mairely Garcia • Hector Garcia, Jr. • Brandon Garrett • Justin Gines • Kimberly Glisson • Onvia Grimsley • Salina Guzman • Krista Hale • Rebecca Harris • Craig Hendrix • Mary Hornaday • Michelle Harrington • Anne Hudlow • Carol Hudson • Joanna Hunter • Dayton Ireland • Bridgette Johnson • Monica Kratz • Suzy Krone • Alisa Lane • Stacy Lynch • Tyler Manning • Alex Mathis • Michael Martin II • Rhonda Mayville • Chelsea McBride • Tommy McMillan • Chelsea Merceri • Joshua Meunier • Haley Moody • Chrystal Moss • Jennifer Page • Rosco Peters • Carlton Patrick • Megan Phillips • Shawn Phillmon • Charles Poston • Amber Quinn • Priscilla Claire Ream • Enelda Remy • Melissa Rodgers • Ryan Rodriguez • Carmen Ryals • Danielle Siekkinen • Cass Silva • Donna Smith • Connie Spencer • Nicholas Sudden • Brian Tankersley • Mary Tankersley • Ashlee Thornton • Bonnie M. Tobias • Cassandra Turner • Virginia Walker • Jennifer Walker • Caitlyn Walsh • Jessica Weston • Ayla Wilson • Kristen Zepplin Seaswells 2010

Seaswells 2010 Volume 44 Most Outstanding College/Community College Literary/Art Magazine — 1994, 1995, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2005, 2006 First Place with Special Merit — 2001, 2004, 2008, 2009 American Scholastic Press Association Third Place — 2004, 2007 Best Small College Magazine — 2006 Second Place — 2009 Community College Humanities Association, Southern Division Literary Magazine Competition

Jennifer Walker Editor-in-Chief 2009-’10

College of Coastal Georgia A Unit of the University System of Georgia Brunswick & Kingsland, Georgia

STAFF Jennifer Walker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Editor-in-Chief Megan Guy, Monica Kratz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Assistants to the Editor Lonie Donovan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Contest Coordinator Rosco Peters, Dimelina Mora . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Design/Layout Coordinators Ashley Montrond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .First Copy Program Coordinator Chelsea Holcomb, Ciara Hall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Publicity Coordinators Sharon L. Bartkovich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Faculty Adviser

EDITOR’S NOTES This year was a wonderful year for me as the editor-inchief of the 2010 literary/art magazine of College of Coastal Georgia. The Seaswells staff have been exceptional. Their hard work has exceeded my expectations all year; what a fine group of people they are. I could not have hand-picked a better crew for the job. Since 1966, Seaswells has been published annually by students of the College. The magazine’s mission is to exhibit the College’s creativity in all graphically reproducible art forms. Each year, staff members solicit contributions of poetry, prose, photography, and art from present and former students, faculty, staff, and administrators of the College. Some of the selections are created by students in art and humanities classes. The staff also conducts four contests for current students only for which cash prizes totaling over $1000 are awarded: the Barr Poetry Contest, the Seaswells Art Contest, the Seaswells Photography Contest, and the Austin/Garner Prose Contest. Entries are judged

BARR POETRY CONTEST JUDGES

ABOUT THE COVER ARTIST

Melissa Canady Niki Schmauch Dorothy Edwards Rebecca Sharpe Ellen Flournoy Patrizia Stahle Michael Hannaford Bonnie Tobias Sheila Ledford Andrea Wallace Leo Mundy Ricky Weaver Tom Wenzka

Our cover photograph, “Haitian Fishing Village,” was taken in September 2009 by Camden Center student Melissa Helen

Seaswells PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST JUDGES Carla Bluhm Isaac “Junior” Davis Calvin DeWeese Mary Fowler

Dave Leenhouts Jennifer Page Heather Poindexter Sara Tresler

AUSTIN/GARNER PROSE CONTEST JUDGES Santoria Axson Jean Choate Monique Green

Barbara Howard Ntungwa Maasha David Nentwick Tony Wege

Seaswells ART CONTEST JUDGES Diane Denton Anna Dewart Karen Hambright

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anonymously, and this year’s judges are named below. While laying out the pages for the magazine, this year’s staff tried to include the work of as many different individuals as possible. Of course, we also tried to select from the materials submitted those of the highest quality and best taste, but quality and taste are subjective. And while absolute perfection is impossible to define and thus to achieve, Seaswells 2010 may be the closest we’ve ever come. Working on Seaswells has been an absolute joy; I’ve learned so much each semester. I would never have thought I’d get to be editor-in-chief of such a prestigious magazine for a second year. I look forward to turning over the editor’s reins to someone new for next year but know I will have fun as part of the staff! For now, I am extremely honored to present this 44th volume of Seaswells, continuing a tradition of excellence that spans over four decades. ~Jennifer Walker

Seaswells 2010

Lynda Kennedy Pam Mathis Patricia Rugaber

Rodgers. Melissa, her husband, her mother-in-law, and several other people spent a week in the Leogane Plain, just a few miles from the epicenter of the recent quake. They stayed in a compound a few hundred yards from the beach. The compound was run by an American family that help to provide food and clinical care to villagers and to provide materials to build schools. Melissa describes the fishing village as the most beautiful place she has ever been. Though the Haitian people lacked basics like clean water, access to education, and consistent employment, their landscapes offered immeasurable wealth to the mind and soul. Melissa’s adventure challenged her ideas about security and poverty. News of the earthquake only six months after her visit broke her heart. Melissa is a Georgia native, born in Valdosta; English is her program of study. She became interested in photography as a means of recording the world as it is at any given moment. She loves how photographs can inspire different thoughts and emotions in different people. “I’ve always loved to take pictures,” Melissa explains, “and to record not just the people I love but those places and moments that have inspired my heart and mind.” Though she had been attending the College of Coastal Georgia off and on for several years, Melissa had never submitted anything to Seaswells prior to this past fall. Now, this incredibly talented individual is published—and not just the cover photo but a poem and a prose piece also in this year's magazine. Thank you, Melissa, for sharing.

Table of Contents Poetry Barr Poetry Contest 16 19 8 7 7 9 11 11 17 18 18 21 22 22 22 23 24 24 28 30 31 31 32 33 33 33 34 34 36 40 42 43 43 43 43 43 44 49 50 50 51 52 53 56

First Place Second Place Third Place

The Spirited Forest Design Thursday, 40% Chance Rain

Danielle Siekkinen Carmen Ryals Salina Guzman

SEASWELLS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Phyllis Barr The Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Matthew Borders Measures of Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Borland American Way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Devon Buck This Is Not My Homeland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kim Cagle Feed the Beast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Borland A trip home: A poem for my Mom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Bonnie M. Tobias Tristan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Charles Poston My Heart Is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Nicholas Sudden Bare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Charles Poston Mirror . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kimberly Glisson Shades . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Bonnie M. Tobias Refuge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Enelda Remy Flow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Melissa Rodgers Comfort Zone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Priscilla Claire Ream Unrelenting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Caitlyn Walsh Heirloom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Joanna Hunter Can you turn Love off? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Nicholas Sudden Summertime . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Caitlyn Walsh Diversity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Amber Quinn I Am . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Haley Moody Beautiful . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Monica Kratz Confident Woman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Onvia Grimsley Easier to Break II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lacy Bell Mi Hombre de Fuego . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Rebecca Harris Love is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Danielle Siekkinen The Silent Escape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Bridgette Johnson Diversity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jessica Weston Judge Not . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Stacy Lynch DIVERSITY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Craig Hendrix Words and Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Garrett Frye A Rhyme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Tyler Manning UNIVERSAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Cass Silva Intense Realization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kim Cagle An Ode . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Stephen Brooks Doll . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kimberly Glisson The Wife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Paula Collado Needless . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Melissa Rodgers Stubborn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Melissa Cagle Inside the Zoo’s Walls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Mary Tankersley When the Wind Is Right . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Salina Guzman

Seaswells 2010

3

57 58 58 59 59 61 65 65 66 67 69 70 72

A Beautiful Mystery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Mattie Carpenter The Drunkard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Paula Collado Monster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kimberly Glisson Each Time That You Look at Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Melodie Floyd Meum Flagitium (My Disgrace) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lacy Bell Early Bird . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Matthew Borders The Adventure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Amanda Breland Diversity in Nature’s Beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mary Hornaday Emptiness Becomes Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Marissa Byrd Unheard, Unnoticed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Walker Eternally Missed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Angelique Cole The Trunk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Rhonda A. Mayville Lullabies and Sweet Dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Walker

Photography Cover

Haitian Fishing Village

Melissa Rodgers

Seaswells Photography Contest 9 13 21 44 7 8 11 12 13 16 18 19 22 24 25 25 30 31 34 36 36 39 40 41 41

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Best Overall Best Color Best Black and White Best Computerenhanced

Spirals Bless the Berries Knotted Nets

Dayton Ireland Brian Tankersley Lonie Donovan

Twilight Zone

Mairely Garcia

The Perfect Escape: A Work in Progress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Mills Briggs Living Waters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Donna Smith I’m with You . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Cassandra Turner Shadow of My Former Self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lonie Donovan Anatomy of a Live Oak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Page Weep No More . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kristen Zepplin Cabin Fever . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Donna Smith “I Just Saved 15% . . .” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Chrystal Moss Sing a Song of Sixpence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Mairely Garcia Waiting for a Retread . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Anne Hudlow Nightlife (computer-enhanced) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Virginia Walker Step by Step (computer-enhanced) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Caitlyn Walsh How Long, O Lord? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Alisa Lane Puppy Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Bridgette Johnson The Strong, Silent Type . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kristen Zepplin Paternal Bliss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Suzy Krone Saved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Alisa Lane Gone, Not Forgotten . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Bridgette Johnson Serenity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Cassandra Turner Receding Shoreline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Alex Mathis The Grass Is Always Greener . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Donna Smith

Seaswells 2010

44 45 45 47 48 48 49 52 52 53 56 57 57 61 63 64 64 65 66 66 68 70 70 72

There Goes the Sun (computer-enhanced) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Justin Gines Ancient Voyager . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Borland Step ‘n’ Stones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Clayton Patrick Aladdin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Ayla Wilson In the Good Ole Summertime . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Krista Hale Goldilocks (computer-enhanced) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Caitlyn Walsh The Long Wait for a Princess . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Page Almost a Full House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lonie Donovan Life in a Cage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Dayton Ireland Bet you can’t do this with your tongue! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kristen Zepplin Higher, Higher! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Caitlyn Walsh Maybe Next Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Page Unearthly Sun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Hector Garcia, Jr. Feathered Friend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lonie Donovan Never Too Young To Learn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Anne Hudlow Give God a Paintbrush . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Joshua Meunier Waitin’ in the Water . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kristen Zepplin We’ll Have Fun, Fun, Fun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Cassandra Turner Tomorrow, Tomorrow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Anne Hudlow Watery Reflections . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Dayton Ireland End of an Era . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Alisa Lane Retired . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Chrystal Moss Gypsy Wagon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Clayton Patrick One Last Goodbye . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lonie Donovan

Prose Austin/Garner Prose Contest 20 14 38 26 29 40 46 47 54 62 68 71

First Place Second Place Third Place

I’m Looking for My Shower Curtain Kim Cagle Non Sum Amens Lacy Bell What Happened? Chelsea Merceri

500 Light Years At All Times, Calliope Version . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Shawn Phillmon Absolution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Angelique Cole Drive . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Melissa Rodgers Love Lives On . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Walker God’s Painting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Ashlee Thornton Where You Least Expect . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Michael Martin II Sitting on Wisdom’s Sofa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Connie Spencer A Memoir of Loss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Chelsea McBride Behind the Glass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Angelique Cole

Seaswells 2010

5

Art Seaswells Art Contest

12 17 23 23 28 35 37 43 50 51 58 59 60 60 61 67 71

6

10

First Place

29

Second Place

32

Third Place (tie)

42

Third Place (tie)

Urban Warrior Graphite When the Sun Goes Down Oil on panel Lethargy Acrylics and graphite Wall-E Graphite

Brandon Garrett Rosco Peters Virginia Walker Tommy McMillan

Still Light, Watercolor on paperboard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Paula Collado Half Insane, Graphite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Megan Phillips Rebel Without a Cause, Ink . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Ryan Rodriguez Movin’ On, Graphite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Megan Phillips Deep in Thought, Acrylics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Carol Hudson Caught in the Crosshairs, Graphite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Megan Phillips Love, Peace, Graphite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Corey Burnett Philosopher, Graphite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Michelle Harrington Free Range Pork Is Cheap, Ink and Prismacolor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kaci Coleman Lurking in the Shadows, Chalk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Justin Gines “Oh, Edward!” Ink . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Ryan Rodriguez The Look, Graphite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Megan Phillips Artist’s Palette, Acrylic with modeling paste build-up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Melodie Floyd Dance of the Tulips, Mixed media . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Renée Bragg What a Whirl, Acrylics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Jennifer Walker Collecting My Thoughts, Acrylics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Virginia Walker Time Is Running Out, Ink, Prismacolor, and watercolor marker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kaci Coleman

Seaswells 2010

The Perfect Escape: A Work in Progress

The Sea

by Mills Briggs

SEASWELLS Sea sounds — surf — gull cries and sandpipers Ever near us here — if we but seek And let the sound and sight inspire. Sun and shadow, song and sorrow Wander in the heart — awaiting utterance. Eagerly the wind supplies the melody Lest the song be lost, — and we, Longing for a fragment of the universe, Sing, — before our voice is swallowed by the wind. Phyllis Barr

Let it all cease; let it all collide My soul is a hurricane that is turning inside Throwing my mind into the abyss I can’t take anymore, take me away from this Starving children rot alone while hypocrites sit on their thrones People give their hearts away, once golden souls now turn to stone It seems that love is not for free The earth has ceased to sing to me The sun is fading, the moon is waning I count the stars; there are none remaining Omnipotent God, Creator of this place What has become of the human race? Chaos, madness and hate is all I see With no hope of reprieve So take my soul down to the shore To let my thoughts drift evermore My youth is gone; experience has made me a fool But as I sit here alone, at least the sea is still beautiful Matthew Borders

Seaswells 2010

7

Thursday, 40% Chance Rain by Salina Guzman I can feel you coming. The hairs on the back of my neck Are reaching for you. The winds are shifting. And the sky is beginning to look like Crushed velvet. Your scent is like a cologne That leaves me dizzy and wanting more. My ready heart is gasping In rhythm to the soft rumble of your breath.

Living Waters by Donna Smith

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Seaswells 2010

3

Third Place Barr Poetry Contest

You are standing over me now. I know without looking up. You tousle my hair and tug at my dress. You are as impatient as me. You can no longer be contained. Coolness, running down My shoulder, my neck, the corner of my mouth. You taste like sweet wine. I know it won’t last, But let me have it now. Come down, come down, If only for the moment, Flood my mind with only you. Give me my summer romance.

Spirals

Best Overall Photo Seaswells Photography Contest

Computer-enhanced photo by Dayton Ireland

Measures of Time The breeze carries a secret, As cunning as a fox. Lying low . . . Lying quiet . . . Waiting to pounce. The days roll into one, And months become years, Creeping along the hands, The steady tick of a clock.

A finger reaches out, Holding the hands in place, Like a child awaiting bedtime, Thinking she will deceive. But, of course, time keeps flying, Circling steadily into itself, Unaware or unconcerned about my plight, Hindsight is 50/50 but it will have to catch me first. I am falling further behind, But time is circling back. Jennifer Borland

Seaswells 2010

9

Urban Warrior Graphite by Brandon Garrett

10

Seaswells 2010

1

First Place Seaswells Art Contest

This Is Not My Homeland

American Way Diversity is good for all. United we stand and divided we fall. Stick together and we can stand strong. Forget the differences and we can be one. Everyone bleeds red Don’t hate Love instead, God sees no differences between you and me, So why should we. Devon Buck

I’m with You

This is not my homeland. Reasons beyond my control have brought me here. I come here to do good. I come here with good intentions. To provide the necessities of life for my people, Nourishment, Peace, and Hope. My presence here is sometimes misunderstood, Which can bring fear to those around me. I do have followers with their footsteps in mine. Travelling through this distant land, I am thirsty, But I must prevail. Lives depend on my success. Lives depend on me. Most people that see me don’t know my name, Just by what I am. Perhaps, I am the deployed soldier across the seas, Or, I am the undocumented worker being deported. But then again, I may be . . . the Savior . . . that came to save the world. Kim Cagle

by Cassandra Turner

Seaswells 2010

11

Still Light Watercolor on paperboard by Paula Collado

Shadow of My Former Self by Lonie Donovan

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Seaswells 2010

Bless the Berries by Brian Tankersley

Best Color Photo Seaswells Photography Contest

Anatomy of a Live Oak by Jennifer Page

Seaswells 2010

13

2

Second Place Austin/Garner Prose Contest Non Sum Amens by Lacy Bell Non sum amens, video ignum. Me incendit et doluit. Scio, scio . . . . The lights fall and I grasp at the blankets, clutching and staring at the dim room. I scramble into the bed, stiff with no use; pillows, propped high, for display. The candle flickers in the window of this room that is not mine but the room that I must sit in, must lie in, to curl sleeplessly amongst stale sheets. I press them to watering eyes and hold my breath to listen, listen for a sound in the hall and stare through blurred eyes, at the empty, floral room. Walls of pink and white and flowers, the flowers are everywhere and they bother me, why replicate in stiff scentless paper the beauty of the flora? It seems senseless, and forced and unfitting to the memories of this place. Oh, the memories! Snatched and few, as their nature would dictate. Full of secrets or storming anger, whichever was preferred or deemed necessary at the time. This place was not mine, but I knew it—this room was of no one and least of all me. I watched the candle in the window; the dim light hurt my eyes, and I stepped timidly down from the high mattress. My bare feet hit the floor and in an instant of vagueness I could not recall whether the stuff which lay beneath my feet was carpet or wood paneling. My mind lost the inquiry and tossed it behind the swell of cresting sadness. A few steps and I was into the hall. I shut the door behind me, quietly, and inched slowly on the cold ground to the banister nearby. I grasped the supports, and lowered myself to the ground, gazing idly at the bottom floor, which was a good fifteen feet or so below me; I can’t really be sure, it was the bottom floor, and I sat on the open top floor and stared down, who cares about feet, really, except the ones with which we walk? It was sad that this would soon all be gone. I could smell a hint of strong cleaner. Had the maid been here earlier? Wait . . . we had no maid . . . I must’ve spilt something again. My thoughts jumbled back together.

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Seaswells 2010

I’d maybe still be right here, but not in this house. Perhaps I wouldn’t be sad. For trapped I was, trapped surely in this place where they kept me, pretending that all was okay and that the nights followed the days and spring followed the winter. But it didn’t. At least not for me. For nothing was quite right . . . the world seemed slipping out from under me now, and suddenly the walls around me flashed a sterile white, and I heard soft pulsing tones from a nearby room. I shook my head. That’s not right, I pleaded to the only one listening—my own brain, my straight-jacketed psyche, my mind held hostage yet wandering freely, somehow. I’m sorry, I cried out silently. I don’t want to fight you anymore. Can’t you take me in your arms and we can be like it was when we first wed, the first few months of joy? But such bliss was not common, and I cursed myself for hiding in that suffocating room. My grip on the banister wavered and my cheeks moistened with angry tears. The world swirled about me. I heard the baby crying in the next room. Can’t you shut up the god-darned baby? You cry. I want some peace and quiet! You can’t even take care of your own child. I remembered why I’d stolen away into the refuge of the guest bedroom. I stumbled sideways, standing up, moving towards the baby’s room. I tripped over the ginger-furred cat, a feline all a-growl in fuming hatred. I had made the mistake of stepping upon his tail. With a hiss he leapt to my middle. For God’s sakes, leave the damned cat alone. The room swirled again, billowing in soft gray smoke. You left it on again! You left the dinner on the stove and look, it’s burning, I came home and all I wanted was to eat a good dinner for once, but it’s not like you can do anything productive anymore, can you? Stop moping about, get downstairs!

Your voice, it stung. I heard you scolding me like a father and I could not stand it. My worries sunk me in; I could not bear it. I placed my hands over my ears and shrieked, I only wanted your care, not to be your servant, not to break my back for you, but I love you still, and I know you love me, we are overworked and tired and this is not the place or time for me to point that out, because you want to rage bitter and angry, rage storming and mad so maybe you will feel better, like the burden on your chest you call an occupation will lighten, or at least feel worthy of being carried so. I sighed softly, softly but then the hissing smoke billowed up from the downstairs and suddenly I realized your voice was not quite right, it seemed twisted and muted by the smoke and I stumbled towards the bottom floor, remembering I must turn off the stove, I must turn it off for him or else it will happen— I tripped down the stairs, and let the tears wet my lids. Behind them, fires burned at angry injustice I screamed, because the fire was spreading. I clawed at my hair. Where was the fire? Where? It flamed surely and I knew I would hear the baby crying in the other room and the cat scrambling about . . . wait; that had already happened. That was before, it messed up . . . wait, now I knew . . . now the fire engines would come . . . I could already hear the cries, the cries of people I didn’t know, and an abnormal noise, was that ripped from my own throat? And now strange machines, was that a fire engine or something else entirely . . . ? * * * “She’s collapsed, look at her.” A man had stridden quickly into the hall, looking irritated. “Who keeps leaving her door unlocked?” He shook his head and faced a man who had already been standing at the girl’s side. “I’m not sure, sir, she snuck out, I suppose, she couldn’t have been out too long, I walked by here earlier,” the other replied in a rather hurried voice. “I heard a scream and came out.” The man who had come into the hall sighed loudly. “What was it this time? Crying child? Cat attacking?” The man at the girl’s side dropped to the ground and sought her pulse. He eyed the spotless white walls on all sides of them. A faint smell of cleaner seeped into the hall. “A cat, in here, sir?”

The man standing raised an eyebrow. “Do you know where you’re working, man?” The one on the ground eagerly nodded. “Yes, sir, I know. I was merely making sure—that no one, of course, would bring a cat in here.” The standing man turned on his heel. “Get her back in her room. Check her signs again, call a nurse.” He walked off. The man left picked the small, malnourished woman up. Her flaming red hair was tangled and knotted, and there were bleeding scratches near her torso and arms. Blood dripped from her own stubby, brittle nails. He pushed her door open and laid her on the bed, its white, hospital appearance suggesting a calm he wished this woman possessed. He sighed and then, with an air of routine, rechecked her pulse. He found nothing, and quickly ran from the room, shouting names. * * * Why did it burn me so? The fire clawed at me, and I beat it off, until the smoke covered the world and tightened about my neck. I called for them, the house was afire, call the fire department! But the engines had come already, come and gone a long time ago, so why did it still burn? All was black, and all too familiar . . . and I was sorry, I should have known, I wanted to make you smile at me for once . . . . I wanted to make you dinner . . . . * * * “So that girl died? That’s so sad. Such a pretty little thing. Never knew her problem, though.” The words were spoken with a hint of prodding curiosity. The reply came, brushing off the nosy intentions of the inquirer. “Yes, indeed. But she was a high-security case. It frees us up an awful lot . . . as bad as that sounds. It’s always sad to see one go . . . but there was little left for us to do, short of sedation . . . plus, there are always tons of people waiting to get in here, you know? She will be rejoined with her husband, God willing.” “Her husband? She was married?” “Yes . . . he died . . . in a fire, ten years ago. We have reason to think perhaps she’d been slightly unstable before the accident . . . but afterwards, she’d been here, in this asylum, ever since . . . .” I’m not crazy, I see fire. It burns me and it hurts me. I know, I know . . . .

Seaswells 2010

15

Weep No More by Kristen Zepplin

1

First Place Barr Poetry Contest The Spirited Forest by Danielle Siekkinen

The dew sparkles on the bright green trees, As the eagle soars on the breeze. The flowers open toward the skies, They show the forest their surprise. The rabbit hops out of its darkened hollow, As a lonesome butterfly tries to follow. Noon is here and the sun shines clear, By the lake near the sleeping deer. The sparrow sings throughout the day, And the young bear cubs come out to play. Salmon swim beneath the lakes, Then one jumps and the stillness breaks.

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Seaswells 2010

The sun begins to close its weary eyes, And tries to hide behind the cloudy skies. Deer awaken and jump away, The time has gone, there is no play. The rabbit hops back to its sleepy hollow, As the flowers rest their petals until tomorrow. The sun sets in the west, As the sparrow sits back on its nest. The day is done at last, The sun has no more rays to cast. As the eagle soars back over the trees, The owl’s voice carries again on the breeze.

Feed the Beast Feed the beast As he rattles his cage, Smothering growls, Hiding his rage. Slip a sliver of tainted meat, Consumed too fast to smell deceit. The beast lays down a heavy head, Blow him a kiss and leave, Knowing you’ll pay for the moment you play, No shooting star in which to believe. Stop. Listen carefully . . . . Hear his snore, Between each sip you take, Ever ready to dash for the door, If suddenly he’s awake. A warning growl when you return, Narrowed eyes blinded by bars, Feel the bite, though he never moves, Another to add to the scars. Feed the beast, For his appetite is fierce, One means to every end, Then circle back, to the wake of the day It all begins again. Jennifer Borland

Half Insane Graphite by Megan Phillips

Seaswells 2010

17

Cabin Fever

Tristan

by Donna Smith

A trip home: A poem for my Mom I have nothing to leave behind no trinket no treat just a memory a touch Just the small parts of me that long to cling to your hands smell your skin look into your eyes I want to be wrapped and held in one single thread of you endless timeless always known Bonnie M. Tobias

Tinkling light laughter, Softer than a spring zephyr. Eyes shone soft with light. Fixer of that which was broke, Hearts and heads, feelings and friends. “I feel you better,” He would always say to us And somehow we did. Flyer in youth’s dreams With Pan, and Pooh, and the Gump Mowgli, Capt’n Hook. Rub the bed knobs, child, away We go. Come and dream with me. Holiday candy, Last forgotten drop of joy, Tastes better when shared. He showed us great things. Renewed our belief and faith. We saved ourselves there In our love and his bright light. Bringer of hope, life and joy. Charles Poston

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Seaswells 2010

2

Second Place Barr Poetry Contest Design by Carmen Ryals A mosaic design on an unlikely canvas A masterpiece created by God On a lifeline of bark Nurtured by magnolia blood Until its rebirth Into death on the hard dry earth Where I found the leaf.

“I Just Saved 15% . . .� by Chrystal Moss

Seaswells 2010

19

1

First Place Austin/Garner Prose Contest I’m Looking for My Shower Curtain by Kim Cagle I am a decade away from being at middleage, which in my mind is 50, and I am still looking for my shower curtain. When I was in the third grade, I wanted to participate in a costume contest at my school. I really enjoyed childhood events, especially Halloween, because I could be a powerful super hero such as Wonder Woman or Jamie Somers—The Bionic Woman. My family of eight (Mom, Dad, 4 siblings, and Mee-Maw) was somewhat on the poor side. There was always plenty of food, but no extra money for material things such as new cars, new jeans, or costumes for Halloween. So, with the lack of funds, I had to learn how to improvise by being creative with what I did have. I had hoped that my parents could have come-up with some extra money so I could get a real costume from K-Mart, but it didn’t happen. The night before the contest, I searched all the closets throughout the house hoping to strike gold. I came close to being Wonder Woman with my one-piece swimsuit and red knee-hi socks. I was also able to accessorize with household items—a tin-foiled crown, an extension cord for my lasso, and a beach towel for my cape. I was POWERFUL! But all the power in the world would not have helped to persuade my Baptist preaching, former Marine, father to let me out of the house in this wardrobe. I could’ve easily been the Bionic Woman since she wore casual clothes, but I didn’t think that this would win in competition. So, I went to bed disappointed. I thought for sure I would have found something to make a costume. Well, the following morning, I had a brainstorm as I was brushing my teeth. There it was . . . in the reflection of the mirror . . . The Shower Curtain. With the pink and purple floral patterns, I could see myself as . . . a powerful Cinderella. I pulled down the curtain and hoops (for my

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Seaswells 2010

bracelets and earrings, of course) and wrapped it around me. I clamped a clothespin at the top to hold it in place. I used my tin-foiled crown to make me a tin-foiled magic wand (for my power and I do realize now that Cinderella did not have a wand.) This was going to happen, because my dad had left for work (thank goodness), and my mom was in the kitchen. As I made my way to the door to walk to school as usual, my loving and compassionate mother had stopped me. I thought she was going to make me take it all off. But instead, with no questions asked, she gave me a ride to the school in our Grand Torino Station Wagon, but it might as well have been the magic pumpkin that became my carriage to the ball. My very composed mother said she would be picking me up after school. WOW! My wand did have magical powers. I got an escort to and from school that day. (To this day, I do not know the exact thoughts that were in her mind.) I was so proud when the school principal called out my name to walk across the stage to display my masterpiece. I did not win 1st, 2nd, or 3rd place, but I did get a participation ribbon. Back to the present. Throughout my life I have learned to improvise with what I have. One Saturday morning, I had planned to be a part of a walk-a-thon. Team members were encouraged to be creative with their attire by using purple and white colors. As I was searching for creative clues throughout my home, my friend that was providing me transportation to the event, calls to tell me she can’t make it. With hope in my mind that I will find another ride, she asks me what I am doing. I just had to tell her . . . I’m looking for my shower curtain.

Knotted Nets

Best Black and White Photo Seaswells Photography Contest

by Lonie Donovan

My Heart Is Tethered to the world I once knew, with strands of love, like diamonds strong and true. Down into a black hole that is the end, this world is doomed, but the chain does not bend. Refusing to break, unable to tear asunder, how long can it hold out, I wonder, I wonder.

Piece by piece this world is torn away, until the very end, that diamond chain will stay . . . The last rock breaks free into the void- forever, but the coldness of space, this heart cannot weather. Nicholas Sudden

Seaswells 2010

21

Sing a Song of Sixpence . . . by Mairely Garcia

Bare

Mirror Mirror, mirror on the wall my cruelest enemy of them all. Facing you I see the truth that I try to hide but is always there just under the surface. Hiding behind my many layers I can be what you want me to be. I’ve lost the real me under the layers & behind a bit of weed. My heads screwed up, my body is always aching I can’t understand what happened. I try & peel the layers off but they always seem to stick. Low self-esteem, bad mental state always on something I seem to be adding layers. Aching & breaking I face a bleak future. Mirror, mirror on the wall my cruelest enemy of them all. Kimberly Glisson

Gravity is a Cruel mistress. On her chest, Soul and breast hang low. Charles Poston

Shades The shades close early for those of us with big bellies busy minds heavy hearts It is summer’s youth We are in our youth We squander it away We’ll look back with regret It is the long, slow closing of the day But we close up quickly meals stuffed down masks stripped off feigned interest replaced with numbing apathy It is a balm when the shades close early Bonnie M. Tobias

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Seaswells 2010

Refuge The life is a song of love All the melody exquisite The magical words Listening in the secret room of your heart Death is sentence or condemn to die There were the flavors of your smiles The caress of your looks Made my passion explode Life is you in my skin In my blood, in my heart Life is you in my lips The fire of your fingers on my body You in my bed Life is your love for me. Enelda Remy

Rebel Without a Cause Ink by Ryan Rodriguez

Movin’ On Graphite by Megan Phillips

Seaswells 2010

23

Waiting for a Retread by Anne Hudlow

Flow My heart bursts Blood sprays & Falls like rain These thoughts These words This song These pieces of me That you can feel But Cannot Touch Spattered What will you do With this living flow Turn your face In disgust In disdain Finding shelter From the downpour Of my soul

Comfort Zone

Mock me Beg me To hide once more As though there Were nothing Behind this Fleshy suit. Or will you raise Yourself up Dance in its current & Be swept away In this mind burst This explosion Of what’s been simmering On the inside of me

Let’s live In these moments Where what makes us More than just men Siezes us fully Through our thoughts Through our words Through our song Through parts of us That you can feel But You cannot touch. Melissa Rodgers

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Seaswells 2010

When I walk down my road I am sure of the hard clay underneath my bare feet When I walk in the field I am sure of the tall grass As I run my fingers through the blades I am sure of those things. When I leave my road I am not sure of anything except where I am going I wonder what is real. What is life really about? Is there such thing as forever whether for love or happiness I will keep to the field and my road for if I climb a tree to seek out I will surely fall. Priscilla Claire Ream

Nightlife Computer-enhanced photo by Virginia Walker

Step by Step Computer-enhanced photo by Caitlyn Walsh

Seaswells 2010

25

500 Light Years At All Times Caliope Version by Shawn Phillmon By this point, we already had each other’s time zones and calendars memorized. It’s roughly 14:45 in Yel’s time, giving us an hour or so of “alone time” before her afternoon classes. Her webcam was usually the high point of my day and I’d joked about having a flexible girlfriend more than a few times. The rest of the time was spent messaging. Admittedly, it was high volume/low content, and I’d rather not imagine what the phone and internet costs would be without the cultural diversification deductions. We used to send movies and music to each other, but had to stop after the neighbor whose wireless we used was arrested for online piracy. Still, distance never stops being a factor. I’d started hanging out with Sarah more, not to hurt Yel, but for physical contact’s mild rush. There were arguments. Yel accused me of using her to build my self-esteem. There were denials. We would break and make up in weekly cycles, further crippling each rotation. She informs me that we now technically have a child together. For a surprise birthday present, she filled in some of her asexual egg’s junk DNA slots with copied portions of my genome she’d downloaded from the health care database. That was the last time I logged on for leisure. With neither species possessing FTL travel, physical contact’s economic infeasibility made for significantly less drama regarding the KiJee’s slight technological advances, civilization absorption, and the inherent problems of exogenous diseases. I thought a few months of silence, and she’d move on. There was little that she could do. Days become weeks. Deleting Yel’s messages/ emails has become routine. It’s easy to remind myself that she’ll be a more mature person after all of this. The days spent between friends and dating Sarah were doing wonders for my tan. All the partying had removed my anti-social tendencies. I tried buying beer for this weekend’s kegger, but my debit card wouldn’t work. I called the bank, but the teller I talked to couldn’t access my account. He thought I forgot my password and sends me the security question. “Your Wife’s Name?” appeared on the screen. The magnitude of shit hitting fans was realized. Programs finding social security numbers from

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birthday and state of birth within the first few hundred attempts weren’t new. I checked every payment system and found the same minor, but disturbing change. My mind went into berserk mode trying to calculate all the variables. I had been born scanned. I could do nothing about my dental records because of automatic filing on child mandatory replacements of biological saliva for artificial enzymes to prevent cavities and lessen heart disease. I needed widely available clothing with non-regional specific origins. I used Bill’s cell phone to wiki local edible plants, and then got a call. She asked me if I was going camping, because she thought it’d be cool to watch me in the wild, like on nature shows. She even sent a link to a pretty neat plant map. I had to laugh about mentally straining on material availability being used to track, only to forget about all the Google satellites. My brain was officially no longer reliable. I tried remembering how many of my friends I’d introduced to her on chat rooms, which ones used their real names for screen names, and how many degrees they were socially networked, online and offline, to each other. I almost threw my cell phone in the trash, but remembered that it was relatively expensive, so I’d just leave it at home. There’s a momentary urge to break the shackles of Pavlovian consumerism fed via full sensory media addiction. Instead, I meet with an attorney. We meet and I explain the situation. He’ll be representing me pro bono. History is money, and he wants the history. Copyright and censorship issues between species are what made this the decade of the lawyer. However, excluding last year’s man-cow incident, this is the first case involving inter species paternity. Calls are made. Proportions are blown. How many shows had I appeared on? Had I ever discussed something aside from not being able to settle out of court? Yel’s parents all but admitted her guilt. Plea bargains were made on the condition that I send child support through online payments. My attorney refuses it for me. Every time, a KiJee correspondent would be brought in

and we’d argue for about half an hour. Ratings jump. Everyone profits. The government steps in after polls indicate unacceptable levels of nationalism in the general population. The date arrives. The lag time between replies is less than a minute, but the trial drags at every turn as two systems debate each definition of every precedent. In a peculiar way, I’ve noticed I’m barely part of the trial. Pro-choice, pro-male rights, and population control groups argue about the mother’s social responsibility to abort under nonideal circumstances. She appears on screen. I didn’t recognize Yel’s “face.” To be fair though, I hadn’t seen her “face” in relaxed state many times. Before, she’d bind her micro-tentacles together and flex her camouflage to look like whatever woman I asked her to look like. She gave her testimony and disappeared from the view screen. Snags are hit. Sociologies are compared to biologies for populace legal perspective, and then debated again. Days become weeks and weeks become months. The number of knuckle draggers with signs, chanting “Be A Father!” dwindle at the end of each day. I’m loaded back into a police car and taken back to my cell. I’m told a rose by any other name smells just as sweet. A mansion as a cell is still a cell. I could have any food I desired within federal diet guidelines. I had near unlimited access to visual and auditory media. At some point, Sarah moved on to other guys, so prostitute credits are negotiated. However, I was not an island. Friends, family, and my attorney would visit, reminding me that I fought the good fight for liberty against servitude. At a glance, I’d pass for a king. Only on closer inspection are chains noticeable. My safety was explicit. My sanity was precisely maintained. Suicide applications are automatically held until post-trial. Void of sharp corners and ledges, the structure itself produces a temporary mild sense of lovecraftian unease. Colors constantly adjust to produce positive moods. Even knowing this, fighting their relaxing sway is difficult. The cycle repeats; reporters swarm. One asks if my trial’s being slowed to protect our one-way relationship of information trading with the KiJee. My attorney responds for me. One asks if this is a ruse for even further erosion of net neutrality. My attorney responds for me. By now, I’d done the same motions so many times, I felt my mind adapting to this new environment and erasing pre-

trial instincts. I woke up repeating testimony. My attorney argues that Yel Bii Logadi broke copyright law using my genes without consent, citing various celebrity and pharmaceutical cases. They argued the significant genetic incompatibilities prevented any actual results, and thus should be viewed as creative commons equivalent. I felt a little weird about her showing the child on screen so often. It was a stretch, since the creative commons equivalent was created as a government response to pharmaceutical companies copyrighting every possible genetic sequence using mass-scale simulators randomizing pairs. Had it worked, the parents of a child born with a copyrighted sequence would pay royalties until the child turned 18, at which point the child would either pay or have gene alteration therapy, assuming the parents didn’t have said procedure done at birth. However, the government retroactively confiscated the simulators and information, and sued the companies involved into filing for over sighted bailouts. After essentially buying the companies, the government released generic sequences commonly found in the majority of the population under creative commons, such that an individual requiring said sequence could get the necessary surgery without paying royalties. I wondered from the beginning whether my case was simply a mock trial. The inherent problem with this copyright approach meant the KiJee might pass blame onto the Federal government, since internet management was their responsibility. As the piracy and copyright infringement occurred online, it was their responsibility to first block her IP and then investigate the situation. Had they done so, how much time would I have saved? I couldn’t even remember anymore. Suddenly, reporters receive messages and begin leaving, until by recess, the room is barren. A local quantum physics teacher’s apartment was raided for standard credit/document fraud. In his basement, they found a brain dead Kijee preteen he’d cloned for sex purposes using an industrial medical organ printer. After his arrest, the vegetative Kijee is quarantined and euthanized. I couldn’t help but laugh from the lack of sleep. Having lost my metaphorical fifteen minutes, I’m reminded that I’m still on trial, no longer liberty’s avatar, but as a former attention whore.

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Unrelenting Can you dream up a dream? Of trembling hands and shivers They hold tight to your soul In some better place you’ll quiver

I’ll fall and break trying to find Some truth hidden in your kiss Despise its deepest riches And all the pain it brings

Blindly gasp for your last breath And no mortal man can resist The merciless taunt of a girl And the love you’ll feel in her midst

When I have denied Back tracked and ignored When I have tried To forget your shady lore

Empty handed, still can’t resist The mocking mystery behind Your eyes and all they promise But I swear I’ve tried

And still the hole exists Forgotten, mutually scorned To come to such a place as this I’ve not felt such pain before Caitlyn Walsh

Deep in Thought Acrylics by Carol Hudson

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When the Sun Goes Down

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Oil on panel by Rosco Peters

Second Place Seaswells Art Contest

Absolution by Angelique Cole A wandering soul lost in the depths of pain and despair, an existence consumed by the crimson flames of deepest loathing; the enemy continues to whisper lies in her ear, creating illusions that cast themselves before her in the image of her friends and family. Feeling abandoned and alone, the wanderer feigns courage when really she is weak. Afraid of confrontation, she chooses to hide in the darkness. And so in the darkness she wanders, until the lies become her truths; and the truths become nothing more than a faded memory. A light shines on the darkness and turns it to shadow; a thick blanket of ice falls onto, and extinguishes, the flames. The lies fade and the truth shines through, revealing a world she used to know as a child. She bids farewell to her true enemy and begins to move forward for the first time. The path remains unclear, but the wanderer makes her way back home to the ones who have loved her even when she couldn’t see. In loving memory her past will remain forever and ever. May it never take hold of her again.

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How Long, O Lord? by Alisa Lane

Heirloom I remember seeing it on my grandmother’s hand and how my mother was worried about who was going to get it after she died. I remember seeing it when she threaded the needle for me to sew on her old black Singer and when she held the match to burn the ends of the blue hydrangeas for the altar at the Lutheran church and when she put the marshmallows, row after row, on her Thanksgiving sweet potato casserole. I remember seeing it when she paid for the penny candy that we bought at the general store that was among the last of its kind, down by the railroad tracks that ran behind her house. I was little and the store was big and dark with walls of shelves like the store in Through the Looking Glass where the doll (or workbox) kept moving up, shelf by shelf, till it went through the ceiling. I now read the story to my grandson but he may be too young for the old sheep in spectacles who gives Alice needles to knit with and they turn into oars in a boat among scented rushes. Alice begs to be allowed to pick the rushes like I might have asked Mimi for water lilies when we would go fishing for bluegill in the backwater at Gran Mari.

I remember it on her hand As she ran the cricket on the hook. So on the morning of the day of the night that the tornadoes came through Eulonia five miles away, I was not really bad upset when I woke up with the middle fingers of both my hands curled up like hedgehogs in Wonderland, like roly-polies in my palms, like fiddleheads on the ferns back in the south Arkansas river bottoms. I really wasn’t all that upset that I got my grandmother’s arthritis. Joanna Hunter

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Puppy Love

Can you turn Love off? I’ve come to the realization This emotion can’t be turned off, Like some light switch. It’s more like a dimmer set on a low timer. Counting down the seconds Until the light she once brought to my world Finally fades to black. However, like the soft warm glow Of that small strand of tungsten, My heart, despite what I want to feel, Will always have a strand that glows for her. Or perhaps our hearts are more like trees Every time we take that blind step into love, We expose ourselves to the elements. Sometimes a branch gives way to a harsh storm. Eventually, though, the wound will grow over and heal, Leaving a tougher knot than what would be there, And the trees will continue to grow strong. Our hearts grow harder From the storms we weather through our lives, But like an ancient oak that is hundreds of years old, These hardened wounds make us who we are. It is up to us to push on through The stormy nights and cloudy days, Until the sunlight once again chases off the clouds And we can bask in the light of those beautiful sunny days.

by Bridgette Johnson

Summertime The ephemeral joys of summertime Run to the same beat as my Heart that pumps to indicate That time runs out We can not wait I can hear the hollow knock As my chest slams against the wall I can’t see five feet in front of me As I fall into a crawl You slander, though your thoughts are mine And still believe the truth a crime I’ll act as if this is our last So lies won’t work This is all I have The ephemeral joys of summertime Run to the same beat as my Heart that pumps to indicate That time runs out We must escape Caitlyn Walsh

Nicholas Sudden

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Lethargy

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Acrylics and graphite by Virginia Walker

Third Place (tie) Seaswells Art Contest

Diversity We are not the same. They are not all exactly like me. Everywhere I look I see people who are unlike me. They are not from the same ethnic background that I am. Groups of people surround me and our differences are way more than skin deep. Our family backgrounds differ greatly from each other. I have stepped out of my comfort zone to get closer to these people. It takes realizing that not everyone is like you, but understanding that they feel the same way about you. I respect them, they respect me. There is no “correct� culture. I have learned to embrace them for who and what they are. Diversity is what makes us who we are. We are all unique and in many different ways. They are different . . . they are my friends. Amber Quinn

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Confident Woman 30 minutes a day, 5 times a week I work off what I previously ate, Pluck my eyebrows, straighten my hair and wear shoes that make my feet ache. Since I ate breakfast I’ll skip lunch so my belly would appear to be flat, I’ll wear my low-rise skinny jeans so my butt looks extra PHAT! Next paycheck I may be able to save money since this check was used for my necessities, You know foundation, lip gloss, perm, cut, mani, pedi, and much needed toiletries. Lately the pressure has been on since my new man actually cares That the cute, tight spirals on top of my head are in fact, store bought hair. So what if I didn’t grow it! I look good and with that he should be fine, Especially since he didn’t pay for it and since I did, that makes it mine. Whoever said that beauty is skin deep wasn’t referring to me, What they should have done was warn us women that beauty is everything but cheap. But just like everything else in the world, there is a price to pay, For that imitated Indian hair and a plump tush like Beyoncé. But I’m not trying to be her I’m going to be me no matter what insecure people may say, That’s why I proudly pay the retail price with my head held high, strutting my stuff, and making my hips sway. Onvia Grimsley

Beautiful Beauty is on the inside, As people recite, But to feel it externally, Is a feat for anyone, you see.

I Am I am a reason to accept diversity I wonder why I can’t be accepted as me I hear people talk I see people stare I want everyone to accept it I am a reason to accept diversity I pretend I don’t care what people think I feel everyone can see it really hurts me I touch the lips of my girlfriend I worry what people will think I cry myself to sleep from the pain I am a reason to accept diversity I understand not everyone thinks it is right I say that people’s thoughts don’t bother me I dream one day everyone will be accepted for who they are I try not to change anyone’s thoughts I hope everyone will accept different people I am a reason to accept diversity

Knives and needles can help, A little exercise as well, Pricey products wouldn’t hurt, But nothing will truly work. Embrace what He has given, Even if you feel forgotten. Your time will come, dear, To shine while many cheer. Like a cherry blossom, You must bloom. Take your time, flower. Patience is great power. When you finally bloom, The cycle will resume. Beauty will come through, Just as they told you. Monica Kratz

Haley Moody

Seaswells 2010

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The Strong, Silent Type by Kristen Zepplin

Mi Hombre de Fuego Tengo amigos que les gusto más que una amiga. Me dan cumplidos sobre mi belleza. Me alaban mis maneras de bondad y ternura. ¿Dónde están los hombres? Sí, quiero gustarte, sí, puedo gustarte, más que imaginas pero a menos que tomas riesgos, ¡nada de mí! ¡Nunca me tendrás! ¿Dónde está un hombre? Baile conmigo, baile conmigo, Dime que me tomarás otra vez. El sol tiene prisa en salir y la luna se desvanece con rapidez. ¿Dónde está mi hombre de fuego? No soy una actriz en tu prueba, que mendiga tu atención. Soy una arana de luces que espera el hombre que pueda encenderlas con el fuego de tu pasión. Rebecca Harris

Easier to Break II Grief resolved upon a fading wish, each day in time is one day missed. A twisting tempest of a cry, behind broken barrier of a lie. This once I bid my heart to break, an act, another chance to fake. Hold it all behind, don’t show; inside, enslaved, it cannot grow. A candle snuffed dies out in smoke, a dying tryst I dare now choke. Will it writhe and surrender here, will it flounder on in fear? Once again shall I find in the prison of my mind the tin bars cannot restrain? Or can the mask the thoughts retain? It will fall, I sense demise. The disguise ripped from blue eyes reality cannot be clear bound to earth and ever near. Call me safely to the sun, so my ties may come undone. A barricade, for I fear attack; prepare the heart that must bounce back. Lacy Bell

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Caught in the Crosshairs Graphite by Megan Phillips

Seaswells 2010

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Love is . . . What is love? Is it like the sands on the seashore? Is it never ending? Does it come from the heights of the mountains? Can you touch it with a prick of a finger? The answer is, Love can be in the form of everything. It can look like the ripples in a pond full of fish. It can be the welcome of a new day. Love is, What you want it to be. Love is a single note playing above the rest. It can be the present and the past. Love makes people do unsuspected things. Like jumping into a river to save a loved one. Like standing up for what you believe in. Love is a mother taking care of a newborn. Love is the dew on a leaf during a fresh morning. Love is the creation of Earth. Love is, What you want it to be. Danielle Siekkinen

Saved by Alisa Lane

Paternal Bliss by Suzy Krone

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Love, Peace Graphite by Corey Burnett

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3

Third Place Austin/Garner Prose Contest What Happened? by Chelsea Merceri “Mac, I don’t feel good. Something’s wrong . . . I can feel it. I am so scared. I have never been this scared . . . ever . . . . I can’t stop shaking. Please . . . please just start talking to me. Say anything—sing me a song,” a panicked whisper rushed through the old cordless phone in my trembling hand. I knew it was 1:30 a.m., but I needed someone to tell me it was all going to be okay. I wanted to cry, to hide . . . . There was nowhere to go except further under the mountain of quilted winter blankets on my squeaky twin bed. “Rock me mama, like the wind and the rain; rock me mama like a south-bound train . . . heeyyyy mama rock me . . . ,” he sang softly, sweetly, out of tune. Mac had been my best friend for over a year now; he knew what my realities were, and understood me. He never made me feel pitied, but rather accepted, with all of my brokenness. Downstairs I could hear many loud noises: the noisy ting of many cast iron skillets hitting the kitchen floor, the thunderous bellowing of my drugged step-father, the earsplitting shriek of my mother as her feet rushed through the house trying to get away. The ruckus had awoken my younger sister, Tess, who was seven at the time. She burst into my room sobbing, pleading, “I don’t want Dad to hurt her again . . . Chels . . . ma-ma-make it stop . . . please . . . .” I quickly hung up the phone and hurried her onto my bed. I was ready. I slapped on my happy face and started the CD player. The Spice Girls began singing; I started yelling the lyrics into my hairbrush microphone. The chaos downstairs was so unbelievably booming. I cranked up the player as loud as it would go and continued to dance around the bed for what seemed like hours, until she stopped crying. I realized what I really needed to do was retrieve her winter coat and bring her somewhere safe, like Grandma’s. I kneeled in front of her as close as I could get, looked

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directly into her big, innocent, watery, blue eyes, and pledged I would return within fifteen seconds. “Okay Tessie . . . start counting . . . and close your eyes, cheater,” I teased through gritted teeth. I opened my bedroom door and immediately saw my battered mother pinned to the rocking chair at the bottom of the tall staircase; my step-father was on top of her like an alpha-male wolf, teeth bared and snarling. I started running down the seventeen steps as fast as my athletic feet could carry me. As my step-father turned towards me, he saw the look of utter fear plastered onto my face, and turned towards my mother again. “Look, Val,” he hissed, “look what you’ve done. They hate me! They are scared of me. None of you love me . . . .” I don’t know what came over me upon hearing his manipulative words, but my fear was immediately replaced by loathing and extreme rage. I felt my face flush with exasperation, my heart race uncontrollably, my fists quiver and quake. I turned all of my attention to the angry, drunk, and high meth addict. “Screw you! We don’t hate you, D—,” my words were cut short by . . . What happened? Momentarily, I couldn’t see anything but twinkling light deep in some black abyss. I found myself sprawled on the floor next to the door six feet from where I had been standing, the Christmas sleigh bells on it still tinkling from the impact. My ears rang so loudly! He crouched down to what seemed like only a few inches from me. “What did you say to me?!” I stood up as quickly as I could, stumbling, trying to hide my weakness. I mustered, “Scr—,” but again faltered. This time there were new sensations in addition to the old. I could smell iron deep in my sinuses; I could hear air flow in my right ear. Oh, and my head . . . . “Get out of my house, you worthless piece of meat!” he shouted.

Gone, Not Forgotten by Bridgette Johnson “Fine.” I collected myself as best as I could. I stood up, not yet fully feeling the assault my body had just received. I reached for my little sister’s coat, and walked up to get her. I carried Tess down the stairs and out to my beat-up, old, blue car to make sure she was, foremost, the safest she could possibly be at that given moment. I came in and reached for my snow boots, but was pelted in the back of the head by the cordless phone that had been stationed in the kitchen. He had once been a celebrated local quarterback, so it had knocked me clean onto the entryway floor. The stinging, pinching, and throbbing sensations I now felt at the base of my spine were just the icing on the cake. “Don’t you ever come back here!” I won’t. Ever. Not once did my mother protect me that night, and not once did I cry. I was strong. It wasn’t until the next morning, at Grandma’s house, that I assessed the damage done to my face: perforated eardrum, black eye, cut lip, hand-print welts, and bruises. When confronted

by Grandma, my mother smugly stated my stepfather had done nothing but pushed me. That was when I decided never to return to that house, that temple of anger and horrendous memories. Where I am from, people don’t leave, no matter what—ever. Not many understand how I could have turned my back on home and friends so abruptly. Subsequently, the ridicule I receive to this day from those ignorant of the abuse is flabbergasting. Eight years later, Mac is still my best friend. We talk about what happened in the past every so often, but he says it’s only to remind me that I did the right things at the right times: that I did what I knew was for the best. Eight years, and I still haven’t gone back to that damned house alone or talked specifically about the events that occurred that night to anyone else besides Mac, not even my husband. All of the existing fears, memories, and guilt that haunted me then still provoke me now. I can merely put it all on paper for the world to see and pray for understanding.

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The Silent Escape Tree branches gently sway; Hills of vibrant green stretch for miles around me; I close my eyes to indulge in the sweet aroma of freshly bloomed flowers; Tresses of my hair flow like liquid in the gentle zephyrs; The amber sun, combined with swirls of pink and lilac, sets over the hills of waving dandelions in the distance; The silver moon stares back at me as I lie in colorful fields on a cool night under a blanket of stars. Bridgette Johnson

Drive by Melissa Rodgers I am driving down the lane that goes through the neighborhood I have lived in now the greater portion of my life. It’s 9:00 PM and all is quiet and very black except the street lamps that are very yellow. On each side of the road are trees, old hardwoods mostly, that create a sort of canopy and enveloping green. Streams of pavement banked on each side by rows of houses branch off to the left and right every so often. On the left there is a large kidney bean shaped pond, blacker than the sky tonight and yellower than the lights it reflects, more detailed, more spectacular than reality. Imagine standing before it, peering into its depths, diving past its version of me and into its cold darkness completely. Driving past, all the memories of my life that revolve around that pond flicker on and off through my head. A kind of romantic crush permeates me like an old friend that you always wanted to be more, but the memories probably hold more dreaminess because they never were.

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Serenity by Cassandra Turner

I continue my drive, taking the long way out and around and back toward downtown. Businesses and houses alit, street light and traffic lights and car lights illuminate only what they want you to see, kind of like a partially naked lady. NPR’s Electric Lounge on the radio adds fuel to my love affair with this drive and this night and this town. It’s 9:30 now and the tide is high along the river which the road takes me parallel to. Lit park areas lay between me and its tender dark current. Restaurants and shops, an old hotel that is now mostly a bar rest to the right of me. It’s so dark and so quiet, so peaceful and it reminds me how I love the night and the water and little old boring St. Marys. Sometimes we need these moments that make us forget there is anything else . . . .

Receding Shoreline The Grass Is Always Greener . . .

by Alex Mathis

by Donna Smith

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Diversity So just a quick question, are you judging me? Not for who I am but what you see My shade of color, my height and my features If this is truly your ignorance let me be your teacher Every culture has contributed in some way From the car you drive every day The shoes on your feet were made overseas As for your ignorance that wasn’t made by me Or them the people only because of your indifference If you truly understood things then it would make sense Without diversity you wouldn’t have a thing You would complain because you wouldn’t have the knowledge to dream How to weave baskets or how to grow crops

Without diversity could there be food in the shops? Of course not because what can be defined as exotic in the south Besides ignorance slurred by an ignorant mouth Learn from your neighbors (the diverse) not the dogmatist’s An ignorant cult is easily systematic Where the next generation follows the first And they become oblivious to the worst A wise man dies harder than the ganders So there’s no need for racial and diversified hate or slander For it will only make the world corrupt So before you stop to judge Take a look at what you’ve contributed to the world Before you’re disrespectful to other cultures. Jessica Weston

Wall-E Graphite by Tommy McMillan

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3

Third Place (tie) Seaswells Art Contest

Judge Not Judge not what you see in my photograph I am much more than what is visual I have thoughts and feelings Strengths and weaknesses Abilities and talents That are uniquely mine My gender, race, religion and disability Do not make me I am not your stereotype I am not your statistic You cannot know me without conversation I am me I am you I am everyone Stacy Lynch

DIVERSITY

Philosopher Graphite by Michelle Harrington

D ifferent cultures. I ndividuality. V aried tastes. E thnicity defines us. R eligious preference S ociety binds us. I nfinite possibilities. T olerance for our many distinctions. Y ou make the world diverse. Craig Hendrix

Words and Love It’s funny how words can mean so little at times. Yet, at others, mean the world. It’s funny how words can kill a person. Yet, they can create people entirely. Words are like people. Hollow, but still there. Loving, but not there. Visible, but unclear. I love words. If love was called hate, and hate was called love, would we marry the people we hate? Or would we hate the people we marry? I love everyone

UNIVERSAL

A Rhyme Roses are red Violets are blue I am different And so are you Nobody is the same No matter how u see How about a little bit of diversity Tyler Manning

Unity N betweeN dIIverse Viduals indiV Erges mE Races and Shows All Love Cass Silva

Garrett Frye

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Best Computer-enhanced Photo Seaswells Photography Contest Twilight Zone by Mairely Garcia

Intense Realization Known becomes unknown Upon the glance of reality. Powerful becomes powerless Because certainty remains unsure. The defined are redefined When the imprints of senses are shaken. Thoughts and ideas are challenged Because the spoken words are from the not wellspoken. Emotions overshadowed by the structured mind Become chaotic. Determination . . . dampened by boundaries with Untainted vision that has been drizzled.

There Goes the Sun Computer-enhanced photo by Justin Gines

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This is . . . the Intense Realization of the World. Kim Cagle

Ancient Voyager by Jennifer Borland

Step ‘n’ Stones by Carlton Patrick

Seaswells 2010

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Love Lives On by Jennifer Walker He is wild. An untamed beauty that roams the wilderness. A giant steed free to journey the vast open lands. He is a sight to behold, a sense of royalty in his blood. His licorice mane flutters in the breeze as he strides along an unbeaten path. Vines and weeds cling to his raven black hocks as he passes by. Trees glide with the wind high above him. Sounds of birds singing their songs fill the silence. Sun rays break through the canopy highlighting different parts of the woods. The crunching of mossy floors is soundless as his hooves touch lightly on the dampened landscape. The feathers of his fetlocks comb through the thorns as they stretch out and try to make him stay. While stomping through the tangled weeds he hums to himself an unknown melody. Soothing and peaceful like that of a rising sun. He then makes his way to the clearing as the bright golden sun shines brightly on his black velvet coat. His soft hair gleaming like highly polished ebony. The flowers are an array of lilac, flaxen, and crimson in color. When he prances around them they bend to his will, a few dandelion seeds powdering up and dispersing around his magnificent frame. The white of the flower puffs accenting his reddish brown tinge of his coat. His tail wisps along behind him ever so slightly touching the earth. The atmosphere is light and crisp, as rabbits come out of hiding and flocks of birds fly over head. Ears are erect and alert as he stands atop a grassy mound. A masterpiece being displayed for a small moment in time. Small gusts swirl around him as his mane and tail interlace. The clouds do not dare pass above him as he grazes. Afraid to cast a shadow over his brilliance they creep away from him. He tosses his head as he trots down to the valley below, his muscles glistening in the rays of the sun. His eyes peer off into the distance of the lush forest.

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A tiny glimmer of happiness in them. They can tell an amazing story if one only takes the time to gaze into them. Nostrils flare at any bit of movement as he strides towards a trickling creek. Smooth rocks sparkle from the sun’s illumination. The water shining as if there were millions of diamonds strewn out underneath the surface. He stops and bows his head to take a drink. His muzzle brushes against the clear water. His silky, wavy mane cascades down into the stream where it is then soaked by the rushing water. As dusks approaches the sky becomes painted with hues of blues, pinks, and purples. He then meanders back towards that familiar overgrown path. White dandelion puffs grab hold of his long mane and tail as he makes his way through the brush. The trees quietly sway as the breeze picks up trying to beat him to wherever it is that he is going. There is nothing but the steady breathing and faint sound of hooves as night gradually draws near. And that unknown melody he hums to himself as he treads through the dense forest. In the distance those glorious eyes see the signs of his home. A wondrous stable that glows even in the faintest of light. Crystal walls shimmer with a small tint of red. Gold and jewels adorn various statues and facades. A stable fit for a king. He steps high as he makes his way inside on the pearl covered flooring. A large stall stands alone inside. Rubies, sapphires, amethysts, and topaz decorate most of the inside. His bedding is a never ending supply of soft tan shavings. He settles down. His breathing slow. His hooves quiet. His chestnut eyes glance around one last time before he sleeps. Even while he sleeps his beauty is astonishing. At last, at rest, in heaven where an eternity of wondrous adventures awaits him.

Aladdin by Ayla Wilson

God’s Painting by Ashlee Thornton Arms hard as steel wrapped around her neck, her mane brushing and tickling my nose. It was a freedom I had never felt. Her hooves hitting the ground like a million rocks, us racing to our dreamland. I slid off planting my feet on the ground. Staring off, making a mental image of what I had dreamed of the night before. I sat in awe as she nudged me with her long nose.

A picture like this could only have been created by God. The strokes of greens made up the leaves flowing in the Tennessee breeze. Dots of pinks and reds made up the frenzy of color surrounding me. Shimmers made up the moon’s light reflecting itself on the calm lake and when I faced the night sky, I noticed he lit it up with millions of lights so that I could see every detail of his painting he has painted for me.

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Goldilocks Computer-enhanced photo by Caitlyn Walsh

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In the Good Ole Summertime by Krista Hale

The Long Wait for a Princess by Jennifer Page

An Ode What if Huckleberry Finn was infatuated with Daisy? Would that have driven Jay Gatsby absolutely crazy? What if Tom Sawyer and Holly Golightly had met at an East Egg soiree? Could they have shared breakfast at Tiffany’s for the rest of their days? Would Tom Buchanan have frowned at the letter on Hester Prynne’s chest? Would Daisy consider that to have been hypocrisy at its best? Were George Milton and Jim, the runaway slave, in search of the same thing? Were they both indeed products of life’s unfair cling? Is it possible for Emily to sleep with the dead in a world where Guy Montag had a job? Would George Milton sleeping with Daisy have made Tom sob? Do you think Nick Carraway and Frederic Henry could discuss much over a cold beer? Would the exchange of their service stories be like the other looking in a mirror? Would Hester Prynne be enraged that Myrtle Wilson did not wear a scarlet letter? If Lennie had been born an East Egg aristocrat, would his life have been better? Could have reading “The Raven” forced Tom to appreciate his spouse? Would Pa Joad have been better for Huck than his own Pa, the louse? Could Jim, Huck, and Joe Starks have co-existed happily in Eatonville? Peace and harmony would surely alleviate many of life’s ills. What if George had disassembled Gatsby and buried him beneath his floor? Would he have heard his heart beat or the raven rapping at his door? Here’s a toast to the authors who pulled their stories from inner obligation, morality, and strife. I raise my glass to each one of your characters, all in search of their ideal American life. Stephen Brooks

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Doll Let’s play dress up. I’ll be the doll and you dress me up any way you want. Paint on my face, tell me what to feel. Then throw me in the corner and let me rot. Forget me and leave me. I’ll sit in my corner and wait patiently. I’ll cradle my heart in my hands and bite my tongue to keep from screaming out. I’ll keep my hunger for your attention locked inside and my tears will stay in my eyes. Dress me up any ways you want. I’ll play the doll. Paint my face to be just like you want. I’ll be the doll of your dreams. Show me your attention and I’ll forever be waiting in the corner ready to be your doll. Kimberly Glisson

Free Range Pork Is Cheap Ink and Prismacolor by Kaci Coleman

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The Wife My prints once held the spinning clay They carefully raised and shaped Every curve of the vase Which smiles at you From your periphery Sad--the only countenance You see belongs to the carnations Which have been carelessly arranged Like untamed stallions running Around on their palms And heels To every corner Of your continent Paula Collado

Needless Needless words Wasted moments Faces I’ll never see again But if no words or moments There is nothing left But strangers and death. Melissa Rodgers

Lurking in the Shadows Chalk by Justin Gines

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Stubborn I have this problem With complaints I’ll tell you now I’m no saint. I ask God To place me there He gently pushes Me back to my chair. I want To go and see Nope God says to me. Why? I ask aloud But I wanna! I scream and shout. Just be patient Is what comes Beats fast My hearts drums.

by Lonie Donovan

I think I can Says my brain Please just wait Comes again.

Life in a Cage

To prove him wrong Is what I try I quickly fail And begin to cry. I look up As I fall Gentle love Is what I saw. I am sorry I say to him I love you Comes again. I just don’t know What to do Be still my child I love you. Melissa Cagle

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Almost a Full House

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by Dayton Ireland

Inside the Zoo’s Walls Catch the train to see Elephants, bats, and monkeys All aboard wide eyes. Magnificent he, Rattles his eyes, impressing, Peacock love blossoms. Monkeys on the wild, Pulling hair of mother’s child Monkey see, he do. Spider lures her love Spinning web ‘til babies born She loves him to death. Alligators dance As dinosaurs wait their time. Vicious beast at peace. Silky worms they crawl Cocoons hanging from the trees Butterflies so nice. Hippopotamus, Grazes on her bed of grass Watches the time pass. Zebra prisoner Stallion prance territory Mother grooms her young. Spotted up ahead Jaguar marches her domain. She sees you see her.

Bet you can’t do this with your tongue! by Kristen Zepplin

Asian elephant Splashes mist into the crowd Can we ride one now? Ice-cream stained babies. Exhausted marches exit. The zoo is now closed. Mary Tankersley

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Where You Least Expect by Michael Martin II “What are you doing?” I looked over to the driver seat of the car at the short, blonde, female driver and repeated my question: “What are you doing?” The only response I received was what can only be described as a mischievous grin. It’s not until later that I would find out that that meant she was going to override the adult part of her brain and do something most people would consider at least slightly crazy, something she calls “adventurous.” This time it was a u-turn to go see an alligator. In all fairness, it was my fault for mentioning it was there. She slowly pulled the car alongside the unsuspecting creature and came to a stop. The alligator looked at the car as an alligator ought to, which is to say, thoroughly upset. “I’m going to get him off the road,” she said, entirely too lighthearted. I looked at her like she had lost her mind, which I was fairly certain was the case. “You do realize what that is, right,” I asked, knowing that she should know, especially because she majored in biology. “I’ll be fine, silly,” she replied as she opened the car door and got out of the vehicle before I could say more. My only recourse was to stand back and wonder if I could kill an alligator with the only knife I had with me at the time. As I watched her dance in front of the alligator in an almost shaman-like manner, I wondered what I was contemplating getting myself into. It was almost a year earlier that I had first encountered her, seemingly random, but really the first in a series of events that would shape my future and alter my behavior in ways I never thought possible. I worked as a security guard, and was stationed at the gate at the entrance of a private beach resort. She was interning with the resort company as part of their sea turtle nesting program. Working graveyard shift didn’t give me very much contact with people, but occasionally a few night owls would come through. It was one night working that I first saw her. I tended to avoid making friends with the summer interns, as they were never around long

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enough to matter, but my coworker, an older gentleman, had no such reservations. It was one night that she came through and stopped to speak with my fellow officer that I was first introduced and found out why she was there. She was pleasant and bubbly and blonde and cute as a button. Not at all what I would normally be attracted to, and, at that particular moment, it still wasn’t working. As she drove off, my partner looked at me and said, “Son, there goes your future exwife right there.” I looked at him sideways and replied, “I don’t think so. I’m not into blondes.” Little did I know what was to occur in just a few short months. As was typical of that period of my life, I found myself in the pub. By this point I had learned her name and that she was dating a friend of mine. It was that night that we had convinced him to get her to come and hang out with us at the pub. She arrived as I was ordering my first drink. Even in the smoke and in the dim bar lights, she somehow shone like Polaris, as if calling everyone there to follow her. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed when I had met her before that she had that presence. It still holds true when she walks into a room that the focus shifts to her, and her company is in high demand for anyone who has known her for more than a minute. I sat down at a table with her and my friend and was formally introduced. He, being the stereotypical social butterfly, left us to talk to each other as he made his rounds through the drunken revelry. I immediately noticed she was tired, like someone who had just worked a double shift, but that there was still an intense focus in her eyes. It was as if everything I said and did was weighed and measured as it happened, carefully processed, and then filed away for future use. I was intrigued by this scrutiny, and found myself becoming interested in her. She was very smart, and impossible not to like. But there was something else there that to this day I can’t quite put a name to, almost like she was a mirage, something so wonderful

that it couldn’t possibly exist in such an awful world, and yet there it was, right in front of me. Of course, I had been drinking, so that may have been a factor. This would be the first in a series of her meeting us at the bar and me getting drunk and rambling on. It was a wonder she tolerated it enough that she gave me a chance and spent time with me sober, too. As time went on, we began to speak at length on the phone. It was these conversations that drastically altered the dynamic of our relationship. We began to learn a great deal about each other. Anything that could be talked about, we discussed, or debated or argued. We shared similar views on many points, but where we differed in opinion was, oddly enough, where the magic happened. Two or three hours a night I slowly began to realize that I might have feelings for her. This was a regretful development. It was against my personal code to consider what I was considering. That I should replace my friend in her life was a foreign concept to me. I had seen this conflict before, had even been a part of it once, and it never ended with everyone happy. Usually, the opposite result occurred. Having been on the receiving end of that arrangement, I knew that I could never do such a thing to someone else, least of all a friend. In my conversations with her I regularly played devil’s advocate, defending his actions and easing tensions. It became routine that she would call me with some new transgression that, even if I found his actions ridiculous, I defended in the interest of maintaining good will. I thought that there may be something else there, too, something she kept just below the surface, but my suspicions weren’t confirmed until she asked me to accompany her to the beach. It was on that evening that I happened to spy an alligator on the side of the road and unwittingly made mention of it. Her alligator dance seemed to be effective, because the reptile acted agitated and then slinked off into the woods. “See? Nothing to worry about,” she chirped, smiling the whole time. I was trying to relax myself and marveled that she was completely okay with that course of action. We

discussed the incident until we arrived at our destination, a small boardwalk leading down to the beach. Like me, she enjoyed walking on the beach at night, although I did it because there were no people and it was quiet, and she did it because of sea turtles nesting. As we walked we talked of her work schedule and her desire to go back to school to get a technical degree to increase her marketability in her field. I politely listened and told her she was insane to take on that much at one time when appropriate. We walked, talked and joked like that for the better part of an hour and made our way back to the boardwalk. It was there that she asked me to be honest. “What do you think I should do with him?” Somehow my filter got turned off. “You should break up with him,” I said, with a little too much force. She just laughed. “I don’t know, he hasn’t done anything too bad. He’s just being a guy, I guess,” she said, shrugging. The exact direction the conversation took from there I can’t completely recall. I remained unfiltered and listed reasons why he deserved it. It was part of her response that hit me like a truck. Softly, she said, “And it’s not as if you’re beating down my door.” The look she gave me left no doubt that she was wishing I were. In that moment her eyes held a light and warmth I had never seen. There in front of me was the embodiment of all I had been searching for. She was everything I could hope for and more. And she was with someone else. That kept us from getting any farther that night, my personal code keeping me from acting in a manner that would cause conflict and hurt the people I cared about. But I could never forget the way she looked at me that night, and what that look inspired in me. Ultimately, I went against my own beliefs and, for the first time in a long time, pursued what I wanted without regard for the consequences. In the process, I found out the true nature of a person I thought was a friend, and I fundamentally changed myself into the person I should have always been. I think that, fifty years from now, I’ll still be able to look at her and say that it was well worth it.

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When the Wind is Right We’ll run away together. One day. When the wind is right. And we’ll just laugh along when the sky glows red, And the sun explodes In an onslaught of candy rain that only we can see. Night fall . . . The back door will cre-e-e-ek open. And the pitter patter of bare feet will be heard. Hand in hand, we’ll disappear. The tree branches will reach To the west, so yearning to join our escape. But we have been uprooted on impulse. Good mourning . . . The lights will make the house gasp awake. As the town will discover we are no longer within its borders, The adults will sigh; eyes closed, and turn away. They will hear out laughter As it resonates throughout the gray town. Scandal; that is what they will say. Gone . . .

They would never want to join us In our nightly dances in the crashing waves of the ocean Because they could not learn our waltz. They wouldn’t ever look our way As we wrote sonnets and love letters in the dirt, Because, suddenly, we were invisible. They wouldn’t try to understand Why we walked in the rain, without an umbrella, and smiled, Because they thought we would be washed away. Finally . . . They will never — ever — be able To read the lonesome letters we had left behind, Because they could not speak our language. Yes, one day. We’ll run away. Together. When the wind is just right. Salina Guzman

Higher, Higher! by Caitlyn Walsh

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Maybe Next Time by Jennifer Page

A Beautiful Mystery The rays of sun Are bathing the grass As the wind and trees Dance And my heart is a victim Of circumstance. The birds are merry, Singing their song As the dew is leaving For tomorrow’s fall. All the while I am anxious And not calm. Most amazing of all Is the clear, blue sky, known in appearance, But questionable beyond . . . And I Am read By the eye And say, No more. Mattie Carpenter

Unearthly Sun by Hector Garcia, Jr.

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The Drunkard She was my Rapunzel With her hair tied in a parcel I clung to her for my needs And fell off her balcony indeed I stumbled my way through the vines Into her sister’s light divine When I sang my breath to her She let down her long hair I clutched on while she reeled me in Until the threads fell off the stitch Ain’t she the witch. Paula Collado

Monster

Oh, Edward! Ink by Ryan Rodriguez

Deep down inside my feelings I hide as the monster within eats at my very core. My tears & muffled sobs can be heard in the night as I rock back and forth. The tears stop and go I talk to myself but I don’t think it is me. Am I going insane or is the monster within finally being set free? I look in the mirror and laugh at the image. The dark black eyes the pale skin it doesn’t seem real. The monster is coming I stand & flee to my bed hiding under the covers I barely breathe or move as I try and fail to keep the monster within me. Kimberly Glisson

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Each Time That You Look at Me I hear the peacefully orchestrated sounds of music, to my ears. I feel the wind, softly blowing my hair with a gentle breeze. I taste the sweetness, of a fully ripened strawberry, upon my lips. I smell the delicate fragrance of a single rosebud, as I inhale my thoughts. I sense its caring nature, which brings the freshness of sunshine to my day. I long for the tender feeling within my heart, as it silently keeps its rhythm. I love the warm sensation flowing through me, and the happiness which follows.

The Look Graphite by Megan Phillips

. . . each time that you look at me. Melodie Floyd

Meum Flagitium (My Disgrace) Blinded by my binding, yet bound by my own will; I tremble dear, so please come near, my mind consumes me still.

Facade, faรงade, I play it well, condemned by just a look; hung my soul by their aureoles, for all I have forsook.

See now my fall from grace, guilt wafts from smoldering lies; the wind it screams against moonbeams, like angels from the sky.

Waters beating against a rock are much like my heart; beating, beating, never defeating, and inevitably torn apart. Lacy Bell

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Artist’s Palette Acrylic with modeling paste build-up by Melodie Floyd

Dance of the Tulips Mixed media by Renée Bragg

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What a Whirl! Acrylics by Jennifer Walker

Feathered Friend by Lonie Donovan

Early Bird Perched here upon my usual roost While blackened skies all turn to blue I watch the sun open the morn’ While many below stay safe a snooze No worm am I seeking Contrary to what they say But simply I adore Watching the birth of a new day. Matthew Borders

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Sitting on Wisdom’s Sofa by Connie Spencer I am like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. I am seeking to find wisdom. But instead of trying to get home, I am trying to find out what true love is. I want to know how to obtain wealth, and why I haven’t achieved it. Why does happiness continue to escape the grips of my hands? I finally make it to the doorsteps of Wisdom’s house. Before I can knock on the door, however, Wisdom opens it and invites me in. It offers me a seat and then, much to my surprise, Wisdom tells me the pursuit of my quest: seeking the answer to love, financial wealth, and true happiness. I sit on Wisdom’s sofa and start my story about my quest for love and how it had eluded me. I explain to Wisdom that love for me was like awaking to the smell of my Mama’s peach cobbler baking in the oven. The aroma of its spices traveled up my nostrils and led me into the kitchen, like a hound dog on the trail of a scent. But when I arrived in the kitchen I found that my Mama had just lit a brand new scented fruit cobbler candle. My taste buds became devastated from the visual disappointment. How could something that smelled so much like the real thing not be true. “That’s how I felt when love deceived me,” I explained. I remember the feeling of chill bumps that protruded on my skin validating that my heart was feeling the real thing. I felt like I had finally found true love like a hunted piece of a jigsaw puzzle that made the puzzle fit so perfectly. But I found that it was all a lie. My heart had misled me. The chill bumps on my arms misrepresented love in the worst way. I asked Wisdom where it was in the midst of those feelings? Why did it not explain to me that this was not true love that I was feeling? When did I think that I could validate my love by making love? The only thing that reminded me of my foolish mistake was my pregnancy. Wisdom took no time to explain to me that love had not deceived me, but rather I had deceived myself. Wisdom told me that the love I had been searching for was now growing in me. It said that through my child, I would finally come to know what true love

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is: the love that a mother feels for her child. If I am patient, love would find me, as the Bible says; Wisdom stated, “When a man finds a wife, he finds a good thing” (Proverbs 18:22). Wisdom had intrigued me and I wanted to know more, because now I had a child to take care of. How would I take care of this child when I was broke and uneducated? I was not expecting to receive an inheritance from some rich uncle that I never knew existed. I heard someone once say that to obtain wealth, one must be in the company of wealthy people. How could I do that if I didn’t know any wealthy people? I couldn’t just pick up the phone and call the few wealthy people that I know of, but had never met, and invite them out to dinner. If I did, I thought I would have to invite them to an expensive restaurant, somewhere that they were accustomed to, and I thought I would have to pay for the dinner. It’s difficult enough for me to even afford a lunch at Burger King on my income, much less pay for an expensive dinner that would equal the cost of two weeks of groceries for my child and I. As I complained about paying for the dinner, Wisdom looked at me with disapproval on its face. I stopped attesting my argument when Wisdom began to explain to me that my thoughts were all wrong. Wisdom said that I must look at the cup half full rather than half empty. Wisdom stated that achieving wealth did not reflect what I didn’t have, but rather what I did have. Wisdom explained that wealth didn’t necessarily have to be achieved by being educated, an inheritance, or even knowing the right people. Wealth could be achieved by drive and determination based on talents, skills, abilities, knowledge, resources, and more. Again Wisdom said that wealth could be achieved by what was within me. Years passed by, and I took Wisdom’s advice. I loved my child and allowed love to love me back. Love found me, and I embraced it. I got married, but I found that marriage did not bring me complete happiness. My husband and I had more children, and even though each birth was the most joyous occasion of my life, and as much

as I loved my children, they did not always bring me joy. I had achieved wealth by using my abilities, yet money had brought me nothing but a lot of stress. So I revisited Wisdom and sat back down on its sofa and asked about everlasting happiness. I was shocked to hear Wisdom’s response. I was not expecting to hear that same old answer again, that happiness was on the inside of me. Did Wisdom not have any other answers? Did it not know how to respond? I wanted to tell Wisdom that everything was not as simple as being on the inside of me. I questioned if Wisdom was wise at all. That’s when Wisdom told me to stop questioning it, as if it knew exactly what I was thinking. Wisdom said that I must stop searching outside for answers that are on the inside of me. Wisdom explained that I should not look for a man to drape me with happiness as if I were a window waiting to be dressed with curtains to keep the outside from looking on the inside. I should not charge my children with the duty of making me laugh as if they were clowns in a circus and I was their audience. Wisdom instructed me to work toward making my husband and children happy, which would bring me even greater joy. Wisdom taught me that giving is much more rewarding than receiving. It said I should never let money make me and direct my path, but I should always make money and direct its path. Then Wisdom said the most profound thing. Wisdom said to stop capitalizing its first letter as if it were some sort of being or entity. Wisdom said that it was me. I closed my eyes to the outside of me to be able to see within me. I saw that wisdom was not sitting on a sofa in front of me, but rather sitting down inside of me. And that I did not need to seek its help because I possessed wisdom itself. Wisdom was not a person, or an entity, but wisdom was within. The only time that I should capitalize its first name is when it begins a sentence. Then I laughed when I realized how wisdom always knew what I was thinking before I said it, because it was in my mind all

the time. Wisdom made me laugh, and at that moment, I felt happiness, and I knew it would last. Wisdom is not an entity or a being that we look for by following the yellow brick road. It is not something that we can achieve, but rather something that we possess. It is our experience in the game of love, our abilities and determination for obtaining financial wealth, and our gift of giving, that help us achieve happiness. I have discovered that I have wisdom with the lower case “w” inside of me.

Never Too Young To Learn by Anne Hudlow

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Waitin’ in the Water by Kristen Zepplin

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Give God a Paintbrush . . . by Joshua Meunier

The Adventure The bright shining moon Casting shadows upon the water, My heart is filled with the Excitement of embarking on a new adventure. I hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, The light mist covering my face. In that moment I am selfless yet skeptical. My mind is covered in frustration and fear. As the breeze takes my hair aside, I look With heavy eyes to see a small crab scurry along the shore. “Run with him” my heart says “Run and leave all worry behind.” Lying in the soft and sticky sand I Feel every miniscule grain between my toes, Each representing a different feeling, Feelings of shame, excitement, trust, and insecurity.

Diversity in Nature’s Beauty You look like Nature’s beauty. Your eyes are like the bright blue sky. Your face shines with the morning light. Your smile is as white as a pearl in an oyster’s mouth. Your hair is so black like the midnight sky. Your heart shines like the stars tonight. Your touch is so soft like the clouds in the sky. That’s why you are so beautiful tonight. Mary Hornaday

We’ll Have Fun, Fun, Fun by Cassandra Turner

Turning my head I am greeted by a Great openness with dim lights slowly fading. Am I fading? Will I dare let all Emotions consume my heart? The chilling wind sends shivers down my spine And I look to the bright shining stars above. It is then I am comforted and My thoughts are clear. Suddenly, sand completely encompassing my feet, I step in the sea, the water washing away every grain. And with it goes all worry, fear, and shame. Happiness and comfort flood my soul. My heart beats fast then slows again Engulfed in complete solitude. No longer skeptical of what’s to come But determined to be the best. My eyes close and my body is still Except for arms lifted high. Now I am certain that all comes Together bringing an overflow of peace. Turning away from the water Walking back to the sand I know this adventure will be nothing short Of amazing and I am ready for the ride. Amanda Breland

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Emptiness Becomes Me The rough stone bench becomes my dwelling place. The crispness in the air makes everything more noticeable, more real. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face, but I also feel all the emotions welling up inside. The coolness outside is nothing compared to what I feel inside. Emptiness becomes me because I’m not truthful. Out here it’s like I’m someone else. The peaceful sight of flying birds only reminds me of the war going on. I welcome the sting of mosquitoes snapping me back to reality. Buzzing insects and passing clouds take me back to simpler days. Hopefully the roar of cars will muffle the noise— wrong. I am dizzy with confusion and disappointment.

Tomorrow, Tomorrow by Anne Hudlow

Watery Reflections by Dayton Ireland

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Why do I feel so unsatisfied when I have everything. I can’t give anyone anything; I’m all used up from feeling sorry for myself. It’s no use; even the ants are too busy to see what it’s like to be me. Marissa Byrd

Unheard, Unnoticed I feel helpless as I sit here watching her wither away. The light that was once a beacon Only slowly simmers in her eyes now. No longer the answer, but the question. Time only ticks but never moves Broken like a soul that has no purpose. Gentle hands that once comforted Are nothing but empty gestures upon her skin. Gradually she succumbs to numbness. Faces blank with expressions As they stare past what used to be. Her appearance goes unnoticed by blind eyes. She is lost in an unknown land where fear conquers reality.

Collecting My Thoughts Acrylics by Virgina Walker

Lips move in silence around her, Whispering tales of the glory days. Inside her she rattles and pleads for someone to hear her. But her words go unheard as deaf ears no longer listen. Jennifer Walker

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A Memoir of Loss by Chelsea McBride I became who I am today at the tender age of fifteen, on a humid rainy day in the fall of 2006. I can remember the exact moment I thought that I had lost one of the most important people in my life. When most people think of fear and terror they imagine horror movies and fake blood. For me it was that agonizing car ride on that fateful Sunday, wondering if he was already gone. It’s a nightmare that has stalked me for the last three years. I woke up to the sound of a telephone ringing and muffled voices in the other room. I thought my mom was going to come and wake me up for church and I was plotting ways to get out of going because of an all-nighter I had pulled the night before. The door to my bedroom was thrown open and I could hear someone tossing clothes around. I heard sniffling and sobbing, and when I opened my eyes my mom told me to get up and get dressed. She was hysterical. I hurriedly put on the first things that I saw and when I made it into the living room I saw that my brothers and sisters were in the same state of confusion as I was. My mom and dad ushered us out of the house and told us that they would explain in the car. None of us could have imagined what we were about to hear. When we were all settled in the car and on our way my mom finally told us what was going on. Between her sobs she told us that our grandpa had been teaching a gun safety class at the Community Center and had collapsed during a lecture. He didn’t have a heartbeat. Two of his friends performed CPR on him until the paramedics arrived. The paramedics managed to stabilize him and they loaded him into the ambulance, but on the way to the hospital he flat lined again. They were able to get his heart to start and they delivered him safely to the hospital, but once there, he flat lined for the third time. At that point my mom was sobbing uncontrollably and my father had to take over. He told us that as of now my grandpa was in critical condition and the doctors weren’t sure if he was

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going to make it through the night. I was in a state of absolute shock. I had just talked to him the night before and he sounded perfectly healthy. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that the man who taught me how to shoot a gun and who used to bring me candy when he came to visit was lying in a hospital bed somewhere close to death. He was the strongest person I knew, and I wouldn’t—and couldn’t— believe it. While everyone else was crying, I stayed strong. I had to hold it all together for them like

End of an Era by Alisa Lane

my grandpa always did for me, but inside I was getting antsy and worried. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts, and the normally two and half hour drive to Eustis, Florida, felt like an eternity. All I could hear was the little voice in the back of my head saying, “You might not make it in time.” I was terrified. I couldn’t lose my rock. When we finally arrived at the hospital I breathed a sigh of relief. We were finally here and it would all be okay. It just had to be. We sat in the waiting room for about twenty minutes before we even got to see our grandma. She was a mess but I still didn’t cry. That all changed when I was led into the Holding Room. My grandpa was covered in wires and tubes and he was surrounded by about ten machines. He was barely recognizable. This wasn’t my big, strong, and goofy grandpa. This was an alien, an imposter. He looked so tiny and fragile, almost like a helpless child. That sight still haunts me to this day and it was my breaking point. I fell in a heap on the ground and bawled my eyes out. It finally struck me that I could lose him. This wasn’t fair, and this wasn’t supposed to happen. He looked like a shell of what he once was, and I couldn’t take looking at the gray, shrunken man that had become my grandpa. I had to leave. He went into emergency surgery that night and the doctors attached both a defibrillator and a pacemaker to his heart. Now we played the waiting game, and the outcome was looking grim. The doctors believed he had a stroke from the lack of oxygen to his brain when his heart repeatedly shut down, and he wasn’t showing any signs of waking up. It was still so surreal that he had died three times. I didn’t sleep that night and I went back to the hospital with my grandma and brother at 5:30 the next morning. I sat with him all day, just praying that he would wake up and be okay. Four days later he finally woke up. He had the mindset of a child and had to relearn basic functions like talking and dressing and feeding himself. I was just thankful that he was alive. You never know the heartbreak and agony that comes with losing—or almost losing—a loved one unless you’ve been there. You can try and sympathize and say you understand, but you really don’t unless you’re put in that position. It’s a fear and a terror I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I lost my sense of security and comfort that day, and I realized things weren’t going to be like they are in fairytales. Death and loss really put what’s important into perspective. I talked to God and did a lot of soul searching in the days following that incident. I thank my grandpa for my strength and big heart, and I thank God for letting my grandpa continue to be my rock.

Eternally Missed Rain. When will it end? When will you forgive me for forgetting myself? My eyes are opened now. I am no longer hiding in my cave, And the sun shines through me, Revealing my true color; And I am ashamed. I have become a host for the parasitic twin; I am a dead star. I needlessly feed on the darkness, I’m ruled by secrecy, And it won’t be long before my heart Becomes a super massive black hole. I close my eyes, Unable to look at who I’ve become since you left me, Agitated and disappointed, in my own city of delusion. It’s amazing, really, How brightly the dark shines, Burning into my soul with the fury you left behind; Like an assassin slowly destroying who I am With every stab. Please forgive me. Please know that what I put you through was unintended. And as I’m falling down, Falling with the crowd into a dark abyss, A coma, Know that I would rather be in your world, Falling away with you endlessly. I will miss you eternally, But will I be eternally missed? Angelique Cole

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The Trunk In the corner, far away, lives a place of dreams. This magical box lay, just beyond the moonbeam. The lid is dark and dusty, the sides all are torn. Hinges old and rusty, this box so well-worn. To open the adventure, what lies beneath it all? Awaken me from my slumber; she hears this old box call. Rhonda A. Mayville

Retired by Chrystal Moss

Gypsy Wagon by Clayton Patrick

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Behind the Glass by Angelique Cole When the world was first created mythical creatures roamed the land, and eventually humans were created. For thousands of years the world flourished and the humans and other beings coexisted in harmony until the day Man ate the forbidden fruit. Bound by sin and filled with hatred, the humans began killing off and enslaving their brothers, destroying their homes and selling their children, and thus, the Great War began. The elves, one of the oldest inhabitants of the world, established an army to fight against the humans; and eventually every race joined the fight. The war lasted over 500 years and many lives were taken on both sides; the humans almost reached extinction. The leader of the army, Ecthel Sasakawa, along with three commanding officers decided it was best that the “tainted” and the “pure” should no longer interact with each other, and they formed a powerful barrier that concealed all magic beings, preventing anyone from entering or exiting. The barrier was both perfect and completely unbreakable, created using the most powerful ancient magicks, long since forgotten by all, and prevented humans from seeing magibeings and vice-versa. The creators of the barrier were looked to as Guardians and together, the four of them created a shining paradise, and were given royal positions. The two worlds continued to secretly coexist, and over time, the inhabitants on both sides completely forgot about the other until centuries later, when a descendant of Loralei (a harpy general in the army and one of the creators of the barrier), discovered the past records concerning the barrier and how it was made. Ever since, she spent years trying to discover how to remove it all together, curious to see a legendary human being. All for naught. Feeling defeated and having nowhere else to turn, she visited every kingdom: The Forest Kingdom where the descendant of Ecthel, the elfin leader, resided; The Kingdom of Earth located in the high mountains where the descendant of Razniish, the wolf demon general, resided; and the Kingdom of Water

located deep under the sea where the descendant of Tsugumi, the water sprite general, resided. All of the kings and queens at this time turned the poor harpy princess down, claiming the removal of the barrier was forbidden and all research concerning the matter was to be discontinued and destroyed. But the harpy couldn’t let it go, and made copies of her research, scattering her journals over various parts of each kingdom, hoping that a worthy candidate would find it and pick up where she left off . . . .

Time Is Running Out Ink, Prismacolor, and watercolor marker by Kaci Coleman

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One Last Goodbye . . . by Lonie Donovan

Lullabies and Sweet Dreams I should have whispered you lullabies Of setting suns and sparkling skies The fairytale romances that are often lies Now all I hear is a fading goodbye I should have whispered you lullabies. I should have uncovered the land of sweet dreams Where rivers flow into trickling streams And fairies dance on the tiny moonbeams A place full of mystical themes I should have uncovered the land of sweet dreams. I have whispered you lullabies At least in my head a thousand times Of a peaceful world so sublime A sweet dream in disguise As I whisper you lullabies. Jennifer Walker

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• Lacy Bell • Matthew Borders • Jennifer Borland Amanda Breland • Renée Bragg • Mills Briggs • Stephen Brooks • Devon Buck • Corey Burnett • Marissa Byrd • Kim Cagle • Melissa Cagle • Mattie Carpenter • Angelique Cole • Kaci Coleman • Paula Collado • Lonie Donovan • Melodie Floyd • Garrett Frye • Mairely Garcia • Hector Garcia, Jr. • Brandon Garrett • Justin Gines • Kimberly Glisson • Onvia Grimsley • Salina Guzman • Krista Hale • Rebecca Harris • Craig Hendrix • Mary Hornaday • Michelle Harrington • Anne Hudlow • Carol Hudson • Joanna Hunter • Dayton Ireland • Bridgette Johnson • Monica Kratz • Suzy Krone • Alisa Lane • Stacy Lynch • Tyler Manning • Alex Mathis • Michael Martin II • Rhonda Mayville • Chelsea McBride • Tommy McMillan • Chelsea Merceri • Joshua Meunier • Haley Moody • Chrystal Moss • Jennifer Page • Rosco Peters • Carlton Patrick • Megan Phillips • Shawn Phillmon • Charles Poston • Amber Quinn • Priscilla Claire Ream • Enelda Remy • Melissa Rodgers • Ryan Rodriguez • Carmen Ryals • Danielle Siekkinen • Cass Silva • Donna Smith • Connie Spencer • Nicholas Sudden • Brian Tankersley • Mary Tankersley • Ashlee Thornton • Bonnie M. Tobias • Cassandra Turner • Virginia Walker • Jennifer Walker • Caitlyn Walsh • Jessica Weston • Ayla Wilson • Kristen Zepplin Seaswells 2010

Address correspondence to

Seaswells 2010 College of Coastal Georgia 3700 Altama Avenue Brunswick, Georgia 31520-3632 Telephone: (912) 279-5898 E-mail: seaswells@ccga.edu

Seaswells 2010 has been produced and printed by The Darien News Darien, Georgia Copyright 2010 by College of Coastal Georgia All rights reserved Production Notes Paper: Euroart Plus Dull 100# Cover and Euroart Plus Dull 100# Text Typefaces: Slimbach Medium, Caslon Black

The publication of Seaswells is authorized by the faculty, is funded with student activity fees, and is administered by the Office for Student Affairs. The College assumes no responsibility for the opinions reflected herein.