Images 30-2016 Color

THIRTY

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Illustration Techniques • Cristin Kern

IMAGES 2016 A L I T E R A RY A N D F I N E A RT S M A G A Z I N E

by the Students and Staff of Monroe County Community College

Front Cover Photograph: Self Portrait Caricature • Illustration Techniques • Christin Kern Back Cover Photographs: Vassar - Wilson Movin’ On • Illustration Techniques • Leigh Cole

Sponsored and Published by The Humanities/Social Sciences Division

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This is the thirtieth year we have published the creative efforts of our students and staff.

We sincerely appreciate the excellent work submitted this year; each entry has received careful consideration.

The editors are extremely grateful to Rachel Eagle, Joe Verkennes, Kari Jenkins, and Terry Telfer for their invaluable assistance. Without their diligence and skills, there would be no magazine.

We are already gathering material for our next issue. If you are a student or member of the staff of Monroe County Community College and would like to have your artwork included in our next issue, please submit your material to Ted Vassar.

Creative writing may be submitted electronically to images@monroeccc.edu.

Michele Persin Adjunct Lecturer of English Composition Ted Vassar Assistant Professor of Art

Produced by Monroe County Community College

© Monroe County Community College 2016 All Rights Reserved

Ring Bowl • Ceramics 3 • Talor Eason

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My Dave • Illustration Techniques • Sue Westerdale

A Legend in his Own Time • Illustration Techniques • Leigh Cole

Ian • Illustration Techniques • McKinley Killian-Knapp

Johnny D • Illustration Techniques • Claire Long

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Self Portrait Caricature • Illustration Techniques • Katherine McDonald

Spring Winter is over soon enough spring is on the way warm weather thank God! I’m jealous of the morning sun who gets to be the first to see you or the cup of coffee who gets to kiss your sleepy lips awake.

• Hayley Baker

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Constant A love has never burned as strong as mine Or has ever been as constant The fire of Hell is cold in comparison to my love O! Much like the heart you wield in opposition.

I’ll be constant.

Love, which is like boiling water, it shall never stop.

Though the water may drown me and death beckons me to come And I go willing I know all is not lost for it was for you and love.

I’ll be constant.

Though I call for aid, I know what is to come You do nothing for me and the strife I endure High upon your gilded pedestal you stay As I sink into my fiery waters; I do so for you.

I’ll be constant.

For I’ll forever be yours Knowing the pain I endure will be but a memory in time For a love has never burned as strong as mine.

Or has ever been as constant. .

• Allison Sullivan

Divine Mine eyes shall never see For if it was so, my love would not be true Love—my love—shall be divinely decreed.

Not birthed from the wicked appetites brew It shall be pure much like the love of old.

Blessed by He whom makes all things new Therefore my love shall be blind so it shall ever be true. .

• Allison Sullivan

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Fly • Photoshop Graphics • Kathy Sortor

Self Portrait Caricature • Illustration Techniques • Brynn Stolisov

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Zombie Love Homer tells us in the Iliad of undying love.

Standing above the desecrated body of his foe, Hector, Achilles thinks about his lover, his rage spent but his longing rekindled. He says, If down in Hades men forget their dead, even there I will remember my companion.

And so it is with me.

We are inundated with zombie movies, tv shows, books, magazines; You can purchase a zombie bottle opener or pacifier, diaper or hand sanitizer.

It is inevitable; the zombie apocalypse is bound to happen, by some Romero plague or Savini toxin that will be released into the atmosphere or placed in the ground water.

We would survive a good long while, what with your foraging and survival skills and me with my ability to quote Shakespeare and juggle.

But here’s the thing, even in my infected, zombie state, I’d still love you, but not in a creepy, I want to eat your brains, kind of way.

I think, like Achilles, I’d beat the odds; I’d do the impossible: I’d stay sentient, and although I would undoubtedly suffer circulatory death, the cardiovascular system shutting down, closing the highways and byways of over 60,000 miles of my body, causing two thousand gallons of blood to not course though my veins or arteries or heart, I would still be there with you.

It’s me and you till the end, walking Sophie with us into the sunset.

Or, rather, I’d be more than likely shambling a bit because she would have undoubtedly chewed off several of my toes.

• Scott McCloskey

See? I would just hold us back, and although I’d like to imagine that I’d die heroically – taking a bite for you or saving Sophie from a pack of infected dogs – I’d probably accidentally fall into a well or something, impaling myself on strands of wayward rebar. And if Kirkman has it right, I’d be infected anyways.

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Lessons My grandma taught me: In the beginning there was darkness, And then, there was the light.

I wonder if this were true, When she entered the endless night.

My Grandpa barked: Life is like a rabbit, Running from a fox.

He spent his life retreating, From hordes of sharp-toothed clocks.

My Father often repeated: It’s better to bum out,

Than to fade away.

If he’d smelled cliché roses, He may have enjoyed his stay.

My Mother once said: Love is a child’s laughter, Echoing through your home.

Her children are not laughing, Now that we’re alone.

All of them are gone now.

Some left a mark, Others a stain.

The memories have faded, Their lessons will remain.

• Philip Zaborowski

Meltdown explain what happens when two minds run parallel— do thoughts move shift jump from one to another?

does the synapse in one cause the other to react/think write? in what pathway do the ideas flow merge run together as brain cells converge change shape shift as they collide then divide?

• Barbara Mauter

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Glass Bottle • Painting 1 • Cassondra Kiley

Still Life • Drawing 2 • Ashley Miscut

Free Form • 2-D Design • Brynn Stolisov

Textures • Watercolor 1 • Claire Long

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Wings • 2-D Design • Soraya Corcoran

9-Value Composition • 2-D Design • Katherine McDonald

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Embers A Breath.

Such a simple thing.

Air flows in, feeds the flame.

Air flows out, the flame ebbs.

We live by the sounds of C rackling crimson embers.

We die by the sound of a hissing,

Extinguished flame, when nothing is left But ash and dust. Yet we—fragile as we are— Carry on. To struggle is our lot in life, the very essence Of humanity. We push forward from the darkness of Uncertainty, and seek to set ourselves alight with

Clarity. We wish to become more than what

We are, for what is man without Aspiration?

Nihil.

• Macy Verkic

Hormones Hormones and other substances; coke and rum; wild and lost; she would never be the same.

• Emily Sard

9-Value Composition • 2-D Design • Claire Long

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The Things We Do for Love If I had read the contract more closely I wouldn’t be stuck in this predicament.

Under the cold winter sky so remotely, trying hard to remain ever vigilant.

The moon is full, the ground covered in snow.

For miles, the tracks journey beside the shore.

The lake, frozen in place, a light with moon glow, a quiet rests upon the forest floor.

Should I have listened to that little voice, the voice who said that night to take a chance?

“To get him back,” it said, “you have no choice, you must take advantage of circumstance”.

Far off, you hear the outcry of the owl, the time has come, at last, for deeds most foul.

• Daniel Dagget

While at the park, I look up in the dark to see the orange warmth of day fade away. Up in the dark, the sky twinkles and shimmers as the park grows dimmer.

In the park at dark, I believe I feel as free as I’ll ever be. Transported on high to the stars up above, I contemplate God and His wonderful love. An awesome creation with endless precision, carefree to allow me to make any decision.

Knowing He guides me and all of my steps, He’ll guide me and lead me to give me His best. The moon slowly rises with the light of the sun, the secondary light second only to one. The sun, although not visible having set one more time, it won’t be long before it will shine. The moon is now with me reflecting its light, which spreads a cool radiance throughout the whole night. Casting its shadows although different than day, it is the second light to guide my dark way. Stars up above are bright as can be, though lesser in light, making them a strong number three. Countless are they in the heavens above, dispersed through creation by God’s hand of love. Amazing creation, we often ignore, while living in houses seeing only wall, ceiling, and floor. God’s all around us wherever we are, right down to the last moon, planet and star. Out of the park I wander alone, and come back to my senses as I travel back home. God, keep your creation perfect and bright, and love me and keep me in Your perfect light.

• Ross Rainey

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GMC Classic • Illustration Techniques • Claire Long

Marbles • Watercolor 1 • Diane Billau

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Comfortably Numb

The room would have been pleasant enough under other circumstances. The walls were beige, the seats were a light grey, and the floor was covered with the same white tile as the rest of the building. She sometimes wondered if the smell that permeated the entire place was ingrained in those squares of tile. It wasn’t the smell of the place itself that bothered her; it was the distinctive lack of all the vibrant smells she had always taken for granted in the world outside. The only splash of color in the room came from the soda machine in the center. It was a bright red that seemed garish in the otherwise stark room. In rare moments when she had the room to herself, she could hear it pulsing and whirring as if it had a life of its own. There was a television on the wall and most of the people who shared the room with her were ogling it intently, although she often found herself questioning how much they actually saw. She rarely even looked in its direction any more. These days, she spent most of her time staring at her shoes.

They were ordinary black flats, with a light brown sole, and she had hated them until recently. She had only bought them in the first place because the company that manufactured them had promised to donate an identical pair to an underprivileged person somewhere in the world. If she were being honest with herself, she had liked the idea of telling her friends about how she had helped some shoeless wretch, more so than the act of kindness itself. After the first week of wearing them, and the chafing that ensued, she would had no problem with giving her pair away to the some other shoeless wretch, but they were expensive, so they found a home in her closet instead.

They had remained there, with plenty of company, for nearly a year, until she had started spending so much time here. She had come to realize that the shoes were far more than just another pair of uncomfortable shoes she had bought on a whim. Here, they were perfect. Here, they were magic.

The white tile that ran throughout the building resonated with the sounds of shoes at all hours of the day and night. There was the staccato clicking of narrow heels, and the heavy thunk of wedges. The sharp clomping of men’s dress shoes and the slapping of tennis shoes belonging to both genders. The soft rubber sole of her black flats, however, produced hardly a sound when she walked. She glided through the halls, silent as a ghost amidst the cacophony of clicks and clacks, thunks and clomps. She almost felt invisible when she wore them, and she liked that. If nobody could see her, nobody would be able to find her. If nobody could find her, then nobody would be able to tell her any more bad news. They had found her though; they always do, and they had told her their bad news. Now she found herself staring at her shoes wishing that there was some shred of actual magic within them.

She felt a light touch on her shoulder and jumped up startled. She was relieved to see it was Josh. The touch turned into a hug, and she drew some small comfort from it. She wanted to cry, but there was a drought of tears. Her eyes had dried up after the monsoon season of the last few weeks. It was a surprise that she hadn’t heard his heavy footsteps approaching; he had always walked like a bear. They sat down on the seats, which seemed to look grayer every time she saw them. He took his hat off and laid it on the seat beside him and looked at her; his big kind eyes were full of apprehension.

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“I left work as soon as I got your message. It was . . . vague,” he said.

“I didn’t know what to say. They say it’s time. It’s time. We have to make a decision.”

“No, you have to make a decision.”

“Stop it. We’ve been over this. I’m not doing this without you, but we are going to do it, and we’re going to do it today,” she said. “We’ve been arguing about this for almost a month. I don’t want to argue with you anymore. I just want this to be over.”

“I do too, I don’t want to argue with you anymore either, but I can’t give up hope. We can’t give up on him. God doesn’t give up on people, and neither should we.”

“Then maybe God should have put the drunk asshole into a cab instead of letting him drive into a tree.” She regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth. She could see the pain it had caused written plainly on his face but she continued on. She knew she had to be strong. For him. “You’re not the one who’s practically living here. I talk to them every day. I talked to them today, there is no hope. Not anymore. We have to do what’s best for him now.” The words struck him like a punch to the stomach, he slouched into his seat and tears rimmed his eyes. She wished that she could join him.

There were many people in the room, but she had never seen anybody look as alone as he did at that moment. She gently placed her hand on his to comfort him, but he recoiled away from her and stood up.

“There has to be something they can do! Even if there isn’t, it doesn’t have to end today, they come up with new stuff all of the time. There’s always hope. There has to be,” he said, as he walked away from her and towards the red soda machine. He put a dollar into the slot and pushed a button, but nothing came out. He stood for a moment, staring at the machine, then he gave it a gentle nudge, trying to free his trapped soda.

He pushed it again, this time harder, and again. Everyone was staring at him now instead of the television, except for her, she was staring at her shoes again. He kept pushing at it, almost rhythmically, until in a blink the lights of the machine went out. It stopped its pulsing and whirring and he collapsed against it, exhausted.

She could see him sobbing as she walked towards him. The gawkers had already lost interest and had gone back to the television. She hugged him again and when he had composed himself a bit, they walked back to their seats together. He towered over her, but she wasn’t sure he could have stood upright without her arm around his waist. He sat down and put his hat back on, pulling the brim low over this eyes and she went back to staring at her shoes, waiting for him to speak first because she wasn’t sure she could.

“I’m sorry, I know this is just as hard for you as it is for me. . . and I’m not making it any easier.” She tried to reassure him, but he cut her off.

“No, it’s true. I’ve been so damned selfish that I haven’t considered how hard this has been on you. You look like shit.”

She laughed, and even he was able to manage a smile. They had laughed so much together over the years, but they had never needed to do so as much as they did at that moment. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but this place isn’t exactly the Hilton,” she said, and they both smiled again, but it didn’t last for long. It couldn’t.

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“He was a good man, he made one mistake. . . he doesn’t deserve this.” He said this for what seemed like the hundredth time, and she nodded in agreement as she had done every time he had said it before. “I know what you have to do, what we have to do.

And I know why he left you in charge, you’ve always been the strong one.” He took her hand and it disappeared inside of his, as he gently held it. They sat together in silence, except for the television that neither heard, for a brief time.

“Do you remember what I was like after she died?” he asked her, and she nodded.

Their wouldn’t have made it through the dark times that had come afterwards, although she had never found the right opportunity to tell him so. His hand had tightened around hers, he clutched onto it like a drowning man who had just found a piece of flotsam, floating in the midst of a turbulent sea. “I felt so lost. I was lost After it happened, he did everything he could to make things easier, to fill the hole she had left behind. But he couldn’t, nobody could, and I held that against him for so long. I was a terror and things have just gotten better and now, now I can’t lose him too. I can’t. I can’t.” he said, as he slowly let go of her hand. “I know it’s the right thing to do, but I can’t stay. I can’t watch it end. I’m sorry.” She nodded as he stood up, and she stood up with him. They embraced and he looked down at her. She could tell that he wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t come. She nodded at him again, and he nodded back. Tears were welling up in his eyes again and he turned away before she could see them fall.

He shambled out of the room and she could hear the echo of his heavy footsteps fade down the hallway.

She breathed in deeply; the lifeless air seemed to fuel the numbness that had spread throughout her. She walked over to the desk and told the woman seated there that she needed to speak with them, and they came. They had papers for her to sign and she did so. It seemed vulgar to her that a few pen strokes could seal somebody’s fate, and that she had the power to do so. They expressed how sorry they were and she thanked them for it. She thanked them for ending his life. She walked past the women gathered at the desk, blind to the sympathy in their eyes. She paused for a moment outside of his room, steeled herself with a deep breath of the disinfected air, and entered.

She sat down in the chair beside his bed and looked at him. After all this time, she still couldn’t believe it was her father. She hardly recognized the man lying there, with the unpronounceable medications dripping into him and all of the machines he was attached to. She stared at the screen that showed his faint heartbeat for a long while, it was the only proof she had that he was still alive. She looked at him again, but this time she didn’t see the husk that he had become. She saw the man that he had been. Memories were pouring over her, threatening to drown her in a flash flood of feelings. She couldn’t allow that. She tore her gaze away from him, and focused on her shoes again. She stared at the black outline they formed on the white tile and she built a dam inside of herself to hold back the flood. She sat in a silence interrupted only by the beeping of the machines, until she heard the clicking and clomping of their shoes enter the room.

• Philip Zaborowski

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Floodlight Composition • Art Fundamentals • Claire Long

Acromatic Value • Art Fundamentals • Lori Holden

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Business Card • Illustration Techniques • Ryan Servis

Dog & Beth Caricature • Illustration Techniques • Leigh Cole

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Six Word Memoirs: Life in Six Words Stop trying to make everyone happy.

• Jimi McNew

You are perfect at being human.

• Jimi McNew

Lift your head, don’t be afraid.

• Emily Sard

Little girl lost; A big world.

• Emily Sard

Love isn’t real, and people suck.

• Emily Sard

Mom is not my only adjective.

• Victoria Williams

Mustard sandwiches to steak dinners.

• Ethan Green

I am who God made me.

• Marlon Martin

Danced with sin, saved by grace.

• Rachel Evans

Eat. Sleep. Work. At the Bell.

• Gillian Lindhorst

Life: A hot mess, minus hot.

• Kaitlyn Favreau

Stop sweeping it under the rug.

• Michele Persin

Put on your big girl panties!

• Michele Persin

Six Word Memoir and Palindrome Pull up, don’t nod, pull up!

• Ian Dixon

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Paper Knot • Drawing 1 • Lisa Moore

Squash Composition • Art Fundamentals • Ashley Miscut

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Squash Composition • Art Fundamentals • Lorie Holden

Paper Knot • Drawing 2 • Jessica Collins

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Heartless

Talking to You

I wake up at eight I shower, I shave, I brush I enjoy a plate of cakes I leave for school in a rush

My mind is like that of elephant Mentally, emotionally, physically, visually I remember all of it

I ignored the empty chair Just a girl who didn’t come It seemed perfectly fair Until I heard what was done The cameras were fed The search teams scattered All they found was her bed And a body left in tatters Classes were interrupted Detectives asking questions “Who here is corrupted?”

We all jump to attention Finally, One boy was led away I wake up at eight I shower, I shave, I brush I enjoy a plate of cakes I leave for school in a rush • Adam Johansen

Sleeping through the blue skies Dreaming to take it all away Putting ear plugs in so the Thoughts won’t get in In fact, I often wonder about tortoises Do they ever question their own existence?

Because I can’t seem to forget The feeling of you Your memory sticks to my skin Like a bad tattoo After one too many I start to see A silhouette among the shadows And I may never be able to look through A window Quite like I used to Forever and ever and always Isn’t that what we would say?

Isn’t that how we would lie?

Now I feel the way you feel Even through your text Except I don’t think I could Feel that way about you So my lungs remain black From every bridge I’ve burnt But if I could choose a cause of Death It would be drowning in the wake Created by your escape • Jozef Ziegler

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Forgotten Life’s built by days numbered, one then another, but only the highs and lows are remembered.

Yes, a heart beats fast at the very first kiss, But it takes time to know a person you’ll miss.

One, then another, the minutes passing by; I think about thinking, the when and the why, to take attention of the breaths deeply now breathed.

Some gifts go unnoticed until they are grieved.

Today and tomorrow’s monotony pass keeping my memory lost, yet impressed.

Looking on images their times and faces Remembering yesterday’s friends and places.

Find joy in the simple and color the mind.

Make life in the moments. Leave nothing behind.

• Alexis Zimecki

Gone Too Soon Feeling emotions rushing through oneself, as if the world is falling downward.

Perceived as great condition and health, Thoughts immediately turned backward Only present in life for a short time, as the existence is soon stripped from the soul.

Questioning our faith is everyone’s crime, as we lose a part of what made us whole.

Everything happens for a reason, at least that is what we are informed.

Such as the very harsh winter season, This one which will be spent to mourn.

Spend time with the ones you adore most, For tomorrow, their soul be without host.

• Chris Bonderenka

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Face • Illustration Techniques • Claire Long

Johnny Cash • Illustration Techniques • Leigh Cole

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Face • Illustration Techniques • McKinley Killian-Knapp

Leonardo D • Illustration Techniques • Emily Hoffman

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If Temptation was a Three Letter Word Spelled F-A-T Something sweet and crisp makes the word “tempting” float across my tongue. As irony had it, the source of my temptation was the first sin—a fat, juicy apple hanging low on my father’s apple tree. My desire for the fruit would have been less overwhelming, maybe even nonexistent, if I was allowed food. But as it was, my hunger possessed me.

I grew up on a farm with my father, my mother having died due to complications during my birth. After I hit puberty, I got bigger. For a long while, my dad’s disgust of my body was limited to frowns and occasional meanspirited comments. After it became clear that my number on our scale wasn’t going down any farther, he took things into his own hands. I was restricted to portions that my father wouldn’t dare starve the dogs with.

“The dogs aren’t FAT, Natalie,” he would tell me. I could almost see him spitting out the capital letters, F-A-T. And still, I thought the statement was fair. I was fat. I am fat. His implications were not so fair, because I knew what he was really calling me was B-A-D. The truth was, I did more than my fair share of work around the house—the dishes, the cooking, the laundry. I was the one on my FAT hands and knees when the floor needed scrubbed. Occasionally, I would even work out in the fields if my father needed a hand. I could lift more than him. I could even handle a flight of stairs better than his cigarette-smoking ass.

But I was a woman. My uncle’s beer gut was acceptable, my soft stomach rolls and thick thighs were not. Even with my restricted diet, I didn’t lose weight.

I just lost energy. And when I became slow and sluggish, my father said my fat was to blame. I found myself without the energy to argue.

I got into the habit of pinching my skin in front of the mirror. I would stand there, a sizable amount of flesh grasped harshly between my thick fingers, and frown. I would do this over and over, thinking maybe if I just disapproved of my body enough, that it would go away. That it would get smaller. My thighs became littered in bruises.

Now I’m sweating as I spread fertilizer on my father’s apple tree. I remember when the thought first came to me to sneak the fruit for myself. I was lying down in my bed, my head throbbing. I’d curled in on myself, holding my pained stomach as my body begged for something to eat. I was supposed to be doing my chores, but I couldn’t push myself to.

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I thought, maybe, I could rest for an hour or so before my father got home and noticed. Unfortunately, I dozed off. I woke up to him screaming at me, and had to force myself out of bed. My arms and legs felt so heavy. Every waking moment was more exhausting, more painful than the last. I didn’t really hear what my father was yelling from the doorway. Still, I trudged outside to get my chores finished. On the way to the barn, something caught my eye.

A red fruit, perfectly ripe, weighed down a thin branch. The sun made it shine, drawing my gaze right to it. All I could do in that moment was think about that apple. I imagined how it would feel in my hand, like a baseball without stitches.

I could smell the organic scent of the fruit’s flesh. I thought of how I’d have to open my mouth so wide to get a bite before I could taste something that, in that moment, seemed the most appetizing thing in the universe. I eyed the apple, and I thought I must be reflecting it, because I was so sure my face was just as red. So I hurried my pace, a bounce in my step for the first time in months.

Though the thought of eating from the tree had entered my mind, I was careful about not getting caught. I took my time, making sure my father was away before picking the two freshest fruit. I’d hide the apples in my shirt, tucked close to my body, and sneak them to my room. The first, I’d eat, savoring the flavor on my lips. I’m not ashamed to say the first time I took a bite of my temptation, I cried. I was so surprise when I’d finished it that I almost ate the second apple. After a minute to recompose myself and wash my face of any juice, I hid the remaining fruit in my pillowcase.

For the longest time, my father didn’t suspect a thing. Even after he noticed the apples disappearing off his tree, he laughed at the idea that I might be stealing them. Me, the FAT girl? What would I do with an apple?

It wasn’t until he found me in my room, eating a stored apple, that the thought appeared rational. I remember the fury in his eyes, and I thought he was going to kill me. I could smell the stale scent of the cigarette he’d just smoked as he advanced toward me. His bony fingers clutched around my neck as he yelled. The fact that they clearly couldn’t wrap entirely around my throat seemed to anger him further. His face changed so suddenly when I pushed him off with so much force that he fell to the wood floor, his tailbone breaking his fall. I’m sure there was never a moment in his entire life he’d felt fear like when I grabbed my pillow and jumped on him. I covered his head with it, so enraged. So angry that he would choke me for eating. I put my entire weight on my hands, suffocating him. And there was nothing he could do, because I was FAT. I’ll say that I do feel slight remorse. Not necessarily for the man who starved me, but the fact that he would no longer be able to redeem himself. I think that’s why I made him into fertilizer for his own tree. Either that, or I just appreciate irony. More than anything, I feel remorseful for the bruises I pinched into a body that I’ve since learned to love.

• MacKenzie Michalak

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On the Rocks • Illustration Techniques • Claire Long

Pump • Art Fundamentals • Lorie Holden

On the Rocks • Illustration Techniques • Katherine McDonald

Pump • Art Fundamentals • Cassy Fallon

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Saddle Composition • Drawing 1 • Riannon Panza

Saddle Composition • Drawing 1 • Lisa Moore

Saddle Composition • Drawing 1 • Jessica Collins

Squash Composition • Art Fundamentals • Sopia Pipis

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The End I had never met my son until the accident, but I was always watching him and making sure he was good. This whole mess started at the end of what seemed to be a neverending hotter- than-hell summer. My son, James, and all his friends decided to go out to the beach to cool off and have some fun, one last time before school started back up for the year. My poor baby: he had no idea that this day, a day filled with friends, laughter, and good times, would lead to an accident that would be the beginning of the end for him.

James was standing on the edge of the dock with his girlfriend Tammy. They were playing those cute little couple games that all couples seem to play. She shoved him; he gently pushed back. Everything was going great on what seemed to be a beyond perfect day, that is, until Caleb showed up. He absolutely loved to cause problems for my boy, ever since a little misunderstanding in the third grade. Well that little misunderstanding led to years and years of brutal bullying. James would come home from school with eyes blacker than the night sky and his face busted up and covered in wood chips from the playground. In high school my boy finally got the upper hand, but by just being himself. Tammy was originally Caleb’s girlfriend, but she finally got tired of his attitude and how he treated people. She left him for James. They have been together ever sense, but Caleb never got over it.

Caleb came to the lake that day with his friends, and they wanted nothing but trouble, that’s all they ever wanted. He got out of his black convertible and slowly started walking over to my son. James had paid no attention to him until he heard the knocking of his enemy’s feet on the hard wood of the dock.

“What the hell do you want?” James said with a clear sound of annoyance in his tone.

Caleb replied with a smart ass comment, like he always does. “What? I can’t come and visit my good buddy? After all it is a free country; I can go wherever I please.”

James just rolled his eyes and started to get very angry. If he were a cartoon, steam would’ve flew out of his ears.

“It may be a free country, but you don’t need to be here when all you’re going to do is try and fight me and insult Tammy!”

Caleb started to get angry and so did James. “Tammy belongs to me, you little maggot!”

“Yeah, well she’s mine now; she made her choice when you decided to try and run me over with your car! Besides, you’re nothing but a bully, why would she ever want you!?”

It’s hard to believe what happened next; it all happened so quickly. If I would’ve blinked it would’ve been over. Caleb pulled his arm all the way back and he lunged forward, socking James in the face. The blow caught him off guard and he fell onto his back and onto the wood. Tammy tried to stop it; she grabbed ahold of Caleb’s arm, but the second she touched him he pushed her out of the way leaving a bright red mark as she slipped and splashed into the lake. He then proceeded to beat my child. I wish I could’ve stopped him, but I couldn’t and that hurt me all the more, just knowing all I could do was watch. Finally, James had had enough and out of the heat of the fight he picked up a loose board off of the dock and smacked Caleb in the ribs to try and knock him off.

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I can still remember the looks on everybody’s faces: grief, agony, and most of all, regret. For a brief moment, everything stood still, like time itself had frozen. There was no wind, no water, no anything. As quickly as it had started, it was all over. All that could be heard was a big crack and then a splash. Caleb fell and smacked his head on the dock, knocking him unconscious as a he fell in the water. James panicked and jumped in after the still body. Tammy and he dragged the corpse out of the freezing water. It just lay there motionless, drenched in water. James tried CPR and everything else he could think of from that class he was forced to take in high school, which at the time he thought was stupid and unnecessary.

All he could do was stand there, looking cold and sick. I could just tell by the look on his face that James would throw up at any second. His face was as green as the seaweed at the bottom of the lake. Everything was silent again except for Tammy. She was sobbing hysterically and in between every sob she cried out: “What did you do?”

“Call 911!”

That’s all she could say; that’s all she could do.

A month later, James was sent to trial, for the accidental murder of Caleb. Tensions in that court room were high, so many judging eyes, so many people judging my baby and they hadn’t even been there. How could they judge him if they weren’t even there to see? My boy had never done anything like this before, he was so scared, and so very alone. If only I could sit next to him and make him feel better, if only I could whisper in his ear and tell him everything is going to be all right.

The lawyer called James up to the witness stand, as he went up sweat poured off his brow, you could just see the fear in his eyes and all throughout his poor body.

“Now son, why don’t you tell me in your own words what happened that summer day.” The lawyer started.

“It’s simple, he’d been bullying me since third grade. He hit me; I hit him back,” James said with a trembling voice.

The day in the court house went by slowly with question after question. I was so proud of my boy, though. He answered every question as truthfully and honestly as possible. Finally, the trial came to a close as the judge read his verdict.

“I find James Andrew Sullivan innocent of the murder of Caleb Henry Jennings. There is not enough evidence to convict. Case Dismissed!”

The gavel cracking on the judge’s desk echoed through the court. Everyone there for James was thrilled, but James . . . James wasn’t. Even though he was found innocent, the look on his face was a look of grief and guilt.

That night was the last night anybody would ever see James again. He wanted to clear his head and think things over, so he drove in the dark out to the lake where everything happened. James went and sat on the dock, dangling his bare feet into the water, he didn’t care that it was cold. He started thinking about his life and everything that had happened over the past couple months. Everything ran through his mind, the day of the accident, his girlfriend breaking his heart and leaving him the next week, all the brutal and long police questionings, and the never-ending guilt he felt for what he had done. James had hated Caleb, but he felt terrible for what had happened. He took a life and knew there was no way he could ever makes things right again.

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While James sat there thinking, the wind hit his face and blew through his hair. Then, out of the blue, it started lightning and violently thundering. It poured and poured, and the wind and waves started picking up and crashing onto the dock and shore line. All he could do was just sit there, until he seen something splashing out in the water that couldn’t possibly be a wave or fish. He could barely hear over the wind, but he swore he could hear someone screaming for help.

James couldn’t save Caleb, but he could help whoever this person was. He walked back off the dock and got a running start. As he jumped into the water he realized how cold it really was.

It stung his skin and the waves kept pulling him back away from where he was trying to go, but he kept fighting and going forward.

I wish he hadn’t jumped in. Oh, how I wish he would’ve turned away and gone back home. James was too young, but that’s not the kind of person my baby was. He cared about people and wanted to make a difference in this cruel and unfortunate world. Such a waste. He could’ve really made a difference one day.

He finally swam out to where he thought the splashing and screaming had come from, but there wasn’t anything there. He took a deep breath and went under to see if he could see anyone or thing. James went further and further down, the water got colder and colder and the pressure became stronger and stronger. My baby got a little bit closer to get a better look even though he knew and the pressure became stronger and stronger. Finally, he saw something trapped in the goopy, slimy seaweed. When he got close enough he realized it was Caleb trapped in the seaweed. He thought, “But that doesn’t make sense! I saw the ambulance take away his body!” James slowly moved his arm and went to touch his face, but Caleb’s eyes flashed open. It freaked James out and he tried to swim back up.

He didn’t get very far when he heard the muffled voice of Caleb say: “You’re Mine!

Caleb grabbed James by the foot and started pulling him further and further down.

My poor baby struggled and struggled to get away; he was really running out of air now.

His mouth opened and water flooded in. He kept trying and trying, but water started filling his lungs, that’s when my baby gave up. He didn’t have the strength to fight anymore, down he went.

If only he hadn’t been delirious and grief stricken. If only he could have seen that Caleb was not really there. All that was under the water was a big knot of seaweed. As James tried to swim away he had panicked and gotten tangled in the underwater slime.

His downfall was his own grief.

I cried when he gave up, but I finally got to meet my baby that night. I could finally hold my James.

• Cayla Rentschler

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Tetradic Landscape • Art Fundamentals • Cassy Fallon

Macro Composition • 2-D Design • Abigail Warner

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Leaving “Who’s there? Who’s there? Loud and frightened, her voice reaches from the back of a house littered with storage containers and trash bags. Looking into his mother’s eyes, he found them empty. She stood there as if stuck; her face, expressionless. Her hair was frayed, shoulders hunched, and the fat falling from her shirt. She gripped the wall so tightly, her hands grew purple. “Go!” she growled. Again she grunted. “Go!” Go and the advice of his father echoes inside him. There were boxes of things all around the furniture. There was no way out of the house, and his mother pointed the blade in his direction. He became frozen. **** e took a moment for a last look in the mirror. He straightened a slightly H wrinkled t-shirt labeled with the name of a band that surely no one would recognize. He wore a pair of disappointing jeans with their struggling zipper broken but maintained by a key ring— a tip he had found on the internet. He had identical holes in both shoes, but decided not to worry about it. His blondebrown hair was combed to the left so his bangs would get in the way of his eyes.

Green grass complimented the clear blue sky on this perfect day. Only one hundred fifty or so yards of driveway separated him from the world. His Chevy Impala was packed with little left in the brakes. MapQuest print-outs were sitting on the passenger seat next to a gym sack held together with black duct tape.

He slid into the car, as he always did, in such a slick, casual manner, as if there was an audience he was trying to impress. Starting the car, he glanced down at the gas gauge. Not empty. One less thing keeping him here. Thinking back to yesterday, he dug into his bag for an unlabeled CD. **** This time of year, the weather is uncomfortable. He wanted to go inside, but the house was too quiet. There was no smell of turkey in the oven, no pile of stuffing to go with cranberry sauce, no corn begging to be mixed on the plate with mashed potatoes. Something was missing. The computer wasn’t where it should be. Sister’s door was broken so that large splinters of wood stuck out from the yellowed white paint. Mom’s car was gone, but Dad’s wasn’t. He thought about going to bed. It was five in the afternoon, and he was not quite tired. **** A lead foot drove the car down the back roads to the highway. No other vehicles were around for miles. Passing windmills, he thought of every time he had ever felt free. As if everything went blank. As he approached a small town, he thought of stopping at a small diner for a real dinner. ****

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“You!” his mother shouts obscenities. “Her.” His room was destroyed. Every drawer was opened, and everything from under his bed had been pulled out.

His eyes started to tear up at the sight of his invaded privacy. Confessions of love he had hidden had been removed from the closet and lay open on his bed.

The trash had been emptied. If the room hadn’t been clean before, it was a real mess now. He tried to argue even though he shouldn’t have, but the words kept spilling out. He had made it worse, and he would only realize that later. There on the floor his eyes followed to where his mom pointed to a condom wrapper. **** Street lights were visible across an empty town. No one was out at this hour— not in this town, at least. Little appreciation had ever been given to this town during daylight with its row after row of corn lining the sides of the roads, and its main street is dotted with family-owned shops filled with keepsakes and items for sale. But at night, it seemed deserted. **** “I’ll get you!”

“No you won’t” “Yes I will!” They were chasing each other the way kids do— through the halls, over the furniture, under the tables, and back around the kitchen.

“No you won’t!” she said, screaming with laughter.

“Stop!” The strict words of mom crashed down as he slammed into her arm. She had stuck her arm out to stop them, and now she’d been hurt. Sister paused with a scared look. Dad yanked him back to his room. The first one hurt. The second one stung. He ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

Looking in the mirror, he could see his front tooth gone and blood running down his chin.

“You bastard!” he shouted.

The rest was a blur. The car slowed as the dentist put him to sleep. The sharp feeling like a needle pained him. He glanced to the left to find Mom and Dad standing in the corner, where they had spent the entire appointment. His worries— about work, school, the chance his phone would buzz were drowned out by the word of someone telling him to go. “Entrances and Exits” by Tiny Moving Parts played through the stereo in the car. He thought about the trip he had spent so much time planning.

• Jozef Ziegler

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Emily • Illustration Techniques • Ryan Servis

Self Portrait Caricature • Illustration Techniques • Claire Long

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Horsemen Little we see in nature that is ours.

A conquering horde, we have staked our claim.

Raping and pillaging the earth and stars, Leaving the heavens a smoldering flame.

World after world, we’ve wasted and destroyed.

Pestilence and Famine spread in our wake.

We Plague the galaxy—now a sterile void, Countless societies burned at the stake.

Will our only gift to the cosmos be War, Have we bid peace and harmony farewell?

Our mission now: to conquer, not explore.

Are we painting Dante’s vision of Hell.

A people who once feared green men from Mars, Roasting s’mores on embers of dying stars.

• Philip Zaborowski

Bowl & Cup Set • Ceramics 3 • Taylor Eason

Blackout Haiku Poem “found” within original article printed in the Omaha World Herald, August 7, 2012.

A Spark of Motivation The Sun and the stars Express tonight in new light: A sense of power

• Cameron Dziama

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First Sight

but it wouldn’t.

I want to say that you are the first thing I see when I wake in the morning,

You are no verse; you are a stanza, a canto, an epic. You are Dante’s Divine Comedy, all three parts, in the original Italian.

but you’re not.

It’s pitch black, I’m half blind, flailing my arm, trying to find my glasses. And, although they are placed in the same place, the same spot, every night, I never fail to grab them clumsily, gracelessly, smudging my thumbprint across the lens.

I want to say that this moment of first sight would be like a botanist finding a new flower, but it wouldn’t.

You are not a flower, meant to be plucked, dissected, and indexed in The Classification of Flowering Plants or The Fundamentals of Horticulture; You are a bouquet, a garden, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, one of the seven wonders of the world.

I want to say it would be like some Ph. D. in Color Science discovering a new hue or color scheme, but it wouldn’t.

You are not a shade or tint, something to brand a Crayola; you are multi-tonal, of varying saturations.

You are the whole palette, the original color wheel conceived by Newton.

I want to say it would be like a poet crafting the perfect verse for a poem,

So, although I don’t have that moment of first sight in the morning, I do have it at other times during the day.

I have found that I clean my glasses more as I age. I can’t leave the house without my keys, my wallet, my phone, and my eyeglass cloth, which utilizes ultra fine, high density, micro-fiber technology and comes complete with instructions in four different languages: “Remove dirt particles from lenses before wiping.”

And I love cleaning my glasses in your presence.

This is true.

I wipe the lenses with the cloth and hold them up toward you, as if to light, so you are the first thing I see.

You stand out to me and capture my attention.

You are my clarity, my measure of visual acuity, my Snellen chart of Beauty with your own prototypes and unique typographies.

I love to see you in sharp focus against the blurry world, for at that moment, you are the world.

• Scott McCloskey

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The Prophet The Prophet landed where the sea and the river met, and he was eager to share his faith with the village he encountered. They appeared to be a graceful community for the most part and he believed his task from God was going to prove even easier than his own conversion, and his own understanding of his God, which was described by a varying number of a few points, which depended on his ability to learn their language and depended on the extent or strength of his faith. Their God was very similar to his God, but he had not noticed, for when he was sent he was told that his mission was divine.

He had spent an entire season there, and the people were seemingly happy with their new found faith. He was pleased with himself and he praised his God for the successful salvation of his contemporary company. Some of the villagers would ask him questions that reminded him of his own concern about his God that he would ask himself frequently as a young man. He was severely pleased to answer such questions because he felt that in doing so he was remending the beliefs which were sometimes rattled. He expected these sorts of shakings, but he always found a quiet reason to restack them, and it almost never kept him awake. Though the village never quite fully grasped his God, their misunderstandings were always signs of grace to him, and served to prove in his mind that his God could see people’s hearts.

Eventually, he realized something surprising; what he was observing was that these villagers practiced in his teachings better than he could himself. This made him feel ashamed before his God, and it drove him to despair. He had missed the population that he had met some time earlier. They were once a happy graceful community dancing and singing with no shortage of supplies. He struggled to cope with the fact that he liked them better when they were practicing their own religions. He found himself unable to connect with his God and he could not remember what his home state was like.

The prophet asked some of the villagers to take him down the river, because he believed God would reveal a new source of food. They watched as their four legged meals not meant for the sea made their way across the water and over the horizon. They looked around for remaining scraps and found none. Instead they discovered an abandoned temple. They recognized its perfect shapes but did not recognize it from the characters on the prophet’s papers, and they at once disagreed about the meaning it represented. Nothing had ever repeated itself before their eyes in this way. The rivers meandered and the villagers never needed to ask why. To them, it was obviously the result of gravity and fluidity, but it was the perfect shape of the temple that intrigued them.

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They sought to explain it, and when they composed their explanation of the temple, they no longer saw the need for it, but instead they sought an explanation for their ability to recognize the figures with the perfect angles, and some debate began over whether they had the ability before gazing upon the temple or whether the temple gave them the power. No river or lake or mountain they had ever seen was described by such regular shapes. Then they wandered back to the river because they were thirsty. Soon some forgot the sight by the time they were hungry, while others grew hungry before they could forget their own memory. Some sat in front of the temple and they could not remember where to find food, so they waited. An unusually warm breeze swept through, and the people thought about their old God wondering if it was a sign from their abandoned Providence.

He asked himself why it was that he could not remember what his home was like, and how could it have been something he’d remember was lost? The sight of this behavior made the prophet sick, and he rested in the sand, and decided it was best for himself to avoid eating. He looked into his bag where he kept his final orders from his God and he threw it into the fire still burning and watched it blacken and turn to dust in front of him. He prayed, or thought. He thought and he let the breeze carry him off. The Prophet was astonished and neither he nor the others would any longer believe in anything.

• William Hounshell

Vases • Ceramics 4 • Kaitlin Bereczky

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CONTRIBUTORS

Writers Hayley Baker

Adam Johansen

Cayla Rentschler

Chris Bonderenka

Gillian Lindhorst

Emily Sard

Daniel Daggett

Marlon Martin

Allison Sullivan

Cameron Dziama

Scott McCloskey

Victoria Williams

Ian Dixon

MacKenzie Michalak

Macey Verkic

Rachel Evans

Barbara Mauter

Philip Zaborowski

Kaitlyn Favreau

Jimi McNew

Jozef Ziegler

Ethan Green

Michele Persin

Alexis Zimecki

William Hounshell

Ross Rainley

Artists

Christin Kern

Kathy Sortor

Kaitlin Bereczky

Cassondra Kiley

Brynn Stolisov

Diane Billau

McKinley Killian-Knapp

Abigail Warner

Leigh Cole

Claire Long

Susan Westerdale

Jessica Collins

Katherine McDonald

Soraya Corcoran

Ashley Miscuk

Taylor Eason

Lisa Moore

Cassy Fallon

Riannon Panza

Emily Hofmann

Sophia Pipis

Lorie Holden

Ryan Servis

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