Pangaea 2016-2017

South Louisiana Community College

PA N G A E A Literary and Arts Magazine

Department of English

2016-2017

Cover Art by: Linda O’Bryan “Everyday Lights”

CONTENT 01 | Visual Art

Page: 08

Winner- Linda O’Bryan

“Everyday Lights”

02 | Fiction

Page: 32

Winner- Briana Walters

“The Marriage”

03 | Poetry

Page: 14

Winner- Rachel Molaison

“Inaudible Lamentations”

04 | Non-Fiction

Page: 55

Winner- Laural Blanchard

“Born and Bred”

PAGE

| 02

Dear Readers, We are excited to share a new issue of Pangaea that celebrates the creative expressions of South Louisiana Community College students.

As every year, the editors have chosen the best submissions in the categories of fiction, poetry, visual arts, and non-fiction. This year's choice for the best fiction submission is the short story “The Marriage”

by Briana Walters. In playing with the enduring question “what would you do for love?”, the short story presents us with suspense, an immediate answer, and definitely many afterthoughts. The poem “Inaudible Lamentations” by Rachel Molaison is a reflection on what sometimes feels to be the heaviness and solitude of human existence.

Her poem is a call to all the souls who have come across this feeling.

Linda O'Bryan’s photograph “Everyday Lights” features on the cover with a transformation of the quotidian into an abstract landscape. Laural Blanchard's essay “Born and Bred” is the best non-fiction submission reminding us that childhood memories of food are wonderful places to visit. Please enjoy!

2016-2017

Late Bloomer

Visual art by L i n d a O ’ B r y a n

PAGE

| 04

My Traitorous Heart I hate you with my mind Full of sweet and bitter memory No longer held with ties that bind Can’t forget the spiteful history I hate you with my mind I hate you with my soul Stripped down to tender core Left barren, dreary, and droll Nothing like I had been before I hate you with my soul I hate you with my flesh Flayed open by lies and scorn Scarred like moth-eaten mesh Wandering lost and forlorn I hate you with my flesh Despite what my memory does impart Despite the waste left of my soul Despite what tortures have torn apart The light of a traitor in this hole I still love you, with all my heart Poetry T e n a d o r e A n d e r s o n

PAGE

| 05

White Horses Waiting is no fun.

Watching the time tick by.

Nothing ever changing.

Broker than you were yesterday.

I bet they ride their white horses…

All the way into the sunsets; dark sunglasses One hundred dollar bills, flying high.

While people like you and me Sit and watch paint dry…

Get lied to from all sides…

I bet they ride their white horses.

As I check this empty account one more time todayReload, Refresh, Reload, Refresh.

They give us nothing and, They treat us like less.

As if we were not the ones to build them.

I bet they ride their white horses;

All the way into the sunsets; across ancient vistas Taking expensive vacations and paying their bills on time.

While people like you and me Become tired of questions never answered…

Poetry by M e g a n A r m e n t o r

PAGE

| 06

Expected to just go with the flow--While they spread their lies like cancer.

I bet that they ride their white horses.

Light to Dark

Visual art by L i n d a O ’ B r y a n

PAGE

| 07

Everyday Lights Editor’s Choice

Visual art by L i n d a O ’ B r y a n

PAGE

| 08

I Hurt Myself and Watched God Make a Miracle Miracles can come from addiction. My experience with opiates is a miracle. Within 6 years, a war veteran with unlimited opportunities sunk down into a homeless junky who rode a stolen bike to get high every day. I lost everything by age 27. It was all traded for a few hours of numbness and empty happiness. My criminal activities gave me the privilege to spend some time in jail and a free rehab.

That’s one of the best things that have ever happened to me. I’ve been sober for 3 years and now Uncle Sam is paying my college tuition. This playlist tells my experience with addiction and sobriety.

Hurt by Nine Inch Nails Heroin and pain killers be-

-came my best friend. It started out as a fix for a hurt knee and a pick-me-up during the day. One at a time gradually turned into 10. After a few months, they stabbed me in the stomach and left me to die! They make you feel all warm and happy inside. They help you forget all problems. They gave me this surge of confidence to talk to anyone. It feels like you’re floating in Heaven, and when it wears off, you see its’ really Hell. “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel, I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real”.

I didn’t have serious physical pain at the time. Maybe it was some emotional pain. Maybe memories of rejection, not being good enough, fears of abandonment and loneliness.

It’s nice to numb those things for a while and feel like Superman.

I know I didn’t want to feel Non-Fiction by T o b y M e l a n c o n

PAGE

| 09

I Hurt Myself and Watched God Make a Miracle normal. I despised normal. I needed to feel different all the time. I found that these little pills and powder gave me energy. It helped me become the person I thought everyone wanted me to be. I think back and see that I was never comfortable in my own skin. Low self-esteem, no confidence, inferiority complex, fear of girls. Pills took all that away and gave me ease and comfort.

Every shot brought warmth, bliss, happiness, ignorance. It was such an overwhelming sensation, that it allowed me to ignore my intolerable situation for a few hours. Until it wore off. Then the misery, depression, and fear came back. I still remember the desperation and shame when I

was out of dope and money. My thoughts were consumed with thinking up excuses to acquire money from family or friends. They heard every ridiculous excuse in the world.

I broke so many peoples’ hearts every day. It’s such a vicious cycle.

46 & 2 by Tool “I’ve been wallowing in my own chaotic and insecure delusions”.

Being loaded all the time was like living in a fog. I wasn’t present in reality. Dope became my God. I thought everyone should feel sorry for me because of my “bad luck and misfortune” in my life, even though I caused all of it. So delusional. I see now that I acted like the whole world revolved around me. All about what Toby wants. I forgot that I shared this world with 7 billion people.

“I wanna feel the changes

Non-Fiction by T o b y M e l a n c o n

PAGE

|10

coming down. I wanna know what I’ve been hiding in my Shadow.”

In order for me to get sober, I had to unlearn everything I thought I knew about life. I had to change the way I acted and how I saw the world. The shadow is like my subconscious mind and the character defects that I hide. I had to become aware of those defects that caused me to abuse drugs and alcohol and hurt people. Selfish, self-centered, egotistical, inconsiderate, intolerant, fearful.

When I honestly faced these things, I gained self-awareness and a point to grow from. I was shown that I’m not perfect and that’s ok because no one is.

I had to rid myself of those defects of character by asking God to remove them. I tried to change my ways for 10 years and

was never successful on my own will power. A friend in jail told me his story one day. He was just like me.

The only way he got sober and became a good man again was by surrendering to God to make the changes in him. He asked me, “What do you have to lose? You already lost everything to that dope, so why not try to gain a new life under God’s watch?” I saw that it worked for him, so I hesitantly dropped my pride and ego and tried something different. It worked.

Til The Day I Die by TobyMac When I got sober, I was taught a new way to live. If I wanted to stay sober and become a productive member of society, I had to work steps with a sponsor, serve others, and then work steps with other drunks and junkies.

PAGE

| 11

I Hurt Myself and Watched God Make a Miracle AA showed me that I was the cause of 99% of the bad things that happened to me. I caused all the chaos in my life. I found out that I didn’t have a drinking or drug problem. I had a Me problem. Alcohol and drugs were just a solution to my problems!

AA gave me a better solution and it’s free.

Part of the solution requires me to work steps and take a look at myself and where I screwed up. I became aware of character defects and fears and asked God to remove them and mold me. Then I made a list of all the people whom I had hurt and made amends. I should start and end every day with prayer and meditation. Reliance upon God, rather than Toby or Dope.

Every day I’m supposed to

carry the message of AA to other drunks and junkies. I would be selfish if I didn’t do this. No one can connect to an addict like another addict can so it’s my duty to point the next sufferer in the right direction. When I do this, it’s like taking out an insurance policy to prevent me from getting loaded again. Serving others, working steps, reaching out. When I don’t do these things, I start to lose my mind and hurt people again. I can see it coming every time. It will eventually lead back to dope or eating a bullet, so I get myself busy with addicts.

My grandma Mitt asked me the other day, “Toby, how much longer you gotta go to those meetings? You’ve been doing this for 3 years.” This is a life-long process for a junky like me. I just smile and say to her, “I’m a miracle, but I have to do this ‘til the day I die, Mitt.”

Non-Fiction by T o b y M e l a n c o n

PAGE

|12

Hills of Light

Visual art by L i n d a O ’ B r y a n

PAGE

| 13

Inaudible Lamentations Editor’s Choice

What am I to think, when I do everything as I am told, but am still pulled under in the deep, dark water?

I have secured every harness and filled every raft.

I sink deeper still.

What law of logic am I supposed to curse when, contrary to everything I have worked toward, I see no progress?

Tiny ripples in the water appear as monstrous tsunamis to me.

Waking before noon feels like never having gone to sleep.

Which is more tired: my body or my soul?

They are at equal levels of exhaustion.

The only further form of relief is one I am unable to receive. This makes the water deeper.

I am drowning at an even more rapid pace as I desperately reach out for a source of buoyancy, only to have it barely escape my grasp.

The mockery of it all is overwhelming.

“Take this simple solution,” I am told, “it is right here, directly in front of your eyes.

You need only touch it.”

I shout at the speaker: I CANNOT REACH. Poetry by R a c h e l M o l a i s o n PAGE

| 14

He continues dangling it just out of reach, telling me to grab on and be freed.

His ears do not hear my persistent cries of impossibility.

Do any ears hear these cries?

It appears as if they do not.

For, I lament them daily for all to hear and receive no reply.

“Just speak out. Just tell someone,” he says to me.

But when I do, all listeners vanish.

I search on, desperately grasping around in the dark.

My hands fall upon something my eyes have not yet seen: another, just like me.

This creature resembles my own heart in such a way I had not foreseen as possible.

The heart that struggles as mine has become like a safety rope to me.

My fatigued hands clutch it tightly, and I am lifted out of the depths of the sea.

PAGE

| 15

Eight Months The bright sun of Carcassonne shone straight into Gabriel’s eyes. He squinted. Bernadette thought of how blue they were, how the sunlight made them somehow more colorful than they had always been. She watched him from the little window above the kitchen sink where she washed the dishes before lunch. She opened the window to let in the fresh air. He was playing with his red toy truck in the back yard. He had formed the dirt into various sized mounds where he pushed the toy trucks and watched them roll down the other side. His laughter, the squeak of the toy truck’s wheels, and the radio news report were all she heard.

The day was November 25, 1918. The radio reporter was talking about the end of the Great War. It had been over for two weeks now, but was still the top news report on every station. Bernadette couldn’t see what was so great about it. All she could Fiction by R a c h e l M o l a i s o n

PAGE

| 16

see was a lot of death. She wondered, “Why is the only way to solve our problems the killing of those we disagree with?” She couldn’t help thinking of all the sons, brothers, and husbands who wouldn’t be able to come home. How many families had been ruined by something people thought was so great?

Gabriel grew up with the war.

He was born the year it began. Now as he played in the yard, Bernadette wanted nothing more than to be as her son: ignorant. Gabriel had never met his father, and he never would. The war born in the same year had taken his father from him. But he was unaware of this fact. He was unaware of any sense of loss or sorrow in regard to the man who gave him his life. Bernadette reflected on how, only eight months into the war, they had gotten the call.

Her husband, her son’s father, Luc Durand, dead. Gone. Never to be held again, never to be seen again. Anger

and tears welled up in Bernadette for only a moment. Then she caught another glimpse of her smiling son and remembered the two blessings she was left with: Gabriel and his sister Sophie.

She dried her eyes and called out to Gabriel, “Come inside. It’s time for lunch!”

Sophie had never felt more proud of her little brother. Some days came close to today. There was his high school graduation, his first college graduation, and his getting accepted into medical school. Those days were important, but none measured up to this day. This was the day her baby brother would become a licensed medical doctor at only 28 years old.

She waited for the ceremony to begin.

When it did, her not-so-little-anymore baby brother walked in with the rest of the graduates—the class of 1942.

Speeches were made. Awards were given. He didn’t receive any special recognition, but it didn’t matter to

Sophie. He had made it through all his schooling, and he was finally becoming a doctor. She remembered all those semesters she had spent helping him study, quizzing him on terms and definitions. She even let him do practice checkups on her. She could always rest assured that her heart rate was very normal for her age, and she seemed perfectly healthy. Tears welled up in her eyes as they called out “Gabriel Durand.” He walked across the stage, received his diploma, and sat back down with his fellow doctors.

The church was decorated more beautifully than Isabelle had ever seen it. Aside from the usual nerves, everything about that day was perfect.

In fact, the closer they got to the ceremony, the more peaceful she felt.

Everything about the day seemed right.

The weather was lovely, the planning had gone smoothly, and everyone she loved was able to attend. The day

PAGE

| 17

Eight Months seemed almost like an extension of the celebration of her fiancé’s graduation from medical school, for it had been just four months prior.

Every little detail added up to their special and long-awaited wedding day. She was wearing her mother’s dress. It was a lovely, white, floorlength gown. It had beading around the waist, long sleeves, and buttons up the back. Her birdcage veil had just been placed over her eyes, and she was ready to walk down the aisle.

Two huge doors were opened in front of her to reveal the largest gathering of her family and friends she had ever seen. After looking at them for a few brief seconds, her eyes came to rest on him. The most handsome man she knew was made somehow more handsome in his tuxedo and bowtie.

She wanted to run to him, but, as was customary, she walked slowly. So slowly. It seemed like the walk would never end. But it did, she found Fiction by R a c h e l M o l a i s o n

PAGE

| 18

herself standing next to her best friend.

The vows were said, and Gabriel took Isabelle in his arms and kissed her a little longer than he should have. Little giggles could be heard throughout the church before he finally stood her upright, and they walked back up the aisle together, holding hands.

How different today felt from those days. Gabriel’s mother, sister, and wife stood in the gently warming sun.

They faced not each other, but waited with their necks craning, eager to see the first glimpse of his return. In 1943, World War II had not even ended yet, but they were getting Gabriel back a little early. They watched, eyes searching for his return vehicle out in the distance. In the meantime, they nursed their favorite memories of him.

Bernadette began by focusing on Gabriel at four years old. Now she stood in the street, wondering if he had had a happy twenty-ninth birthday. She wouldn’t know because he had been

gone for eight months. Apparently, the Great War was so great that they decided to have another one. But this time, her own son had been shipped off to the battlefields. She was a mother who had to live in constant fear of something bad happening to her child for eight months. Just as it had for Gabriel that day twenty-five years ago, the sun shone into Bernadette’s eyes.

She squinted for that reason, but also because she thought she saw something coming in the distance. There it was.

Her blood drained from her face. She didn’t know how she was still standing.

Her legs had seemingly ceased to work. She wanted to run to him but couldn’t move. She couldn’t feel her limbs, save for the lead in her feet. The closer it got, the dizzier she felt. Her little Gabriel was returning home to her. The vehicle finally came to a stop in the road next to her. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but almost chocked on it. Her son was

home.

Sophie replayed the pride she felt for Gabriel on his graduation day.

Growing up, they were best friends. As much as she was there for him, he was for her. He helped her through scraped knees and broken hearts. She missed him so much. Normally, she would turn to him when she was feeling sad. She wanted him to be there for her while she cried about how long it had been since she had seen him. She never spent more than a day without at least talking to him. But now, it had been eight months. There were so many things she wanted to tell him. So much had happened in those eight months. The letters simply did not suffice. She wanted to sit with him, hold his hand, see his smile. Her heart began to beat more quickly as she saw the vehicle coming up the road. Her brother was inside.

With her eyes closed, Isabelle

PAGE

| 19

Eight Months allowed herself the luxury of remembering her wedding day. She remembered never having felt so close to Gabriel. Now, she thought of how silly she had been. Although he had been away from her for twothirds of their first year of marriage, she could feel how connected their souls were. Distance didn’t matter to either of them. They wrote letters every day. They prayed for each other. They saved up all their sorrow over missing each other and waited for the day he would return to her.

Just as she began to smile over the memory of such a perfect wedding day, she heard the rumble of an engine and knew that her husband was home. She held her breath as she watched the vehicle approach. She didn’t know if she was quite ready for what was to come, but that didn’t matter. He was here. It was happening. Car doors were opening.

The three women looked at each Fiction by R a c h e l M o l a i s o n

PAGE

| 20

other, took deep breaths, and held hands.

Eight men dressed in military uniforms got out of the vehicle and walked around to the back of it. Then, the women witnessed what they thought they never would. After eight months, their Gabriel was back. They needn’t worry any longer about all the horrible things that could happen to him at war. Nothing could hurt him anymore. Each of the eight men gripped a silver handle and carried his casket out of the hearse and into the church. They each allowed themselves one last moment spent remembering their favorite moment with Gabriel.

Then they went inside the church to tell him goodbye for the second time in eight months.

Bathtub Blues Here it is: bath time again. This is the life of a rubber ducky. It doesn't change much; I can tell you that. The mother of our household comes in every evening around this time and fills up the bathtub for the little human she takes care of. My bath companions and I wait for this moment every day because it's the most exciting thing that happens in our non-eventful week. I'm the only rubber ducky in the group; there's a purple octopus, a starfish, a few mermaids, and a turtle that make up the rest of us. Occasionally a ship comes to visit us or some fluffy toy who doesn't belong in our territory; poor guys, I hear they have a hard time recovering from that traumatic adventure. The other bath toys have a good old time during bath time with the little human. They like to be played with. I guess they don't mind it much when the little tyke throws us against the shower wall or chews on our heads with its gums. I can’t understand how

they can be so content with such a monotonous life. I'm constantly curious about what lies outside of that bathroom door. What else has this world to offer to a rubber duck like me?

My thoughts are interrupted by the shrieking squeals of the tiny human as it cannonballs into the bathtub and thrashes around, blindly searching for one of us to occupy its hands. The water rises up and down and drives us from one side of the tub to the other.

We're unable to gain control over its powerful waves. When the higher waves bring me closer to the edge of the bathtub, I look at the bathroom door, and I get lost in this dream where I see myself jumping right out of the bathtub and hopping straight through that door to the unknown. But, the water is never high enough to push me over the edge. And even if it did, the mother would probably just pick me up

Fiction by K a t h r y n Z e r i n g u e

PAGE

| 21

Bathtub Blues and place me right back into the hands of her tiny human. Oh! I shake my thoughts again and look up to the looming hand above me, its shadow hovering over my little yellow body.

The hand picks me up and squeezes me so as to hear the squeak I project when this happens. I can't escape it. I look over at my companions who are floating around underneath me and the hand; they look like they're having a pool party, the time of their life. The hand then drops me as the mother pulls the human out of the tub to dry it off. The water begins to drain, and I begin to think harder about my escape.

I consider asking my companions to be part of my escape plan, but I look at their happy faces and realize that they don't share the same feelings as myself. They are comfortable where they are. So I plan alone. I look around the room to observe what might be of use to my Fiction by K a t h r y n Z e r i n g u e

PAGE

| 22

escape. What in this room might aid me to the exit? I can't climb, so the shower curtains are of no use. I thought about getting flushed down the toilet to escape to other waters, but I don't believe I can fit; and anyway, if I could, I would have to get into the toilet somehow. Really, a rubber ducky's athletic abilities only allow us to swim and hop. Therefore, the only way to hop out of the bathroom door would be for someone or something to take me out of the bathtub first, something like overflowing water or the mother's hands. I don't think I can effectively communicate with the mother, and I can't reach the faucet to turn it on. It seems as if there is no hope for me. So, I decide to drop the thought for the time being and visit with my companions until the routine bath the next day.

Day after day, night after night, bath time after bath time, I build up hope in my escape. I begin formulating these abstract blue-prints in my head

for the procedure. I spend the entirety of every day contemplating how I might achieve my goal. One blue-print includes me trying to look broken somehow so that the mother might take me out, but how would I do this without actually wounding myself?

Another blue-print plans for me to bounce off one bath toy and onto another and then another until I could bounce right off one's head and onto the bathroom floor. The more I plan, the more my anticipation grows.

allowing the water to lift me up a little higher every minute. The water level is now about where the mother usually likes it, but she doesn't walk in as usual.

The water keeps creeping higher and higher very slowly. Is this my moment?

Just when I had lost all hope in hopping out of that bathroom door? My companions start to voice their concerns as my hope for escape grows bigger. Oh, please let this be my time!

Oh, let this be the day I embark on a journey to the unknown!

One fateful evening the next week comes, and as usual, the mother walks in at the routine time to turn on the faucet. She looks a little rushed today, overwhelmed with whatever is going on in her human life. She turns the faucet on, plugs the drain, and walks out, closing the door behind her.

My companions joyfully await the little human and discuss their anticipation with one another. I sit in the corner,

I just want to escape! I hate being confined in this claustrophobic bathtub! The water rises higher than it ever has before, and I am beginning to feel so grateful for the absent mind of the mother who turned this faucet on in the first place. Now is my time. Now is the time to jump out of here and see what else this world has to offer! My little rubber heart is beating faster than I’ve ever felt it beat. All of my bath

PAGE

| 23

Bathtub Blues companions have wild fear in their eyes; they begin swimming away from the edge of the bathtub. But I just let it happen. I await it with open wings. Almost there. Right as the water is about to tip me over the edge of the tub, the bathroom door slams open and the mother rushes in panicky and frazzled with the little human on her hip. “I can't believe I totally forgot about the water! Where on earth is my mind today?� she says between short breaths. She quickly turns the faucet knobs off and opens the drain to alleviate what she thought was a problem. My chance, my one and only chance in so many years, is taken and gone forever. My bathtub companions rejoice and begin to float contently again. But I don't rejoice with them. Now, I must simply wait for the next opportunity.

Fiction by K a t h r y n Z e r i n g u e

PAGE

| 24

Snow Globe Trapped in glass Inside a dome Forced to stay I’m all alone A silent figure with nowhere to go My only company Is the swirling snow It’s always cold And wet too No point in moving What else can I do?

I envy those That walk around In an endless space That knows no bounds Ah yes, to live To go out and see All the places and treasures That are waiting for me Yet I know the sad truth It will never come true And to think of this thought Has me feel so blue

The outsiders that look Inside my space They ignorantly say “What a fine little place!

“It must be nice To live in the snow That never stops falling!”

Doesn’t anyone know?

I feel trapped here Inside this dome Yet it’s the only place That i can call home

Poetry H i l l a r y M i t c h e l l

PAGE

| 25

Destructive Temptation Vs Inevitable

Visual art by A m y C l a u s e

PAGE

| 26

Blue Shark My streamlined body moves along the open waters smoothly as the dawn is breaking. Although I’ve been swimming all night, no food has been blessed towards me, so I’m hoping for better luck this coming day.

and at last, I see where it’s coming from.

A school of fish has unwittingly come into my view, and for the first time in what seems like an eternity I feel hope for a delightful snack.

Suddenly the delicious aroma Carefully I swim towards them with of fresh meat enters my nose and I only the surrounding water as focus my attention towards its source. camouflage. This is hard for others to “Scavenging used to be so easy,” I say do, but luckily, for my species my skin to myself. Before the advent of resembles the almost infinite blue humans, this ocean was filled to the waters. I time my attack carefully, pick brim with sea life and we, the a spot where they would be most inhabitants, would only take what we vulnerable, then charge in! I have to act needed for the day. Yet I know fast, otherwise the fish may scatter and reminiscing about days past means my efforts would be fruitless. I gather nothing, and I continue searching. The them into a tight ball and at long last rays of gorgeous sunlight ripple across feast. It’s been so long since I’ve had my back, bathing me in its warm glow live food that the taste at first seems as well as the sandy depths below me. I unnerving, yet I cannot be picky. I chase my shadow, the only companion swallow every fish that I catch, without I have, along the seabed, watching it having the time to savor them inside dip and rise along with the reef. The my mouth. When the rest of my food smell has become extremely strong, supply has finally been depleted, I Fiction by H i l l a r y M i t c h e l l

PAGE

| 27

Blue Shark reluctantly move on across the blue terrain.

For a while, I coast along the surface with my dorsal fin breaking through the bobbing surface waves, letting small droplets of water run down its frame.

Unfortunately I cannot coast any longer, for right in the corner of my eye a black and scrawny figure comes into my view. I know that there may be an enormous chance this is a trophy hunter bent on making me his latest catch. I think back to my own horrific experience of a human encounter, when an ignorant man pulled me up on the shoreline as if to show off to his companions. If it weren’t for my long tail slapping him in the face, forcing him to let go, I would’ve surely perished. I suddenly come to my senses and focus on the dark being. I am frightened, yet all the same trying to remain calm.

The human figure pulls out a Fiction by H i l l a r y M i t c h e l l

PAGE

| 28

shiny object, and my eyes are filled to the brim with a blinding flash. I look away, stunned only momentarily, and swim in the opposite direction.

However, my curiosity gets the better of my common sense, as I want to see what the human plans to do. I swim cautiously towards the figure, keeping my distance. We both stare at each other for the longest time; all the while, the human points the shiny object at my body. I keep asking myself, “Why does it linger, does it enjoy toying with me?

What will happen if I go near that object it is holding?” I can resist no longer and I move towards the object, bumping my nose against it in order to get a good scent. Surprisingly the human stays calm, almost as if it has known me throughout its life. I take a nibble at the object, only to get a disgusting taste in my mouth, which is luckily temporary. I feel a slight but gentle tug at my dorsal fin, somewhat similar to the nuzzling of a baby

dolphin and her mother. I find the human has become curious in me, and begins petting me with its strange appendage. I allow this behavior, although I’m not sure what this activity should accomplish.

The human suddenly moves upward toward the surface, where I cannot follow, and merges with the broken waves and sunlight, disappearing forever.

As I continue my journey across the ocean, I have so many questions that require answers. The most important question being, why didn’t he hurt me? It’s so confusing to have one human trying to kill you while another one studies and strokes you. These questions hang in the back of my head, but I carry on with living my life, as there is hardly any time in it for contemplation.

PAGE

| 29

Dance I remember so clearly that moment that you came into the world.

My arms open for you as your soft cries reached my ears.

You were whisked away and suddenly I began to shake without commanding my body to do so.

My vision blurred and the doctors panicked voice demanded every one leave I just wanted you, my baby.

As blood rushed from my body I could only think of you.

Your father voice then called to me as they rushed you both out fear finally touched me.

An hour later my dance with death was finally finished and you were placed in my arms my pale face greeted your tiny one.

I was so young that I failed to realize how close I came to telling you goodbye.

Before even telling you hello.

Your hand so small grasped mine with a ferocity unlike any I expected.

You clung to me and I to you.

My sweet child.

I watched you all night so perplexed every squeak you made sounded like a fog horn I was by your side in an instant this new motherhood seized me.

Poetry by R e b e k a h A s h m o r e

PAGE

| 30

Your skin was so soft you smelled of the sweetest scent You were and are my tether to this Earth This hold on me that only a child can have you’ve grasped me now and forever.

PAGE

| 31

The Marriage Editor’s Choice

There was an intolerable, thick tension in the atmosphere as Sherri sat across from her husband at the dinner table. She watched through impenetrable eyelashes how he slouched over his plate, his mouth corners tugged down in disdain, and ran his fork over his peas as if he was a three-year-old who was being forced to eat them. Eleven years she had been married to that man, and throughout all of those years--four thousand and fifteen days--every time she would make steak and peas an excitement would rush over him as if it was his first time eating the delicious meal.

Something wasn’t right. In fact, something hadn’t been right for a while now. Her husband wasn’t acting like her husband at all. At first, she had told herself that he was going through a premature midlife crisis and that he just needed time to get Fiction by B r i a n a W a l t e r s

PAGE

| 32

over these new tendencies he had developed. At one point she was even convinced that it was another woman who was making him secretive and fumed with angry spouts. But, after a while, she came to the conclusion that the man wasn’t her husband.

Sure, Dan and the man sitting across from her shared the same dewy leaf colored eyes. Both their midnight hair was slicked back behind the ears and made his skin tone reflect the glow of honey--but he was not the man she married.

The Dan she knew was considerate, kind, and most importantly trustworthy. The man across from her was cold and detached and had been that way for months. Finally, after getting irritated with the way his fork scraped against the spaces on his plate, Sherri pursed her lips and asked, “Is something wrong with your food?” Her tone was tight and controlled, some-

-thing she had only just mastered recently. On the inside, her heart was pounding harder than the bass of a drum. Her mind was running wild and all over the place, but he couldn’t know that. She noticed that his waves of anger were mostly triggered by the tone in which she addressed him, and she didn’t want to have another argument tonight.

Abruptly, he stood up from the table and pushed his chair in. “I’m going to the office,” he stated nonchalantly. His tone indicated that there was no room for discussion, but Sherri couldn’t help but to argue with him.

exited the house, leaving Sherri to stand there with wide eyes. She shook her head rapidly and headed for the door herself. Her husband had been at the office more than he was at home, and she was starting to think that the office wasn’t where he really was. He was ruining their marriage and she wasn’t going to sit by and let him. She loved him and she needed to know what was going on.

Even though he had left seconds before her, it didn’t take her long to spot his headlights down the road. They lived in a small town with only about twenty or so families within a twentymile radius. His office was about a forty-five-minute drive away, towards “This late?” she asked in shock.

“You just came home not even an hour the city, but it didn’t take her long to realize that he wasn’t going in the ago.” He was already at the door by direction of his office. In fact, he had this point, sliding on his jacket and turned down a narrow, pebbled road reaching for the door handle. that ran through the woods.

“Don’t wait up.” With that, he

PAGE

| 33

The Marriage Afraid that he was on to her, she flicked off her headlights and followed him down the path. Her skin began to rise the further along they got. Something about this wasn’t right and she was finding it harder and harder to breathe. It was almost as if someone was pushing down on her chest.

When his car stopped, so did hers. She was thankful that her small black car could easily be hidden, and she watched as he got out of his car and went into a small shed.

Raising a curious eye, she tried to get a better look. “Dan, what are you doing in there?” she asked herself.

Time had gone by and her nerves were on end. She was almost about to turn around, give up and go home, until she saw movement coming from the shed.

It was Dan and he was-Oh god no…

Fiction by B r i a n a W a l t e r s

PAGE

| 34

Sherri forced her eyes shut and opened the, again. What she was seeing couldn’t be real. Dan was actually carrying a body from the shed. Mind racing, Sherry pressed her hand to her mouth in an attempt to not scream. Is this what her husband had been up to?

Killing people?

Through wide eyes of horror, she watched as Dan began digging. Yet, her mind couldn’t get over the fact that this was the man she had married. To death do them part. She had agreed to marry a man who would turn into a psycho.

Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car and made sure to slam the door behind her. She had never been scared of Dan. Even in these later months she knew that he wouldn’t hurt her, or at least she hoped he wouldn’t.

Dan stopped shoveling and looked at his wife with a similar expression of a deer caught in headlights. “Sherri,” his voice was

was weak, “What are you doing here?

Did you follow me--”

She looked at the body, a young girl with blue tinted skin and lifeless eyes, and hardened her face. “What are “What did you say to me on our you doing?” Dan asked. wedding night?” Sherri interrupted him, her face contorted into anger.

“Go find a tarp or something to wrap her up in,” she instructed. “I’m “Why are you here?” not about to let my marriage fail “What did you say to me on our because you want to indulge in such wedding night?” she repeated with activities.” Slowly, Dan nodded and the more force. Dan swallowed hard and two worked silently through the night straightened up, his eyes gazing into and successfully hid the body. space as he tried to recount the The sun was rising when they memory. finally finished their crime and the two “I said,” he began, clearing his climbed back in their cars and headed throat, “That as long as we are honest home, only to fall asleep in each other’s with one another our marriage can arms. overcome anything.”

Sherri nodded. “Exactly,” she spat at him, yanking the shovel from his hands. “So this better be the last time you keep something from me.”

She dug the shovel in the ground and began to dig where Dan had left off.

PAGE

| 35

The City of Love Paris, France. Summer. A newly formed couple of about three month stands at the base of the Eiffel Tower. They are American who had saved their money to travel to France for a week. There are tourists flashing photos and it is quite crowded.

Woman: Isn’t it beautiful? I can’t believe I finally get to see the Eiffel Tower! I have been dreaming of this since I was a girl!

Man: It’s pretty remarkable, but it isn’t the most beautiful thing here.

Woman: Oh, stop, don't be ridiculous!

Man: No, I’m serious! In fact…

The man gets down on one knee and pulls a ring from his pocket.

Fiction by C a r s o n W h a t l e y

PAGE

| 36

Woman: Why are you getting on your knees? Wait…

Man: These past three months have been the best I’ve had in my life. I can’t think of any other way I’d want to spend the rest of my life than with you.

Embarrassed, the woman looks around and notices that people are watching.

Woman: People are staring, stand up!

The man, oblivious to her discomfort, continues.

Man: Not until you give me an answer!

Woman: The answer is no!

Confused and hurt by her response. The man stands as the crowd awkwardly moves along.

Man: I don’t understand. Don’t you love me?

Woman: my favorite color? Food?

Animal?

Woman: I don’t know! How could I know that after only three months?

Marriage isn’t supposed to be rushed! Are you nuts?

Man: Why is any of that important?

Man: I’m not nuts for wanting to marry the woman I love. Do you have to be so cruel?

Woman: Cruel? I’m not being cruel! I’m being real! What’s cruel, is you proposing to me in front of all these people. That is enormous pressure.

Man: I’m so sorry that my display of love for you was such an inconvenience. You are unbelievable!

Woman: What’s unbelievable is that you think three months of dating is enough to form a life long bond with someone. Do you even know

Isn’t love the most important thing?

Woman: Those things are part of who I am! How can you marry someone you don’t completely know? You can’t love someone if you don’t know them.

Man: Well, I would say that I would love to get to know you more, but after seeing your reaction to my proposal, I don't think I want to.

Woman: Are you seriously breaking up with me in the city of love?

Man: No, but instead of rejecting me and embarrassing me in front of all these people, you could have rejected me gently and we could have talked about these things later.

PAGE

| 37

The City of Love Woman: I suppose I could have handled it better than I did. I’m sorry.

Let’s just enjoy the day and talk about this later when we have both calmed down.

Man: I would like that very much. You really do make me happier than I have ever been.

Woman: I would be lying if I didn’t say the same.

Fiction by C a r s o n W h a t l e y

PAGE

| 38

Alive I am alive, I will be alive I have survived being alive.

I have lived for so long by surviving and thriving Now I am dying because I stopped reaching for more.

Dying is dying and living is living; is there no more?

When can I be thriving, and striving like before?

I need more more and more to satisfy my greed.

How do you get more when you no longer have the desire to reach?

I feel I can reach no longer because my arms have been torn from my core I am not whole; I am broken and lost no longer living I am not alive, I will not be alive, I have not survived being alive.


Poetry L i n d a O ’ B r y a n

PAGE

|39

Swirls

Visual art by V i c t o r i a R o s e t t i

PAGE

| 40

Sibling Silhouette

Visual art by J e n n a B r i g n a c

PAGE

| 41

Oh, Nostalgia!

Track 1: Alan Jackson & Jimmy Buffet, 5 o’clock Somewhere I was seven years old the first time Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett’s “5’oclock Somewhere” blasted through my grandmother's speakers. We were baking cheap grocery store brownies in her bright red kitchen. Just another Saturday night tradition. Our tradition. The song’s groovy, loud guitar intro sparked interest in my young blissful ears. Its nostalgic beat seeped into my pores and left an imprint of innocence that will forever clutch my heart. My grandmother liked loud groovy music. I learned to love loud groovy music. I fell in love instantly. That song became our song. She would scoop all the batter into the old pan that had to be from the 80’s and let me lick what was left in the bowl with a spoon. I remember her telling me, “Careful Kenzie, don’t eat too

much. You won’t have room for the brownies later.”, which was always accompanied by a laugh because we both knew she could never be serious with me. We knew nothing but love and, of course, Saturday night brownies.

Track 2: R. Kelly, Ignition (Remix) R. Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix)” brings back too many memories. I was around six years old when the song came out. It was a good song. My mom would have “Ignition” on repeat twenty-four seven. Not even joking. I remember late one night she gathered all her four kids up and practically threw us in the back seat and demanded silence as she let the song roam through the car speakers. One hand on the wheel while the other was attached to a cigarette. My mom would smoke half a dozen down in a car ride alone. She was serious about her music and her

Non-Fiction by M a c k e n z i e W a l l a c e

PAGE

| 42

cigarettes. Each time R. Kelly said, “So baby give me that toot toot. Let me give you that beep beep” she would honk her horn. And per usual, us kids, half awake, would double over in laughter at how funny our mom was.

Our half-closed eyes clothed in sleep made it all better. We would scream, “Play it again, just one more time!” To which she would, she always played it again. We would cruise around Johnston Street till one a.m. with her convertible top down. Her third husband had just bought her a flaming hot Toyota Solara. If we were lucky, she’d catch the highway for a few minutes or so just for us to feel alive.

We had to lie low. We couldn’t let the cops catch us at twelve a.m. listening to R. Kelly. Nights like those gave me purpose, gave us purpose. When we finally would drive on home, everyone would try not to fall over each other given it was the early hours of the morning and we couldn’t afford flood

lights. Those days meant everything.

Track 3: Ed Sheeran, This It was one a.m., and I couldn’t sleep. Nothing new. I was a long-haired fifteen year old lying in bed debating life’s uncertainties. My mind was racing. Ed Sheeran was soothing my ears with peaceful melodies. “This is the start of something beautiful. This is the start of something new. You are the one who’d make me lose it all. You are the start of something new, oh.” The high church-like ceiling that was in my bedroom became more and more intriguing as the light came through the windows. The mahogany fan that connected to the ceiling rattled louder with each passing hour. Maybe I was insane. Doesn’t everyone stay up till five a.m. with a pounding head in a lifeless bed? My turquoise journal was cuddled up next to me. I held those words close to me in fear they would run off the page and expose the truth.

PAGE

| 43

Oh, Nostalgia!

I had written seven songs that night. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move.

Depression had made me a prisoner to my own room. My wrist were bleeding vigorously. I killed myself every day. I knew nothing else. The demons in my head never ceased.

They never rested. Morning rolled around and I knew, I was where I was supposed to be. I was meant to be there, in bed, lifeless, depressed at life. I knew music would help me save myself. I could only save myself. Ed Sheeran’s “This” was the soundtrack to fifteen-year-old me.

Not a day would pass that I wouldn’t play that sound. His music was everything.

Track 4: Halsey, Hurricane I was sixteen years old the day he clumsily stumbled into my life.

His name was Jack and he reeked of cheap cigarettes and overprized confidence. He was a medium-sized

seventeen-year old who lacked the selfesteem to be anything but beautiful.

Jack liked his tea cold, something about ninety-nine- cent Arizona sparked his interest. Should I have stayed then? He had a Pink Floyd lanyard and a crooked smile. His lustful charm drew every girl in a 10 mile radius in. We were the lucky ones. His untamed blonde curls fell too perfectly against his beautiful face. I should have ran then. His eyes longed for another home than the one he was living in. They spoke melodies of innocence. He was so unforgiving.

He had these horribly dark blue torn up sneakers, they had to be a few years old. He “could never understand why anyone paid more than thirty bucks for shoes.”

He was careless, he didn’t care about anyone but himself. He was a self-righteous pretty boy who had nothing to lose. He never grasped life and welcomed death with every step he took. He walked the line. Jack ignited

Non-Fiction by M a c k e n z i e W a l l a c e

PAGE

| 44

fires in everyone that gave him a second chance. He chain-smoked in the bathroom each passing day just to get by. Some days drugs were scarce. Did they matter though? Did he matter though? He was the menace in my bed.

I don’t think I could possibly forget the day he walked into lunch high on LSD. His emerald eyes felt more beautiful and mysterious that day, as if he was searching for something he couldn’t reach. He embodied someone else that day. His eyelids were halfway open and his mouth was spilling unfathomable commands, as if he was a king. (He acted like one some days).

A young God. He never prayed. I wanted nothing more to keep him safe.

Him, in my arms, a loving paradise. An unwanted warzone. Did he know what he did to me? He ate three cafeteria lunches that day. Who did he think he was? He proclaimed the drugs brought

on hunger. I think it was his lack of memory. He was forgetful.

Remembering was not his favorite past time. He was never one to take care of himself. Maybe it was the pills. Maybe it was the drugs.

I remember feeling immensely in love with an idiot who didn’t care if he died or not. Jack was one in a million. He was the red wine spilled in your white bedsheets that late winter night. He was the kind of boy you stayed up writing songs about till three a.m. despite having a half-broken hand from spilling his guts on a broken piece of paper. He was the shaky breath one took before diving deep into the unknown, because it didn’t matter who knew. He was never warm, gooey, chocolate chip cookies. Jack was a vacant stare. He was the last candle lit at your best friend’s funeral.

My best friend at the time, Caitlin was just as dumfounded about

PAGE

| 45

Oh, Nostalgia!

Jack as I was. We lived half a mile away from each other and would blast Halsey’s “Hurricane” every day on the bus ride home. (More like the song playing from my phone and us sharing headphones, because her mom would never approve of such vulgar lyrics, if that.) To us, it felt as though Jack was the inspiration for "Hurricane". He was the boy behind bricks. We were in love with a selfish drug addict who was always in need of saving that we didn’t have. We were two, young, teenage girls trying to grow into adulthood, slowly, without the fear of authority. We were hurricanes.

Non-Fiction by M a c k e n z i e W a l l a c e

PAGE

| 46

In the Presence of St. John

Visual art by D a r e l l D u p u y

PAGE

| 47

Luke Jay The scrapes on his knees and the bruise on his leg are evidence of his lively, vivacious spirit.

As soon as I walk in the door, I am being pulled by my sleeve and called to go play.

I wonder, how have I earned the love of this child?

What good have I done to receive this repayment?

There is no deed pure enough to be worthy of such compensation.

He is unaware of his beauty.

His chestnut hair is buzz cut to keep it out of his eyes while he plays.

One of his earlobes has a little indent in the cartilage at the top.

He was born with it that way.

Deep brown eyes, so full of life and joy, look to me with the purest form of love pouring out and into mine.

A little button nose is beneath the eyes and above a mouth with lips crinkled from always being pulled into a smile.

Under the mouth, a half-moon shaped chin has a tiny scab underneath from falling off his favorite swing.

Poetry by R a c h e l M o l a i s o n

PAGE

| 48

Even with dirt under his nails and mac n cheese on his shirt, he is the most charming boy I have met thus far.

How has a boy of only five changed so much in my life?

I struggle to remember my life prior to five years ago.

I will never cease to be grateful for the gift of this little boy who always tells me, “I love you every day, Nanny.”

I love you too, Luke.

Every day.

PAGE

| 49

Radiance

Visual art by J e n n a B r i g a n c

PAGE

| 50

Wine Is Fine It took time some time to even get to this point.

I’ve been here a million plus one times but this occasion was different.

As if I was a tourist trying to find my way But at last I was here at his place Now I was looking at my fate then I looks at the window to see a glimpse at a quick escape.

I looked at it a while longer before I looked to the buzzer and saw his name Now before my eyes there were two things for me to decide To talk or to drink?

To express my feelings or silence them with wine?

Those were my options.

His apartment was above a liquor store, that had all different options peeping through the window.

Tell him my feelings or to drink the pain away?

He was my best friend until the night before last when he kissed me That’s when my feelings for him deepen.

Stuck in-between the two with no clue on what to do.

To tell him that I loved him and be like, “Hey, do you love me too?”

Or I could go into the shop and buy a bottle or maybe even two.

Poetry I d e ’ Y o n n J o s e p h

PAGE

| 51

Wine Is Fine Yes, I know that he could feel the same, but what if that night he was just playing games?

He did drink one or two too many that night and our bodies were intertwined just right all the way up ‘til the morning night.

Maybe it was the heat of the moment, when his lips touched mine.

If I asked what if he says, “It was just the wine” If I hear this, I know my heart will have a fit and maybe even so break a little bit.

That rejection is the thing that I cannot picture.

So, wine it is.

Yes, wine sounds just perfectly fine.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll have more courage to pick the better of the two.

But for now, two bottles of wine will make me feel okay, even just for a little while

Poetry by I d e ’ Y o n n J o s e p h

PAGE

|52

Wings of Happiness

Visual art by V i c t o r i a R o s e t t i

PAGE

| 53

A Diverse Expression Women running jumping on chairs Descending into a graceful fall Seeming so carefree to wander Free in imagination Toeing the chests of men Men gazing at this sight Eyes traveling up and down Then a carefree wild dance.

What is this performer conveying With arms and legs spinning, flailing Is it that every expression, though unusual Should be accepted and given a chance?

The background ocean Spontaneity of swimmers Makes the scene so much more lively Inviting many others to join in.




Poetry by R i c h e l l e W i l l i a m s

PAGE

|54

Editor’s Choice

Noises of accordions and fiddles fill my heart with memories. I am Cajun. I was born and bred to believe that my heritage will leave me with a bountiful, beautiful, and rich life.

Many joke that Cajuns are “born of the bayou”, and I won’t correct them. I live right off the bayou, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Today, I am here to tell you a story. One that I can only hope provokes you to think of your own memories.

I have a terrible memory. I cannot tell you what was specifically said in a conversation yesterday, but I can go into great detail of the outfit I was wearing.

My memory may be selective, but one thing that sticks with me from my first day of introduction is food. Teach me a recipe, and I

Born and Bred will remember it for a lifetime. I may make it my own as the years go by, but the memories I made from the introduction to the dish will stick with me forever. A particular dish, unlike most Cajun dishes, is my absolute favorite. Corn Casserole is rich and creamy, and has just the right amount of spice. Despite what you are thinking, the memory I am about to explain is more of the reason why it is my favorite. This is the classic story of a mother and her child, my mother teaching the basics but giving me he power to thrive.

As I get on my toes to attempt to peer over her shoulder, my mother is adding the onions. I am only sevenyears-old, and I am curious about how to make my favorite meal. She notices my curiosity and asks if I would like to help. I cannot stop my face from lighting up. She does all the

Non-Fiction by L a u r a l E . B l a n c h a r d

PAGE

| 55

Born and Bred cutting and gives me the garlic to add to the pot as I stand on a chair from the dining room. I distinctly remember her telling me that I wouldn’t be able to use a knife until I was able to stay out after the streetlights came on, therefore, never. By the time I have stirred the pot a few rounds, the smell of the sautéed onions and garlic are filling the house. This is usually the time my dad comes home from the furniture store and makes a comment about how he could smell the cooking from outside.

Next is the messy process of uncasing the chicken sausage.

She teaches me how to remove it from the casing in two different ways and lets me squeeze out the last little bit. My mom does the stirring so that I don’t burn

myself, but we have a good talk as she does so, usually her helping to answer my many questions about life.

But honestly, all I can hear is the clang of the metal spoon against the cast iron pot as she tried to talk to me. To this day, I cannot stand the sound of metal scraping on metal because of its terrible screech. She then has me retrieve the sour cream, cream of mushroom soup, and corn from their respective places in our kitchen. She opens the cans of corn with the can opener and tells me to drain them in the sink while she adds the wet ingredients. I set the cans of corn aside, and my mom assists me in stirring everything together since it is now very thick and the spoon is getting very heavy. But before we add the corn, we need to boil the pasta.

My mom always has many different kinds of pastas in our pantry.

Non-Fiction by L a u r a l E . B l a n c h a r d

PAGE

|56

My mom always has many different kinds of pastas in our pantry. My favorite pasta to add to corn casserole is tiny shells; corn hides perfectly inside them with just the right amount of sauce. I grab the box of my favorite noodles as my mom fills the pot with water and sets it on the stove to boil. Our stove has always been slow when it comes to boiling water, so we usually take a break from the kitchen to watch a little television or finish up on some homework. We stay in the kitchen as the pasta cooks so that we can stir it occasionally. This is about the time that my brother is coming home from football practice. I do not remember a single Friday where we were not sitting in the stands screaming our heads off for the Tigers to win. After hugs and

kisses from my stinky brother, mom has to drain the pasta, rinse the pasta with cold water, and add it to the pot. The pasta is going into a hot sauce and will continue cooking, so we take it out right before it’s perfect.

Incorporating everything together at this stage is usually one of the messiest jobs of the entire night. The noodles take up so much surface area that the pot is usually full to the brim, and we have to fold everything together rather that doing any actual stirring After everything is incorporated, we let it sit for about twenty minutes, and this is where I get super antsy and annoying because I’m very hungry and impatient. My mom forces me to take a bath. telling me that when I get out, I can eat. I take the quickest bath ever! She comes in to check and has to give me an extra bath because I won’t actually

PAGE

| 57

Born and Bred do anything. I am only seven; I think water alone cleans me just fine! Now that I am clean and mostly ready for bed, it is time to fill my belly. The first bite of any dish is usually the best. In the case of my mom’s corn casserole, the first bite is most definitely the best. The creamy sauce mixed with the spice from the sausage is a great combination with the sweet corn. The flavor is absolutely amazing but you may be asking yourself, “What has she learned?”

Throughout the process of making this dish, I was taught skills that would be used throughout the rest of my life. I was introduced to estimation, weight, different ways to chop, multiple units of measure, heat regulation, evaporation,

boiling point, taste, texture, and patience. With these few skills, I am able to fend for myself now that I am in my twenties. In fact, to give my mother a break now that I live at home, I am the one who cooks dinner on a regular basis.

I do believe that this one event has helped my mother and me grow closer together throughout the course of my life. My mother has been a teacher for her entire life, in and out of the classroom. She and my father have always ensured me that, no matter what, they will help me achieve my dreams. This was one of the most important lessons I have learned from our kitchen. I have chosen the path of education myself, and I was able to make my parents happy that I have chosen a profession that will not only help me teach children values for the rest of their

Non-Fiction by L a u r a l E . B l a n c h a r d

PAGE

|58

lives, but will also help me learn something new every single day.

I am Cajun. We are born and bred to believe that our heritage will leave us with a bountiful, beautiful, and rich life.

This has been the classic story of a mother and her child, my mother teaching the basics but giving me the power to thrive.

Through cooking, I have been taught the basics that I can apply to many aspects of life--learning how to use estimation to help me decide how much time I may need

knowledge in the kitchen. I can only hope that when I have my own children, I am able to provide the same kind of moments that I have found so special.

to complete a task, and using the knowledge of different units of measure to help me in my love of baking. Finally, I have used this time with my mother to help me grow. My curiosity and passion will always encourage me to learn new recipes and grow my

PAGE

| 59

My Frog Family Every day I walk home from school, and usually by 3:00, the sky has already begun to turn grey; clouds hover above our town, and rain starts to fall. But, I do not mind the rain; I do not mind it at all. Sometimes, I imagine each raindrop racing another raindrop to see which one would reach the ground first.

Once it starts to rain, big puddles begin to form on the sidewalks.

This town never seems to fix the holes that have formed throughout the years, so I imagine those puddles as oceans that are spread millions of miles apart. I look down to see tiny whales swimming and little sail boats floating around. Sometimes, I walk the long way home from school. I’m never in any rush to get home anyway; there is nothing Fiction by A n g e l a H u y n h

PAGE

|60

waiting for me at home except a frozen TV dinner and a clock that ticks my life away.

Mother is working late tonight again since it’s the most nightmarish time of year for the restaurant…..tourist season. She bartends nights at the always classy Joe’s Crab Shaq located on Baga beach. Sometimes when my mom gets held up at the restaurant, I like to imagine that the crustaceans are attempting to take over the place, but my mom is the only person keeping the crustaceans at bay....and that is why it takes her so long to come home. That thought always makes me laugh a little.

Today, it is especially rainy, and the sky has begun to turn from the normal grey to black. I remember that someone had mentioned a hurricane coming, so I decide to

hurry home. Hurricanes happen often here but they don’t scare me; I quite enjoy it. The different sounds of the rain, wind, and vibrations soothe me like an orchestra conducted by mother nature. By the time I get home, the rain has already started, and I am soaked. I leave my red rain boots by the door and walk through the empty hallway to find my T.V. dinner waiting for me on the table...right where she always leaves it. I look at the note placed next to the tray in my mother’s handwriting: “Heat up the dinner I left for you on the table, and don’t forget to lock the doors and shut the windows. Sorry I have to work late tonight sweetie. Love, mom.” Angrily, I crumple the note and throw it in the trash, but it misses and lands on the floor next

to the bin.

As the night passes by, I lay in front of the television, with the rain hitting against the windows and the wind whistling behind me. As I peer at the glass screen mindlessly, my thoughts begin to trail off, and I close my eyes slowly. I begin to imagine my mother and me playing on the beach, the sun hitting our shoulders and our smiles. I am running ahead of her when she grabs me and starts to swing me around. I laugh heartily. I look at her smiling eyes when I hear a loud banging. As I open my eyes, I am back in my cold living room and not at the warm beach. It is still raining outside, and the television is still on, playing a cartoon I haven’t seen before. I look around when I hear a loud banging again. As I peer down the hallway, I realize the noise is coming from the door. Someone

PAGE

| 61

My Frog Family must be trying to come in. I open the door and look around, the rain and the wind hitting my face. The only light is from the porch, but nobody can be seen. As I begin to close the door I hear someone say, “Hello! Ribbit”.

Startled, I look down and see three little frogs perched in front of my door. Two of the frogs are quite large, one bigger than the second one, but both much bigger than the little baby frog sitting right beside them. All of them are wearing little raincoats, and the largest one is carrying a small umbrella covering the other two. I almost want to shout in fear when the large frog begins to speak, “Hello my name is Mr. Frank Frogman, and this is Mrs. Sally Frogman and little Nelly Frogman is right down there.

Fiction by A n g e l a H u y n h

PAGE

|62

Ribbit. You see. Ribbit. This crazy hurricane flooded our home and we need a place to stay, you see. Ribbit.

Until the rain calms down. Ribbit.” I am still looking at this little frog speaking to me and I know I'm giving him the crazy eyes. “I sure hope you don’t mind. Ribbit.” Speechless, I nod my head and open the door for them to come in. “Why thank you, sir, I do appreciate it very much!

Ribbit," he exclaims.

As he and his family begin to hop through the door and into the hallway of my home, I still can't believe this is happening. And as I finally get the words together to speak, the only thing I can think of is, “Are you guys hungry?” The frog family look up at me, and the father says, “Why, yes, actually! Ribbit.

Thank you.” I nod and lead the way to the kitchen where I open the fridge

and fish out the TV dinners from the freezer. I have lots of them anyway, I’m sure mother won’t mind if I share with the little frog family. As I am heating up the dinner, I turn around and see that they are sitting around the dining room table looking at me with their black eyes.

The father looks at me and says,“Will you be joining us as well? Ribbit.” I have actually already eaten earlier, but noticing how strange the dining table looks occupied makes me want to sit down and fill the empty seat. The table is usually empty and not occupied since mother and I haven’t sat down and had dinner together in a while. I almost forgot we had a dining table. As I sit down and place the TV dinners around the table, the little frogs

begin to eat the food ferociously. I nibble at my food and stare at them.

“This is quite a lovely home you have. Ribbit,” says Mr. Frogman.

“My family don’t quite have a lovely home like this. Ribbit. But it’s comfortable and we tend to each other often, so it’s no bother to us. We quite enjoy our little home. Ribbit.”

“You don’t go to work?” I ask Mr. Frogman but he shakes his head.

“Oh no, I work at home with my family. Ribbit. Where I go, they come with me. Ribbit. Us family have to stick together. Ribbit." I think about the idea of family. It has always been just me and my mom, but with her working so much lately, it just has been me. But as we continue eating our TV dinners, I realize it is nice not having to eat alone. I smile to myself.

After the dinner, I don’t want them to leave so soon, so I invite them to

PAGE

| 63

My Frog Family watch TV with me. Just as I think

with me and brush it aside. It is nice

eating dinner with a family is already so nice, watching a television is just as great! We all laugh and smile at the TV screen together.

The night carries on and somehow my perspective of my home isn’t so dreary as before.

The air feels lighter, and the house is warmer than usual. I don’t want the night to end but as I look at

to have someone enjoy my stories other than myself. I look at the window once more and this time, the sun has already begun to shine through. Mr. Frogman notices and begins to get up from the couch. “I just wanted to say thank you again.

Ribbit. I really do appreciate all that you’ve done for me and my family.

Ribbit.” I nod my head and smile. As I wait for them to gather their coats

the window, I see the first ray of sun poke through the blinds, and the hard rain has suddenly turned into a light shower. Mr. Frogman, Mrs. Frogman, and Nelly are all laughing at a story I have just told them about imagining my mother fighting off crustaceans at the beach, and for a second, I am longing for her. I get angry at the thought of my mother not home

together, and we all began walking towards the front door, Mr. Frogman turns to me and says, “How about this idea? Ribbit. Why don’t you come live with us? Ribbit. We all have fun at home. Ribbit. And you’d never have to be alone. Ribbit. Our home isn’t as nice as yours, but we sure do keep it warm with each other’s company. Ribbit.” My heart glows with the idea of being able to stay

Fiction by A n g e l a H u y n h

PAGE

|64

with them; I’d never have to be alone, I think to myself. No more cold TV dinners or boring nights alone watching TV. But as I begin to picture all the nice things I would be doing with Mr. Frogman and his family, I begin to think about my mother being alone.

Since I wouldn't be with her anymore, she’d be coming home to a cold, uneaten TV dinner, the couch wouldn’t be occupied or warm, and the house would be quiet without the hum of the television. Nobody to wait for her and nobody to tell her goodbye or hello.

I think hard about this and turn to Mr. Frogman. I explain to him about my mother and politely decline his nice offer, saying that I can't leave my family as he wouldn’t leave his. He smiles and

nods his head in understanding. Once they leave, I turn around and walk back to my living room, turn off the television, and lay back down on the couch. I think to myself about the night that has just happened and hope that the little frog family can soon come visit me again. Next time, it will be different. I will introduce my mother to Mr. Frogman, Mrs. Frogman, and Nelly, and we will all laugh and eat together at the dining table. Maybe one day, we can all go visit the beach, as well.

By this time, the rain has stopped, and the sun is shining brightly through the drapes. It is because of the little frog family; they brought back to me the feeling of warmth and comfort and family. And although my mother has been working more lately, there is no way I could leave her, just like Mr.Frogman

PAGE

| 65

My Frog Family couldn’t leave Mrs. Frogman or Nelly. I close my eyes slowly and dream of my mother and me at the beach.

Fiction by A n g e l a H u y n h

Love

Visual art by

PAGE

|66

Zackeri Landry

Graduation Present It was graduation night when Brittany didn’t receive a car after being promised one. Brittany was furious with her father, Byron, and threatened to flatten his tires.

Her stepmom Angie and her mom Monica just sat there and let the two of them make a scene in front of all of the guests at the dinner party. Gwen, Byron’s mom, was going to be the reason all of Brittany’s threats prevailed.

Brittany: You are a NO GOOD father! I wish you had never mated with my mom.

Gwen raised her hand to slap Brittany, but Monica was not going to let that happen.

Gwen (Screaming): Young lady, who are you talking to?

Brittany: I am talking to you, your son, and anybody else who has a problem.

Byron (asking calmly): Monica control your daughter, please.

Brittany: Yes, how could you ruin my perfect night?

Brittany (Screaming loudly): She doesn’t have to control me. You promised I would have a car when I walked out of the gym after graduation. I have yet to see a car.

That’s what you do. You break promises now.

Gwen: Explain to me how he ruined your “perfect night”?

Brittany charged at her father with a butter knife.

Brittany: He ruined my night because he lied to me. You should be familiar with telling lies, since you are always lying.

Brittany: Answer me!

Byron: ARE YOU SERIOUS YOUNG LADY?

Angie (laughed): Brittany sit down and calm down.

Fiction by T r e m e c i a V i d e a u

PAGE

| 67

Graduation Present Monica sat, unbothered.

Monica: She is not going to stop.

Everybody knows how she gets when she feels like someone is lying to her.

Brittany: They are lying, mother!

Please don’t take their side. They are a family full of BULL.

Gwen: Let her go, she is disobedient.

Brittany walks outside and approaches her father’s nice 2015 BMW but she doesn’t see her father.

Brittany: Byron where are you? I am going to cut your tires.

Byron walks outside.

As Byron drives up in a new 2017 Mercedes he sees his daughter poking holes in his tires.

Byron (laughing): Everyone can stay in here with this crazy child. I need some air.

Byron: Girl what are you doing?

Brittany asks for a steak knife and follows her father.

Brittany: I told you about lying to me.

Brittany slowly looks up.

Brittany: Since he wants to play, I am going to cut his tires open.

Brittany: Whose car? I know you didn’t by your no good wife another car..

Monica and Angie (yelling): Brittany, STOP!

Byron: Girl shut up and say thank you before I keep it for myself.

Fiction by T r e m e c i a V i d e a u

PAGE

| 68

Angie laughs.

Brittany cries in shock.

Brittany: No! This is not right.

Gwen: The ungrateful little brat doesn’t appreciate anything.

Byron (demands): Mother go sit in the car; you are not making this night any better.

Monica helps her daughter off the ground.

Brittany (laughing): Dad, guess who is going to pay for your tires.

Monica: YOU ARE! Brittany: No, Angie will pay for them. She knows I don’t like surprises.

Everyone laughs Angie and Monica: You are truly a brat, but we love you.

Brittany (cries): Whose idea was this to keep it a secret?

Byron walks up to his daughter with the keys.

Byron: It was Angie’s idea. Baby I am so proud of you and all of your accomplishments. I cannot wait to see you accomplish more. I would never lie to you, I love you.

PAGE

| 69

Paix’s Horn Once upon a time the village of Faust was the most beautiful and loving place in the world. Everyone treated each other with love and kindness. The rulers of the village were very caring lovers. They ruled with help from their assistant Triste.

Triste’s task was to care for the ruler’s newborn, Paix. Triste became miserable knowing that he was not worth anything more than a simple diaper changer.

Anger began to engulf Triste’s heart, so he began to lose his usual appearance and character.

Releasing a legion of poisonous spiders into the rulers of Faust bedroom, Triste murdered them.

After committing such a deed, Triste became more evil than ever.

Faust was now under the reign of Triste. Paix was left in an alley to

die where he was soon to be found by a friend of his parents. The once beautiful and happy village of Faust was now covered with despair and gloom. There was not one happy soul in sight. With the care from a friend of Paix’s parents he learned to play a horn that once belonged to his parents. She instructed him to always have it on his side. Once of age, she would tell Paix of Triste’s terrible doings and made it clear that a day was coming when they will have to face each other. When Paix would play his horn joy and hope would spread to anyone near him. Triste caught wind of this new found joy and despised everything about it. A demonic creature named Doute was released to find out what was causing the joy. Doute used shadows to travel around the village. Doute came back declaring “it's the rulers’ boy, he has a

Fiction by J u h m a n i e A l e x a n d e r

PAGE

|70

horn and is spreading joy to the world”. Triste knew this horn was the horn of faith that was used by Paix’s parents and was created by their mystical friend. Triste stormed the house of the mystical friend hoping to get answers on Paix’s location. The mystical lady refused to reveal the location of Paix and she was murdered at the hands of Triste. Meanwhile, joy was spreading like wildfire across the village from the magical horn.

Triste was beginning to lose the hold that he had on the villagers.

Paix returned to the lady’s home only to find her lifeless. Paix instantly knew that this was the act of Triste. The time that the two would have to face each other was near. After the death of the mystical lady, Paix insisted to go to the darkest place in the village

to rid as much of Triste’s curse as possible. Triste disguised himself as a peasant of the streets with hopes of assassinating Paix. Triste had seen Paix at the bottom of a hill and created a plan. Triste released the chocks on a large wagon filled with lead. The wagon went flying down the hill. However, Paix was able to dodge the wagon but his horn was ran over. Paix realized that it was Triste that caused the wagon to roll down hill and began to pursue him. Once caught up, Paix tackled Triste.

Without any horn to help defeat the evil in Triste, Paix was defenseless.

The two continued to fight until they reached to top of Mt. Croix. Paix came to the realization that he can spread joy without the horn. Joy is spread with kindness and love for others. He then realized what he had to do. To save the lives of others, Paix

PAGE

| 71

Paix’s Horn that his love for the village can prevail over Triste’s evil. Paix then tackled Triste into a large lava pit in the mountain. The two were both dead on the spot. At the very moment Triste died, every villager received the joy and hope they were lacking for years.

The villagers lived happily ever after with selflessness and kindness. .

Fiction by J u h m a n i e A l e x a n d e r

PAGE

|72

The Night God Slept I recall that fateful night. I remember it like it was yesterday.

It was the night that God slept. It’s almost like he didn’t hear us as we

in the sky, and the beasts that roamed

called out to him. We praised and glorified him every day. My grandpa and I would pray before bed time every night. This certain night we didn’t just pray, we worshiped.

Grandpa: "And God created the great whales and every living creature that lived within the sea. God created the mighty winged birds that soared through

Grandpa: "...Replenish the earth..." May humans forever remain 'noble savages', living in harmony with nature."

CHILD: The noble humans in all their glory building great towers above the earth. Such infinite power at their command. Nothing can stop them.

Nothing will ever stand in their way.

Grandpa: Nothing can stop them.

Nothing will ever stand in their way.

Me: ...And God said 'have dominion over the fish of the sea, the birds in the sky, and every living thing upon the earth’.

Grandpa: ...Replenish the earth…

Me: "...And subdue it...and God said 'Behold, I have given you every seed-bearing herb and every tree that yields fruit upon the earth'."

the skies. Then, God made the beasts that roamed the earth; all living in unison, each an important part of the harmony composed by our Lord."

Me: "And God created man and woman to rule over the creatures within the sea, the birds

the earth. God blessed them and said, 'be fruitful and multiply. Replenish the earth, and subdue it.'"

Fiction by N i c k G u i d r y

PAGE

|73

The Night God Slept Grandpa: "May we take only that which we need and return all that we have taken."

Me: "The world is ours."

Grandpa: "In careless hands, it may fall and shatter, lost to us all, never to be seen in all its glory again."

Me: "We are the rulers upon the earth. Commanders of the sea, Monarchs of the sky."

Grandpa: "In every beast of the earth, In every bird of the sky, In every living creature upon the earth, there is life.

Please, protect our fragile earth."

Me: Amen.

Grandpa: Amen.

Then just like that, he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. It was like clockwork. The E.M.T said he Fiction by N i c k G u i d r y

PAGE

| 74

was dead minutes after he dropped. I was too livid to notice how he passed.

I was angry. How could this be? We just prayed to you, God. How could you let this happen? I hate you! How could you take him from me? That was when I realized God was sleeping, for no one heard us, no one cared.

The Twin Switch The most irritating thing in the whole world is being an unpopular identical twin. My name is Ben, and my ‘popular’ brother’s name is Jacob. Ever since the first day of school, I’ve been fairly shy, and Jacob has made the best first impressions on everybody. All the people that I hang out with are geeks and nerds, and Jacob hangs with the jocks and cool people. It just doesn’t seem fair, always feeling like an outcast, and never really fitting in. Sometimes in the hall at school, Jacob’s friends mistake me for him. It’s always, “Hey bro, some party last night, huh?” some jock would say. It just gets me so bitter when I have to miss out on all of the fun. I’ve always thought about switching places with him for just one day, but I never

thought that it would come true.

It was a Friday, the best day of the week. As I was walking to my final class of the day, I saw Jacob lingering with his usual people. “So Jake, you gonna go? It’ll be pretty sick, man!” Joey, the quarterback, asked. “Ya, ya. I’ll go. So at McKenzie’s house at six, right? I’ll see y’all there,” replied Jacob. “This could be my chance!” I thought to myself. All of 7th hour, I thought up my plan.

The bus ride home was typical, but the plan that I had thought up was completely glorious! We got off the bus, not saying a word to each other, like usual. When we reached the house, we both did our homework, Jacob not caring if the answers were wrong or not, and me being assured that all of my answers were correct.

The sun just started to set, and the Fiction by A d a m E i s l e r

PAGE

|75

The Twin Switch time was 5:45. My mother came into the living room and announced that she was going to leave to go to her tennis match in five minutes, which was perfect.

My devious plan was about to spring on Jacob like a mousetrap. announced that she was going to leave to go to her tennis match in five minutes, which was perfect.

My devious plan was about to spring on Jacob like a mousetrap.

So about five minutes later, my mom left, and right as she walked out of the door Jacob hurdled the couch and sprinted to his room. I followed him to see what he was up to. He was in his closet, looking for some clothes to wear to the party. Then, that’s where my plan came into play. I stealthily walked up behind him, pushed him deeper in the closet, Fiction by A d a m E i s l e r

PAGE

| 76

closed the closet door, and wedged a wooden chair up underneath the doorknob so he couldn’t get out. He immediately pushed back on the door to try to open it, but it was no use.

“What the heck is going on Ben? Get me out of here!” he exclaimed. “No, I’m going to that party, not you. I’m going to pose as you while you’re locked in the closet. I’m sorry that I have to do this; see you in about two hours!” I responded. “You’re dead; you’re a dead man when I get out of here! I’m gonna kill you!!!!!” he yelled in reply. I suddenly felt bad, but then I got over it.

As I approached the house, my palms started sweating. I had put on the kind of clothes Jacob would have worn to go to the party, and I changed my hair-do to the way Jacob’s normally was, too. I could hear loud bass playing in the background, and

I could see that different kinds of majestic colored lights coming from the house. I opened the door and could see teenagers dancing and singing along with the song. Joey noticed me and said, “Yo, yo, yo, my man Jake is in the house!!” “It had worked, it had actually worked!” I thought to myself, as a gigantic grin passed over my face.

Some girls found me appealing, and danced with me.

As I was thinking of how wonderful this evening was going, I thought about the real Jacob, especially when I saw him burst through the front door of McKenzie’s house!!! The music went off. The plethora of people ceased to dance and sing to the music. Everyone was as silent as a church mouse. Jacob

had stormed into the house as if he were on a killing rampage, which was just what he looked like he was going to do next. His eyes scanned the house until they fell on me. “What do you think you’re doing??!!!” he barked, “Well, answer me!” There was a long, silent pause. “I never was popular.

I just wanted to know what being like you was like. You’re just so cool, and attractive to everybody, and I’m not. I’m sorry.” As I proceeded to walk out of the door, he held his hand up to my chest so I came to a sudden halt. “So you locked me in a closet, just so that you could go to a party and see what my life was like?” he said as I nodded my head. “How about you stay and see what your life is going to be like from here on out.”

I looked at him with a twitching

PAGE

|77

The Twin Switch eye. “Really???!” I asked. He smiled and said, “Really.” Never had I felt so good about myself in my entire life. Jacob and I never really got along that well, until that night. It’s nice knowing that I have a brother who actually cares about me and will always watch my back.

Fiction by A d a m E i s l e r

PAGE

| 78

Blended Contrast

Visual art by L i n d a O ’ B r y a n

PAGE

| 79

Three Women’s Gaze It was a winter day in January 1980. The sky was clear and blue filling up with sunshine. There were a few white clouds with odd shapes like different animals. The waves of cold wind from the North got through the crowd fiercely. The crowd was mostly made of women and children; they looked anxious like they were waiting for something to happen. Especially the look of women reflected the hope in their eyes. Today was the day wives and children from South had the chance to see their husbands and fathers after five years in which they did not have any information. These husbands and fathers were soldiers who served for the South government in the war. Now their wives and children all gathered together at the local government buildings called Village People Committee. The arrangement of the brick buildings formed the shape of letter “U”. There was a big concrete yard in the middle Fiction by

PAGE

| 80

Tr a m Tr a n

of the three buildings, with a steel pole and a flag on the top. The flag which was red with a yellow star in the middle; it was moving fast with strong winds.

My mother told me that the North government took control over South on April 30, 1975. Some South soldiers ran away to the United Stated by army airplanes and navy vessels.

The rest of the soldiers, who did not have a chance to go, stayed in the South of Vietnam and were captured by the North government. They put all men who served for the south government in prisons. Con Dao prison was on an isolated island. Chi Hoa prison was in Sai Gon city. Many concentration camps with southern soldiers were placed in remote places where water was poisoned and the weather was extreme. The North government kept the failed soldiers in the prisons. They called this detention “training” but in

reality the soldiers were going through a “brain wash� for political issues. Due to conditions and violent treatment, many soldiers never returned home. However, their families never stopped hoping in their return.

The whole crowd just stood outside the government buildings.

My mother took my hand and ran back and forth among the buildings.

It was impossible to stand still .

Finally, a group of buses came and brought the pale and thin men. The crowd got noisy and ran to the buses.

It was late afternoon. The sun went high and more waves of cold air blew on. My mother and I were lucky to find my father. We embraced each other endlessly and remained speechless for long minutes. After that, my father had to go inside the building to sign some documents before we were hand in hand to go home. As we pass the

street in front of the buildings, I saw three ladies that looked like statues.

They stood straight in line and their gazes were going in the same direction.

They were waiting for another group of buses. They did not see their husbands yet. I wondered, "Are there going to be more buses?�

PAGE

|81

Sammy The way she walked didn't suggest that she was 92, but the wrinkles decorating her hands hinted at it.

Her mind was still very much present and her creativity was never neglected.

She never abandoned the things she loved to do and make.

A strand of purple highlighted her silver hair and there was never a day she didn't advertise cats on her clothing.

Her spirit lit up the room she now called her home; her room in the nursing home.

She loved the New Mexico air in which she breathed, outside of her window.

She loved the pottery which she made in the art room to which she was entrusted a key.

There was never a day that she didn't make earrings; there was never a year previously that she didn't win some award or accomplish some impressive task.

She is beautiful.

Poetry K a t h r y n Z e r i n g u e

PAGE

| 82

Memories

Visual art by V i c t o r i a R o s e t t i

PAGE

| 83