Pegasus Spring 2023 (vol. XXXIII)

THE MYTH OF THE PEGASUS

The winged horse of Greek fable is said to have sprung from Medusa’s body at her death. Pegasus is also associated with the inspiration of poetry because he is supposed, by one blow of his hoof, to have caused Hippocrene, the inspiring fountain of the Muses, to flow from Mount Helicon. As a symbol of poetic inspiration, poets have sometimes invoked the aid of Pegasus instead of the Muses.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Editor

Rebecca Ewing

Readers

Julie Dill-Burnett

Lacey Veazey-Daniel

Cover Design

Donell Jensen

Layout & Design

Alexander Barlas, Madison Bates, Leslie Davis, Marissa Deville, Nathan Fox, Lillian Gesche, Lea GrandMaison, Sean Harned, David Heller, Courtlan Howell, Donell Jensen, Kacie Parker, Rachel Plunkett, Kristen Robbins, Alyx Sabina, Dakota Schick, Brandon Scobey, Justice Simpson, and Jayla Wallace

Pegasus expresses its special thanks to President Jeanie Webb, Vice President of Academic Affairs Travis Hurst, Liberal Arts and Sciences Dean Toni Castillo, Associate Dean Jeff Conkin, Danielle Louck of the Humanities Division, Mass Communication Program Director Darcy Delaney-Nelson, and the Rose State College Board of Regents for their continued support of this literary journal.

Pegasus is for and by the students, faculty, and staff of Rose State College and is the property of the Humanities Division of Rose State College, 6420 S.E. 15th Street, Midwest City, Oklahoma 73110.

© 2023 Copyright reverts to the author or artist.

Goodbye, Safety

by Marissa Stride Axley Award Winner

I’d like to take a moment to say goodbye. Goodbye, Safety.

Safety was a good friend of mine for a while. She stayed with me until she was forced to leave.

I begged her not to go, but she had no choice.

She was being pushed out by someone who they called Unsafe. Unsafe came into my life like a wrecking ball.

He kicked Safety out as soon as he could, trying to make me believe she was never there.

He told me to dress a certain way, or he’d stick around.

He told me to act a certain way in front of men, or he’d stick around.

He told me to think a certain way, or he’d stick around.

What he never told me, was that he’d be around anyway. He didn’t only trap me, but everyone around me too. Mostly Safety.

She’s been locked up for years by him.

Said to never escape again. But what Unsafe doesn’t know, is that every now and then, She’s able to sneak up on me, for a moment or two.

When I’m with my parents, My best friend and her family, And my brother, I feel her presence. Unsafe may have locked her away, But she still sends me messages, that I get to hold, Even if only for a moment. So yes, this is a goodbye to her. But sometimes, goodbyes are temporary.

Reflections

by Katherine Brueggemann Axley Award Finalist and Merit Award Winner

Perhaps a person is not a person, But rather reflective glass

Each passerby who touches its surface

Leaves smudges marring the image

And when someone looks upon it, They will see what they want to see And will ignore what they want to ignore

The mirror taking on the image

Most suitable for the viewer

I am certain that this fact is true

Because I have never looked at a mirror and first noticed its frame

a

Dough

personal essay

by Kaylee-Nicole Eyabi Merit Award Winner

It was the second half of my sophomore year, right after Winter break, when my German teacher informed me that I was eligible for going on a bi-annual class trip to Europe. There were no more than twenty students in the class that year, and it was my second year taking German so my teacher—we’ll call her Ms. C—was already familiar with me. My mom received an email from Ms. C that basically told her that I was one of a handful of students who were picked to go on the trip due to my academics and my character. I remember my initial reaction was surprise and excitement. I’d been to different states before but this would be my first time traveling outside of the country. But my optimistic feelings were short-lived. I had forgotten about my reality. This was years before my mom would get a new job that paid better than the Veteran Affairs. Not much has changed since then, but I live in a single parent household with just my younger brother and my mom, our only source of income. Even though money got tight at times, and we sometimes had to stretch leftovers because there was no time for grocery shopping, we were comfortable. My mom was also clever in her own way by not making it obvious to my brother and I that we were struggling financially. My excitement dwindled when I remembered this, and I tried to placate my mother’s own enthusiasm with soothing words.

“Mommy, it’s alright if you can’t afford it,” I said. I didn’t look up from the stack of papers that held information about the trip. My fingers fiddled with the corners. “It’s really not a problem if I don’t go.”

She and I sat at the dining table with only the orange light from the ceiling fan to brighten our surroundings. The blinds had been shut and the curtains pulled closed, signaling that night had fallen. In those days, other than when she was off, I only saw her in the mornings as my brother and I left for school, but mostly at night after she came home from work. I sometimes stayed up waiting for her. My mom was silent for a moment, then she spoke up.

“Do you want to go?” My mom asked.

“Yes, but if I can’t—”

“Do you want to go to Europe?” She asked again. She was more firm this time.

I finally looked up at her, and she was already looking back at me. I feel like mothers have a way of gazing at their children that we almost can’t help but want everything we hold close to our hearts to come flowing out like a river, capable of washing anything caught in its current away. Almost. “Yes,” I said. My heart overflowed. “I want to go.”

She slapped the wooden table with her palm, as if to set it in stone. “Then you’re going.”

I still had my doubts, but I would never voice them to her. A few days later, the two of us met up with Ms. C after school and my mom signed the necessary papers to register me for the guided tour.

One afternoon when the school bus pulled up to my neighborhood, I saw that my mom’s red Chevrolet Cruze was in the parking lot, which meant she wasn’t working that day. I stepped off the bus and walked around the apartment block to the back to reach our unit. When I unlocked the door and pushed it open, the sweet and familiar smell of a snack from my childhood flooded my senses. It was not uncommon for me to come back home to the smell of food being cooked, but this was new. Once again, the light from the ceiling fan shined; this time the blades spinning at the highest speed. The largest ball of dough you have ever seen, a light yellow–beige color, sat atop our wooden dining table without our usual tablecloth to cover it. A large metal bucket with even more dough inside it was positioned next to the mass. Strips of dough slightly longer than a foot and no more than an inch wide laid side by side in rows, and at the end of one strip were pieces of it that were deliberately cut into cubes. The cause of all this was no other than my mom, who was still chopping at the dough without a lapse in concentration. Muscle memory, I suppose, from all the times she did it back in Cameroon during the Christmas season as a young girl.

“Why are you making chin chin?” (this is pronounced cheen-cheen. A fried snack of West African origin. Made from dough that consisted of butter, flour, eggs, milk, sugar, and some water). I only ever liked eating my mom’s.

My mom looked up at me with a smile, as if the smell hadn’t nearly singed my nose hairs. “This is how I’m going to pay for your trip.” She was still chopping with her knife. “I’ll make some of this and sell it to people at my job.”

I wasn’t sure what the reception would be like from people who probably don’t consume much non-American foods. In my personal experience, they weren’t always pleasant, so I stopped offering. But I was waiting to see what would come of her idea.

This is what she would do every night she came home from work if she wasn’t too tired—I didn’t know if that was possible. For weeks, I went to bed to the sound of the spinning fan, the chopping knife, and let the sweet aroma of fried dough lull me to sleep. And to my surprise, her coworkers loved her chin chin and were actually buying it. I don’t think I ever asked, but I’m sure my mom was even putting aside some money from her paycheck every month. The lengths my mom had gone through to get me to go on this trip wouldn’t hit me until much later. Walking the extensive hallways of the historic Neuschwanstein Castle in south Germany, strolling the brick streets of the city of Innsbruck, huddling together for a group picture at the top of chilly Mount Pilatus in Switzerland, and drifting along the canals of Venice on a gondola delayed this realization. I hope she knows just how much those 10 days in Europe changed me and ultimately made me a better and more open-minded person. And I hope she knows that time of my life, both the trip and prior to it, is a memory I hold close to my heart. But, I think she got the message with the bear hug I gave her when we came back.

An Abstract Illusion

by John Peters Axley Award Finalist

Traversing the page— my pen implores expressions, but fuzz flows superficial, images refuse to surge. Who easily writes wounded words— years of neglect by family?

Precious words—three—never spoken, are you able to comprehend being loveless? Comfort rare in punishment’s field —where beatings raise welts and tears water weeds— feeds my fancy to run away. Dying from affection’s drought— shifting sands swallow my sum. Words saunter—beseech candor— to convey the story’s impotent anger toward those guilty of stealing my youth for hell’s perdition.

No survival, my ego died God’s death— aborted superman— my potential perished. My voices scream hate— despise them and the world. I grasp the valve-holding vitriol, but I can’t loosen my fear.

I’m breed coward, my voice silent. I wield the golden pen— weathers under pressure— over space where scars bleed resolute words. I chase the right map of stars, where I reveal truth— find self-esteem, learn self-love.

All That I Am

by Crystal Avilla Axley Award Finalist

Stupid. Lazy. Useless. Those hurtful words swam around in my head like gnats on rotting fruit. Nibbling, chewing. . . swallowing my innocence before I even knew what they meant.

Stupid Lazy

Useless

Is this all that I am? All I am destined to be?

Stumbling my way through life, I grew taller but not wiser. My mind fully encased in the hard shell of lies I believed. I knew only this: I deserved nothing good in life because there was nothing good in me. What was the point of me? Why would something do useless even be created?

My soul was a shriveled, jagged piece of nothing shading everything I touched with the dark shadow of failure. Is this all that I am? All I am destined to be?

Times loses all meaning in the dark. Passing slowly yet quickly. . . and so, so much of it Too much of it.

I spent an eternity slithering through the suffocating black. . . then. . . something strange happened. The first flutter of something came alive within me unrecognizable and alien. I pondered this new thing, like getting to know a stranger. I named this stranger DOUBT, and fed it. . . watching it grow.

Was I really useless? Was I really stupid?

A crack opened in the dry husk of my being allowing me to wonder for the first time if life held more than THIS, even for one such as me. As Doubt grew, I changed his name to CURIOSITY Could I? Should I?

An idea brewed in the miasma of my consciousness. . . An odd, revolutionary, totally outlandish idea. Maybe I could. . . THEN I DID!

CURIOSITY became CONFIDENCE

With fresh eyes I looked around me shocked to see the world had changed when I wasn’t looking. The timeless gloom had been carved away revealing a Disney-hued palette I was unfamiliar with. Is this what others saw?

Those without the raging demons within? It was breathtaking!

I almost giggled the, happiness bubbling forth from some deep place coming home after a long journey though it was a home I had never known before. When the happy glow faded, others stood in the shadowsthe shadows that I knew so well.

I could tell they were each thinking the same thing. . . Is tis what I am? All that I’m destined to be? No!

I reached out my hand again and again

Yanking

Tugging

Pleading

Pulling. . .

Begging

Cajoling. . .

You do not have to stay in that pit that foul place

THIS IS NOT ALL YOU ARE. THIS IS NOT ALL YOU ARE DESTINED TO BE.

I Need to Move Out

by Brent Kelih Axley Award Finalist

I’m

hunched over and heavy-hearted in a dollhouse much too small.

Foolishly, I thought I would fit, but This structure simply wasn’t built with my needs in mind.

Now I have ruined a perfect little home, one foot in the kitchen has broken the dining room table. Oh dear, no more happy family dinners. The other has crushed the living room sofa. There go those fun family game nights. One hand has broken the bathroom pipes. Say goodbye to nice hot showers. The other has wrecked a neatly made bed, tranquil dreams now a mere memory. My head rests in the attic, collecting dust along with other abandoned items.

My first bike, toys yearning to be played with, and photo albums left in an open chest. Oh, what they’ll say once they return home, and find their daughter overgrown.

The Man in the Chair

by Michalann Clark Axley Award Finalist

The man in the chair is a wise man, a good man. The man in the chair is a man not like any other but better. He was pure of heart and pure of soul, yet what he got he did not deserve like hardship and hurt but he survived for what it was worth. He worked and worked, Prayed and prayed, Till one day, the man in the chair was taken away.

Death of a Heritage

by Kaylee-Nicole Eyabi Axley Award Finalist

Here lies. . .

Music we stepped and jived to on tile floors unfit for swarms of bodies, littered with crumpled bills for newlyweds, for those who made it one more year, and those who didn’t. You will go and take our functions and barbecues and wakekeepings with you.

Dance for us in the afterlife. We’ll do our part down here and listen from bluetooth speakers.

Here lies. . .

Cuisine that has crossed borders and stood the test of time. Heaping plates and platters and bowls on any surface that will hold them. Heavy aromas fade with a single wash, with time, with you. Soon enough, these aromas and my brain will become strangers.

Here lies. . .

Words and sayings and phrases heard from birth, understood in formative years, finally spoken at confidence’s arrival. Whenever that was. A language you spoke, easy as breathing. A language we only used to hear each others’ laughter. I wonder

what words or sayings or phrases will we use at your funeral. I don’t like to think about it. Let’s just continue laughing.

Here lies all that will remain after you all are gone. We’ll do our best to keep it alive— the barbecues held during weekend-long celebrations, our food that demands all-day preparation and collective effort, our vernacular uttered by those who hail from the land —and breathe life back into it should it begin to falter. But, too much faith leaves us no room on pedestals you carved our names on. Don’t be surprised when— if we tumble from them. Please don’t be disappointed either. Please. We’re sorry. Rest well.

Meeting the Keeper

by Devin Kipp Axley Award Finalist

Come visit, Sit and have a drink. A sip of poison, A taste of death.

You and your brashness

Your simplicity in nature. Your cruelty. Your wisdom.

You turn hope to dust, And love to dread. You’re a thief to the unexpected And a gift to those bound to bed.

An intruder who knows no bounds. No weapon to be drawn Or actions to curse.

An unavoidable plague. Or an endless gift.

Abundance Falling

by Christine Dettlaff

Acorns rained down like hailstones, pelted the cars, pebbled the ground, Rolling under our feet. So we set about Sweeping, scooping, shoveling, Until the trash cans overflowed. Such tiny things, these proto-oaks, But acorns en masse are heavy. And tho’ the squirrels scurried, Tucking away their winter’s feast, there aren’t enough squirrels in the world For this acorn apocalypse.

Dustin E.

by Andrew Williams

I jogged and you lapped me endlessly on your bike in the park until speech traveled from our eyes to our lips.

You advertised the benefits of biking over jogging and it was easy marketing on me. We planned bike rides and bike rides in that simple Choctaw Creek Park. We slipped into our own reality where trees were mazes to be charted and any patch of dirt was an invitation to explore along bike paths only we could see.

Magnets don’t need to know why they are drawn, The secret is in being who they are. Finally, I was outside my own head, and out from in front of the mirror. I could just be, and respond to you, and we were drawn.

The metal click of changing gears and silent pedals. Sweat and sunscreen. Taking on the hill, conquering it and the world it sat upon. That glorious, deep downhill stretch, cruising side by side.

You were always the better cyclist than me, but there was never a competition. I don’t remember any tricks you did, but remember our shouts of celebration. Noises never scared us – we were a noise, partakers in the park, inhabitants of the wild, usually startling children and adults on accident. In the backwoods again we should have stopped to pee, not because we couldn’t hold it, but because it was the backwoods and we didn’t have to.

We took swimming lessons together …even though we had no access to a pool anywhere. You played a board game with me …even though my mother played, too.

I know why magnets are drawn. They are made of light the human eye can’t see but the body knows. Organs push blood and light to keep me alive, feeding my skin The bloods stays but the light shines through my pores Blasting into the sky like a flare of blue light And that’s what we saw in each other that day in the park.

You wanted to take a vacation together and it was my turn to respond. I was myself, and yet also becoming. Coming out.

But that is not my greatest shame or regret. My father had asked me, “Is Dustin gay?” I gave the technical answer, “I don’t know” because we never consummated with even one kiss or holding hands. I got scared and I never spoke with you again.

I didn’t know it then, but Father had a bucket of black tar he poured onto my hands and my chest. But not for my skin— it seeped in. A steady supply to eclipse until I took the bucket from him and put it on myself every day.

I leaned away from you when I should have leaned in.

And I had Virgin’s Fallacy

That love comes like a storm and would fall at my feet in Thunder and Lightning, And friends for life start with intimacy and all-knowingness. But friends aren’t found—they’re made. Adventures aren’t looked for—they’re created. Tangible love beyond chemical reactions is not soaring, flying, or falling. Never falling.

It’s not a master plan with hindrances of sexuality or something silly like soul mates.

It’s two guys who met at a park, then chose to go biking again and again One day hot with sweat another day cold with sweat. Maybe someone would ask if I ever saw you again, if I would let you go, But I don’t think of it like that. I would just be myself

And you would be yourself, And we’d choose our life together every day. Adventure, excitement, and safety. At least now I know what love feels like because it will feel like you.

Do miracles happen?

Is enough of the poisonous tar gone for you to see me now?

Can your body sense the blue flame?

Will we hold hands afterward if we go biking again?

Do you feel it like I do

Or did the poison defile memory?

If miracles happen, If God is Love, if heaven is real,

When life lessons and punishments are over I won’t be in the throne room.

Angels can’t enchant me.

I’ll be in the outermost realm of the expanding universe Biking with you in the park.

The universe inside me

We don’t know why we’re sad Is it what you had done?

Or was it me this time?

What We Are

by L. Smith

Never will we truly know

For the difference between you and I Is the same for I and you

We hold these feelings with ownership

Without the knowledge they aren’t ours

We take, control, and destroy

What we already are

We play with the earth

And sing with the sun

We cry to the moon

But can’t undo what we’ve already done.

Embers

by Isabella Tijerina

I traded my rose-colored glasses in for red ones I want the past to burn, like it burned me.

Resentment, Rage, Resounding Red is all I see.

What good did they do you? What worth did that place give? Was all the suffering a fair price? For the trauma and the strife?

My hands throw vicious fire Scorching the past, how the past scorched itself flowing down my face.

Branded in pain.

Crumbling in my hand, dark flakes.

Blackened sizzled skin.

Remember how you got here. Remember what they did.

Unwanted Lullaby

by Devin Kipp

He came to visit before you were named, Before you could talk or walk or come to know shame. Before I knew my anger of loss, Or my words of regret and what it would cost.

Asleep before the first breath drawn, Death came to visit before the dawn. Whispering to the womb, A lullaby.

The Future

by Crystal Avilla

Time hangs heavy and abundant, a bruised cloud filling the horizon. Radiating forward, that inescapable hardscrabble reality beckoning. . . toxic. . . irresistible.

It demands, that gentle whispering, that siren song on bittersweet refrain. Shedding along the way memories of loss. . . of love. . . of life.

If Life Were but a Dream

by Michalann Clark

If life were but a dream, Full of lilies and daffodils

I would fly in the northern wind And into a beautiful blue moon. I would soar in the feeling of love, And never feel the plummet of defeat. I would sing till the sunrise

And my feet will never tire From dancing to the beat. I would be happy and never Feel the ache of sorrow, And the trees forever green, The honey always sweet. I would always feel at rest Even when put to the test Of this thing called life

That’s restless and strained. Loss would not exist, and the tears dry. I would always be fulfilled With my perfect lullaby

And when I look up to the sky I would have no worries

Not if I would see the sun rise tomorrow Or lose everything to my crazy ambitions Of a perfect life.

But if life were but a dream

I couldn’t appreciate the wonders of it I would just be living a lie. Locked in a cage where perfection lies. I would be stuck with only a dream, not a life Full of wants that are unfulfilled by my desire to live And a desire to fly in the best sky there is, life.

So, if life were but a dream it would not be a life

But a replica of a fake we made up in our minds And not with our hearts where the brokenness hides and sees the truth and cannot deny what’s real And what is made up of pictures of lies.

Tomorrow’s Tired Fighter

by Meciah Blacknoll

Yesterday I buried my grandmother. She wasn’t my grandma by blood, She took me in when I was five and I was hers. I called her Mama Ann.

I would visit her often. I was visiting her six months ago, I had been fighting. I’m a fighter, I didn’t tell her that though. I didn’t want her to worry. Fighters don’t write poems.

Even now my faintly concussed mind struggles to find words but manages keeps pace with my shaky hands as my bruised knuckles struggle to hold this pencil. I dread the idea of typing this later.

She knew. She had a razor tongue, And these piercing eyes. Her words cut me gently. She told me “You look tired”. I was.

She knew because she knew what it was to be tired. She didn’t write poems.

Three weeks ago, I visited Mama Ann in the hospital. It was my birthday.

She hadn’t opened her eyes in days but she looked at me. Her eyes told me she was tired. She was.

Enough to write poetry.

Today I’m sad because I miss my friend

Today she rests and

Today I wrote a poem because Today I’m too tired to fight.

Dark Spring

by Lacey Veazey-Daniel

In spring, her yard was alive with color. She waited out the lonely dark of winter To revel in the beauty of resurrection. Easter Sunday saw her savior rise and it swathed her in pastels.

Lilac sweet and vernal, she passed her days in joy, tending flowers, courting hummingbirds, and breathing in the warmth of spring.

My spring lost its color with her passing. I revel in the lovely dark of winter and dread the beauty of resurrection.

Easter Sunday sees my sorrows rise And turns pastels to grey.

Lilac bitter-sweet and vernal, I pass my days in grief, tending tears, courting melancholy, and waiting out the dark of spring.

a

short story

by Jasmine-Joy Ignacio

Fisherman of the Skies “Dawn”

It was the perfect day for a fishing trip.

As Luan Kahele grew closer to the shoreline, he grinned at the sight of the ocean’s gentle waves, heard the seagulls cry as they took off over the vast blue expanse. The sky was a kaleidoscope of sapphires, spilling warm sunlight onto the awakening village. The air was fresh, mingling with the familiar scent of the ocean.

Luan inhaled deeply, taking in the wonderous feeling of this place he called home.

Luan raced through the last stretch of the village, coming to a stop at the village dock. A tall man who was the spitting image of Luan stood alone there at the end of the docks, looking out towards the vast blue sea before turning around, leaning casually against a wooden post.

“There’s my little star.”

“There you are,” Luan’s mother began as they walked into the house. “Where have you two been all evening? It’s dinner time!” Though her eyes were usually warm and welcoming, she looked firmly at her husband now with fierce eyes.

His father laughed, “I’ve been teaching our star here how to catch fish.”

She hesitated and looked back and forth from her husband to her son in deep concern.

“I’ve already prepared the boat for tomorrow in front of the docks.”

Luan’s parents spoke of their trip amongst themselves as he ate his dinner, listening intently.

“What time are you guys going?” Luan eventually broke in. “We’re leaving right when the sun comes up, so don’t forget to wake up early so we can take you to Ms. Kekoa,” Leia told her son.

Luan slumped in his seat, frowning. After a moment, he found the courage to speak up. “Mama, can I please go with you guys this time?” Luan’s confidence rose as he spoke. “I’ve been practicing fishing a lot lately! I know I’m getting better. Ask Papa!”

“No, my star,” Leia said, a hint of impatience in her tone.

“Papa! Tell her! My form is getting better, and it’s becoming easier for me! I can help you guys tomorrow, please bring me with you! I can grab my own gear and you can teach me more.”

“Luan, no more. I said you can’t come,” Leia said, a little less subtle this time.

“Please! I want to learn more so I can become better! This is what I want to be Mama, please understand! This is who I am!”

“Enough Luan!” Leia snapped at him, “No! This is not who you are! This is not what you’ll become! You’re not going to fail. Not this time,” she choked out.

Luan stared at his mother through a whirlwind of confusion and shock.

Leia looked away from him as she swiped at the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. “That is why I’m telling you,” she hesitated as if already regretting what she was about to say. “I don’t want you fishing anymore.”

Luan’s puzzled expression darkened as he processed what she had said.

“Y-you can’t do that,” he replied slowly, “you can’t stop me from doing what makes me happy! Just so I could fulfill your dream?!” Luan ran to his room, trying in vain to suppress his own angry tears.

Kalawai`a stood up to comfort his wife. “I’ll talk to him,” he offered.

He quietly made his way to Luan’s room, reaching hesitantly for the door knob. Cautiously, he stepped inside and turned his gaze to the ceiling, where every inch was covered with stickers of constellations and stars. But when he looked over to the corner of the room, he saw his favorite and most valued star of all. He strode over to it and sat down to admire the thing so precious to him.

“Luan,” he began as he pulled him close, “did you know that wherever you find a moon, you can find a single star very close to it?”

Luan sat still. He didn’t reply.

His father continued, “Maybe at times, when it’s too dark, you can’t see it, but it’ll always be there. No matter how consumed by darkness the star feels, the moon is always there to shine on it and stay by its side.” He sighed. “If you set your heart to it, of course you can become a great fisherman. You can become anything.” He kissed Luan’s forehead. “You just have to keep dreaming.” Kalawai ‘a began to hum quietly, the smooth and gentle rhythms transforming into beautiful lyrics.

You reach for the skies

And there, you will see

A billion stars shining so true

A billion stars that dance in the heavens

Yet not a single one, burns quite like you

In Ms. Kekoa’s house, the day had passed, long and weary. Luan cracked open an unassuming door at the end of the hallway and peeked in an empty room occupied only by a large bed consumed by thick, fluffy blankets and even fluffier pillows. Taking in the scene, he realized just how exhausted he really was. He thought of his parents, over and over until he drifted off into a deep, deep sleep.

“You’ve done it, Luan! You got accepted into the best astronomy school in the country!” His mother cried happily in his unusually large arms. Arms that he assumed were his at least.

“I did that?” He asked, skeptically. His voice was deeper. “Yes! You’ve done great, My Son,” Kalawai ‘a beamed. Luan took a step, or rather stumbled, back. He looked at them both, confused.

“Only one more thing,” Leia began, “ Luan, are you happy?”

He hesitated; felt his heart grow heavy as he tried to find the right words.”No? I mean, I-I’m not sure...” He drifted off, unsure of himself. The euphoric atmosphere he had felt moments ago shifted and twisted into an uncomfortable emotion he couldn’t quite place. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. But,” He paused again, doubt setting in. “It’s the truth.”

His parents looked at each other, then together at their son. The tension in the air was palpable. They spoke in unison when they said, “reach for the skies, My Star.”

Luan felt the pull of reality, freeing him from the depths of his subconscious.”Reach for the skies…” he echoed.

“Luan.” Ms. Kekoa shook him. “Luan, please wake up,” she said, louder this time, her voice trembling with the effort.

Luan awoke, groggy and disoriented. Looking down on his pillow, he found it was soaked with tears. He suddenly remembered where he was and looked around frantically. “Ms. Kekoa, what time is it?”

“Luan,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Your parents are late, Luan, “ she tried and failed to hide the crack in her voice. “Very late.”

“Tomorrow”

All the students had at last come in and all the chairs were filled. All except one. “Class,” Professor Henry demanded the students’ attention with his profound voice. “I hope you all had a good night’s rest, but I also hope you studied effectively. I cannot express enough how important it is that some of you did. He paused to survey the room. “However,” He continued, “If you didn’t, then you know where you’ll stand in this class. Remember, the test you will be taking will be covering all we’ve reviewed this semester. You can expect to see Heliospheric and Solar Physics, Celestial Mechanics- “ continued

He was cut off when the elaborate wooden door beside him burst open. The students turned to see a tall, lean boy rushing in with dark, ruffled hair that almost threatened to engulf his deep, hazel eyes.

“Let’s remember how seriously this is supposed to be taken,” Professor Henry continued, walking among the students’ desks, looking at them each in turn. “You’ve made it this far, now let’s see where you can go from here.” He surveyed the students once more before returning his focus to the boy. The professor paused for a moment and eyed him carefully. “May I have your name, Late One?”

The boy glanced up at Professor Henry, before sheepishly looking away, hesitant as he felt everyone’s eyes on him again. He cast his dark eyes from the walls, to the professor, then back to the walls. Reluctantly, he spoke up, still avoiding eye contact. “Kahele,” he managed. “Luan Kahele.”

After class, Luan closed the door behind his apartment and placed all his things on the living room floor. Today’s final was by far the most difficult exam he had ever taken. He was late to class this morning due to the same nightmare he’d been struggling with for four days straight. It was the same nightmare that kept Luan up late at night, so late that time seemed to bleed into morning. The same one he’d been having since he was young. Ever since the incident. He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes as he thought back to the night before.

A dark place, alone. Small ripples of water formed his surroundings. It was gentle. It was serene. The ripples echoed throughout the dark space. It was louder this time.

“Where am I?” Luan questioned, cautious. Silence.

The ripples turned to growing waves.

“What is this place?” he tried again, “and why is it so dark?” Except he received no response. Only the crashing waves that danced around him seemed to care. The growing waves twisted into violent currents.

“LUAN!” a familiar voice called to him from behind the violent waves.

Silence.

Sudden tears of anger and confusion cascaded down his face.

The sound of the waves grew louder. The currents became stronger.

“Where are you!?” He screamed at the top of his lungs.

The waves came into a sudden and complete stop. The silence that ensued was deafening. He stood up, swiping at his cheeks.

“Where am I?” He tried again. He heard footsteps, but for all his squinting, he couldn’t locate their owner. He thought for a moment. “Where are w-we?” he corrected.

The footsteps ceased abruptly. A single voice could be heard. It was familiar. Too familiar. It was His voice.

The voice echoed around the chamber menacingly. “We’re only,” it replied, “in here.” Luan didn’t even have time to process the disembodied voice’s vague description before pain like white-hot bullets ricocheted inside his head. Darkness followed.

“Failure”

“And lastly, Luan K. Kahele,” he finished.

Luan took the graded packet from Professor Henry’s outstretched hands, but he didn’t dare to look. Still afraid to look at his grade, Luan walked outside over to a bench, his exam carefully hidden against his chest. He sat under a blossoming tree, the shade casting eerie shadows on Luan’s already grim expression. Carefully, Luan turned the first page of his packet, quickly skimming through all the explanatory pages before coming to a stop at the second-to-last page. The page before his final grade. His heart dropped. Red lines like lasers pierced the page, mercilessly crisscrossing through his answers. His entire face darkened at the sight of the scribbles and markings that stained his own writing. White-hot heat flashed behind his eyes. Red paragraphs of critique and responses bled onto the page like open wounds. Desperate, Luan flipped the page over. His eyes darted to the very top of the back page.

A giant ‘57’ stained the top of his exam.

He had failed the class.

The day had been long for Luan. Moonlight replaced the colorful rays, spilling into Luan’s apartment and casting an eerie glow around him. Luan gazed out of the kitchen window, as he often did, and observed the distant moon. The Sun is a star, he remembered, The most appreciated one. It creates life, lives alongside fluffy, bright clouds, the singing birds, it’s the main source of light. But the moon? The moon is a rock. compared to the sun, it isn’t much. But it can be more. It’s something that has actually been explored. At times when it’s dark outside, it looks lonely, but no matter what, there will always be stars with the moon. They too, create light. The moon and stars have an unbreakable type of bond.

He lit a candle and he noticed the flame made the room a little less dim. He looked up and around at his surroundings. Today, he had imagined for his family to be there. Ms. Kekoa. His parents. Yet, against the wall, a single silhouette flickered alone. The tiny flame danced atop the wick of the candle, waiting to fulfill its purpose. Luan sang quietly to himself.

“Happy Birthday to you. . . “ he whispered. He stopped there. A lost memory suddenly woke up and untangled itself from Luan’s darkest ones. His eyes widened, and a stray tear rolled silently down his cheek as the lyrics slowly formed in his mind. He began to sing again.

You reach for the skies

And there, you will see

A billion stars shining so true

A billion stars that dance in the heavens

Yet not a single one, burns quite like you

He blew out the candle.

“Reach the Skies”

“Luan,” said the voice.

“Please,” he begged, “please stop calling me.” He held his hands to his head and fell back on his heels, tightly shutting his eyes. “I am happy, okay? We’re happy. We don’t need anything else. So I beg you, leave me alone.”

“But are you?” the voice came again. Except this time, the voice sounded…different. He opened his eyes and anxiously stood up. He was no longer in a dreary abyss of violent waves. They were no longer crashing down on him. The pressure in his chest lifted and he felt the chaos subside. He was on the ocean. He stood as still as the vast blue expanse below him, silent waters that rippled carefully beneath his feet. He looked up. The sun was rising to a bright, early morning. A light, crescent moon hovered in the corner of his vision, waiting to fade away, taking its last breaths.

“Who are you?” Luan asked again, almost having forgotten he was not alone. He was met by a long moment of silence. Luan opened his mouth to ask again, but before he could speak, the voice answered him.

“I know it’s been years, but don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten?” laughed the voice. Luan’s heart swelled and shattered all at once. After years of trying to pick up the broken pieces, trying to place everything in the most correct way possible, to act as if everything had been perfectly fine, once again, it shattered. It shattered like thin glass as he didn’t even recognize such a familiar, welcoming voice.

“Papa.”

He hugged him and he wept and they both fell back, resting on the ocean’s still surface. Luan continued to hyperventilate as he struggled to speak. “I-I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he choked out.

Kalawai`a gently kissed his son’s head as he spoke. “I’m sorry, My Star. I’m so sorry. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.” He held Luan at arm’s length, lightly touching his shoulders. He inspected every inch of the face that looked so similar to his own. Kalawai`a beamed at his son, an adult now. “My Star,” he cried as he wiped away Luan’s tears. “My continued

beautiful boy. You’ve grown so much.” Luan held his father’s hand close to his face. He had dearly missed the familiar, warm touch.

“I have so much to tell you, Papa.” He gave a small laugh, trying to suppress his tears.

Kalawai`a sat with his son, listening intently to all he had missed. They laughed as they spoke of Luan’s memories from the past fifteen years.

“So,” Kalawai `a said, breaking the comfortable silence. “MIT? Son, that’s incredible. Really, it’s one of the hardest schools to get into. But I do have to ask you one thing.”

Luan looked at his father curiously.

“Why?” Kalawai `a asked with a blank face.

Luan looked back at him, puzzled. “What do you mean? I major in astronomy.”

“Yes, but I thought that wasn’t your thing? Why did you do it?”

Luan sighed, averting his eyes and instead turning his gaze to the heavens again.

“For Mama.” He admitted.

Kalawai`a sighed. “I see,” he said as he glanced up at the moon. It still hadn’t moved. Then he was standing up and walking away.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in a little bit,” his father said, his back still turned to him.

“Wait, Papa, where are you going?” Luan scrambled to his feet, but his father’s image faded away, returning to the air. He was beginning to think he might never see anyone again when he spied movement ahead of him. He squinted. Far away, he could see someone walking towards him. Luan laughed. “Papa, where did you go?”

But no answer came.

The figure grew closer, and Luan’s face scrunched up in painful recognition. He dropped to the floor. Guilt settled into his heart and pooled in his veins as he curled his hands into fists and planted them firmly on his knees. He hung his head in shame as tears fell from his eyes to join the ocean. The steps came closer, faltering in intensity until two short heeled shoes stopped directly in front of him. He laid his head on the small feet, his tears stained the shiny shoes.

“I’m so sorry, Mama.”

Leia held her weeping son in her arms. “My Star,” Leia cried, “why do you apologize?”

Luan looked at his mother, her beauty remained untouched from her early departure.

“Oh my!” exclaimed Leia, “Are you sure I’m not looking at my Kalawai`a?” she smiled as she kissed Luan’s forehead. Luan gave her a smile that shied in comparison and looked down.

“I’m so sorry I failed you,” he whispered. Luan stood up and turned away from his mother.

“What?” Leia said, pain straining her voice.

Luan still looked away in shame. “Do you regret having me before you were ready?”

Leia took a deep breath.

“Son, do you wanna know why I overreacted about you becoming an astronomer?”

Luan risked a glance at his mother and nodded. Leia pondered for a moment.

“I, too, was on my way to becoming a great astronomer when I was younger. It was

all I ever wanted to be since I was a child. I set my entire life goal on this career and everything went according to plan. I even got into a prestigious college. That is,” she looked up at the crescent moon and smiled, “until I fell in love. Since then, I’ve been so distracted by my first love that I had taken for granted all my studies. I was completely love-struck. Head over heels if you will” she laughed. “Son, when you love someone, you’re willing to do anything for them. You’re willing to reach the skies for them. The moon, a thousand times and back. She sighed. “I regret not working harder, but looking back, looking at you,” she grinned, “I know I made the right choice. So you see, I’m not going to let that happen. “

“What do you mean?”

“Luan. I’m not going to let you stand here and blame yourself for my own faults. I’m your mother. I love you with all of my heart and if I really love you, I shouldn’t force my unaccomplished dreams onto my child.” Leia hugged her son tightly. “Luan, you didn’t fail me,” she smiled and it lit up her entire face when she did, “You’ve done it, my star.” With that Leia’s image slowly began to fade away. “You’ve reached the skies.”

Luan looked around him with newfound calm as the setting shifted. He smiled to himself. He recognized this scene. This time, he was on the crescent moon. He sat at the base, letting a leg hang casually over the side. It didn’t seem so large anymore.

“How did I get here?” he asked aloud. Startled, he brought his hand up to his chest. It was his voice, but something was different about it. Off. He looked down at his hands, one of which grasped his father’s fishing pole in its chubby fingers. His hands were much smaller, like a child’s. Astonished, he brought his hand up to his face, only to find its definition lost in smooth, plump skin. He ran it through his fluffy, long hair. He laughed, a musical sound. My hair hasn’t been like this since, he gasped, realizing.

Since I was eight.

He hugged one of his tiny legs to his chest, carefully examining the fishing pole in his other hand. The engraving on its side read K.K.. He sighed, closing his eyes. After years of being a star trapped in the dark, Luan had finally found his moon. He exhaled, leaning back against the moon.

It was the perfect day for a fishing trip.

She spoke with Venus and the dying moon in the golden predawn glow She told them of her sorrows and the weight upon her soul

She listened to their silence and in it found her peace

She closed her eyes and took a breath and exhaled sweet relief.

by Lacey Veazey-Daniel

Under the Stars

by Mary Grady

As I lay here underneath the moon

Enjoying the small, pinpoint lights

The breeze is calm and soothing while The campfire is warm and blazing. Its sparks dances towards the stars

Glows a deep bright orange red, it Seems to be a constant colorful burn.

Kids running, hiding, just having fun; While some lazily look up at the stars, And others staying warm by the fire

Sleep, could stay there ‘til dawn. The smell of the fresh air brings life

And the smoke is a like incense. Both, inwardly cleanses and refreshes

Destroying anything that’s wrong away.

A consistent peace, joy, and love today.

Smiling eyes dance by the night’s light

Like the stars they shine forever bright!

The Wise One

by Jordan Ruffing

Am I the wise one or am I the fool?

Should I follow my gut or think this one through?

Can I do it of my own volition?

I must go to the dark places.

I know them well, indeed.

Resentment knows me like an old friend.

It drops by like an uninvited guest. I can feel it growing like an orchid.

Will it make me snap, or will I bend?

Could I have prophesied this turn?

Would I be a fool to ignore it?

If I were wise, then I would know.

I’m sick of wondering myself away.

It’s time to learn to accept change.

That doesn’t make it any easier, though.

Why

by Jasmine-Joy Ignacio

Sometimes I would ask myself why. Even with my youthful age there was no excuse for the falls I had faced in my life. The falls that revealed the grubby dirt, the scuffed path, The difficult journeys and the truth twisting strife. I would ask myself, why?

I know how I look with my restless face With my mind that’s in and out of space

With my exhaustion thats weighing me down after an unfinished race, I know.

But I’ve realized that through this dark and perilous forest, With the unresting storms, The unfamiliar sights, The broken trees

The crescending wind that blows and scuffles the rotting leaves, That it wasnt me.

There was this hand.

This hand that helped me up and guided me, Guided me and protected me. The hand that wiped my tears away. But it wasn’t just any hand, It was a

A Righteous Right Hand.

Yet I am still asking why.

But it isn’t for the same reasons.

Why do I thrive on this Earth?

Why am I happy with my mistakes?

Why am I satisfied with my problems?

Happy through persecutions?

Happy to endure without refusion?

Why was I able to remain stable and stay steady through the hardships when I knew I wasn’t ready?

Why was I able to stand and endure and love everything even throughout the hard times?

I’ll tell you why,

Lord God, it is because of you. Because you are my reason why.

Frozen Dreams

a

short story by Devin

Kipp

It was raining. Water to wash away the grit, the grim and the gross from the streets; water to wash me. I walked letting the small droplets hit my face. The light sting of the liquid sprayed across my skin. It was bitter. Each droplet stings like iron made ice.

A rumble of hunger echoes inside me. It had been three days, three days since I’d had something to eat. At least I thought it had been, perhaps it was only two. Either way, my stomach did not agree to stop working, but I could hardly afford to pay him. Hunger it was, until the next stranger decided to be kind. A soft chuckle escaped my lips at the thought. The streets were mostly empty; a cold rain like this, people would rather stay inside, stay warm. Only us homeless would be caught out in such dreadful weather. We had no fire to keep us warm, no bed to rest our heads on. No meals to eat.

As I came around the corner to my usual spot something caught my attention. A new advertisement had been placed on the billboard off in the distance. A woman with long, curly blonde hair and golden, honey eyes. Her smile was a perfect brilliance of white, lips as red as an apple. She was beautiful and kind; she must be kind, her eyes told me so. At least I’d have something to look forward to every day as I made my way to this sleeping spot. I sat on the slanted pavement of the underpass. Rocks had been placed into the cement as it was settled, an effort to keep us homeless away from the public. Like we were vermin in need of extermination or a rabid dog, too dangerous to be let loose, they were simply too kind to say as much. So, they place rocks instead.

The sun was setting, although it was hard to tell. The sky showed no change in color, just different shades of gray. Still, it was growing darker as time passed and soon night fell over the city. The cars passed by, their taillights a red glow in the freezing rain, night obscuring the faces of the drivers. I wasn’t the only homeless out that night. Many of the others slumped in a bundle of clothes and tattered blankets, hiding under the freeway, the cold whisking the stench of our corpses away into the air.

“You damn near fell off the bar.” A pair of young men made their way toward me, their coats a thick layer of protection against the night air.

The other young man burst out laughing. “I was dancing!”

“That’s what you call dancing?” The two of them laughed as they drew closer. I could smell the liquor on their breath from here. I watched as the two continued to taunt and tease each other, each joke calling forth a chorus of laughter. Something about it seemed so familiar, the laughter of youth, the freedom. It felt so close, yet so far away. My mind reached out trying to grasp at the memory, but like many others it floated away like a gust of wind before I could truly realize it. Nothing made any sense anymore. I grumbled to myself, turning away from the two young men as they walked past. Like most others, they passed without a glance in my direction, as if I didn’t even exist.

Nothing I wasn’t used to.

I wonder how I got here. What was my name? Who was I? Who am I now? Everything was lost to the abyss, even the two young gentlemen. Their faces already a blur, their voices breaking into a whisper. I wonder if everyone is as lost and confused as I.

The mountain of belongings I had piled next to me under the bridge would be considered trash by most, but to me it’s all I had left. I sifted through the dirt to find a few tattered blankets that had been left around by someone more fortunate than I. Sleeping on the cold concrete would be unpleasant. Luckily for me there was a bench nearby that wasn’t claimed yet. One that was guarded against the wind, a bus stop. I took my bundle of blankets and dirty clothes and used them to make a cot, or something that resembles a cot atop the bench, wrapping myself in the remainder of my clothes I tucked myself in for the night. Even with my mountains of protection and three walls to guard me, the wind still slipped in between the folds of my clothes and blankets. Nipping at my skin, sapping my heat. A chill could be felt beyond my flesh. It dug deep into the marrow of my bones, refusing to be warmed. My body began to shiver of its own accord as if I were possessed by a demon. I let my thoughts wander to more joyous things. An image of a woman with long blond hair. Her smile was one that lit the room, her eyes soft and warm shined with the golden hue of honey.

She was beautiful. I know not who this woman was or why she visited me in my thoughts, but she seemed familiar, like a friend or sister? Perhaps a lover long lost that I had met in a different life? One that didn’t require me to sleep on a bench at a bus stop.

The wind picked up, filling the small box of my little home. It pushed some of the fabrics that covered me onto the ground before I could grab them. They were whisked away into the night, tumbling into the darkness. It was too much for me to move, my body ached from the cold and didn’t care too much about anything but resting. Another gust of wind picked up a few more articles of clothing that I thought were secured by my weight. They, too, drifted into the darkness. Now, the wind rushed through the pockets of empty space left by those who had abandoned me. The chill biting at my fingers and toes, sapping the moisture from my lips that cracked and bled, leaving behind dried, crusted skin. As the wind picked up more my mind focused back to the girl.

Such a beautiful girl.

Such a happy girl.

Sleep was calling my name as the feeling in my limbs abandoned me.

Drained

by Brent Kelih

eyes fogged like windows on cold mornings. frostbitten brain, numb as if a blizzard saw the “For Sale” sign on your frontal lobe. turn on the tap and there you will find your elixir, an almost instant replacement for human touch. luxuriate in this fleeting moment, soon emptied from your porcelain coffin. unplug the stopper and wish you’d go down too, in a stew of unpleasantness and lavender bubbles. lost somewhere within the pipes, banished to the deepest and darkest of unseen places. so easily forgotten, like passing strangers on the street.

Altar

Peyton Stein

London Cafe

Michelle Stoddard

Storm in Scissortail

Oklahoma Grain

Michelle Stoddard

Family Portrait

Bastion

Peyton Stein

Hanging on by a Thread

Jasmine-Joy Ignacio

Great Minds Think Alike

Jasmine-Joy Ignacio

Spanish Steps

Michelle Stoddard

Time is Money

Jasmine-Joy Ignacio

Purple Sunset

by Marnay McClintock

Lazy Days

by Mary Grady

Sitting here on A lazy afternoon. I see a perfect place, Dreaming in a daze. Smell of the roses

And the flowers, Sweet and pleasant A calm relaxant. The grass is like A sea of emeralds, Glistening like diamonds

As the sun warms within. Hot and needing shade, the Trees over there seems perfect. I finally found a place to Sit and rest my head.

D3 smells of grief of shame of hope of closeness of women. They could hold hands across the space between their bunks, these strangers forced together, some of them there but for God go I, and likely there but for God go you. They are state property with no identity save a number assigned upon conviction. They can be punished for damaging state property if they cut their hair get a tattoo or suffer a sunburn. Their humanity is taken away, yet they endure, taking the stones they are given and somehow making the sweetest lemonade.

by Lacey Veazey-Daniel

It’s sad, really.

Where is Joy?

By Jasmine-Joy Ignacio

Because I used to be so in love with life.

So in love with the world.

How it held so much.

The color, the potential, the diversity, the discoveries, the adventures.

Every child believes that the world revolves around them.

Because when you’re a child, It does.

And me?

I had so much love.

A love that couldn’t be contained in a world that was now seemingly so small. I genuinely found joy in learning about the world

About the land, the languages, the people.

And maybe that’s why it took a little while.

Took a while for the world to knock me off my feet and crumble to the ground.

Took a while to become disgusted with the wasteland the land has become.

Took a while to become adjusted to hearing such vile language.

Took a while for me to stop giving all my love and trust to people of this world. And I try to keep searching for it.

Searching for that time

That feeling

That place

Where everything was, as I read, “good and handsome and kind.”

I wonder

I wonder if they ever knew what they did.

What this world had done.

To a child.

To Joy.

A subscription of words speaks wonder, letters weave together to create art against backdrops of dreams and nightmares set under invisible stars struggling to speak a language lost. Danger lurks behind those words, their masterstrokes combine, tantalize readers. We lose track of our emotions, levees fail their quest to hold back the deluge. Our self is captured, held rapt, not hostage the way of needing escape. We fear flight. Dread rescue. We find triumph in losing our self. Poems of essence reject tradition, birth fiery desire by last stanza’s end line.

Wrecked Perspective

by John Peters

He is a mountain of a man, a brace against the wind a shelter in the storm

His long arms fold her close, safe against his chest where she won’t be hurt again

His giant, gentle fingers soothe the deep wounds left by smaller, careless men

His touch is a quiet worship of all the scarred places she works so hard to hide

His love lights fire in her, burning away her sorrows, leaving only beauty behind

Mountain Man

for KB by Lacey Veazey-Daniel

The Libra scale of Lockdowns

personal essay by Abel Martinez

In prison we tend to run across a variety of individuals who come from all different backgrounds with different agendas. How we as prisoners act towards each other is something that comes from a personal code of ethics or morals. The result of our ethics or morals can sometimes be life-threatening for those involved in gang activity and can lead to a prison-wide lockdown. The main purpose of a lockdown is simply to stop the violence; consequently, it does more than just that. Lockdowns are appalling but necessary; the way prisoners perceive themselves may be to blame.

Lockdowns can make time drag and can stunt motivation; the days just go slow because the lack of movement. With us as inmates we have to find ways to spend our time; luckily most of us acquire jobs or have education to fill the boredom. College is time well-spent, but during lockdowns, all movement across the yard is hindered which, in turn, leads me and others to fall behind on work. At times we can do our homework in the cell; however, there is constant noise outside the cell, like people yelling and banging on their doors, that makes it difficult to concentrate. I can only feel for the gang members, because they don’t know what’s going to happen when the doors swing open. They may be flung into a war and killed, so they have to stay listening at all times. Another barrier for getting some homework done is our environment in general; it’s easy to get comfortable on our bed and fall asleep. Sleep acts as a drug for some and it passes the time easily, but during this state nothing is getting accomplished. Even though lockdowns can drain motivation, it can have benefits.

Lockdowns act as a safe haven for the inmates, as well as ease tensions among gangs, thus minimizing a war or riots. In a controlled environment such as prison, a lockdown is essential; in the world we can escape in a dangerous situation by simply driving away, calling 911, etc. Here in prison, our way of safety is a confined space by which nobody can reach us or vice versa. I can only imagine the lives that has been saved due to lockdowns; the longevity of a lockdown can also have an effect on life and death. After months, or sometimes days, everybody wants to come out of the lockdown, and if we’re lucky, the gangs will call for peace. It is true that most lockdowns are a result gang violence, but it’s deeper than that; something on the inside of an individual is malformed and has us act in such a way that hurts our fellow man. Somehow, in both sides of a war both parties think what their standing on is correct and that justifies what they do. To me, it seems how we think is incorrect and that

our actions because of that are just as wrong.

The way we perceive ourselves has a lot to do with who we are, which equals what we do. For example, when a child wants to be a dinosaur he acts in that way, roaring around and clawing at things. Now, when a man comes from a difficult situation and relates to a gangster, he may start to act that way. But unlike the child, the man doesn’t grow up or leave that train of thought. The self-destructive behavior had to be learned and or influenced somehow. Teenage years, to me, seem most important in growth of culture development in an adolescent. But, if the teenager doesn’t have somebody to show him how to fulfill a righteous character how will he learn? A lot of what I’ve learned at that age came from music, media, and negative influences. There are rappers that talk about drugs and how they sell them as a means to eat, and they do a great job relating to those who really live that way. So, when a broke kid listens to a rapper about how he came from nothing and now is on top of the world because of selling drugs, what do you think that kid is going to do to fix his situation? On top of that, the friends he grew up with may have the same mind and either they join a gang or create one. The teenager then lives that hard way of life as a drug dealer/gang member that’s filled with betrayal, violence, murder, and prison. By the time the teenager is almost an adult (assuming he survives), his encounters with that kind of world have left him full of mentally instabilities such as PTSD, anxiety, and depression. Not forgetting to mention that his way to handle most problems is by what he knows best and what rappers and drug lords glorify: violence. So, that way of thinking he used on the streets has led to prison, and the same gang he grew up in is there as well as the drugs to sell, which equal the need for violence, but where prison differs is the structure, and where life can be saved (temporarily) is a lockdown.

Lockdowns for prisoners who want to better themselves hinder their progress but without question have saved thousands of lives. If trying to solve the issue on lockdowns, some may say we need to lengthen a lockdown or swamp prisoners or separate all gangs. These have all been tried and act as a band aide to the real issue that can be only healed from within each prisoner. Most prisoners don’t think there is another way of life to live; that this is the cards they are dealt. I would like to tell them that if life hasn’t been fair to them, it hasn’t been fair to me either, but I don’t let circumstances or generalizations define me anymore. They motivate me to pursue and change the things I have control over like my personality, the way I think, and my view on life. One must break bonds or customs that equal self-destruction and rise above that way of living that has snared so many before us. Recognize this life has meaning and can be changed when the decision is made to renew the mind.

Death on the Cona

by Charles Moore

I feel Death on the Cona, Hugging up the Block, Running with da Gangstaz, Squeezing Choppa nonstop. Oh Lord, show me a better way, I pray for brighter days,

Fo’ I’m locked in a cage or laying in Grave. All night I couldn’t sleep

I tossed and turned, Candle sticks in dark, Visions of Bodies being burned. Sitting in my Low Low, Puffin sticks of sherm, Thoughts of suicide, Got my Family concerned.

Only lord knows the Depth of pain I felt, When my brother was murdered, How many nights I wept. Needed someone talk to, couldn’t get help,

Like part of me had died, Felt I had nothing left. He taught me how to survive living on these streets, Showed his brother how ride, when time beef. Navigate these muddy watas, Steal and Blood runs deep, You can lead Lamb slaughter. But meat ya keep. I feel Death on da Cona, Hugging up the Block, Running with the Gangstaz, Squeezing Choppa nonstop. Oh lord, show me a better way, I pray for brighter days,

For I’m locked in cage or laying in Grave.

A Foster Kid’s Dilemma

by Michalann Clark

Imagine hearing beautiful words

Your heart brims with joy

You finally let yourself open up With no fear of your heart being destroyed.

You hear these beautiful words

And feel as if you can fly Then all of a sudden You are falling from the sky.

Those oh so beautiful “I love you’s” Turn into false accusations And deep regretful sighs. Those “we will never leave” Turn into goodbyes.

They watch in satisfaction

As you shrivel up and cry, Imagine a gut-wrenching pain Grabbing your sides

While you wait for your ride.

You are screaming why inside How could they lie?

Saying they are not like the rest But when put to the test they run and say the old parents were right.

You are in another home now

You can’t even look them in the eyes You just want to scream and hide. You’re so tired of these awful goodbyes And new hellos full of judgmental eyes. They judge you as you sit quietly in the corner Tears burning from inside

You’re so tired of moving Why do you even try?

Growing Up is Hard

by Marissa Stride

Growing up is hard.

How truly basic of me to say. Nonetheless it’s true, growing up is hard.

When I was five the world was simple: eat, play, sleep, repeat.

Listen to everything Mom and Dad say, go to kindergarten and color the whole day. Life is simple when you’re five but growing up is hard.

When I was ten, the world became a little tougher, but nevertheless easy. Go to school, do your homework, then play with your friends before eating dinner with your family.

The only trouble you had was that you didn’t know your times tables. Growing up is hard.

Suddenly you’re in middle school and have to look and act a certain way.

This is when you meet the people you hang out with until you graduate.

This is when you hit puberty and the world just got a lot harder. This is when I learned I had no idea who I was. Because growing up is hard.

Next, you’re fourteen and going into high school at the bottom of the food chain. But you were just a king in eighth grade.

Everything’s different now though because the seniors can’t stand you.

In fact, most of the school can’t stand you simply because you’re a freshman. Did you do something wrong?

Probably not but it doesn’t matter because all that matters now is that 4.0 GPA that many try for and many don’t get. Growing up is hard.

Now you’re 18, a senior in high school. You have a part time job and you stopped caring about that GPA because now you have to decide what to do with your life.

You have to decide if you’re going to college and if so which one?

You have to decide if your job is more important than your grades

And if your grades are more important than your mental health, and you’ll decide that they are. Because that’s what your peers act like and your teachers tell you. Growing up is hard. Now you’re graduating. You’re moving out and starting your life, And it’s so overwhelming but you act like you’re fine because everyone else around you is fine, right?

College is right around the corner but you ignore that,

You ignore that because you best friend will be moving out of state at the end of summer And, you want to spend every moment you can with them, before you never see them again. Being a grown up is hard. We’re about to graduate but we have bills and have to go to work, because our parents raised us right.

They raised us to pay for our own things and we don’t mind

Until the stress gets to us and suddenly we feel like we can’t breathe with every little thing drowning us.

It’s okay though, because it has to be. After all, we’re all grown up.

Home

by Lacey Veazey-Daniel

Where hot summer nights swell with the rise and fall of cicada song and the maddening hum of a million mosquitoes

Where hoofbeats make dust storms you can see for miles and miles as the huge Delta sky blazes lavender, vermillion, and gold

Where cotton fields spread far out to the horizon, seas of summer snow in the swelter of July

Where the ghost of Robert Johnson stalks the shoulders of 61 searching endlessly for the crossroads and the devil to make a deal

Where tender love and bitter hate thread together into a tragic tapestry of triumph and turmoil, stretching back through history, reaching for tomorrow.

The Painter’s Sonnet

by Katherine Brueggemann

I want to show the parts of you I know; Each passing day I hear your thoughts within, And with each of your thoughts, I see you glow, As does my warmth and love for you, my twin. It grows and glows like grass in field and grove, A fondness waters blooming garden grounds, And beckons deer and hare to come and rove, Where lush green sprouts thrive, and our growth abounds. Your luminance is radiant and rich, An endless well of my inspiring muse. You weave ideas with mine like one would stitch, A stroke of paint imbuing gorgeous hues. I beg of fate for you, that you shall see, The deep, unending love for you in me.

Growing

prose poem by Michalann Clark

I am a tree, growing each year. I suffer many storms, hoping each one will pass, but I always relish the rain from it in hopes it will help me to grow. I feel the sun on my leaves; I soak in its warmth. It is a rare ordeal for me to feel the sun. I grew in the shadows where it is often cold and meek. I try to stretch my branches through the darkness, but I find it difficult and tiring, sometimes wondering why I try reaching at all. I see the other trees, basking in their own piece of the sun, not realizing the warmth they have, and what it is like to not feel that warmth at all. I keep growing. I start to change in each season, not realizing until it is too late that the leaves I worked so hard to grow are falling and I will be bare and empty for weeks; being swallowed by the cold shadows, waiting for the sun to come again. The sun somehow finds its way back. I always wonder how I can keep going after that long dark winter, until I feel the sun’s warmth and realize I will never stop waiting for the sun to come again. I always hope that the shadows will fall away, and I will finally have my own basking place in the sun. Though I know I will not; It is not the sun’s fault, I do not blame the sun, and I do not blame the shadows either. I may lose my leaves and the winter may take my color and the night may take my sun, but I will never blame it on them. It is simply life. So, I will keep fighting for my sun, I will keep growing my leaves, I will keep stretching my branches, because without that hope I would have no purpose. I start to feel people try to cut me down. I am told I am not wanted, that I do not belong to this place, that I will never have this place and I do not have any right to it. They do not always say this in words. They say this by the axe they take to my trunk I fought so many years to grow. With each swing of the axe, I wonder if it will be my tipping point. I remind myself that I still have those glimpses of the sun, and though I never enjoyed the winters, at least I can say I survived and grew from them, that the shadows that try to swallow me have not fully succeeded. I am still here. My leaves still growing back, my branches growing higher and my trunk thicker. My roots grow longer with each passing season. As time flies, the people leave and new ones come, some saying I am beautiful as they try to cut me down. They say sorry as the axe pierces my trunk. I feel sad for them, but I do not blame them. Though sometimes I wonder if I should just give in and tip over. That they will appreciate me then. I will not though. My sun keeps me strong, though little and far time in between, my sun motivates me. I will keep growing. Do not worry, my sun. This is my life; I will not let it be taken from me, I will not be cut down, I will not let the shadows swallow me or the loss of my hard-earned leaves get to me. I will fight, I will grow, and I will remain in hopes of the next time I will feel your warmth and bask in your glow.

by Katherine Brueggemann

He watches rain pour upon the flooded valley below. An umbrella of branches stretches above, swaying limbs and dripping leaves failing to cover the sound of water roaring against the shore.

An orange flame emerges; the click of his lighter is drowned by the oppressive devotion of the storm. The clouds churn and knead in volatile shapes, overshadowing his unstable core.

A waft of smoke is sighed, soundless, waved away by the wind with haste and stifled by the relentless downpour.

The erratic, lashing chaos grows calm, contained. Volume tamed, the din lulls into a humble whisper, reduced to a tentative slumber.

He watches rain pour upon the flooded valley, and finds his river rapids silenced by the roaring storm.

by Mason Hassane

I question myself, I question my decisions, I question my desires. I go back and forth, never moving from this faltering place. A place where I am a stranger to myself.

I feel as though I am ignorant to the winds that have gone cold as I await another spring. The sun has not shown on my back nor has the cold left my skin but still, I wait.

Why do I wait?

Maybe it is hope, or maybe it is fear, but fear of what? I ask myself in spite of these truths.

Maybe my hopes and ignorance mask the cold winds of truth and maybe soon, I will freeze to death.

Feeling everything but, my certainty is vague.

My willingness has grown tired and my innocent mind has yet to vanish.

Perhaps soon I shall turn back.

I have traveled so far to get here, I have climbed mountains and fought fires to reach this point.

I have been cut and burned but I pushed through the snow. All for this but, this is now nothing.

What I thought I would find has left me, for I have taken too long to get here.

Am I now coming to see that this journey has done nothing but strip me of my dignity?

I am weak, I fall to the ground in defeat.

Maybe I took a wrong turn, maybe I have gone too far, or maybe I have not yet gone far enough.

Maybe I never should have taken this path at all.

Will I turn back?

Will I sit here in the snow and freeze to death?

Anger strikes me but sadness quickly follows.

Why am I certain of nothing?

Even after all this time I have no tracks to follow, no sun to lead me. At this time, in the dead of winter, I have a bit of fight left in me that the sight of spring will see this through but, this time there will be no spring. It should have come by now. I have no choice but to end my journey here. For I have lost something that I was so close to finding. Now that the winds have calmed, I shall wither away in the snow and be drifted off where I will be planted in another place, at another time, for another reason. There I will start again only with the teachings of yesterday and the will for tomorrow.

Trapped

by Marnay McClintock

In the weight of other’s opinions, the weight of their stares. Trapped inside the weight of the belief that somehow, I am less.

Because I am more.

Different in someway. Not normal.

Weighted down by my own opinions. The heaviness that I carry always.

Trapped by the fear.

Never really free. Always trapped.

Going Home

by Marnay McClintock

Horns blaring sitting in this parking lot they call a I280 West of San Jose. “I’m gonna be late again cried Melissa!”

“Ugh.”

“Why did I think the sun was brighter in Southern California?”

She asks herself for the umpteenth time in the last six months.

“The sky is forever an ugly grey-brown, I don’t remember the last time it rained.”

When she moved here three years ago, she thought it was the perfect place, she had landed the job of a lifetime, the people where beautiful, and all she had to do was look outside to watch the waves crash onto the sand. Now at every turn there was a stranger staring her in the face, it didn’t really matter if you could see the ocean because you sure could not even find a patch of sand to sit your butt down. She couldn’t even recall when she last saw a star shoot across the sky.

As if on cue her phone rings.

“Hello.”

“This is her.”

“Dead?”

“He’s dead; why do I feel nothing?”

“I should feel something. Right?”

“What, yes I’m here”

“I understand, okay.”

The rest of the day was spent in a fog, while everyone about her went on as if the world hadn’t just shattered into a million pieces. She thought, God, when was the last time she even saw her dad? Three years… she had loaded her green explorer and headed for the California sun, swearing that was the last time she would step foot in that dusty nowhere town East of Amarillo. He tried calling last week and as usual she had somewhere to be. Important things to do. Where do I go from here? She asked herself.

She never did make to work. Sitting in her favorite chair, staring into the mug of light brown liquid as if it held all the answers, she wouldn’t be sleeping tonight anyway. Delaying the calls, she had to make, she just wasn’t ready. She put off calling the lady from the hospital back as long as she could,

Here goes nothing…

She spent at least two hours on the phone, calling all the family that she could think of, after which she slipped into soft pj’s crawling under her favorite blanket. Shutting out the world for a while. Melissa woke up tangled in the sheets and blanket on the floor.

“I have to get out of here.”

“I want to go home.”

Running around like a woman possessed; throwing clothes and shoes into garbage bags and everything else she could think of that she would need for the foreseeable future. An hour later she was shoving her trunk closed. One more walk around her little house that she loved, making sure everything was secure. She still hadn’t decided if she would be back, she would figure it out later.

The sun was going down by the time she was sitting behind the wheel, she was headed east. Melissa went through the Starbuck’s drive-thru, coffee in hand she was headed for Texas, it was going to be a long night. She planned on driving as long as she could and then she would stop and sleep for a few hours. With any luck she would be pulling into the ranch in a day and a half.

All the way there the memories of her daddy kept flooding in. Them riding horseback together when she was a little girl. She could see him throwing his head back laughing and slapping his knee, at something funny someone would say. Just then she heard a pop.

“Crap, what now?”

Next thing she knew she was sitting on the side of the highway with a flat tire, waiting for a tow truck, of course in all the chaos she had not even thought about her tires. Sitting there she remembered her first flat tire; her daddy had of course come to the rescue. He wouldn’t be coming to the rescue again. Two hours later and she saw the tow truck coming up in her rearview. She flipped her visor down to try and put herself back together, after all she didn’t want to scare the tow truck driver. It was as if he was looking back at her with those hazel eyes looking back at her.

“Oh God help me, I’m such a mess.”

“Hi, ma’am. Do you have a spare?”

“Yea, it’s under the truck.”

“Got it.”

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll have you back on the road.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

As he tipped his hat and smiled at her, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and she saw her crooked smile which her dad had always said she got from him. Of course, that started up the water works again. This guy is gonna think I’m nuts Melissa thought. Once she was back on the road, she started questioning the last three years of her life. Why, did she even leave home in the first place? Now all the reasons were trivial and stupid her and

her daddy had been on there own almost from the beginning and she had just left. He had kissed her goodbye and said, “go chase your dreams baby.” And that is just what she did but she learned one thing about dreams, they can be futile.

I have got to pull myself together. You are going to end up in a ditch Melissa. Maybe I need to get some sleep she thought. Next motel and I’m pulling over said Melissa out loud, talking to herself. She had been driving for what seemed like forever and she was worm out. She kept her eyes open for signs along the highway, at last she saw one off in the distance.

“Please be a hotel, please, please, please.”

“Yes.”

“Motel 6 ten miles ahead, thank God.”

As soon as her head hit the pillows, she passed smooth out. Six hours later she had grabbed a quick shower, went through a drive-thru for some coffee and sandwich to eat on the road. She was deep in the Southwest desert, there was beauty all around her yet it was just a blur to her. All she could think was I got to get home. It was like her own personal mantra.

“POP pssshhhh.”

“Seriously?” Melissa slammed her fist on the dash.

“This can’t be happening!” She screamed as steam starts rolling out from under the hood of her car. Stuck on the side of the road waiting for a tow truck again. If her daddy were alive, he would be giving her the third degree right about now. She could not sit still so she got out and opened the hood and as she had suspected she had a busted radiator hose; she didn’t think that there was any other damage. A fifty-mile tow and another couple hundred dollars later and she was on the road again.

She got another hundred miles behind her and a torrential downpour started. At this point she was not surprised; the sun was starting to go down. This day and a half trip was turning into three, She decided she might as well stop in Santa Fe New Mexico and grab a hot meal and get a room for the night, she would start fresh in the morning. The sun woke her up the next morning, she was so close she could almost smell the cows in the pasture. Five more hours and she would be home, it was going to be hard with her dad gone.

By four o’clock she was pulling up to The Double M ranch, it wasn’t much just a few hundred acres that was perfect for raising prime Texas beef, and her daddy’s pet project of raising prize winning stallions. She pulled up to the ranch house, not much had changed in the three years since she left at least not on the house yet something had changed inside of her. When Melissa left, she thought she wanted more than this place could ever give her but all she found was that she didn’t fit in there. It had been great for a while being on her own in a place where no one knew her but her heart had never left this place. She was climbing out of her truck when she was greeted by her daddy’s foreman Sam.

“Welcome home girl.”

“Oh Sam” Melissa cried as he wrapped his arms around her, inhaling the scent of hay and dirt. “Home.”

The End

Rose State College is accredited by The Higher Learning Commission of the North Central Association of Colleges and Schools, 230 South LaSalle Street Suite 7-500, Chicago, IL 60604-1411, Telephone:1-800-621-7440.

Rose State College, in compliance with Titles VI and VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, as amended; Executive Order 11246, as amended; Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972; Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, as amended by the ADA Amendments Act of 2008 (ADAAA); Genetic Information Nondiscrimination Act of 2008 (GINA); and other federal laws and regulations, does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, sex, age, national origin, religion, disability, genetic information, sexual orientation, or status as a veteran in any of its policies, practices, or procedures. This includes but is not limited to: admissions, employment, financial aid, and educational programs, activities or services. The Affirmative Action Officer is the Executive Director, Human Resources/ AAO. This publication is issued by Rose State College, as authorized by the Board of Regents. 250 copies have been printed by Heritage Integrated and distributed at a cost of $3,381.08.