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
Lacey Veazey-Daniel
Christine Dettlaff
Melissa Huffman
James Miller
Angela Keneda
Art Jurors
R.J. Woods
Suzanne Thomas
Cover Design
Madison Rogers
Layout & Design
Jose Angeles, Maddie Bickel, Rylee Bobadilla, Dale Cason, Madie Drywater, Lily Goolsby, Emma Henderson, Brayden Johns, Carlee Musgrove, Michayla Pollard, Manning Reese, Kaytlyn Reid, Mia Ruiz, Lisa Shannon, Hailey Simmons, Grant Smith, and Brittany Wilson
Pegasus expresses its special thanks to Rose State College President Dr. Jeanie Webb, Vice President of Academic Affairs Travis Hurst, Dean of Liberal Arts and Sciences
Jeff Conkin, Associate Dean Elizabeth Boger, Katy Sorenson of the Liberal Arts and Sciences Division, Rose State College Photographer Ken Beachler, Mass Communication Program Coordinator 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.
© 2025 Copyright reverts to the author or artist.
DEDICATION
In Remembrance of Carl Sennhenn
(1936-2024)
Carl Sennhenn was born in Baltimore, Maryland, moving to Oklahoma in 1951. Receiving his master’s degree from OU, he was life-long educator who taught at both public schools and at Rose State with college students and senior creative writers.
Named Poet Laureate of Oklahoma from 2001-2003 by Governor Frank Keating, he brought his love of poetry across the state but always remained grounded in Rose State, also working in the college’s Writing Lab, serving as faculty editor of the college’s Pegasus anthology, and participating in the annual Poetry at Rose.
Table of Contents
1 .......................................... “The Turquoise Ribbon,” Crystal Avilla (Axley Award Winner)
4 ........................................... “Alcoholic Apparitions,” Kathryn Kerr (Axley Award Finalist)
5 ...................................... “Angered Intervention,” Ashley Edwards (Axley Award Finalist)
6 ................................................................ “Empty,” Soraya Daily (Axley Award Finalist)
7 ....................... “I Need to Get Out of This Town,” Jazmin Baldwin (Axley Award Finalist)
8 ........................................................ “Healing,” Michalann Clark (Axley Award Finalist)
9 ............................... “Breaking in the Chisholm Trail,” Tori Stolz (Axley Award Finalist)
13 ........................... “Where Life Ends and Death Begins,” Eric Elliot (Axley Award Finalist)
16 .......................................................................................... “Bendición,” James Miller
17 ........................................................................ “Hide and Seek,” Lacey Veazey-Daniel
18 .................................................................................. “Heading Inland,” James Miller
19 .......................................................................... “On Tenterhooks,” Christine Dettlaff
20 ................................................. “TEARS OF SORROW, TEARS OF JOY,” Wayne Paxton
21 ............................................................. “Making the Dressing,” Lacey Veazey-Daniel
22 ........................................................................................ “Fireflies,” Ashley Edwards
25 ............................................................................................... “Beauty,” Jessika Dew
26 .................................................................................. “Born this Way,” Crystal Avilla
27 ............................................................................................ “C.M.,” Jennifer Malone
28 .................................................................................... “I Hate Poetry,” Craig Burgess
29 .......................................................................... “I WON’T COMPLY,” Sharee Asberry
30 ..................................................................................... “My Worth,” Ashley Mitchell
31 .............................................................................................. “She,” Michalann Clark
32 ......................................................................... “The Name Game,” Marceline Conkin
33 .......................................................................................... “Perceptions,” Kyle Poteet
34 .................................................................................. “The Love of a Cat,” Tori Stolz
35 ........................................................................................... “Fall’s Last,” Kyle Poteet
36 ............................................................................ “Where I’m From,” Ashley Mitchell
37 ............................................................... “What It’s Like to Be Me,” Carmita O’Bryant
38 ...................................................................... “Poetically Composed,” Deborah Paulick
39 ..................................................................................................... “CPS,” Lanya Fisher
40 ....................................................................................... “First Loved,” Faith Hinton
41 ................................................................................. “The Refining,” Sharee Asberry
42 .......................................................................................... “Missing Hope,” Kim Neal
43 ................................................................................ “Lonesome Beauty,” Troy Shirey
44 ........ “The Grupo Folklorico Norahua at OKC’s Arts Festival, April 2024,” Richard Stephens continued
Table of Contents
45 ................................................................ “Carrots Potatoes Or Turkeys,” Kathryn Kerr
46 ............................................................... “Weeping Angel NOLA,” Lacey Veazey-Daniel
47 ........................................... “The Gateway Arch, St. Louis, Missouri,” Richard Stephens
48 ................................................................................ “Portrait of Eloise,” Kathryn Kerr
49 ................................................................................................. “Regal,” Kathryn Kerr
50 ........................................................................... “B R I C K,” Alex Borum-Whitson
51 ................................................................... “Summer Dream Home,” Ashley Mitchell
52 ........................................................................................ “Sight Unseen” Kathryn Kerr
53 ................................................................................ “Imaginative Work,” John Peters
54 .................................................................................. “Welcomed Arms,” Mason Daily
55 ............................................................. “Open Ears and Open Hearts,” Ashley Mitchell
56 ............................................................................................. “Silent Tears,” Kim Neal
57 ................................................................................. “Sweet Sin,” Marceline Conkin
59 ................................................................................... “The Divided Line,” John Peters
60 ........................................................................... “The List,” Mallorie Wise Talamasey
61 ............................................................................. “Three Little Words,” Crystal Avilla
65 ...................................................................................... “Rhea the Albino Rhino: A Story of Triumph Over Discrimination and Bullying,” Kendrick Simpson
The Turquoise Ribbon
by Crystal Avilla Axley Award Winner
Abbie froze, staring down at the flat, round box in the middle of her bed. It was the only mar on the tightly pulled bedspread, a cancerous growth decorated with a curled turquoise ribbon. Something about it made her fists tighten and her heart beat faster despite its cheerfully innocuous appearance.
Perhaps it was because the present had been secreted into her personal space when she wasn’t looking. More likely, it was because its existence was impossible. Abbie Lacroix had been a guest of the Judith Layman Correctional Center for the past twenty-five years, staring at the same peeling walls and listening to the same tired gossip. A gray place under gray skies, the facility was practically designed to eat the life right out of its residents. Even the ground had absorb the non-color throughout the years, soured from repeated contact with the violence and hopelessness of the women walking atop it.
It was definitely not a place for presents—or pretty turquoise ribbons. Inching closer, she picked a parchment tag from the riot of curls with shaking fingers.
Eat Me, the gilded script invited. Abbie frowned, wondering what the two words meant. “What kind of shit is this?” she muttered.
Turning the card over, she saw there were more words on the other side.
Because you Deserve it.
The sentence didn’t make anything clearer. More puzzled than ever, Abbie tugged at the ribbon. When she removed the lid, the tiny cell immediately filled with the intoxicating aroma of sugar and vanilla. Peeking inside, her mouth fell open. Inside the box was a sugar cookie on a paper doily. And not just any sugar cookie, but one topped with a layer of thick icing. Abbie stared, fascinated. Her mouth watered. It had been decades since she’d seen anything like it, and the hot sting of tears blinded her.
The saccharine treat had been the preferred treat when her mom was alive, served at Christmas, Easter, birthdays, school events—pretty much any occasion that could remotely be labeled special. She pressed a fingertip to the frosting, smiling as it gave way. The cookie was soft, fresh, and begging for someone to take a bite. But where had it come from? And how had someone known it was her favorite?
Because you Deserve it.
Face clouding, she stepped away, her thoughts tumbling like socks in a dryer. Why would someone go to the trouble of sneaking contraband into her room when they could just eat it themselves? It didn’t make sense. Nobody would go to the trouble of doing her such a huge favor…unless they had a reason.
Grabbing the box, she hurriedly shoved it into her locker, followed by the bright ribbon. Taking several steps backward, she hugged herself. People didn’t do things just to be nice. There was always a reason. The hard edge of the sink dug into her hip, stopping her backward progress, and she absently rubbed what would undoubtedly be a bruise on her leg. Why would somebody target her? She hadn’t done anything to bring attention to herself. Were they trying to get her in trouble? Cell inspections happened infrequently, but if you were caught violating the rules, the punishment was substantial.
Opening the outer door, she looked out into the dayroom. Being upstairs, she had a perfect view of the entire space. Women were congregated in their usual groups—talking, laughing, watching T.V.—nobody was staring up at her in anticipation of her receiving their “gift.”
Sighing, she retreated into her cell, only to be hit again by the seductive smell of sugar. It was almost abusive, and she found it difficult to breathe normally. She had to get rid of it before it drove her insane.
I should just flush it down the toilet, she thought, trying to ignore her racing heart. It was probably poisoned anyway, if not with actual poison then contaminated with one more disgusting than lethal. There was a reason somebody placed the present on her bed, even if she couldn’t figure out what it could be.
“Just throw it away, Abbie,” she said aloud. “You know something’s not right.” Nodding, she squared her jaw. It had to be done, so she might as well get it over with quickly. Pulling the box from her locker, she turned to dispose of it, but her resolve weakened once the weight of it was back in her hands. Knees buckling, she sank on the narrow bed, cradling the box in her lap. Why had someone put this in her room? Were they trying to torture her? Her eye fell on the card left sitting on the bedspread and a bitter laugh escaped.
Because you Deserve it.
What did it mean? Did it mean she deserved a treat because she was a good person, or was the message meant to be facetious? A tear ran down her cheek as she thought of the rough road she’d taken through life. How a series of bad decisions in her early twenties had led to a horrible act of violence she could never undo. How she’d tried to use every opportunity since that day to do the right thing and grow as a person, only to be knocked down and reminded daily that because of her past she was no longer worthy to be treated with the same respect as other human beings. This episode seemed an extension of the cruel treatment she was used to.
She took a deep breath, the sweet smell carrying her back to her childhood. What she wouldn’t give to be back in her mom’s kitchen or dealing with her bratty little brother. Back when her future was a wide, uncluttered vista of infinite possibility. Years before the drinking and drugs ruined her life.
Abbie caressed the top of the box with her palm. It couldn’t hurt to just look at it, she rationalized. Just one more time…And then you can flush it down the toilet.
So she opened the box. There it was; perfectly round, with a faint suggestion of rainbow shimmer if you turned your head just right. Her lips twisted and her fists clenched. Out of nowhere, rage descended. Throwing the box aside, Abbie jumped up and paced the length of the cell with small, quick steps.
“I hate you!” she cried petulantly, unsure of whom she was speaking. “I didn’t do anything wrong! Why would you do this to me? What do you want from me?” Dropping to her knees, she began to sob. “Why?” she choked out, rocking back and forth. “Dear God, why are you torturing me? If you hate me so much, why don’t you just kill me? I just want to die!”
After a while her cries ran together, growing progressively insensible. She cursed God, her parents, society and herself; all the while begging for an end to the pain. When the storm was finally spent, Abbie curled up on the floor. Closing her swollen eyes, she reveled in the sensation of cool concrete against her flushed cheek. Soon, her breathing began to slow. Then, for the first time since finding the box on her bed, she started to relax.
“Man on the pod!”
The distant shout cut through her consciousness like a lightning bolt. Per prison policy, male officers had to announce themselves as they walked into female housing. Although there were many reasons an officer came onto a pod, the first thing that sprang to Abbie’s mind was that he was here to conduct cell inspections. Jumping up, she located the discarded box and opened it. Grabbing the cookie from its doily, she hurried to the toilet and held the pastry over the bowl.
Heart pounding, she stared at the confection. Just a few more seconds and it would be out of her life for good. She’d never have to think about it again.
You’ll also never have this opportunity again, she reminded herself.
Scowling, she shoved the cookie into her mouth and bit down. Shocked that she’d actually gone through with it, it took a few seconds before the taste hit her. When it did, she moaned aloud. She closed her eyes and placed a hand over her lips as she chewed. Abbie didn’t even care if it was poison. It was just as delicious as she remembered.
She felt hope come alive within her, fluttering violently in her chest. It was as if the hardships of the past twenty-five years hadn’t happened. A smile touched her lips, and then she remembered that the officer might be headed for her room. Shoving the rest of the cookie into her mouth, she gnawed like a wild animal. Abbie worked the sweet, pulpy mass from one side of her jaw to another, savoring every moment. She felt like singing, but her mouth was full. Eventually, she had to swallow.
When the last of it was gone, something like grief hit her. For a moment she’d been free, but now she was back in prison. She ran a tongue over her teeth, unwilling to let a single trace of the experience escape her. The whole thing happened in less than a minute. Lifting a hand to her cheek, she discovered she’d been crying.
“Thank you,” Abbie said to the empty room. Her voice shook. “Thank you so much.”
Alcoholic Apparitions
by Kathryn Kerr Axley Award Finalist
blue-eyed vulture sitting in her chair measures whether the fluffy pearlescent ghost is worthy enough to consume just inside a cornered off convenience store breathing in the alcoholic air despondent 2:15am goods or goodbyes to the ghost to the twelve pack in the corner displayed by its rheumy withered hands
blue-eyed baby all beak revving her engine then going thru the drive muffled sounds of a drunk ordering all in the stretch from the box to the window fingers fling a toasted bun separate it flat sides up topped mayo lettuce tomato pickle onion bottomed sauce patty cheese bacon combine center two folds and a twist like a piece of teal taffy wrapped to shine and glint–snuffed into the bag large fry stale through to the bottom extra salt napkins condiments straw
waiting on the milkshake eyes on the screen collect the cash a blearily false smile swap please pull forward ma’am and a half blended runny mess for your patience the ghost would’ve made better pickings than this
Angered Intervention
by Ashley Edwards Axley Award Finalist
Why have the tables turned? lost and confusedI had hoped this was just a mistaken end. Still I wallow in the thirst I’d planned, but regrettably deplore the drink in hand.
I beg and pleadalone in my stages of grief. Bargaining, even in prayer. Angered by the outcome of this planbecause what have I done so wrong to earn this bitter end?
Denial - my ultimate friend, where acceptance has no chance to win. Instead, I fall short and am forced to start again.
The future seems so bleak, without you in it life seems so obscene. still I take the seatwhere I yearn for your hand to give this fantasy one more chance. Indulgently I drink from the glass, hoping my thirst will finally be replenished at last.
But nothing cannot prosper from an empty glass, still I’m sure my tears are somewhere welting in a stranger’s grasp. After I’ve bathed them down the drain, and somehow they linger through the salted seaswhere they are taken into the sky, and storm down from all its troubled past; and you taste the heartache nowthat’s been poured into your glass.
Empty
by Soraya Daily Axley Award Finalist
An empty page sits before me waiting, But it is not truly blank
My writing utensil knows the page intimately, Harboring tattoos of pencil lines etched too deeply to be erased
If you were to inspect the page, You would see the imprints of my confessions
In them, I have told you how much I adore you, And miss your crooked smile when you are away
My words of affection have been written in various forms, From a sonnet, to a ballad, to an illustration with a heart.
Although, one would not know upon first glanceI have told you that I love you in a thousand different ways
Soon, maybe you will see that this page is a reflection of me, Infatuation hiding in plain sight.
But, for now, I will continue to efface my words, Allowing my love to remain veiled for just one moment more
I Need to Get Out of This Town
by Jazmin Baldwin Axley Award Finalist
Our screams litter the streets echoing off the walls in my room replaying, telling me I’m wrong for feeling ashamed of being stuck in waves of needing you in my arms to ease my thoughts and in pools of disdain for how ignorant you make me feel allowing excuses to infiltrate my morals driving past unexpected memories of kissing under street lights on my way to work your favorite song plays and I can’t help but replay until I remember how much I can’t stand driving past your neighborhood this town is polluted with the passion we once held sewn to one another with an unsteady hand tearing away at our bones just to keep going
to have a new reality without this taint would seem like a miracle the bruises have already faded but this damn town makes it impossible to erase the stench of you at every look I need to get out of this town
Healing
by Michalann Clark Axley Award Finalist
These internal wounds secretly hidden beneath my skin have formed into infected scabs, always aching from within. They remind me of my past and all the things that could have been. They rub all the wrong ways, these wounds I’ve been forced to heal quickly. I am expected to keep going, while these wounds burn within me secretly. Reminding me of how they became a part of me.
Telling me that I am the wounds that fester within me. They say sometimes that for a wound to heal correctly, you must peel the infected scab to let the new skin grow strong and healthy. It’s a painful process. I rip at these internal scabs.
I peel each infected scab slowly and painfully. Bringing back all the things I’ve tried to heal from, all the things that have hurt me.
I’m ripping at the scabs, the hurts, sorrows, and the pain I’ve felt and the memories of how they got there. The images of the past oozing from the wounds. Breaking down the scabs I have used to protect myself. I am trying to grow tougher skin, stronger skin.
Skin that is not infected from the past.
Skin that shows I survived.
Skin that shows that I am not the infected scabs within me, these internal wounds I wear.
I am not defined by the people that put the wounds there. So, I will tear at these internal scabs, until my heart feels relief. That all the infections of the past are no longer there. Until they are no longer festering within me, But becoming faint scars, scars that tell my story. Reminding me that true success, is healing.
Breaking in the Chisholm Trail
by Tori Stolz Axley Award Finalist
Henry was exhausted. Sat atop his gray mustang, Black Thunder, and staring blindly at the sea of longhorns in front of him, all he could think was that they were only halfway.
He and the rest of the cowboys had departed from the dusty outskirts of San Antonio about six weeks prior, and the going was slow. They’d left in a cool March, but now, halfway through April, they were all beginning to sweat through their clothes already. This far along and the cattle were beginning to tire, despite the trail boss doing everything he could to keep the going as slow as possible while still being able to make it on time to the auction yard in Wichita.
Henry didn’t much care about the finer details of herding cattle. All he really cared about in the end was getting as many heads there as he could so his paycheck would be worth this ordeal.
Despite this being Henry’s first cattle drive, there was something freeing in relaxing into the familiar stride of a horse beneath him with a fresh smelling breeze keeping him company. The occasional lowing of the longhorns had quickly become a comforting noise, because it meant there were no threats keeping them quiet.
Jacob, their trail boss, told them that morning that they’d be crossing the Red River the following day. Judging by the other men’s grimaces, Henry had the feeling that it would not be a kind undertaking. Seeing as he’d never learned to swim, he was more than a little apprehensive.
As it was, the sun was only just beginning to set, with the sky more blue than orange, and Henry was more than ready to bed the cattle down for the night. His lunch of hardtack and dried cheese was long gone from his stomach, and the idea of fried bacon and beans for dinner was making his mouth water. He wasn’t the only one tired, though. Black Thunder’s head had begun to sag about an hour back, and the lather under his saddle wasn’t drying as much as it should. He wasn’t foaming too bad at the bit, but it was enough for Henry to try and take it slow. He’d slackened the reins once he’d noticed, only really leading Thunder with a nudge of his knee, mostly letting the horse set his own pace.
He already knew he’d be leading Thunder to Morrison, their horse wrangler, once they stopped for the evening. At the very least he was thankful he hadn’t slipped a shoe. Last week
continued
John’s horse had lost one of his and they had to sell him off to some wanderer on the road.
Finally, once the orange in the clouds had overtaken the blue and it was getting dark enough he had to squint to see, Jacob whistled shrilly, causing everyone to pull to a stop. Blinking slowly, Henry fell into the newly formed muscle memory of circling the cattle in his assigned area one more time to be sure they settled in well. Once that was finished, he pushed Black Thunder into a slow trot toward the center of the herd where the caravan was being unpacked. Already, George had a fire going, though there wasn’t the tantalizing smell of bacon in the air yet, so Henry resigned himself to waiting longer. His stomach grumbled its displeasure.
Taking the small opportunity of freedom before dinner, he sat up a little straighter in the saddle and scanned the temporary camp, looking for Morrison’s red hair. Finding the man was easy, since he was cursing up a storm while trying to trim the hooves of one of the wagon horses.
Henry slid out of the saddle and locked his knees against the sudden weakness in his legs. His thighs didn’t quite burn like they did at the beginning of this venture, but sitting in a saddle all day never got easier on the body. He crouched down with his hands on his hips, breathing slowly through the pins and needles before standing and kicking either leg out for a few seconds each. Satisfied that he would be able to walk without looking like a drunk sailor stumbling his way home from the saloon, he grabbed hold of Thunder’s lead and began to walk him toward Morrison.
The gelding’s head was even lower now, and there was definitely more foam at the corners of his mouth than there was earlier. It worried Henry, because they were going to be crossing a river still full from the spring melt, and he didn’t want to be riding an unfamiliar horse across such an obstacle.
“Bloody awful beast you are!” Came the angry Irish voice of Morrison once Henry got close enough to actually hear the vitriol the redhead was spitting.
The “beast” in question was a rather sedate draft horse, his big head calmly chewing the grass on the ground in front of him. In fact, the only thing moving on the horse was his tail, which kept flicking up and hitting Morrison in the face.
The sound of footsteps caught the man’s attention, and he dropped the draft horse’s hoof with a grimace. The horse didn’t even seem to notice; he just kept chewing.
“What’d you do now?” Morrison demanded, looking at Black Thunder with his hands on his hips.
“Think he might need to sit tomorrow’s crossing through,” Henry admitted, idly patting Thunder’s thick neck firmly. “Tie him to the back of the wagon or some such.” continued
Morrison was giving Thunder an appraising look. “Think you’re right. I’ll take care of him for ya until after we cross the river. You go get dinner now, tomorrow’ll be a tough one.”
“Yessir,” Henry replied, tipping his dusty hat at the man before making his bowlegged way toward the fire, where everyone else was already eating.
Snagging what was left, he plopped himself down on a dirty wooden crate beside John and tucked in without another word, ignoring the heat of his food burning his hand through the tin plate.
Normally, the fire at the end of a long day was full of raucous laughter and bawdy jokes while they passed around a bottle of piss poor whiskey, but it seemed everyone was gearing up for the crossing tomorrow, because as soon as each man finished his dinner they bade only a quiet good night and turned in.
Henry was no different. He finished before John and stood, clapping the man on the shoulder with a murmured “Good night” before he deposited his plate and fork in the proper crate and headed off to his bedroll.
It was almost noon the next day before the sound of the approaching river began to sound. Henry, sitting in the saddle of his borrowed Morgan, Brownie, clenched his fists around the reins tighter.
He could sense the building anxiety in everyone in the air. All of them had their shoulders almost to their chins with worry, and the horses were beginning to toss their heads in irritation at the intensity of everyone’s emotions.
Jacob had given them a pep talk that morning, and the way he recited it clearly spoke of experience. Because, while it sounded familiar and well-practiced, it in no way left any doubt about the possible dangers of what they were about to do. His tone was solemn when he recounted how they’d lost twenty head of cattle last year along with a man and a horse due to a flash flood. Henry was at least able to take comfort in the fact that it was a nice and sunny spring day.
He and John were put nearer the back since they were new. It let them see the veterans cross first to see what to do, but there were also a few experienced riders with them as well in case anything happened.
For about an hour he just watched the slow stream of longhorns swim their way through the current, a cowboy always on either side of them to keep the cattle in a straight line. He got a little nervous once the caravan had its turn across, as Black Thunder was secured to the back of it, but he was able to breathe a sigh of relief once they got across safely. continued
Then, before he knew it, it was him and John up next.
Heart beating so hard he could almost taste it, he kicked his heels into Brownie’s flanks and splashed into the shallows. To his left he could hear John clicking his tongue to try and get the cattle to hurry up.
“Y’alright?” John called once they were about halfway.
Henry supposed his silence had worried his friend, but he was so focused on trying not to think about the current pulling at his knees that he didn’t really have room for words.
“Just fine, John,” he called back, and he was surprised to find it was true. Things were going surprisingly well.
Just as he was turning to point this out to John, there was a far too close for comfort gunshot. The area they were in was prone to deer hunting, so at first Henry wasn’t worried.
But the cattle evidently were.
Immediately they began to get irritated, thrashing their heads in the water while their eyes rolled in their sockets.
The movement seemed to be too much for Brownie, as without any warning, the horse reared back with a squeal and promptly dumped Henry into the water. A strangled yelp escaped him before his mouth was flooded with water and silt kicked up from the cattle.
The water there wasn’t all that deep, which was why it was chosen for the crossing, but with all the cattle and horses churning in the water, he wasn’t able to tell which way was up or down.
Clawing at the water, he tried to ignore the way his boots and chaps were weighing him, but he was quickly beginning to tire.
Just as his chest was beginning to ache enough that he was tempted to suck in a breath of water just to alleviate it, he felt a hand grab his wrist and yank.
With a gasped sputter, he breached the surface and found himself hauled into the saddle behind someone. Too busy coughing up water, he didn’t realize it was Jacob until they’d cleared the water.
“Go sit in the wagon for the rest of the day, Son,” he was told once he was set back on dry land. Dripping water onto the hard packed earth and feeling a bit like a drowned rat, he felt disinclined to argue.
Sitting in the wagon, dressed only in his skivvies and shivering a little from the damp clinging to his skin, he lamented that they were still only halfway.
Where Life Ends and Death Begins
by Eric Elliott Axley Award Finalist
Handcuffed, shackled, and unable to move for hours, numbness took over my body and mind. I was incapable of grasping the severity of the dreadful reality to which I was being subjected. I was a kid who knew almost nothing about life, and certainly nothing about prison life. Yet, spending the rest of my life in prison is what awaited me.
“I sentence you to life without the possibility of parole,” I barely recall the judge saying on that dreadful October day in 1996, when life as I knew it was over. It had been several months since I had heard that life-ending statement. It would be many years until the harsh realization of those ten words really sank in. Life without the possibility of ever learning how to drive, going to the prom, getting married and having kids, voting, fighting for my country, or just being able to just grow old with my family.
Staring out the window in complete dismay, I saw that my living nightmare was about to get worse. I was less than a mile from the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester, Oklahoma. This ominous revelation sent a bone shattering shiver through my body that even the coldest of cold could not do. Built in 1909, Big Mac, as it is known, was the first prison in the state. Lockdown almost twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, this was and still is Oklahoma’s most notorious maximum-security prison, housing what society believed was the worst of the worst.
As we approached, the months of waiting and knowing I would be sent here could not prepare me for the onslaught of emotions that were bombarding me at that moment. On the verge of hyperventilating, I tried to get my breathing under control. The last thing I wanted to do was pass out. Yet I struggled for what felt like eternity before breathing normal again.
The van came to a stop and I was ordered to get out and start walking with five other prisoners who, like me, were under the same dreadful fate. As if in slow motion, I started walking towards a twenty-foot-wide sliding chain link gate that opened with a shriek. Walking through the gate, my gaze went upward to the top of the thirty-three-foot high, white-washed concrete walls topped with razor wire that surrounded the prison. For almost 114 years, its medieval guard towers have stood silently like sentinels waiting to spring into action. The only thing missing were gargoyles perched atop the towers.
As I walked beneath one of the towers and through the monolithic archway, I saw two
guards standing nonchalantly at either side of the tower with shotguns cradled in the crook of their arms pointing down at us. Clearly this was a message for all prisoners who arrived, “Your soul better belong to God, because your life belongs to us.”
“Name and number,” yelled one of the guards. Just mere hours out of the reception center where my prison number was issued, I froze and could not recall it. Finally, I remembered. “Elliott 250104,” I said without looking up.
Never before in my short life had I felt the immense presence of evil as I did that night walking into that place, stepping into the very definition of hell on Earth. I was oblivious to the absolute horrors I was about to face in this man-made hell.
Being led through the rotunda, we were ushered into the foyer of the west cell house. It was like stepping through a portal in the past, when prisons were built for a single purpose, to crush the very life from you and remove all hope of ever being free again.
The building was so old and deteriorated that I actually expected to see ghosts rising from its five tiers. Peering into the first cell was jaw dropping. The walls were so claustrophobically close that, even as small as I was, I could touch both sides with flat palms. I could not believe people had been subjected to live in a place this small. Yet thousands of men were forced to live in such barbarically inhumane conditions for decades.
One hour after arriving, I was ordered to grab my property and was off to my bunk somewhere in this fortress of horrors. I was confused as to why I was still being fully restrained. Little did I know then, that out of the 1,574 bunks, the only empty bunk left was on H-Block, the supermax unit, and no one went to H-Block without restraints. Built partially underground, it was kept at forty-five degrees year round. It housed people for disciplinary reasons, administrative segregation, some general population, and of course, death row. It was boasted as the most secure unit in the entire Oklahoma prison system. It was a prison within a prison, and the worst place in the state to do time.
Heading to H-Block, we spiraled our way down several flights of stairs, passed through two massive chain link gates, and entered the long corridor of this modern-day dungeon. I was surprised not to see prisoners chained to the walls and ceiling. Once again, a massive shiver coursed through my body. The guards escorting me saw this and told me I would get used to it. They did not know that the shiver had nothing to do with the cold. It was impossible to fathom how anyone could get used to a place that was designed to remove all hopes, dreams, and aspirations of ever being free again.
Down the long corridor we went until I was ordered to turn right, directly to Northwest One, the disciplinary pod. The captain standing at a barred steel door gave me an excuse
about there being no empty bunks anywhere else, so I would be housed here until one became available. He told me I might as well get comfortable, because it could be awhile. As I stepped toward the door, everyone in their cells started screaming and beating on their cell doors. I instantly broke out into a sweat. My breathing became shorter and shallower. I was positive at that moment that my life was over; I would never make it out of that unit alive. I just did not know how long I would survive before I was killed. So, I did the only thing I knew I had control over, I clenched my jaw and started walking up the stairs to my cell, trying not to think of what nightmares lay in store for me.
So began my living death sentence of life without the possibility of parole that has oppressed me now for over thirty years with no end in sight.
Our friends, even those no longer near, are known. We fold sheets, to stow them away. Count days shaped by those who had no need, but one.
Bendición
by James Miller
She finds me
Hide and Seek
by Lacey Veazey-Daniel
In the shadowed corridors of her mind
But the path shifts
And she loses me again
Who are you?
I’m Lacey.
Why are you here?
To see you.
And there’s comfort
In the safety
Of her only grandchild
Until she turns the corner into darkness
And loses me again.
Who are you?
I’m Lacey.
Why are you here?
To see you.
Alright…
And this time she doesn’t find me
In the too-dense shadows of her mind.
Skeptical, she eyes me like a stranger
Sitting in my pajamas on her couch
Until a door closes behind her,
And she asks again
Who are you?
I’m Lacey.
Lacey? Lacey’s just a little bitty girl.
Not anymore. I’m all grown up. Why are you here?
To see you.
And she finds me again,
Until the next darkened hallway
Takes me from her
And another round begins.
Heading Inland
by James Miller
Soon it will be time to count out our last coins, to buy last loaves from the shops and follow stragglers to the river. We will share crusts with our neighbors, search thick drifts of darkness that must be the water.
Rank sweats, wine tang, smoke. Eyes and voices. Hands clasped all around. Has it come? Has it come? Do you see him coming?
We hear that his barge has drifted slowly downstream for weeks. Crowds grow silent as it passes.
We hear that the people have no words to speak of it, remember nothing of that night.
For days after they chew breakfasts uneasily. What was it? What did I see on the river? Why do I turn away from the low places, and seek the inland woods when (so rarely now) I can find a way to sleep?
On Tenterhooks
by Christine Dettlaff
Which way the country goes, What the future holds, Depends on one day in November; We anxiously await results, While the traveling circus Of rallies and debates Keeps us in the throes of Hope or fear, alternating With despair and resignation. Can we stomach one more lie? Or trust another promise made? A country so divided Needs stability, normalcy, Not uncertainty, conspiracy. Let us embrace civility, Have faith in democracy, And find a way forward To a peaceful transition.
TEARS OF SORROW, TEARS OF JOY
by Wayne Paxton
I still see him, my son, Josh
His ready smile, his quick wit,
His Passion for knowledge
His pursuit of excellence
I miss him, But these memories
Cause me to shed TEARS OF JOY
I remember his calls in the early morn
When seemingly his world is coming undone
And he needs an ear to listen
Someone to understand
Someone to put an arm around him
And simply say “I love you”
And I shed a TEAR OF SORROW
My faith assures me, he is in a better place
He is finally at peace
My soul is comforted
I shed a TEAR OF JOY
Nothing this world has to offer
Can fill the void in my heart from his loss
But my hope is in God’s hands
And I need both TEARS OF JOY and SORROW
To make it thru
Making the Dressing
by Lacey Veazey-Daniel
This is my first Christmas cooking her dressing for the family
I made the cornbread yesterday and set it to stale overnight
My celery and onions are chopped and simmering in broth on the stove
All of my ingredients are spread out on the counter before me
But I find myself lost without her There beside me
I turn on Christmas music and hear her voice begin to sing along Suddenly, she is there guiding my hands as I work through her recipe that she knew by heart
And this sacred act of cooking becomes a precious visit and I don’t feel so alone.
Fireflies
by Ashley Edwards
It was dark and unfamiliar to me as I walked along this narrow corridor. I was feeling sluggish with no sense of direction, yet something innately told me to keep moving forward.
It was quiet, almost eerie as I made my way through the darkness yearning for some sort of warmth and familiarity. The temperature seemed to grow colder with every step I took and despite the dimness of the passageway, I could see my breath circulating in front of me in a cloud of condensation.
The walls around me had begun to expand outward into a void of infinite nothing leaving only these little beads of yellowish light to guide my way forward. They reminded me of those sweet summer nights where my brothers and I would chase that same warm glow across the front lawn. Fireflies with their little light floating like lanterns leading my way through the dark fog, just like stars on a dreary night. I found myself now walking along a pathway that led up to a big wooden door. The closer to it that I got the more I felt the warmth from a fire burning inside, where my family awaited me with comfort from the journey I took to get here, where I knew everything would be alright, I just had to reach the finely carved door made of oak to get out of the cold.
However, once I approached the door a woman appeared at the entrance and seemed to linger there as if she were the gatekeeper, a inspector there checking for proper identification to anyone who approached the cozy establishment.
I was confused by her presence and why she felt the need to keep me from going past the front step, but by this point my limbs felt frozen solid as if I had just tracked my way through a blizzard with a heap of snow compacted upon my back, it was heavy and weighing me down to utter exhaustion.
I was weary from walking down that hallway which felt like an eternity, now here I was so close to my destination, but the woman before me was resilient in blocking my entry, adamant in fact which only fueled my desperation to make it inside.
I could hear laughter and cheer coming from behind her that reminded me of Christmas celebrations. I could feel the energy in the air, that innate feeling overcoming me again to press on.
The warm draft from inside seeped from behind the woman and gently caressed my
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face wiping all of my sorrows away. Suddenly I realized that I was standing face to face with the woman in the doorway, and she was beautiful beyond words with this divine blue aura that covered her entire figure. I studied her face for an understanding as to why I was not permitted to pass by her, but once our eyes met I instantly recognized that I was looking into the eyes of my mother.
“You can’t come in yet, Honey,” came her familiar voice, that sweet familiar voice that always soothed my nightmares as a child.
I looked up at my mother with pleading eyes and begged her to let me come inside with her. Instead, she stepped towards me out of the doorway and that angelic glow around her burst into the familiar sunshine gold that was her hair. It was long and wavy, while her hazel green eyes took pity on me shivering there in my bare feet, and teeth chattering to the point I could feel pain radiating along my right cheekbone.
“Everything is going to be okay,” she said to me, “I love you.”
In an instant my mother’s arms wrapped around me in a sweet embrace. Her touch was warm and healing, which brought a sense of peace that I had not felt in two long years. The cold vanished leaving springtime to kiss my face, and I was at peace with everything. Soothed from the comfort of my mother’s arms like a newborn infant, It was at this moment that I felt like I was finally ready to enter through the door.
While I hugged my mother’s neck the scene around us started to grow distant as she carried me back along the pathway through the cold, dark corridor. Leaving only fireflies to light the way.
During the transit I had drifted back off to sleep it seemed and I found myself back in that unfamiliar fog, but now all I could hear was the sound of my father’s voice calling out to me, “Ashley, please open your eyes...”
There was something in his voice that prompted me awake, so when I came to I found myself now looking into the eyes of my father, a man who was not the type to let his emotions get the better of him but I could see some remnants of tears straining within his brown eyes.
As things came into focus I found that I was back in my bedroom which was full of paramedics who were trampling about administering life saving measures to my cold, frail body which had been discovered lifeless and face down upon the floor. I have no memory of even getting out of bed, the last thing I recall was taking a nap to sleep off the anesthesia from the procedure I had earlier that morning to remove my gallbladder. Somehow, I had gotten myself up, but how? Suddenly the images of my mother came flooding back to me and I was stricken with grief as I tried to convey what had happened to me.
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“It was Mom! She got me up…” I cried, remembering how she had just had her arms around me and carried me back.
The cold chill rushed over my body again causing my teeth to chatter and that pain in my cheekbone returned and throbbing as if I had gotten hit in the face by a slugger, but what I heard the paramedic say was that I must have fallen face first into the floor after having stood up from my bed and fainted from low blood pressure as a result of blood loss.
“I saw my mom…” my voice shook just as my body quivered from the immense cold.
The stages of grief once again warped through me in another vicious cycle. It had been nearly two years since I lost my mother unexpectedly, the tragedy that left me spiraling between denial, anger, and bargaining that was accompanied by heavy bouts of depression.
It was only now that I had even experienced a taste of the final stage of acceptance. A calmness came over me again as I sat there on the stretcher with the events of the last two years playing back in my head. I had lost faith in a lot of things since my mother had taken her own life, but now I knew with certainty that she was okay, and that she was still there for me, like a firefly lighting my way on this path we call life.
Beauty
by Jessika Dew
Before I tell you anything I ask “Is there really a true beauty?”
Two sisters came from the same womb They lived the same lives
Yet one sister was seen as better Because she was ‘prettier’
What made her prettier?
Was it her quieter giggle? Her thinner waist? Was it her bright hair?
Or her blue eyes?
Why was the other not as pretty?
Was it how her belly bounced as she laughed where the whole room could hear? Was it her duller hair that made her gray eyes seem brighter?
Was it her stomach that brought children for a couple that couldn’t have their own?
Or was it the scars on her face, received from defending her country?
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder so, Maybe true beauty does exist, But I have yet to find it.
I was born this way
To live in my skin And not in yours.
To undulate when I move, On wicked-sharp stilettos
Entitled grace and sex appeal.
To walk with my hip leading And my breasts thrust Red soles flashing
A secret smile on my face
Laughing buttered honey Pushing hair from my cheek And biting my lip.
I was born this way
To live in my skin And not in yours.
Born This Way
by Crystal Avilla
C.M.
by Jennifer Malone
if it’s all love why don’t I feel it though
mama said you’ll feel it one day but she don’t hear me though
mama said do good and stay in school and one day you’ll make those moves but today I just got to get up and clean my room
mama said you reap what you sow and she prays that I get to grow old but mama ain’t around anymore and I don’t feel like I’ve grown and I just finished school and I never did get to make those moves and the love that she promised I never felt that too you could say that these are just unheard conversations over the kitchen stove and I bet she is still praying that I get to grow old
I Hate Poetry
by Craig Burgess
A poem by Some Smart Ass
Allusion
Nonsense
Words vomited on a page
Flowery words
Hidden emotions
Meaning buried under bluster
Never saying what you mean
Never meaning what you say
Why oh why must I read poetry
Crap!
I WON’T COMPLY
by Sharee Asberry
Today
Today...
I have come to a resolution
I won’t comply
You heard me
You see me as loud and unruly and deem my presence unduly
Why?
Because I will not fit into that box you’ve tried to put me in?
Listen...
I am not your average negro that sits quiet when you want
And if I am, it is only because I am analyzing your very being that pulsates the very evil that you call normal
Tell me, what do I need to be ashamed of?
Regardless of who you use as an example of what black needs to be I still won’t comply
We are in a time where we have to fight like hell to hold on to our peace
But I’m not afraid
And if I was
You wouldn’t know it
I’m a believer so the word implies that we learn to do good, seek justice and rebuke the oppressor I value the word, and I hate injustice just as He does
Because of Him I live
And unto Him I die
But to bow under the standards of the world
You can forget it because I won’t comply
My Worth
by Ashley Mitchell
A life of pain and walls
Isolation
Physical, emotional, mental
Abuse
Razor-wire, chain link fence, locked doors
Prison
A life of happiness and fortress
Family
Hope, compassion, gentleness
Survivor
Sleeveless shirts, no make-up, crazy hair
Freedom
She
A Prose Poem by Michalann Clark
She carries the weight of the world on her shoulders and is still expected to stand up straight. She is not given the space to speak but when she does it is criticized twice as much. She is expected to be fun, but not too much fun, and she is expected to be modest, but not a prude. She is expected to smile, but smiling too much is asking for it. She is called hysterical for common emotions. She is not allowed to be angry; she’s supposed to be a lady. Her no is seen as a silent yes and her kindness is taken as an invitation. She’s had her body her whole life, but it is not seen as hers. She cannot do what she wants with it. She must dress, walk, talk, act, and do as she’s told. If she was taken advantage of, if she was harmed, it is not her abuser that is punished, but her. She is forced to live with it because as said, her body is not hers. You would think that with the power she has, to give birth to life, to feel pain greater than what is humane and still smile as she is told her body is sad, that she would be honored, at the very least respected. She carries the weight of the world because the world does not carry her. It is built off of her work, yet she is not valued. She is not credited for the power and beauty she brings. Maybe the world treats her this way because they know the power she possesses, and that in all actuality, she doesn’t need the world like it says she does, and that makes them scared. Because without her, they wouldn’t be there.
Human, I am
The Name Game
by Marceline Conkin
Overlooked, underestimated, fading away Into the background, I remain on a pedestal as The princess, when I was born to be the warrior
I follow the flow, I heed the rules Of femininity and the soft edge of ‘S’ Until the curve is no longer a security Or a sincerity for the girl carrying the weight of a woman
Sarah, I am Delicate, I stay Silent, I am A pushover who is being pushed off of the edge Toward confidence, toward sharp edges and lines, Marking the person I was always meant to be
Swooping upward, I swing it down, Meshing, molding, mixing the ‘M’, Engraving the power that comes with my choice For myself, deciding my future
Marceline, I am
A little warrior, I metamorphose Into a show of strength, resilient, Transforming the middle ‘M’ of the alphabet into the beginning Of my true identity
I am worth the three lines inside of ‘M’, Recognizing the power of three, the power of me And my mother, my grandmother, A timeline of ‘M’, a story of us, I carry our legacy onward.
Perceptions
by Kyle Poteet
Dawn.
The colorful sky a riotous scene, Clouds neon purple, And tangerine. The majestic beauty, A sight to see, Or at least it would be, If not for this crack in my window.
Midday.
The morning rains have come and gone, Now flowers bespeckle, Our emerald lawn. The bounteous beauty, A sight to see, Or at least it would be, If not for this crack in my window.
Late Afternoon.
The garden brook how it sheens and shimmers, Scattering sunbeams, In gleams and glimmers. The glistening beauty, A sight to see, Or at least it would be, If not for this crack in my window.
Nightfall. Darkness now fallen, And I’m lying in bed, Looking back on the day, At the scenes in my head, But each new scene, As it comes to pass, Looks exactly the same, As the last. Cracked window glass.
The Love of a Cat
by Tori Stolz
Fall’s Last
by Kyle Poteet
One lone leaf shivers Cold, upon the boney branch
Of an old oak tree.
Where I’m From
by Ashley Mitchell
I am from tattered clothes. from John Wayne movies and ATV’s.
I am from a dysfunctional cracker-box home. brutal, filthy, filled with pungent odors of lifelessness. I am from weeping willows. fragrant flowers and hiding places
I am from deep woods Kansas. homemade red-velvet cake, macaroni and cheese, and pecan pies.
I am from deer hunting and jerkey making, and fiery red-headed tempers.
From PaPa Eddie, G-ma and G-pa.
I am from a family of secret and lies.
From “Keep your mouth shut or its your ass.” And “It will only hurt for a little bit, now go clean yourself up and get those sheets too.”
I am from the Holiday-only Christian and the drug addicted Mormon. From the father that loved his daughter way too intimately and the “Mother” who allowed her “new husband” to touch her 6-year-old daughter
While the rest of the family played clueless. A couple of feet above PaPa’s casket lays a small wooden box that holds the memories Most important to me, because I am from the lost trinkets, and tortures of a lifetime of secrets.
I’m that book on the shelf
What It’s Like to Be Me
by Carmita O’Bryant
The spine cracking and peeling from over usage and abuse
A layer of dust collected from being long forgotten
The words I contain just as powerful and impactful whether never used or frequently reread
Pages yellowing from my experiences
Corners bent for people to remember where they left off in my life with empty intentions to
return
Notes in margins for others’ opinions of my story; words resonating within them in someway
Acknowledgments of gratitude to all the people I have lost
A prologue of heartache, trauma, and lessons learned
Numerous chapters heartfelt yet with all sincerity
Knowledge filled with a resounding story begging to be told
Chapters to make you cry, make you laugh yet also make you think
I’m a book that is unique yet complex
I’m a book that is learning and adding more daily
I’m a book that is incomplete
At times feeling forgotten and lonely
I’m a book that will always be open to touch someone’s heart and life in any way I can
Poetically Composed
by Deborah Paulick
Cradling her cherished cherry wood violin, She places the fine hairs of that well rosined bow; And the notes she plays upon those strings, Composed by God on a staff unseen; With a passionate fire from deep within, This scale will tell the story of her musical life; The tone of a young innocent girl as she slowly began to play; Bass that came from her first love; Harmony found in the ceremonial vow; The rhythm of two as they became one; Each precious newborn’s first cry a sweet melody; At an octave above any tune ever heard, her heart beats music of love; No symphony could compare to the sound of laughter from her children; In time the tempo of her heart takes a new kind of pitch; So she prepares the final composition; Fret not, for all beautiful songs must come to an end; And when she crosses over that bridge; You, her music, will have the Orchestra.
by Lanya Fisher
Y’all came by so often, That you would of thought you cared.
Yet you did nothing!
You ask me if I’m okay
Of course, I’m not!
I want to show you the bruises, But I can’t!
She’s watching!
I’ll be punished if I talk. Why did you ask in front of her?
Can’t you see the plea for help in my eyes?
Don’t you care?
Child Protective Services!
What a joke!
Who are you protecting?
You didn’t help me and my siblings. When my school called y’all, And I was solid black on one side, Of my body.
What did y’all do?
Nothing! That’s what!
She made me tell y’all it was “just a spanking!”
And you idiots listened!
How is it “just a spanking?”
I’m solid black, from mid-back to the back of my knees! Is that what a spanking is?
Are people supposed to whip kids with Metal-folding chairs and 2x4s?
So she sent me away Made me leave my siblings!
Who were getting beaten and molested too!
I told y’all everything, Yet you did nothing!
Child Protective Services, What a joke!
First Loved
by Faith Hinton
What if every word you tell me is what you once said to her—
And what do you suggest I do when you get those reminders
And what if all our special moments remind you of old days
And what if when we’re making love you must pretend you see her face.
What if all my overthinking turns out proving true
They’d all expect me to move on when all I’d still crave is you I hate to trust the theory: that one always loves their first.
Yet even though you reassure me I think it will always hurt.
You don’t deserve my anger— you’ve been truthful every day. Sick jealousy inside me makes fights come out to play.
I’m sorry for resentment I simply can’t stop thinking of The way that I compare with the one who you first loved.
The Refining
Sharee Asberry
Missing Hope
Kim Neal
Lonesome Beauty
Troy Shirey
The Grupo Folklorico Norahua at OKC’s
Arts Festival, April 2024
Richard Stephens
Carrots Potatoes Or Turkeys
Oil Painting on Canvas Panel by Kathryn Kerr
Weeping Angel NOLA
Lacey Veazey-Daniel
The Gateway Arch, St. Louis, Missouri
Richard Stephens
Portrait of Eloise
Oil Painting on Canvas by Kathryn Kerr
Regal
Oil Painting on Canvas by Kathryn Kerr
B R I C K
Alex Borum-Whitson
Summer Dream Home
Ashley Mitchell
Sight Unseen
Oil Painting on Canvas by Kathryn Kerr
Imaginative Work
by John Peters
City lights flicker like the cherry of a dying cigarette.
Days pass in a haze like the pungent aura of a bar.
Lines fill my mind, full of fantastical wonder, piercing my imagination.
I dream of a crowd who hangs attentive as my words flow.
I’m no poet—wordsmith—capable of astonishment.
I’m a broken man with a tragedy to weave.
Paper and pen are all I have, other than my scared mind incapable of truthful expression because confession burns like a fire put out underfoot.
Welcomed Arms
by Mason Daily
As I walk the hallowed halls of my mind, Doors on either side pass me by; Some filled with warmth and kindness, Others filled with frozen loneliness; The hall neither rises nor falls, Just continues on forever through a fog; Shadows reaching out to embrace me While feelings of darkness surround, Memories of the past pulling me down, What ifs and should haves plague my mind; A light at the end of the hall illuminates, Beckoning me forth. Sounds of laughter and mirth touch my ears, Melting the ice of my frozen tears; My name is called, Love and warmth encircles me, Light takes my sight, A hand on my shoulder guides me; One question comes to mind, Who are you, I call out; Arms wrap around me, A whisper reaches my ear; Your Father.
Open Ears and Open Hearts
by Ashley Mitchell
Little one, be you be compassionate, be kind love hard, love gently
Love hard, love gently do what feels good in your heart listen to your gut
Listen to your gut it will never mislead you be ruthlessly strong
Be ruthlessly strong always be true to yourself
Little One, be you
Silent Tears
by Kim Neal
In the dead of night I lie here in bed
With my mind racing about my life
Where I have been and where I am going In this petrifying darkness, that one May call guilt is where I am Most familiar and comfortable
Feeling this heavy brokenness
That I am not totally sure How to let go of is very Tiresome
Laying here feeling all the Hurt and sadness and being Consumed with loneliness
Is all I have known for so long Laying in dead silence that is
My world, with tears rolling down my Rosey Cheeks not understanding how to Let go and move forward I feel TRAPPED
With this gut-wrenching emptiness
That leaves me alone with nothing but these SILENT TEARS OF MINE.
Sweet Sin
by Marceline Conkin
How could something so wrong feel so… right?
This is what I asked myself when I kissed a woman for the first time. Then again, and again, and again.
I looked at my skinny body in the mirror, weighing no more than 100 pounds. Knowing I was too slender for a boy to love me.
I grew my hair out, painted my nails pink, laughed at all their jokes
At sleepovers, I held the other girls’ hands with sweaty palms, my mind going blank when we talked about our crushes
I liked it when boys paid attention to me-it made me feel special.
If a cute boy liked me, I had to like him back, right?
After hearing a group of girls in my fourth grade class discuss training bras, I begged my mom to buy me a set, although my chest was basically nonexistent. It was only when another girl pointed it out through my white shirt when I started to feel sick.
My girlhood wasn’t impressing anyone, and it sure wasn’t making me happy either.
Hearing boys rate women on a scale from 1-10, based on body parts and submissibility levels It was easy to think girls would be better.
Little did I know my first girlfriend would refuse to hold hands with me in fear of outside judgment
My first kiss would kick me out of her house the next morning to the sounds of me crying
My best friend would kiss me at a sleepover to get over her boyfriend who’d broken up with her a week prior
It was easy to hate everyone after all that. It was even easier to hate myself.
I pushed back the memories of her and I swinging on the neighborhood playground, stealing pecks on the lips when no one was looking.
I couldn’t throw away the friendship bracelets she made me before everything fell apart. I blocked out the feeling of her cradling me in her arms, wiping away my tears as I was terrified of losing her
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I forgot the love that I felt and that continues to shine within me, choosing instead to focus on the hate.
I listened to those who didn’t understand, ruminated on those who broke my trust, allowed them to dictate my sense of being But no more.
If loving her is a sin, tell the Devil to save me a seat at the table.
I’ll go knowing I‘ve already held Heaven in my arms.
The Divided Line
by John Peters
Outside this window another world resides.
Hear the truth about this damned window— frosted, it keeps secret—inside and out.
Strangers may never see this shallow world.
Prisoners may never see the brighter world, again. Light filters through—brings sound alive. Spectral voices conspire—vehicles quiet or obnoxious pass by—sirens signal emergency.
Hear the truth about this damned window— round bars run vertical to detain minds— a horizontal, rectangular rail keeps the others company—whispers to lost minds.
Like the debris sleeping upon the lone rail and hidden sill—prisoners become discarded. Bolted and many holed metal grates Reduce light—trap debris—prisoners.
About this damned window—hear the truth. Neither side remains free. We’re hostage to an illusion, you and I.
The List
by Mallorie Wise Talamasey
“If there was anything you would change for your future children, what would you make sure they never had to endure?”
I gently unfold my small, wrinkled piece of paper One that has been opened. And closed. And opened. And closed.
Time and time again, As I continue to add to this list. The list of every time she shut the door on me, when I needed a mom. When he refused to talk to me because I was “being too much.”
When I would wait and wait for when she would leave for work for whenever she was home, I wasn’t wanted.
I would add to this list, the feeling that I was abandoned, that I was mute, even with these people right in front of me.
The late nights of silent sobbing, no one to comfort me.
Feeling too ugly to even be touched.
I’ve written about the feeling of being lost in what was supposed to be my own family. I wrote about the feelings of knowing the people I was living with, were nothing but strangers to me. Every hug felt forced.
Every “I love you” was their own battle to say. Pulling on these people who I called mom and dad, yet feeling like they never wanted to be that to begin with.
The writing on this fragile paper I carry around, reminding me that despite all of it.
My child will always be loved. Will always be put first above all else. Will always be held. Will always belong. They will always have mom.
Three Little Words
by Crystal Avilla
“They said they’d be by to check on you in a little while.” I don’t know if I was trying to reassure my father or myself. The air was saturated with the unpleasant aroma of mentholated rub and the fake pine of cleaning fluids, the combination making my stomach churn.
He turned toward me, cheeks flaming with an unhealthy fire. “I don’t want to bother anyone.” Each word was carefully measured.
His skin had grown pale over the past year, an odd contrast to the rich brown of his hair. I turned away and bit my cheek to keep from remarking on his obviously deteriorated condition. Dad had never been one to tolerate sympathy.
“Whose bed is that?” He shifted on the edge of the bed and winced.
I followed his gaze. “I don’t know. They didn’t say.” Conversation spent, we fell silent.
The absent roommate’s side of the room boasted a colorfully quilted bed and plump chairs. I wanted to kick myself for not bringing things from home. I would have felt guiltier, but coming here had been my father’s idea—not mine. Maybe someone should write an Idiot’s Guide to Dumping Your Relatives, I thought. A book like that would be helpful. I almost smiled, but caught myself. This wasn’t the place for smiles.
Glancing at my father, my breath caught. When had that happened? The man who’d always seemed like a force of nature now barely made a dent in the mattress, his oncesturdy frame gone. Melted to bone by the cancer. Even the tattoo he’d gotten while in the Marines was a barely distinguishable blob on his forearm. My eyes grew hot, and I blinked away the familiar tears.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous. That I didn’t mind taking care of him.
“You have enough to worry about without taking care of me, too.” His shoulders sagged as if the effort of speaking had stolen his strength. Sweat beaded on his skin.
“Do you want another Morphine patch?” I began to dig in his medical bag before he could answer. “I think it’s time.”
Was it time? He was only supposed to use one every eight hours. I bit my lip, frantically searching through the bag’s contents. Pills, antibiotics, gloves, gauze…As I pulled out the patch, my heartbeat slowed; which was strange because I hadn’t noticed it was racing.
“What?” His expression clouded.
I fanned my warm face. “Do you want another patch?”
He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. He was looking beyond me to a place I couldn’t see. It was bizarre witnessing the change. One moment he was in the room with me, and the next he was seeing into another dimension. I just stared. I don’t know what I was waiting for. Maybe I was waiting to see if he’d disappear into thin air, leaving behind his oxygen tube and slippers. Maybe even hoping for it. The person in front of me wasn’t my father. This man with skin pulled tight over his cheekbones wasn’t the man who raised me.
But of course he didn’t disappear. Reality rushed back and I stepped to his side, trying to comfort him. Terror seeped from his pores, and I knew he was fighting the onset of one of his spells. For weeks, he’d experienced short bursts of confusion and memory loss. The doctors said they were caused by a combination of the spreading cancer and pain meds.
We’d spoken about it, my father and me. About his gradual slipping away. I was aware of the panic he felt, and of the shame. His body was betraying him and there was nothing he could do about it. It was something we ignored most of the time, since talking about it made it real. From an early age, I learned he didn’t like to talk about weighty things, like what it was like growing up without a father, or what he experienced in Vietnam. Those aspects of his life were off-limits. I wondered if he thought about that mysterious past when he was alone, or if the memories had long ago faded to sepia from disuse.
Urging him to lie down, I applied the new patch before pulling the blanket over his form. He barely made a lump under the covers. Holding a glass to his parched lips, I jabbered inanely of happier times, hoping to draw him back. Eventually, his muscles relaxed and he smiled as the Morphine snaked its way through his bloodstream.
“I love you.” His eyes held an unnatural shine.
I detected more than a little desperation in his tone, and I knew it was because he couldn’t remember if he’d said it recently. I said it back; the phrase we spoke more often now than we ever had when I was growing up. For us, the three little words had become an incantation used to erase hurts and regrets of the past. Each time they crossed my lips or touched my ear, they purified like water. Cleansing and persistent, the words softened the boulder of a difficult childhood.
Finally, sleep settled over him. I left the room in search of the nurse on duty. The floors were white linoleum, the walls a matching hue. I wrinkled my nose, thinking that they could have at least bought some cheap, plastic plants to make the place homier.
The woman at the nurse’s station wore her hair pulled tightly into a bun, her uniform a faded pink. We chatted for a few minutes about my father’s health. I tried to explain our daily routine, but stopped when I noticed her look at her watch for the second time. Fuming, I walked away without another word. continued
When I returned to Dad’s room, he was sleeping soundly, so I left. I needed a break, and if I started back now I’d be home in time for dinner. I drove with my windows down and the radio up, singing along with old Reba songs at the top of my lungs. These moments when no one wanted anything from me were rare, but I couldn’t allow myself to dwell on it. When I did, it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest.
Far too often these past few months, my husband and kids had been forced to fend for themselves at dinner. I’d tried to make sure there were plenty of leftovers and healthy options, but the guilt still ate at me. Every evening I spent at my father’s took time away from my children, and every evening I spent with my children took time away from my father. Both losses were precious and irreplaceable. Most days I felt like I was being ripped in half, but I couldn’t stop because there was nobody else. There was just me. Me to tend to my father, to feed, medicate and clean up after him. Me to comfort him when he’d found out the cancer had spread from his bladder to his brain. Me to call the ambulance when he tried to walk to the bathroom on his own and to calm him when the hallucinations began.
Arriving home, I stood in my kitchen. I tried to manifest a feeling of relief, but couldn’t manage it. After all, the burden had been passed on. I should feel relieved. I wouldn’t have to stop by Dad’s house in the morning, or worry he might hurt himself at night when no one was around. Eventually, I was able to shove the confusing emotions into a box and throw together a decent meal.
Dinner was a cheerful affair, the conversation a bubbly narration of my eleven-yearold daughter’s school day. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dedicated myself to listening to her breathless tales of pre-teen drama, or was able to pull any information about his life from my fourteen-year-old son. I’d missed the simplicity of it. The natural, organic rhythm of laughing with my family without the grinning specter of death looming.
Climbing into bed that night, I couldn’t help comparing the sparseness of my father’s room to my own.
“You alright?” my husband asked as he rubbed my back, sensing the dark turn of my thoughts.
“Fine.” I gave a smile which I knew didn’t reach my eyes. “Just thinking about Dad.”
The next day, I visited him. The relief in Dad’s eyes when I appeared tugged at my heart. I spent the next month traveling between his new home and mine. Too tired to think, it became normal for me to just keep moving. Before long, lucid conversations occurred sparingly, and I treasured them like hoarded sweets. Toward the end, his brows slanted over eyes glazed with madness, Dad babbled for hours to people who weren’t there about things only he understood. continued
It shouldn’t have been a surprise the morning I walked in to find him dead, but it was. I stood there for the better part of five minutes, staring at his unmoving chest. Surely he wasn’t dead, I thought. But he was. His skin had already grown cold.
We cremated him two days before his 66th birthday, sprinkling his ashes at the base of an oak tree on our property. It was unseasonably cool that day, punctuated by a light morning fog that burned away by lunch. Only a few friends and family were there to say goodbye.
On the anniversary of his death, we invited a small group of people over to celebrate his life. The weather was warmer, so we lit the grill and cleaned off the old wooden table in the yard. There was food, laughter, and children running underfoot as we told stories and shared memories of my father BC—before cancer. Back when the sparkle in his eyes had been inspired by life and not by Morphine. Seeing everybody gathered to honor him brought fresh tears to my eyes.
I thought again of those three little words—that powerful incantation that had made such a huge difference in the end, and I marveled at the changes it had wrought.
Sometimes I stare at that old, gnarled tree and think of him. My dad. I wonder where he’s at and if he ever thinks of those he left behind. I wonder if a part of him will be born again each spring when the buds sprout, or if he’ll be dancing with the leaves in a summer breeze. A part of me believes he will. The longer I stare, the good and bad memories collide and reshape, becoming something new. Something rough and larger than life, ready to bear the brunt of life’s storms and be stronger for it in the end—just like my dad.
I miss him.
Rhea the Albino Rhino: A Story of Triumph Over Discrimination and Bullying
by Kendrick Simpson
Young Rhea, she’s an albino rhino. All the other rhinoceroses are a dark or light gray and a sort of grayish green, wile she’s the only one with pale skin, white hairs, pink eyes. . . poor albino rhino.
Due to her pink eyes being perpetually shaky and moving, she can’t see will. So, she moves carefully. She walks cautiously and apprehensively, sort of wobbly and slowly. . . poor albino rhino.
The other young adolescent girls are social butterflies, active! They come and they go. All day! Where? The adults don’t know; they curiously watch the juveniles go to and fro, but never her. . . poor albino rhino.
She would love nothing more than to go with the other girls to and fro. Yet, the other youngsters shun her, then leave her. Their little growing horns stuck up high in the air as they go. With all the boys and girls harmonizing, “Rhea with us you can’t go because you walk too slow!” Tears well up in her eyes and begin to flow. . . poor albino rhino.
Her thoughts were perplexity and confusion, in a swirl! She had nothing to do with how she appeared in the world. Her pondering “Many shun and mistreat me simply because of the color of my skin and disabilities?”
“But, no matter how they steer clear of me, treat me badly, where friend of foe or family. I reward with love their mean and othering. I’m not their victim! I love the skin I’m in!
Along with all that makes me special and uniquely me.” With her head and horn held high with pride, she wobbles away from all bullying and othering, away from those being mean and ugly, while embodying resiliency, humility, equality, and acceptance.
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. 450 copies have been printed by Mercury Press and distributed at a cost of $3,999.43.
