Just as the Bell Tower at Tyler Junior College chimes on the quarter hour to mark the passage of time, it reminds students of the harmony which surrounds them in their educational pursuits. Music, dance, theatre, art, athletics, and academics blend to make Tyler Junior College a beacon to the community, the state, and the world at large. As the echoes of the chords filter through the oaks, their vibrations tremble far beyond the confines of the brick archways and winding walks where students gather. Tyler Junior College is a lofty tower of educational opportunity for students who have come from all parts of the world. The Bell Tower Arts Journal proudly hails the accomplishments of its hallowed halls and beckons those who would seek both its traditions and the promise of tomorrow.
- Judith Bateman, 2006
Editorial Policy:
The Bell Tower Arts Journal is sponsored by the Psi Gamma Chapter of Sigma Kappa Delta, the National English Honor Society. We accept submissions of poetry, short fiction, non-fiction essays, photography, and fine and graphic art by current Tyler Junior College students. We accept submissions for consideration only during the fall semester each year for possible publication in the subsequent spring semester. The Bell Tower Arts Journal is entirely student generated and seeks to provide a publishing venue for the rich artistic expression of TJC students.
Our goal is to create a publication that is a high quality, content-rich source of literary and artistic expression on a wide range of topics and themes. Therefore, we seek unique, insightful work displaying vivid, lively language and artistic skill.
All submissions must be the original work of the student writer or artist who submits it for consideration or publication. We do not accept previously published or plagiarized work. Every attempt is made by the editor to assure originality. All literary pieces will be submitted to turnitin.com for an originality report. However, it is ultimately the responsibility of each student to submit only his or her own literary and artistic work.
Moreover, while we strongly support intellectual freedom as the right of every individual from all points of view, we do not accept work deemed pornographic, profane, exploitative, or that seeks to cause injury to an individual or group.
Tyler Junior College gives equal consideration to all applicants for admission, employment and participation in its programs and activities without regard to race, creed, color, national origin, gender, age, marital status, disability or veteran status.
Acknowledgements: The editor of The Bell Tower Arts Journal gratefully acknowledge the support and assistance of Dr. Jim Richey, Dean of Humanities, Communications, and Fine Arts; Alyssa Haynes, Department Chair of English; Torrey Wylie, Graphic Design Professor, and Paula McDermott, Art Professor and standing Bell Tower committee member.
I was scanning the restaurant when I heard a high pitched and unapologetically loud laugh—Uncle Tommy made it in from Florida ahead of the hurricane! He was holding court with my sister, Leia, and our parents. Despite the fact that it was the death of his 90-year-old mother that brought us from our various coastal cities to this tiny Kansas town, Uncle Tommy had the mimosas flowing and the whole table laughing.
After brunch, we gathered at a cousin’s house. Mom wanted to keep the family close, so everyone found themselves crammed into an old-fashioned living room, surrounded by photo albums, boxes of letters, and small trinkets Granny kept with her until the end.
To keep herself entertained, Leia was pulling out every picture that had a dog in it. She turned each picture over and read the names. Granny wrote on the back of every photo she had ever printed for over 90 years.
At one point, Leia let out a little gasp and slid me a 55-year-old photograph. It was of our dad and mom, high school sweethearts, a little dog named DeeDee, Uncle Tommy, and a young man I didn’t recognize, his arm slung around Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy’s arm was tight around the man’s waist and his face was lit up in a way I hadn’t seen in any other picture.
Leia gestured at me, blue eyes wide and mouthed the words, “Turn it over!”
I read the names on the back blankly, “That’s David!” Leia said, moving to sit next to me.
“David?” I asked, still puzzled.
“Mom’s first husband,” she murmured. “Remember?”
It was the first time I’d seen an image of David, though I knew a bit about him. Mom and Dad broke up before dad left for college. Dad was briefly engaged and mom was briefly married, but the two of them were always “meant to be.” Seeing David and my dad together was strange—almost unsettling. I didn’t know they’d been friends, or even met each other.
“I didn’t realize that Dad and Uncle Tommy knew him.”
Mom glanced our way to see what we were talking about, a trace of something wistful passing across her face as she saw the old photo.
“They were close,” she said softly, her eyes going not to dad, but to Uncle Tommy.
As the day of the funeral continued, I found my mind frequently drifting back to that photo. We went through a day of hymns, accolades, and funny stories, hugging distant family members and vaguely-remembered church friends that we would doubtless never see again. Then it was back to our hotel room. Leia and I were getting ready for bed and, as always, my sister and I seemed to be having parallel thoughts.
TOWER BELL
“Do you think she knew?” Leia asked.
“Do I think that our mother, heartbroken over Dad’s engagement, willingly entered into some sort of lavender marriage for the sake of her baby brother and then backed out of it when our dad showed up and declared his undying love?”
I See You
Kiley Hood - Winona charcoal on BFK paper
TOWER BELL
EyNemo
Jonathon Lewis - San Rafael photography
Yellow Rays
Tierra Borel - Tyler photography
WATER
I am lost in the pines, Guided by your Way of melodious splashes. When there is a spring, It flows to something bigger. Your music vibrates my inner being, Like blood flowing through my veins, Such as time running out. Only You know where the end is. You are more fearsome than the wrath of Poseidon, Stronger than the might of Zeus. But you are mine.
The Truth that flows out of you is not always pretty, But such is your proof of integrity. When I look into you, All I see is beauty.
I can take you or leave you. You are always there. For you are mine. You are in the air I breathe.
You flow through my veins. Without you, I am a dry sack of bones. Like the dead body that I left behind in you. Fire burns and destroys, Poisoning the air. But You are the Life that grows.
Sasha Price - Flint
Gorman Falls
Ruby Bringard - Quitman photography
Contentment
Wilma Allgood - Tyler charcoal
TAKE ME BACK
Father, we thank you for this day when we are all together. We pray for those who have gone on before us, that they are in a safe place, in the arms of Jesus. People are walking up, hugging me, and saying, “It’s so good to see you Nanny.” People who, 40 years ago, I held on my knee, changed their diapers. Now they are tall, good-looking men with families of their own. The girls I babysat are now mothers and, in the kitchen, cooking like I used to do. My, how time flies. What a difference a day makes.
Children, I have lived my time. For you, the sky is the limit. Shoot for the stars! You may make mistakes and you’ll make some bad choices, but you got the time to straighten it all out. Shoot for the stars!
Dr. Seuss would say, “Oh the places you will go.”
The table is set. The table is spread. Choose your seat. Greenburg turkey, Cajun turkey, green bean casserole, potato salad, cakes, and pies. Thankful for the food. Thankful for my children.
I’m used to my kids playing in the yard. When we drove up, there were three men on the sidewalk. One had a slight limp and a hat tipped to the side of his head. He passed by me. I didn’t recognize my son. I said, “That’s Mike!”
My daughter who suffered a stroke is doing well—thank you, Lord! Thank you for the Bread of Heaven, the Word of God. We can eat of His Word. Fill us, Lord, until we want no more. Bread of Heaven, fill me until I want no more.
Sometimes we have to pray, children, before making decisions. Me, myself, I have not been a good decision maker. We have to pray and ask God to lead and guide us the right way.
Some of the children are in the health care field. Some work from home, on the computer. I’m so proud of all of you. Cora handles properties. Carlos is in the oil fields. Camella works hard, putting families back together again. One works with the mentally challenged.
Whatever they are doing, I am proud of them. Keep working, keep praying, and be strong. Love keeps us together. As long as you work with people, your job is your ministry. My grandboys are businessmen, in real-estate—they finished college and started businesses. I’m so proud of them. My two sons are hard workers; one has three children, and the other has six children. All my children are grandparents now. My, what a difference a day makes.
The grandkids were entertaining family in their homes, and showing us the home, they had bought, remodeled, and paid for. This is what college does for our young people. They know how to manage and how to make decisions and how to plan their families. What a difference a day makes. No need to struggle like your grandparents did.
Carl, we thank God for you. You played a great part in our lives. Sleep tight, rest well. You loved the Lord. I hope the three kids will take over your legacy.
Two grandchildren in the military. One in the Air Force and one in the Navy. They are so smart and learning a good trade, skills to make a good living. Miles is exploring the world. He is happy. He has hungry eyes to explore.
Happy Thanksgiving. I love all 36 of you. My, what a difference a day makes.
Irene McDuffy - Tyler
Self Portrait from a Dream
Taylor Thompson - Bullard acrylic paint on canvas
UNFORGIVEN
The soft chime of bells fill the diner as Cole opens the door. He anxiously glides towards the counter; gripping a sand-colored folder tightly in his left hand.
“I have an interview today,” he apprehensively informs the young woman working. She smiles warmly and lets him know she will notify the manager on duty and swiftly turns towards the kitchen, disappearing behind the swinging doors. He glances around the quiet diner while patiently waiting. He is relaxed by the subtle smell of pancakes cooking, his daughter’s favorite.
“Are you Cole? I am Amy, I will be interviewing you today,” Amy excitedly exclaims. “Yes, ma’am. Nice to meet you,” Cole replies, reaching out to shake her hand.
Amy leads him to a nearby empty table while exchanging pleasantries. From there, she begins listing off prepared questions. The usual, expected questions. As each answer slips through his salmon-tinted, timid lips, his palms grow sweatier. Cole’s stomach curdles at the final question.
“Do you have a criminal history, and if so, what was your charge?” Amy questions nonchalantly. The room spins as a single word, “murder,” slides through his teeth.
The mood shifted. The sharpest of daggers could not slice through the thick tension that engulfed the two of them. The silence was broken by Amy warily advising him to wait for a callback after the background check was completed, but sheepishly told him not to get his hopes up. Her once warm demeanor now cold, she gestured towards the door.
Defeatedly, Cole left and returned to his crimson-red pickup truck. His thoughts filled the silent car ride that followed. With each mile, he dove deeper and deeper into thought until he was nearly drowning. Why would anyone hire him? He was a repulsive monster. In the eyes of others, murder was an unforgivable, disgusting act. How could anyone trust a man who had taken another’s life, especially the life of someone he loved. The thoughts continued to increase until he saw a run-down flower stand on the side of the dirt road. He slowed the truck to a halt.
Once parked, he grabbed his wallet from the passenger seat and slid out of the driver-side door. He trudged towards the stand in the hopes of finding a bouquet of anemone flowers, his daughter’s favorite.
“How can I help you?” the owner of the stand asked warmly.
“I was hoping to get a bouquet of anemone flowers for my daughter,” Cole wistfully replied. The owner smiled joyfully and began delicately assembling the brightly colored flowers.
“You must love her a lot,” the owner merrily remarked while tying the flowers with a white bow.
“I do,” Cole declared with a slight smile painted across his face.
Cole paid for the flowers and trotted back towards his truck. He gently placed the bouquet in his daughter’s designated seat in the back of the truck and began to head in a different direction than he was originally going. Cole glided down each winding road mindlessly, as he had taken this path many times before. It had become second nature to him.
As he approached his final destination, his throat tightened. An all too familiar metal arch coldly greeted him with a frown. He parked. After grabbing the bouquet, he faltered through the lush, green grass to his daughter. Once he reached her headstone, he crumbled to the ground and placed the flowers at the base of the unforgiven stone. He laid there and let his mind wander.
What if he had stayed home from work that day? What if he had not trusted his closest friend to pick her up from daycare? When he got home early that unfaithful night, he had gone to his friend’s house to pick her up. He opened the door only to find his daughter cold to the touch, lying on the floor. At that very moment, his friend walked in and was caught off guard. Filled with rage, Cole lunged and snapped his best friend’s neck without a second thought. Cole beat him until his fingers were fractured and then proceeded to dial 911.
Haley Gandy - Lindale
TOWER BELL
Louis Armstrong
Noah Haffner - Overton pencil
Dissolve
CJ Moga - Bullard charcoal
STRINGS OF THE SOUL
In a dim-lit room, shadows dance and sway, The Kamancheh weeps, echoing the day.
Sadness drapes like a heavy shawl, Each note a whisper, a silent call.
Love weaves through the air, tender and bright, A melody that glimmers, a spark in the night. Yet beneath the surface, fear creeps in slow, Anxiety lingers, like a ghost in the glow.
Determination stirs, a pulse in the sound, Each pluck of the strings, a heartbeat profound. Joy bursts forth, a radiant bloom, Lifting all higher, dispelling the gloom.
Peace settles softly, like dew on the grass, Yet despair dances close, a shadow to pass. Bliss intertwines with the sorrowful song, A bittersweet harmony where both can belong.
True love sings softly, its voice rich and deep, But betrayal lingers; secrets to keep.
Understanding blooms in the heart’s silent strife, Tension and tragedy weave through this life.
As twilight descends, all colors blend, A canvas of emotions, where beginnings meet their end. Hope rises gently, like dawn’s early light, Promising solace after the longest night.
Memories linger, each note a thread, Weaving together the things left unsaid. Moments of laughter, shadows of pain, In this symphony, nothing’s in vain.
Through the echoes of laughter, through whispers of tears, The music embraces both joy and fears.
With every crescendo, a story unfolds, A tapestry rich, woven from souls.
In the heart’s quiet chamber, where dreams intertwine, The Kamancheh’s voice becomes truly divine. A bridge through the silence, a balm for the soul, Each pluck of the string helps to make us whole.
As the final note lingers, suspended in time, I find in this stillness a rhythm, a rhyme. In the echoing silence, I sit and I breathe, In the tapestry woven, I find what I need.
For life is a melody, a song without end, A journey of heartbeats, around every bend. With each passing moment, I learn, and I grow, In the strings of the soul, I find my own flow.
The Kamancheh whispers tales of the past, Of loves that have faded, and shadows they cast. Each string holds a story, a fragment of grace, A reminder that beauty can dwell in one place.
In the struggle between light and the dark of the night, The music reveals what is hidden from sight. A dance of emotions, a blend of the real, In the symphony played, there’s so much to feel.
As I close my eyes, I’m wrapped in the sound, In this woven embrace, my spirit is found. The strings hum of journeys, of paths yet to tread, Of hopes that will flourish, of words left unsaid.
So let the music play, let the Kamancheh weep, For in every sorrow; a promise to keep.
In the heart’s quiet chamber, where echoes reside, The strings of the soul are where truths cannot hide.
Ethan Chastain - Tyler
LESSONS OF LOSS
The walk was relatively short. I guess that’s what made the journey so mind-boggling. How can something so seemingly easy be so difficult? All I could think was how wet everything looked, like it had just rained for days. He would like that. He liked the rain.
The church was an old, brick building just off County Road 2869. Weathered gray shingles and handicap parking places stood out against the backdrop of the woods. The electric sign out front by the road read “Jesus Welcomes All.”
The cemetery was down a slight hill, just off to the left of the church. It was a private place— you could hardly see the road and shrubs surrounded the white cemetery fence line. The trees hovered over the graves in a protective manner, as if God himself told them to grow that way.
It had been seven months, so the dirt on the grave had already grown grass, and flowers were on the top: it was a part of nature now. This was the first time I’d been back since the funeral. I hated myself for staying away, but I just couldn’t bring myself to see it, because then it would be real. Final. The headstone read “In loving memory of Garry Littlejohn; father, husband, grandad.”
Grandad. My Grandad. He was so much more than those three words. He was clever and intuitive, but also tough and bitter. He was a collector, an advice giver, and a good listener. He was a newspaper, a cup of coffee, and an old golf ball. He was all the little things that made up his person, but there was no room for those words on the headstone, no room for the person he was—he was so much bigger than the grave they gave him.
I had been staring at his grave far longer than what is deemed sane. I knew I looked a little crazed as my hands were balled in a fist, as if I was ready to fight. But who would I fight? Who to be mad at? Not Grandad and certainly not God. The only one left was me. And I was mad. Those last couple of days with him haunt me. I think of all the things I should have said and how I was utterly unable to say them. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to scream and holler right there at his bedside. I didn’t want to plead with God because I was trying not to be selfish. What that did to me was stunt my grieving. I just avoided his grave.
I brushed off the dead leaves and let my tears freely fall down my face onto the headstone. I took a deep breath, then took one more. Then I told Grandad everything. I told him all the things I wished I’d said in September. I told him about school, my friends, and my job. I let myself laugh as I told him about his dog that refuses to die and how he has tethered himself to my little sister. I know Grandad was laughing with me. And under those bent, wet trees I found closure.
Grief is an odd and encompassing thing. It is a teacher and a disease. You either learn from it or let it destroy you, and sometimes it does both. It would only be a natural part of Grandad’s legacy to leave me these lessons of life from beyond the grave. As I made my way back up the short path of the cemetery, I thought about how differently we would all live if we knew our lives would be boiled down to three words. I thought about how you first have to grieve the person you lost, then grieve the part of yourself that is gone, too. I thought about how pain is inevitable, but resilience is a choice. I took one more look at Grandad’s grave, the professor in these lessons of loss, and I, the faithful pupil, vowed to be back.
Kyler Littlejohn - Holly Lake Ranch
TOWER BELL FAREWELL
One day, someone you love Will need to depart to a new Place, flying away like a dove. Over time, so many leave, so few Stay behind with you, alone At home, a new emptiness, Every turn to memory, yet all things bone. All things end, yet you miss their mind and the shape of their face. All those years together, now depart, Until the end of you, a deep space Occupies the bond you knew, now apart. Today, you say farewell, my love, goodbye. Say hello, when again you look upon them with your eye.
Anthony Davis - Arp
Opal
Tatum Johnston - Bullard photography
SHADOW WALKERS
The darkness of the new moon blanketed the sky in an ominous vacuum of nothingness. Shadows now ruled over the land with a vicious might, clawing away the light from the world. Silence stood over what was left as the world became desolate.
What in the world happened? Who or what is responsible? How did this occur? I’ve tried to answer these questions for the past several years. Yet, every time I think that the answer is within reach, the truth becomes blurrier, inconsistent, and finally, nonexistent.
Violence has become the new policy as of late. Recently, the remnants of society that use to exist finally caved in. Death would be the most apt term to describe the worlds’ largest cities. Neighbors fight over every last resource, formerly honest men becoming dishonest scavengers in the name of survival. Streets lined with the ultimate price of ensuring your families safety. While not as numerous in the sheer size of body count, the devilry of the country reared its ugly neck. Former country brotherhoods are now torn into nothing but a savage state of affairs. Yet, I fear it will be the least of our worries.
Lately, certain vile creatures emerged from the harsh, rocky earth to colonize what remains. Stiff, armor-like scales covered these creatures alongside tails that looked as if they were covered in barbed wire. The scales were nearly pitch black, except for a few small darkish, gray spots seemingly placed at random. They walked on all fours with soul piercing red irises and obsidian black pupils determined to turn whatever they came across into nothing more than a red smear upon the broken dirt.
These things became known as the Shadow Walkers to the remaining survivors. Cruel, crafty, and bloodthirsty, these monsters commonly switched between single and group hunting strategies, focusing on targeting what was perceived as the biggest potential threat against them. Although, sometimes they seem to act completely erratically, lashing out at whatever comes within a city block of their position.
Luckily, we managed to find an abandoned apartment complex in the ruins of a dead zone inside a former small town. We have been able to get our bearing and establish a basic safety net around our perimeter. Hopefully, this can provide the framework for both keeping us safe for the time being, while also giving us room to explore these creatures moving forward.
However, studying them so far has left us with very little to go off of. Outside the above information, we have yet to gather enough information related to their origins, ascension to the surface, or their need to consume human flesh. It seems that regardless of what we attempt to accomplish while studying them nothing can be answered.
Although, we recently came across what appears to be a pseudo nest of sorts. Inside were these hard, black-shaped ovals with small engravings across the ends. They seemed to be rock hard, as if a jackhammer drilling into it for an hour straight would leave not even a dent. However, since we found these things, the Shadow Walkers have become significantly more aggressive than usual. We gather that it has something to do with the ovals which we now believe to be the Shadow Walkers’ eggs. However, we might be able to gather more information if we study these things back at base.
Last night was a bloody mess. Turns out that our assumption was correct. They happened to find where the eggs were stored and then proceeded to massacre anyone within range. The surrounding area ended up like the ending of a horror movie slasher. Luckily, the attack was a quick snatch-and-grab past the initial assault. Fortunately, those who found safety in a hiding spot managed to continue drawing breath. Several colleagues of mine now lay lifeless, their eyes drained of whatever life they once had. It’s hard to process just why the assault came as swiftly as it did. Why pull a snatch-and-grab when they could finish off the heartbeats of every individual here?
It still perplexes me how we got here. Every day that passes, the anxiety, stress, and anguish of this situation becomes worse. I fear any hope that was once died long ago.
If anyone has found these notes, use what you can. While I can’t respond to questions, each piece of this journal may lead to vital clues to save us from extinction.
Connor Philpot - Lindale
Resurface
Luis Palafox - Tyler charcoal
A PLACE I CALL HOME
Everyone has a place they call home. Mine is my Oma and Papa’s old house in Catalina Island, California. It was a big house on a hill, cushioned by many close-knit and sweet-hearted neighbors. Their balcony was draped in windchimes and greenery. Once, I planted a handful of sunflower seeds when my Oma wasn’t looking, and she was in for a surprise when they started popping up. Sunflowers still remind us of each other. In the dining room, mounted on the high wall where no one could reach, a painting of a beautiful Edwardian lady and her daughter played in the flowers. They guarded us like angels. The kitchen had swinging doors to play “western saloon” with cold tiles throughout. I learned to skip on those tiles.
In the middle of the house was the terrible spiral staircase, with its thin, metal stair rail and its steps that were too far apart. I remember watching my Oma lean over the side to rescue a hummingbird that flew to the top. It left some of its feathers behind when it left, and we kept them on a tiny tea plate.
At the top of the terrible spiral staircase was a guest room where all my princess dresses and barbie clothes were hidden. I remember twirling in my sparkly Princess Jasmine costume while my mom was just downstairs, getting her wedding dress tailored. I also remember getting stuck between the guest bed and the wall while my cousin laughed at me. Despite my aversion to the stairs, we spent a lot of time in that room. Many days we played “Princess in a Tower” or “Shark Boy and Lava Girl” (where my cousin found a little too much enjoyment in throwing me to the “volcano”).
During Christmas time, you could look down and see, twinkling in the corner of the living room, a beautiful tree decorated with family heirlooms. For the rest of the year, that corner was replaced by a play area filled with plastic tea sets, dollhouses, and stuffed animals, all of which I would force my male cousins to play with. I only had male cousins at that age. One was just like a sibling to me, or at least I annoyed him like one. I haven’t seen him in over sixteen years. I wonder if he remembers it.
It wasn’t just the house that was home, though. It was the empty parking garage I was too scared to walk through; the one where my Papa carried me on his shoulders and taught me to make echoes to scare off the dark. Home was in all the tourist shops, the pier, the theater, and the submarine, where you could feed fish deep beneath the seaweed. It was the beach where I first learned to walk, and where my mom had to stop me from swallowing fistfuls of sand. It was all the golfcarts parked on the curb, the rows of colorful houses—all bright pinks, purples, yellows, greens and blues. That is what I call home, at least, what I remember of it. I can’t go back, though. My Oma and Papa moved out and I can’t imagine that house being so bare, as if the memories moved out with them. Or worse: with another family moved in, everything littered with strangers and furniture not where they’re meant to be.
The island is dying now. The beach is crowded and polluted. The family-owned Chinese place, the little ice-cream shop, and the antique photo studio are all gone, replaced by smoke shops and bars. It’s not home anymore. Maybe it was always that way and I just couldn’t see it.
Hannah Shawhan - Tyler
TOWER BELL
Small Things in a Big City
Macayla Josey - Jacksonville
photography
The In-Between
Muyiwa Adyanju - Kwara-state, Nigeria
oil paint & photo transfer on canvas
RESERVOIR
Such a large capacity of
A well once filled
A vessel in need
It pleads
Just one more sip!
I swear to be whole
A promise unfulfilled
A thirst unquenched
Veronica Little - Tyler
Ted passed only a few months prior, in the dead of winter, and I still had most of his belongings. I gently dried the kitten, fed her, and brushed her pale, orange fur. After her initial hesitance, she quickly warmed up to the unfamiliar environment. By the end of the night, she was nestled tightly next to my left leg, exactly where Ted used to sleep. That night, I dreamt of Ted.
The sunlight illuminating my room woke me the next morning. Before I could wipe the sleep off my face, I was startled by a screech in the next room over. Hurriedly, I rushed in, only to find the little kitten’s head had gotten stuck in a vase. Amused, I removed her from her prison and released her to play.
Throughout the day I dabbled with potential names to give her. I would call out a name I liked to see if she would respond. I was greeted with nothing, not so much as a glance. It was not until I accidentally called out “Ted” at dinner time that she responded. And, oh boy, did she!
When the name slid off my tongue, she ran to me, purring, and gently messaged her head on my leg. That’s when it dawned on me; she was my sign. Not the fact they were practically identical, not the similar quirks shared by them, and not even the fact I found them in nearly identical ways, 15 years apart. It was her responding to his name in the same way he did for over 14 years. In that moment, I sobbed. Not only did he understand me, but he came back home.
Haley Gandy - Lindale
TOWER BELL
Everett
Angie Capps - Kilgore charcoal
Yin and Yang
Donna Welch - Bullard photography
CHRISTMAS LUWOMBO
When my family gets together for Christmas, food is always a critical issue. Especially as an African family, we only prepare big feasts on such unique occasions. For the Christmas of 2018, we prepared a significant amount of food. For the first time, Christmas was hosted at my mother’s house in the big city of Accra, Ghana. On this same occasion, my family had prepared a big farewell for me, as I was leaving for the United States of America soon.
The decorations were completely put together around the house: lights, balloons, and the Christmas tree beautifully decorated with a bright star shining at the top. Coming to my mother’s house for Christmas: “Sekukkulu”- as it is locally referred to in my country, we had families come together from different parts of the world, namely Dago, Ghana, Nairobi, Kenya and London.
It was a typical Saturday evening before Christmas, the kind where the sun lazily dipped below the horizon, passing by across our cozy kitchen while the aroma of fried chapatis was being made from dough and cooked on a hot griddle, with rolex prepared by combining egg omelet with vegetables wrapped in the chapati. When it comes to preparing the real-deal food for the feast, “Luwombo” is the main dish, because in our culture everyone prepares it for their families. My siblings and I eagerly gathered around the kitchen table looking at all the ingredients, trying to put our heads together to come up with the best dish of Luwombo for this year’s Christmas. The process of preparing Luwombo includes steaming the meat in banana leaves, adding peanut butter sauce, tomatoes, onions, meat masala, and mushrooms, with various traditional cooking seasonings. Each ingredient adds its own unique flavor, filling the air with a vibrant and welcoming smell. Christmas as tradition requires us to dress-up in our best new clothes.
The cooking process is always long, but worth the wait. It was filled with laughter, chatting about the day, sharing stories and childhood jokes. The sound of the spoons hitting on the plates is like a ringtone screaming, “eating time.” Everyone with their ready plates topped up with all variety of foods, sitting down on mats, as our family tradition demanded, eating using our hands, watching everyone smiling with peanut butter sauce stains on their teeth, chicken soup flowing across hands, meat so soft and chewy. Grand-mum Joan’s dentures fell out of her mouth while she was laughing. She did not have many real teeth left in her mouth which made everyone burst out with laughter. Gosh, what a memorable moment!
For the first time, I watched my mother doze off with food in her hands and it made me smile. Everyone laughed loud at the top of their lungs. I knew this was not just about food. It was also about the emotional connection of togetherness that is beyond taste.
Knowing this was my last Christmas to spend with my family before moving to the United States left a bitter taste in my mouth. All the laughter, jokes, and food would be missed greatly. Food, in our culture is used as a tool for bringing families together and tightening family bonds. It was about play-fighting with our siblings over their food and stealing meat off their plates when they use the bathroom and laughing at them when they come back. These moments create a lifetime of memories that will live in our minds forever.
Karen Kwagala - Tyler
SALT
We came here last summer
The sun shone bright across the glittering ripples
Our splashes and teenage laughter left as footprints in the sand
The sweet taste of love and SALT once imprinted tenderly on my soul
I wish I never had brought you to my place of relief
The SALT now a bitter reminder
The summer nights no longer filled with you
Did we ever have it as good as we thought?
Every memory of us in the ocean
Every thought of the future going away with the tide
The open wound left broken shells of my heart
Now it’s stained with the starch sting of SALT
TOWER BELL
Samantha Walls - Mineola
Bracy
Adriana Weeks - Tyler graphite & colored pencil
eviction
unpacking our boxes of memories while the decor starts to invite cobwebs of our past you made a home in the four corners of my heart making sure your rent was always on time and that your garden outside was flourishing the days became shorter the nights grew longer the mail stacked up overflowing with the grasp of you being fingertips from out of reach i think i’ve become homesick for a place that doesn’t exist anymore and for a person who changed their address without notice
Cheyenne McAllister - Van
CAT ATTACK!
In the sunbeam’s graceful light, a fluffy demon sprawls, eyes closed but still alert. Plotting world domination, With a set of toe beans
The small tyrant prowls his sofa-kingdom that he rules, searching his domain for the highest cushion. While I, a humble servant, Fetch for treats and fall for his attacks.
This mighty hunter May have no care in the world. But when a vacuum roars to life, It’s over for him.
Magdalena Estrada, Mineola
Luna Moth
Aspen Cunningham - Tyler photography
REPRIEVE
A day of rain
A day of heat
A week of shoes on my feet
Gone here gone there
What can I do for now
But lay on the ground
And stare at the clouds
Give it a day
Give it a night
Give it a week to set my mind right
Toss, turn, be at ease
One day soon will there be peace
Chelsea Foster, Tyler
TOWER BELL
The End
Leonard Heimbuecher - Athens photography
CURSE OF ANXIETY
Chaos, Crashing waves, Storm clouds rage, And winds unyielding, The world is about to break.
Anxiety looms over, Clawing, grasping the heart, Restraining the mind.
Run, run, run.
Seek your asylum. Reach for a new horizon. Burn this view from your eyes.
Bring about a blank canvas And paint the pain away.
Calm, breathe. Fall, free.
Rest, at ease. Peace.
The open plains lay in front, Illuminated by heavenly light. Lavender flowers stretch past this new horizon, Stretching to infinity, Dancing with the calming breeze Like there will never be days, Where our souls are tied down By the curse of anxiety.
Kevin
Avila - Tyler
LITTLE MISS PERFECT
I make straight A’s every year
I’m an honors student
I put in the time and effort
I study any chance I get
I’m Little Miss Perfect
I listen to my parents and do what they say
I clean my room willingly
I walk the dog, and feed him too
I take out the trash and wash the dishes
I’m Little Miss Perfect
I go to work on time
I’m good at what I do
I help out whenever I can
I am clean and tidy; I get the job done
I’m Little Miss Perfect
I always remember to smile I graciously accept compliments
I’m told I’m a ray of sunshine
I make sure everyone feels loved
I’m Little Miss Perfect
I always go out with my friends I pay for dinner
I enjoy the time I spend with them
It’s a good distraction
I’m Little Miss Perfect
I get lonely, even with all the people I’m surrounded by I think I’m too loud
I get overwhelmed easily
Alone at night the tears begin to fall down my face
I’m Little Miss Perfect
I sob gently and quietly so no one hears
The thoughts are too loud
I want someone to understand
I want to ask for help
But I’m Little Miss Perfect
I wipe my tears with the sunrise
I tidy my face
I’ll smile and be “happy” today
“Of course, I’m okay!”
I’m Little Miss Perfect And I am not okay.
Emily Titlow - Cushing
The Last Ride
Ande Fuqua - Jacksonville photography
TOWER BELL
Ugochukwu
Muyiwa Adyanju - Kwara-State, Nigeria
oil paint & photo transfer on canvas
The Bell Tower Arts Journal 2025 Dedication
The Bell Tower Arts Journal team dedicates Volume 18 to Barry Jacobs, a longtime TJC art student who passed away on February 2, 2025. Barry audited and repeated art classes at Tyler Junior College for 16 years. Barry was the epitome of a lifelong learner. He dedicated himself to volunteerism, staying active, and persevering.
Since 2009, Barry explored many studio art and art appreciation classes. Barry was an active member of the TJC Art Club and was always involved in Art Attacks, workshops, and community service activities. Barry Jacobs’ art was included in several issues of The Bell Tower Arts Journal (Volumes 13, 15, 16, and 17).
Barry’s determination was unmatched. He battled and beat various cancers multiple times and overcame triple bypass surgery. Barry volunteered his time at hospitals making arts and crafts for oncology patients and taught art classes at the Tyler Senior Center. Barry joined the Navy in 1961 and served as a machinist mate on the Destroyer USS Witek and served in the Cuban Missile Crisis after the Bay of Pigs invasion.
Barry Jacobs found a place to feel at home at TJC. He made positive impacts on the lives he profoundly influenced in the art department. He loved creating and was always excited to share his artwork and be included in The Bell Tower Arts Journal. He once stated, “Art club is a time where one can break away from routine and receive positive feedback. It’s a way to be informed about what is happening in the arts community such as volunteer opportunities and competitions. It’s also a place to hear personal stories from professors bearing life lessons.”
Our institution honors Barry for believing in the artistic vessel that is The Bell Tower Arts Journal. Barry Jacobs will be sorely missed, but his art will live on.
