The editorial board for the journal is comprised of full-time faculty members from the English Department, the Applied Graphic Design & Digital Media Department, and the Fine Arts Department. The editorial board has the final approval on all selections and publication decisions.
Regan Minkel
Kristine Hart
Paula McDermott
Selection Committee
The selection committee for The Bell Tower Arts Journal is comprised of student members from the English Department, the Graphic Design Department, the Art Department, and faculty advisors.
Faculty Members:
Paula McDermott
Regan Minkel
Dr. Jill Johnson
Kristine Hart
Student Members:
Danelle Roadruck
Kylie Leaver
Margaret Siber
ABC 123 Creativity The Bell Tower Arts Journal
Cover Design
Ayana Johnson
Layout
Sadie Stewart
Allure Vaughn
Photography Editors
Kristine Hart
Rebecca Stewart
Torrey Wylie
Poster/Publicity Design
Ciara Gray for “Now Accepting Submissions”
Lexi McCormick for “Pick up your free copy”
About the title:
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; Rebecca Stewart, Department Chair of Graphic Design and Digital Media; Torrey Wylie, Graphic Design Professor; Kristine Hart, Graphic Design Professor, and Paula McDermott, Art Professor and standing Bell Tower committee members.
The room around Chris was dull and dim. His hair was clipped close to his head, his eyes heavy, his mouth taut. His skin, once a warm honey tone, had faded to a pale amber. The walls were painted blue with black trim, but the windows were covered in sheets, newspapers, and foil—blocking out the sun and its reminders of the world outside. The silence was broken only by the occasional rumble of a car passing the window. The room mirrored the storm buried in his chest.
“I’ve got to do something different. I have to be willing to sacrifice for my success,” Chris said aloud.
“Chris…” Jeff, a man who dwarfed him in size but radiated warmth, stepped into view from a room filled with light. “Have you thought about a sober living home?”
“I’ve already bought a train ticket. I’m going to rehab. I have to get help. My kids deserve a father.” Chris paused, eyes welling. “Jeff, I don’t know when I’ll get to hold them again.”
Jeff sat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You making this decision will give those kids a father,” he said firmly.
The Amtrak rolled into Gainesville, Texas. Chris stared at the QR code. His hand trembled. I could stay instead, he thought. Memories poured into his mind’s eye: his daughter running barefoot outside the house he was leaving, picking up flowers and rocks; the day he walked to pick up his son on his birthday, gifting him a soccer ball and playing until the boy’s mother arrived; his oldest daughter singing and painting in a quiet room she filled with light. He took a deep breath, raised the screen to the conductor, and boarded. Every bump and turn felt like a reminder of the distance between him and his children.
Two months passed. Chris had not used. His mind began to clear. In a support group surrounded by others battling addiction, he felt safe. The smell of vape smoke triggered memories, but he stayed grounded.
“I used to think I was invisible,” Chris said one night, voice low. “Now I just want to be seen by the people I love.” A woman across the circle nodded, her eyes soft. “You already are,” she said quietly.
He missed his kids deeply, but he was becoming someone they could be proud of.
Then came the GED ceremony. Chris stood smiling in a borrowed black gown, a yellow tassel hanging from his cap. A diploma was in his hand.
“Chris, you did it!” Albert shouted, snapping photos and bouncing with joy.
Chris looked down at the diploma, then up at Albert. “It’s not everything,” he said, voice steady and calm. “But it’s a start.”
Later that evening, Chris’s phone buzzed. It was a message from Jeff: How’s everything going? Chris stared at the screen for a moment before replying: Things are better. I’m still fighting. He didn’t say much more. He didn’t have to. Jeff had seen him at his lowest, and now he was seeing him rise.
The year rolled on. Chris sat behind the wheel of his own car for the first time in years. He’d finally reinstated his suspended license. Beside it lay a white envelope with bold black and yellow lettering: You got in! It was from Tyler Junior College, confirming his admission into the Engineering program.
The engine roared as he accelerated down a sun-bleached road. The sun poured through the windshield, unfiltered. No foil. No shadows. The storm hadn’t passed, but he was finally steering through it. Behind him were the silence of empty rooms, the ache of missed birthdays, and the shadows of addiction. Ahead was something less certain, but cleaner, brighter. He didn’t know when he would hold his children again, but he knew the man they would meet would not be the one who disappeared. He was driving toward a life they could be proud of, even if they weren’t in the passenger seat just yet.
Christopher Coyle—North Richland Hills
True Love
I’m in assisted living and I recently watched an older couple fall in love. Every day, he sits alone and eats lunch. No one visits. He has one distant relative and a sister he hates. He is a loner. He doesn’t say a word. He’s a Marine veteran and he still walks like a soldier counting his steps, “1-2-3-4; 1-2-3-4.” He’s well-mannered and knows how to treat a woman.
One day a resident that has Alzheimer’s came into the café. Usually she sits with me, but today, she sat with him. He didn’t pay her any attention because he’s a loner. But she sat there, not knowing what she did last. She showed him pictures of her family, telling him who’s this and who’s that, and who was born first and last. And he smiled and listened repeatedly. They started to leave at the same time, but she never could remember where her room was.
He asked, “Can I take you home?” and they began to laugh. When asked why he laughs, he replies, “I’m happy.”
He rarely talks to anyone, but one day we were eavesdropping, and I heard him say to her, “You look delicious today. Your place or mine?” She didn’t remember where her room was located, so they went to his room. Afterward, they walked in the courtyard, smiling. They sat on the swing and watched the moon, arm in arm. Other times, they just sat there. No one knows what they were saying. Later, they walked away as he asked, “Your place or mine?” and they stayed out of sight for an hour.
The next day, he sat in the café holding her chair, waiting for her to come and join him. He was patient and never said a word. Then, to his surprise her family came and took her away. A resident informed us that she would not be returning. But he still waited for her.
After a couple of weeks passed, he strolled in riding a wheelchair. He was noticeably weaker and refused to eat. He was hospitalized for a couple of weeks and when he returned, he was met with countless greetings. He looked surprised and said, “I didn’t know nobody loved me. I didn’t know I had many friends.” He asked, “How long was I gone?”
He told us that he was in love with somebody, but he didn’t remember who it was and that he wished he had married. He wished to have a wedding and a baby. I said to him, “You’re too old for all those things. You’re eighty-two years old now.” This is true love. I didn’t know that old people could fall in love, but they can.
Irene Dickerson—Tyler
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Processed Poison
Leonard J Heimbuecher / Athens / 10"x 7" Photo
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Love Story
Stephanie Nance / Big Sandy / Photo
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The TJC Squirrel
I watch them roam
Acorns on my mind
I wish I could have them all
But limited is my time
Living in my tree
It’s the life for me
My cousin tried to visit But there is an acorn fee
Landon Bender—Dallas
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Me, Myself, and I
Marlene Rubio / Tyler / 22” x 30” / Charcoal & Paper
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The War Behind His Eyes
And if a man dies by his own hand with no scars on his skin, but a war behind his pale, blue eyes, did he truly take his own life? Or was he slain by all the words he never spoke?
By the silence that suffocated his lungs, by the nights that refused him rest, by the weight of being strong, when strength was just another theatrical mask.
He carried thunderous storms in his chest and called it breathing. He smiled like he didn't hurt, loved like it didn't bleed, and when he finally fell, the world deemed it Greek tragedy.
In the end, maybe it was just a white flag tossed in the heat of battle Maybe it was peace disguised as an ending. Or maybe, just maybe, the war finally ran out of soldiers.
Ethan Leon-Duffey—San Francisco, California
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Ole Mouser
Cameron Stokes / Tyler / 6” x 6” / Ohuhu Markers
Warm Bread
A family. Aren’t they supposed to be happy?
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Every holiday, every birthday, meant to be a time for gathering.
But mine isn’t like that.
They look down on my father for loving outside the lines of their narrow world.
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His crime? Marrying a different race. His children? A disgrace. No reunions.
No loud laughing at tables. No stories passed around like warm bread.
Just my father, my mother, and me.
Sometimes, there’s a hollow space where the rest of them should be.
But my parents’ love— solid, steady— outshines any emptiness.
It took time, but I learned: there’s nothing wrong with me.
And them?
Never heard of them.
Family is who shows up, who holds you in silence, who loves you without condition.
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And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Analyse Thomas—Kilgore
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Distractions
Kara Wilson / Grand Saline / 8” x 10” / Graphic Art
The Secret Map of Earth
Some places look ordinary until you step inside them, and then you realize you have crossed into something far older and stranger than yourself. When I was a boy, my family moved to Murchison, a small town in East Texas. We lived on land that had been ours for generations, a sweep of fields and timber that seemed endless to a child.Our house sat near a four-acre garden that fed not only us, but much of the town. My grandfather had a tractor parked in the shed, but he rarely touched it. Instead, he used a donkey named Jenny to plow and till the soil. Donkeys can be stubborn, and Jenny was no exception. Sometimes, in the middle of the row, she would plant her hooves and refuse to move another step. My grandfather told me the trick was simple: you had to whistle to her. And sure enough, when he puckered his lips and sent a tune across the garden, Jenny leaned forward again, pulling the plow as if the sound itself tugged her along. I still have an old black-and-white picture of him standing in that garden, head bent back slightly whistling into the open air. Jenny at his side with the plow strapped on.
Beyond the garden lay a pasture, and at its far edge the world changed. The grass tipped into a shallow creek, and on the other side stood post oaks and pines with almost no undergrowth. You could see straight through the trees like aisles in a bright hall. The air felt hushed, and sometimes it seemed a trunk moved when we were not looking. I later called them Column Stalkers: tall watchers that blended with bark until they chose to shift. Real or imagined, they gave the grove a living quiet, as though the woods themselves breathed. At times their presence pressed against my chest like a held breath, as if the forest itself waited to see what I would do next.
The trees fell away to a round pond fed by a spring that bubbled at its center, the only open circle in a ring of lily pads. Bass stirred the shallows, frogs chorused from the banks, and dragonflies patrolled the air. On calm days, the water flashed with silver-scales, fish that leapt without a sound and seemed to leave no ripple. I was sure they kept that pond clear, like small guardians working in light, their mirrored bodies flashing fragments of sky. When they slipped beneath the surface, the whole pond seemed to dim, as though daylight itself had gone with them.
A green peninsula of pasture led from the pond into a pocket of rainforest. The soil softened underfoot, damp and spongy. Ferns arched high, pitcher plants clustered near water, and trees with wide leaves shadowed the trail. Frogs leapt ahead in waves. Dragonflies hovered in clouds, joined by mist-wings whose fragile bodies trailed faint ribbons of color. They gathered after storms, glowing faintly as though they had been shaken loose from the clouds themselves. Their wings carried a faint hum, no louder than falling rain, but if you listened closely, it sounded like the forest whispering back.
Turning back toward open ground, the land rose into grassland. Tall reeds brushed my fingers as walked. The sky felt larger and the air smelled of sun-warmed earth. Quail burst upward in quick flurries, and grasshoppers leapt at our passing. Deer lifted their heads from the golden stalks, their ears sharp, their gaze steady. At night, coyotes sang across the meadow, voices rolling like a chant. At dusk a pale figure sometimes stepped from the mist, taller than any whitetail, with antlers branching like silver trees. The Antlered Guardian moved without sound. By morning the grass seemed straighter and the field calmer, as if the meadow itself remembered its passage. For a moment, the meadow felt like the center of the earth, every blade of grass bowing beneath the weight of its crown.
Past the reeds the soil thinned to sand. Prickly pear, yucca, and mesquite took hold, and heat bent the horizon. Horned lizards scuttled between rocks, flattening when our shadows crossed. Rattlesnakes stretched on sun-warmed stone, both timber rattlers from the woods and western diamondbacks that belonged far west of here. Roadrunners flashed across the edges. And on the hottest days, the glass serpents appeared, gliding across the dunes in silence. Their bodies bent the light until they looked like living mirages, slipping in and out of sight with each shimmer. To a boy’s eyes, they were not snakes at all, but the spirit of the desert itself, never quite caught. Sometimes their trails lingered as silver lines in the sand, glowing for a heartbeat before the wind carried them away.
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All of this, forest, pond, rainforest, savanna, and desert, existed within a hundred acres. It was a land that seemed to hold every world at once, a place where the creatures of East Texas mingled with beings no field guide could name. Looking back, it feels like I grew up walking through a secret map of the earth, folded and tucked away on my grandfather’s land.
James Eddins—Murchison
Chaos
Dennis Galbraith / Bullard / 21” x 21” / Indian Ink & Paper
Dear old lady
Beauty's vaguely
Falling off her skin
Mother's summer
When he met her
Love struck not so thin
Baby's cradle
Aren't you able
To walk by yourself?
Dear old lady
Then just maybe
Youth would surely melt
Bones and ashes
In the tray is
Someone that I loved
Hope will break
And then she lay
Until she's had enough
ABC 123 Creativity Dear Old Lady
Dear old lady
Beauty's vaguely
Falling off her skin
Going under
Dying lovers
Buried by their kin
Jlonna Rae Marshall—Houston
Allegretto Dulce
Wilma Allgood / Tyler / 20” x 30” / Graphite & Charcoal on BFK Paper
Love is but the most ravenous of one's desires, a great light within, that casts the darkest of shadows.
Many say good things come in threes, but I know there will be many more.
Less than three (<3) days have passed, and I already miss them. Love’s (<3) days have passed, and they won’t be coming back.
I miss them.
They gave me advice, but I never cared to listen. Now I call for them to come back, but I know they won’t listen.
Without them, I’m but a shadow of whom I once was.
Trying to connect, ( <3 ) ( <3 ) unable to.
I’m left with less than three, who I love.
Samuel
Martinez—Santa Ana
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Where the Sun Slips, the Moon Rises
Trinity Wilmert / Van / Photo
Mother of the Tides
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Wilma Allgood / Tyler / 36” x 36”x 1.5” / Acrylic & Posca Markers on Canvas (Painting by Wilma Allgood of Original Sculpture by Paula McDermot)
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Almost Us
We started as three — you, me, and her, A delicate trio, a balance that blurred.
Three shadows walking the same cracked line, Sharing secrets, laughter, borrowed time. You called us both your “best friends,” like it was fair, But I always knew — hearts don’t split square. You can’t hold two souls in one open hand, Without one slipping quietly like sand.
At first, you liked me — I didn’t feel the same,
Then later, my heart shifted into the game. By then, your gaze had already drifted away, And I was left with words I could never say. I watched you and her glow in the halls, Laughter echoing, painting invisible walls. I told myself, “It’s fine. You’re not mine.”
But jealousy scribbles sharper lines. Still, I stayed — pretending not to care, Pretending my chest wasn’t gasping for air.
Every smile between you two Felt like proof I never truly knew you.
Senior year came, quiet and heavy,
My feelings surged, but I kept them unready.
I liked you again, but fear held my tongue,
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Because history had shown how hearts come undone.
So, I drifted, soft, slow, invisible smoke,
Before the fire could choke.
I convinced myself it was mercy, not fear,
To leave before you disappeared.
But here’s the cruel twist I never saw — You liked me too, though neither spoke a word.
By the time the truth surfaced,
We were ghosts in caps and gowns, smiling for photos, hearts slowing down.
We stood in that last hallway,
Between what was and what could’ve been —
And I swear, the air almost whispered your name.
Now, years later, when someone asks, “Did you ever love him?”
I think of the almost, the misread signs,
The fragile beginnings that never found their end —
And I just say, “Once.”
Maria Villela—Flint
Fierce Collector
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Lexi McCormick / Edgewood / 6” x 10” / Photo
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Daydream
JordanAva Stringer / Mansfield / 6” x 10” / Line Art
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The Schadenfreude of Yourself
I am just a tad ridiculous
Part man, part clown
A walking punchline
Overserious with a mammoth ego
Someone who struggles to joke about themselves
Today, that should change
I am the dumbest, smart person you’ve met
Yes, I’m aware of the oxymoron
I’m the only doofus here
Ambition driven by slowness
I’d say I’m in the 90th percentile of students
Although, 10th percentile is more accurate
I’m not laughing at this whatsoever
Maybe I should
Laugh at this clown
Laugh at the absurdity of me
I should take it in stride, eventually.
Connor Philpot—Lindale
Hazel
My beloved, brown-eyed friend
Frisky, loyal and playful
Who will always stick with me to the end
Known by the unique name of Hazel
Brown, the color of her hide
With eyes the color of earthy soil
After searching for the perfect dog far and wide
I found my beloved dog who I love to spoil
Grace Anderson—New Waverly
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Estrella Azul
Wilma Allgood / Tyler / 24” x 36” x 1.5” / Acrylic, Posca Markers & Charcoal
To My Long-Time Friend
You would laugh that I have written this, To be honest, I would too.
The idiot’s writing poetry, Specifically, to you.
But even idiots can speak truth, Albeit very rarely.
Despite my spacious head cavity, I’ll eke out the truth barely.
I was not destined for intellect, But you, my long-time friend, were.
To see you struggle for so long now; The tears cause my eyes to blur.
What can an imbecile truly do, When even the brightest fall?
To be able to give you nothing, Is the greatest sin of all.
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So, I write this with the intention, That you would know I still care. About the one who has stuck by me; So you would know I’m still there.
Andrew Herbert—Tyler
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The Broken Blue
Ayana Johnson / Tyler / 10” x 5” / Mixed Media Photo
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Fury
Stormie Starrett / Jefferson / 10” x 8” / Photo
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Quetzalcoatl
Alexander Servin / Tyler / 11" by 14" / Indian Ink, Pen & Paper
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To Kiss Death
Lexi McCormick / Edgewood / 6” x 8” / Photo
The Cat Who Hated Everyone
It may not come as a surprise
That a cat could hate everyone
From his owners to his neighbors
And all those in-between
He snarls and growls when you touch his behind
Don’t you dare brush him
Don’t you dare touch him
He is not afraid to bite
He spends all day waiting to pounce
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From behind corners, low to the ground
At night he is different
Curled at your feet
It seems as though he couldn’t hate everyone
When he’s lying in bed
Purring up a storm as you pet his head
Lovingly waiting to play with you again
Morgan Cagle—Tyler
Ode to Freedom
Freedom feels like a silver sedan
Humming on a dark rainy morning
A thermos full of coffee
Still too hot to drink
Freedom feels like the wind
A red scooter flies through east Asia
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Sunshine, coconut trees, dirt roads
The rain showers upon the earth
Freedom feels like a 14-foot flat bottom boat
Payload full of cardboard, trash
Old diesel fuel, and my El Salvadorian friend
We have old bread for the seagulls
Freedom feels like my neighbor’s pasture
At one time he reigned with his Orange tractor, and his oily black dog
I’d let my brown Labrador dog loose
Freedom feels like a sharp chainsaw chain
A belly full of peanut butter and carrots
I lay waste to the Russian Olive trees
The rich smell of the dirt and greenery
Freedom feels like
A backpack full of books and
Banana chips
A cup of coffee for the roof
Her dad’s bright blue pants
Noah Marble—Tyler
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In the Moment
Azaria Quintero / Tyler / 8.5” x 11” / Graphite & Paper
There Was a Bug in The First One
Alexander Servin / Tyler / 21" by 30" / Charcoal & Paper
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Holy, Holy
“Was My death not enough to realize how priceless you are in my eyes?” His voice echoes in my mind, my tears gather.
To hear the sheer agony in His cries, hanging there with blood flowing from the nail-like thorns that punctured His skin
This is my Jesus.
Beaten with glass, metal, and jagged bone, His own flesh being viciously ripped from his body. Forced to carry the death mechanism that would kill Him.
Relentlessly mocked, spit on, and scorned by His own people. Gasping for air and support.
Nothing about His death was beautiful, He died in disfiguration. It didn’t look pleasing to the eye, It sounded excruciating, It felt defeating.
And yet, He is the most beautiful man to exist. Him dying on the cross was the most beautiful act of love I have ever seen or felt in my life.
He took on what I couldn’t so I could know Him. Even death wasn’t able to keep Him there, He rose mightily, and every knee bowed in awe-struck wonder of the Savior who had visited death and conquered it. This is how much we mean to Him, So much so that He would die for us.
Holy, Holy is He who loves us.
Madison Corriveau—Lindale
Steam and Silence
I sat on the mottled, wicker chair while the grass beneath the rising sun remained motionless. The air was a tapered chill that rolled through my hair and down my neck, tracing my spine. I raised a heated mug filled with a dark roast. A tendril of steam billowed up with equal parts desire and despair as I took sip after bittersweet sip. It’s in these still moments, when the world forgets to move, that my thoughts drift to him, his presence as vivid and textured as the morning itself.
He was heard long before he was seen. It seems reminiscent of a babbling brook, the plop of his feet as he careened down the echoing hallways. His body came and went, back and forth, time and again, and his laughter flowed like the gentle gait of a horse warming and limbering before a heavy gallop. One might notice his lack of socks, or more accurately, one sock clinging to duty, the other lost to toddler rebellion.
His complexion carried a warm, praline hue; the kind that deepens in winter when pecans beg to be shelled. The bottom of his left foot had gone from a natural honey to an earthy, ashen disguise. Though a toddler, he had an impressive build, though he was little, he was also broad and stocky, his legs strong like the roots of a willow, or a column that supported a load. He had lovingly been given the nick name “Fatboy” because of these qualities, but to his grandmother he was called, “Cute.” It wasn’t just the roundness of his cheeks or the curve of his chin that earned him the name.
It began at the crown, where curls staged their rebellion; coiled and loose, a paradox of elegance and chaos. His eyebrows rose in sharp arcs, signaling excitement like a lighthouse cutting through fog. Below, almond eyes held a quiet intensity, lifted and symmetrical, as if forever mid-thought. His nose flowed straight from the tear ducts, a miniature aqueduct built to channel breath and feeling, strong and clean. And his mouth, full and rounded, poised for speech. For smile. For pout.
But it was his smile that transformed everything. Like a train horn at a crossing,
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it demanded attention. Broad and sudden, it revealed white, stubby baby teeth that gleamed with innocence. The skin around his eyes tightened and lines formed at the corners as they squinted with delight. Light danced in the whites of his eyes, a glimmer just beyond the iris. His brow softened, folding into the upper lid, his gaze now intentional, honest. Cheekbones emerged, curved and buoyant, he jubilantly joins the conversation, no longer hidden beneath the chubby innocence of toddlerhood. His ears, round and close-cropped, were tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, and lifted half an inch in sync with the rounding of his smile. And just like that, the memory of his smile folds itself into the steam of my morning coffee, warming me from the inside out.
The sun hasn’t shifted, yet something inside me has. The grass stays still, but I smile because every curl of steam from my coffee brings him back. Between the steam and the silence, he is here, and I am there. For as long as I breathe, these moments will lead me to a place where no wind can shake me, no heat can burn me, no chill can make me brittle enough to break. No height will turn me back, and no depth will pull me under. I have seen the face of innocence, and I carry the charge to protect this love. My son’s smile will always remind me why.
Christopher Coyle—North Richland Hills
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Isolation
Marlene Rubio / Tyler / 11” x 15 / Charcoal & Paper
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Recursion
Bronze, gold, and ash.
Veins, flesh, and what is left.
Upon that Temple Mound, I go to be made anew.
Forty years in the Wilderness eroded me. I was deceived by false prophets worshipping Baal. Wasted years of separation.
The memory is fleeting, but the feeling is just as intense. The Lord’s hands caressed gently, my receptors. Nothing comes close.
But tonight, I repent. I cast out those who would lead me astray.
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A great pillar of fire guides me Home.
And the Almighty descends to greet me atop Sinai.
Tonight, my veins bleed bronze. My skin transmutes to gold. My mind burns to ash.
I am The Idol. I am The Whore. I am The Desert.
Phoenix Harris—Palestine
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Zoned Out
JordanAva Stringer / Mansfield / 6” x 10” / Line Art
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Racoon
Noah M Marble / Tyler / 18” x 24” / Acrylic Painting
Thalassophobia
There are times I gaze upon you.
Hoping to see magenta, I only see blue.
But why should I expect the ocean to change?
I step closer to the waters that ripple across the surface. I see the waves that change between beauty and wrath.
Yet the sea always calms, returning to the same tired face: Abyss.
Only its murky, unknown depths remain.
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Why did God make it so?
I could reach out to touch, and be met with a reflection.
Just a Hollow, Eternal Oblivion.
And it’s always blue, but never magenta.
Phoenix Harris—Palestine
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It That Repeats
It began with a whisper a hum beneath the dust of stars, a rhythm in the bones of the earth before any name was spoken. From silence, the first note rose, a fragile tune of fire and dawn then began the song.
Drums of conquest joined the verse, echoes forged in iron and will. Heroes rose like crescendos, their voices blazing across the sky, only to fade a last, trembling chord before the silence swallowed their refrain.
Empires danced to the chorus, their banners caught in the wind’s applause. But every song grows weary, and even glory forgets its’ words. The tempo slowed, and time that quiet, patient conductor rewrote the melody in dust and ruin.
Still, the song raged on. War screamed through its measures, cannons replacing choirs, marching feet pounding out the beat. Then came peace a brief, aching lullaby sung over broken fields, where the echoes of sorrow learned to sleep.
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123 Uniq
And yet, from that hush, new verses were born. Old scars became lyrics, old dreams became chords, and the song began anew never ending, never kind, devouring all it ever made.
We have danced to it, bled to it, built and burned beneath its’ tune. And even now, as the last note trembles on the edge of the world, we still hum along unaware of the truth.
For this song we call destiny, this endless refrain of creation and decay it was never music at all.
It was History, singing itself again.
Ethan Chastain—Tyler
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Ayana Johnson / Tyler / 10" x 5" / Mixed Media
You Before Me
I loved her so much— I didn’t love myself. I gave her all my love while I sat unwell. I let her do her worst and hold the knife. I allowed this— because maybe it would subside.
I had faith that she would get better with me by her side. But my faith was misplaced, and I fell into the knife.
It was my own fault for letting her wield the weapon— Or maybe it was hers for accepting it. Regardless, it all ended in a bloody bath.
And what did I do?
Of course, I came back.
I begged at her feet hoping she’d see it was a misunderstanding. But no amount of explaining could change what was happening.
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No matter how many times I apologized, For spilling my blood onto her feet and thighs, She kept pushing me away, When all I wanted to do was make sure she was okay.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have done what I did, Let her abuse me, cut, stab, and spit. But I just wanted her to be happy and fine—
Even if that meant it was at the expense of mine.
Alexis Bonner—Denton
The Bell Tower Arts Journal
2026
Dedication
Rebecca Stewart has been a part of the editorial board and selection committee of The Bell Tower Arts Journal since the first print issue in 2007. She has helped prepare students to design and layout publications in many graphic classes. Rebecca also developed student projects for creating The Bell Tower cover designs, as well as two marketing poster designs each year, which has allowed many students to participate in these critically acclaimed competitions. She finds tremendous joy watching students learn their work has been selected to be published and seeing how it makes student confidence soar.
Rebecca has been a Tyler Junior College faculty member since 1993. As a coordinator and then as a Department Chair in the Graphic Design & Digital Media program, she has led the program through significant industry changes. Rebecca is also a TJC alumnus, graduating in 1983 from the Graphic Design program. She loves to brag about how TJC has allowed her to succeed in every job she’s had in the graphic’s industry.
Rebecca, in appreciation for your years of expertise and mentorship in helping to make The Bell Tower Arts Journal into what it is today, we, the students, faculty and administration dedicate the 2026 journal to you as a symbol of our appreciation. Thank you for all you have done throughout the years.
