Page 1


VOICES

Above: Vintage • Jason Byas Front Cover: Crossing at Turtle Creek Lauren Miller

Literary Editors: Joel Morrow • Darylie Williams Artistic Editors: Lauren Miller • Mary Yehle Project Advisors: Sue Henson • Gary Goldberg

Back Cover: Middle of the City Lauren Miller

1


Literature

2

Miles •

6

• Jonathan Abel

The Fishing Trip •

8

• Ashley Watts

Runaway Soul •

9

• Stephanie Guyette

Broken •

9

• Christian McPhate

Addiction •

9

• Christian McPhate

Lake Party of Bowie: Induction •

10

• Christian McPhate

Genealogy of Melanin •

12

• Kevin Francis

Perfect •

14

• Colin O’Donnell

Fairies of Misery •

15

• Christian McPhate

Who am I? •

16

• Melissa F. Howie

Humanity •

17

• Pratima Paudel

Untitled •

20

• Stephanie Guyette

Dedicated to Delsa •

24

• Karyl Williams

Bull •

24

• Karyl Williams

A Wizard’s Tale •

28

• Kagan Love

I •

35

• Mary Havens


Artwork Crossing at Turtle Creek •

Cover

• Lauren Miller

Middle of the City •

Cover

• Lauren Miller

Vintage •

1

• Jason Byas

Three Beauties •

7

• Marie Neudorf

Luke 10:42 •

7

• Marie Neudorf

Inspired in Their Footsteps... •

7

• Kaleigh Harner

He Wears His Heart Safely... •

7

• Kaleigh Harner

Joshua 3:13 •

8

• Marie Neudorf

Disgusted •

9

• Rachel Tompkins

Paradise Lost •

11

• Soozie Aramdor

New Mexico Sunset •

11

• BriAnna Satterfield

African Pride •

13

• Jessica Johnson

Wishes I Wished and Dreams... •

14

• Kaleigh Harner

Nec-Romantic •

15

• Saschelle Palin

Self Portrait •

16

• Lauren Miller

Self Portrait •

17

• Brittany Hunt

Untitled •

18

• Jessica Johnson

Untitled •

18

• Jessica Johnson

Untitled •

18

• Jessica Johnson

3


Artwork

4

The Sum of Six •

19

• Cody Mason

Untitled •

19

• AJ Demeter

Maple Leaf •

19

• Kasey Stiles

A Pot I Used To Like •

19

• Cody Mason

Untitled •

22

• Tatum Marak

A New Beginning •

23

• Rachel Tompkins

Untitled •

23

• Tatum Marak

Delivery •

25

• Audra Lambert

Bonehead #1 •

25

• Lindsey Burks

American Anatomy •

25

• Simon Welch

Foolhardiness II •

25

• Sunkyu Norris

My Leader •

25

• Carlos Aleman

Photos From England •

26

• Brenda Rich-Miller

Stahdrache •

28

• Brittany Hunt

Jar •

29

• Marsha Hofbauer

Unentbehrlich •

29

• Biggi Renz

My Frog Prince •

29

• Mary Yehle

Untitled •

30

• Tamara Allison

Formenverwandler •

30

• Biggi Renz


Artwork Cellular Form •

30

• Lauren Miller

Untitled •

31

• AJ Demeter

No Friggin’ Way •

31

• Marsha Hofbauer

Pure •

32

• Marsha Hofbauer

Untitled •

32

• Brittany Hunt

Hirngespinste •

32

• Biggi Renz

Kontroverse •

32

• Biggi Renz

Rettenswert •

33

• Biggi Renz

Riders of the Storm •

34

• Cody Mason

Down Below •

34

• Cody Mason

Untitled •

36

• Hannah Segura

Untitled •

36

• Megan Bramhall

Wish •

36

• Kaleigh Harner

Self-Portrait •

37

• Elliot King

Punch •

37

• Brenda Rich-Miller

The One •

37

• Jason Byas

A Day at the Carnival •

38

• Mary Yehle

Untitled •

38

• Tatum Marak

Ceiling Fan •

40

• Brenda Rich-Miller

5


2008

Vinson Creative Writing Award

Miles •Jonathan Abel• A nervous foot rapping tapping on the floor eyes closed inside flow the notes that come one two three four a silent rhythm beats inside his head

Bright lights blind him, the crowd Waits with silent vow baited breath. Under their unforgiving stare he is cowed, Knowing surely that he faces his death.

Time! the man calls, but he is not heard rich music swirls within his soul blue notes memories of bird swing from the branches of his heart –

What’s that? He knows this note F sharp sounds from the piano The sax, just like he wrote Comes in hot – next his trumpet

A sweet new note enters his reverie Le’s go says trane. The drug clears From his brain, a trumpet will be His escape, tonight, from all his fears.

The crowd roars its approval as he launches into a swinging number trumpet sings its highpitched wail the dark faces look on in wonder

Dim memories of a dark hallway Cloud his mind, the music is no more Dark faces hope he will play Tonight, for once what is on the score.

A steady foot rapping tapping on the floor eyes closed inside flow the notes that come one two three four a steady melody comes from his horn

6


5ISFF#FBVUJFTt.BSJF/FVEPSG 8BUFSDPMPStY 8FBST)JT)FBSU4BGFMZ1JOOFEUP)JT#BDLpackt,BMFJHI)BSOFS "DSZMJDtwYw

Luke 10:42 t.BSJF/FVEPSG "DSZMJDtY *OTQJSFEJO5IFJS'PPUTUFQT8F8JMM.BSDI "IFBEt,BMFJHI)BSOFS "DSZMJDtwYw

7


Joshua 3:13 tMarie Neudorf Watercolor t29 1/2” x 41 1/2”

5IF'JTIJOH5SJQ •Ashley Watts•

The sun rises ahead of us The fog envelops us As the morning welcomes us. My father and I are going on a special journey. We are going on a fishing trip. As we walk toward the lake He gives me advice on life for awhile. Now, the sun is above us And the fog has passed. He holds my hand in his. As I look up at him And he looks down at me He tells me he will always be with me. We continue on, hand in hand. We are coming closer to the lake now. He explains to me the proper way To hook the line, To sink the bait, To reel in the fish. And I absorb every word escaping his lips While we advance toward the lake. As I look up, I see the first stars beginning to appear And see that the sky is turning a shadowy blue. He holds my hand tighter And tells me that he will never leave me Tells me to never forget what he has taught me. I look up and see that the moon has replaced the sun now As I reach the lake alone.

8


3VOBXBZ4PVM •Stephanie Guyette•

My soul has gone away, maybe to return someday. Sick of the endless inner nights, returns if it’s promised light. Now I’m a dark and empty shell, within whose walls the soul once dwelled. This place that holds no day, just night. From which my soul has taken flight. A lesson learned with emptiness, my soul never caused my mess. Always thinking it was my soul that was dark, turns out all along it was, My heart.

"EEJDUJPO •Christian McPhate• I am addicted to a dark substance, a dangerous nectar from the gods. I am hunting, relentlessly stalking the luscious vitae, a dark gift from Mother Night. I am searching, always seeking a mistress in the dark who holds the power over my bloodless heart. I am dreaming of a cold and lonely place, a blackened castle, an empty case. I am scarred by the shadows that thrive within my dark soul.

#SPLFO •Christian McPhate• Broken down on the side of the road Watching the cars pass to and fro While the sound of the hazard lights go click click click Driving my fingers killing my mind Cars fly by two at a time

%JTHVTUFEt3BDIFM5PNQLJOT 1JHNFOUFE"SDIJWBM1SJOUtwYw

9


-BLF1BSUZPG#PXJF*OEVDUJPO •Christian McPhate• The trees at Amon Carter Lake sway gently with autumn’s breeze. The Lake Party, consisting of a gathering of rednecks and oilď€ ďŹ eld workers, begins with the setting of the sun. Several guys arrive with their beer coolers under one arm and their girlfriends wrapped around the other arm. Their ip-­ops and cowboy boots silence the cries of the frogs. Echoes of the songs “Titties and Beer,â€? “Free Bird,â€? and “Song of the Southâ€? reverberate through the woodland as more headlights appear over the horizon. Summer’s end has descended on the Bowie countryside, and the tribe is gathering to celebrate with cases of beer, Mexican tobacco, and good music. The Lake Party is a secret ritual that the country folk have celebrated for more than a century. The tradition has passes from father to son, long before the forefathers of Bowie donned the white hoods of prejudice, an ignorant belief that still embeds its roots into the minds of the next generation. The traditional ceremony has hidden rules that newcomers must learn, or a “can of wormsâ€? or beating would follow. I ď€ ďŹ rst learned of this secret tradition when I arrived in Bowie more than ten years before. I had arrived in the small town from the backwoods of Oklahoma in search of a job and had moved into my small apartment on Raymond Street. My only friends were a family of mice that made noises throughout my lonely nights. After a year of solitude, I met one of the locals, a Native American woman who called herself “Rachelle From Hell.â€? A three-day courting session soon followed our meeting. She moved into my apartment and introduced me to some of her friends: Jeff, a homosexual and political activist who despised and teased the bigots of the town; Becky, her best friend and partner-in-crime; Claudia, a Mexican who could curse in Spanish and English in the same breath; Little Joe (or Crazy Joe), the most daring member of her friends; and Dickey Cox, a self-proclaimed amateur porn star. It was not long after our union that Chelle invited me to the lake and asked me to bring my guitar for a night that I thought would end with me in her arms. This thought was not disturbing, to say the least. With my guitar case in the backseat of her little red Toyota, we traveled to the lake, which was located ď€ ďŹ ve miles south of town. As we traveled down that winding road, Chelle explained that Amon Carter Lake was a

10


Paradise Lost • Soozie Armador Watercolor • 30” x 22”

man-made body of water. The muddy deposits in the lake made this apparent. In fact, underneath the dirty waters, the equipment that Amon Carter, a rich man from town, had used to create this modern marvel of “Bowieness” was rusting away to this day. Now, I am not sure why the workers left the equipment behind. According to local legend, a big storm had struck the town, dropping a vast amount of rain and a rather large tornado on the unsuspecting workers whose ghosts still moan and whine in the dark of night. After several pit stops on the dirt roads that weaved through the North Texas countryside, we arrived at Amon Carter Lake, a little disheveled, but rather refreshed. As the dark waters of the lake crashed upon the shore, Chelle spread a blanket on the ground, while I took my guitar out of its case and began to play a song—until the rumbling of pickup trucks pierced the tranquility of the night. “Whatever you do,” Chelle whispered, staring at the large pickups with monstrous tires parking next to her small car, “play it cool around these fools.” As the drivers parked their trucks, doors opened, revealing a mass of people with beer coolers and lawn chairs. A couple of guys and a few girls approached, smiling and laughing. Then they noticed the longhaired stranger in their midst. “He’s cool, guys,” Chelle introduced me to her friends. I slowly opened and closed my fists, waiting for the inevitable to happen. One of the guys, Tommy, went back to his truck, grabbed his guitar case, and took a seat next to me. He smiled and started strumming a Cure song. He tilted his head in my direction, telling me that

New Mexico Sunset • BriAnna Satterfield Watercolor • 30”x22”

it was okay to join. I watched for a second or two and following the movements of his hands, I began playing my guitar. Before I knew what had happened, twenty more people arrived and were swaying to the music that resonated from the wooden instruments. Chelle gazed at me with eyes that promised a night full of passion. She was relieved that her friends had accepted me despite my “hippie” appearance. As Tommy and I played our guitars, a fight suddenly erupted in the crowd. I looked at Tommy, but he ignored the commotion and continued playing his guitar. I tried to focus on playing, but the fight began to gain momentum as more and more people joined in the fight. It was then I realized that Chelle was no longer watching me. I placed my guitar back into its case and began to make my way through the crowd of fighters toward the center of the action. Tommy’s friend, Kyle, was wrestling with a monstrous cowboy and screaming, “You f---ing outsider! I’ll f---ing teach you to look at me like that!” I was amazed at the intensity of his proclamations and felt the stirrings of a Death Metal song in my soul. My amazement grew to shock when I noticed that Chelle was punching another girl in the face., “Don’t you call me a bitch! Bitch!” she yelled. She hit the girl two more times, knocking her out before she hit the ground. I stared dumfounded at the woman who had stolen my heart and did not know what to say, or think. I had never been with a woman who could fight like a man. Rachelle looked over at Kyle, who had finally disposed of his opponent and glared at the unconscious girl. She gazed at me with eyes that made my heart skip a beat. She smiled, “Play it cool when you’re around these fools.”

11


(FOFBMPHZPG.FMBOJO •by Kevin Francis•

I pray for the souls who didn’t make it here. So many lost souls, lost in translation, justified by the pursuit of vanity. The Greatest Holocaust in Human Genealogy; Slavery. Hitler who...? I pray for the souls who did make it, Now subject to the will of the oppressors who hold nothing sacred. Not strong, only aggressive because their power is not directed. REBELLION The young gifted and black run from red flashing lights thinking that the only way to be strong is to kill and fight, with no consideration or sanctity for life. Remnants of my slave bother’s struggle and rebellion. The streets, now the plantations and cotton fields of the new millennium. 40 decades, 400 years, 4 centuries, 7 generations of fear they have tried to instill in uscan’t you see, that we STILL have fear in us, shackled in mental slavery; Living on Borrowed time, just licensed slaves in ‘the land of the free’. From my forefathers to my father to me the struggle will ALWAYS continue, Never ceasing- levels over levels, only increasing in degree. Fighting against hate and criticism, the elevation above fear, race and color. The struggle against Willie Lynch-ism. Be like a tree beside the water. Drink of its abundance and firm up your own self in these times. Never sway and rock to the deceiving winds that sweep across this destructive land, stand firm in what you believe in and make prepared your foundation for your strength can make you weak so be careful where you plant your feet.

12


African Pride Jessica Johnson Watercolor t 38” x 28”

Never me again, I was too blinded, too weak, too frustrated and had endured too much pain, trying desperately to stay undefiled and preserve my last spiritual grain. I harbored feelings that were never mine to keep, instilled in the minds of my forefathers, shackling us in body and mind making it hard to breathe, move or even creep, but STILL my inner self I continue to seek. Winds of change will blow across the land, revitalize my soul and blow through me like the leaves that have life. Free from a cryptic past. A past filled with the uncertainties of my existence why was I brought here, and who I am. Relying on a framework that has been proven inconsistent. Free once again to live a life of worth, to live a life that was chosen for me even before my birth, before the times of the world even before the dawning of time and even before your plan was unfurled. Free from the inhibitions that held me back, robbing me of my full potential depriving me of my freedoms and expression that I hold dear and so essential. Now filled with Love for mankind, making this life meaningful and existential. Strive for more than what the eye can see Strive for more than just the status quo and never succumb to the power that be, because no one can rob you of the truth you already know. Forever having butterfly dreams. Stand tall in yourself shout it out loud and Proud, Be Black and Bold I AM my ancestors, Melinated Skin, Melinated Mind, Melinated

13


Wishes I Wished and Dreams I Chased Kaleigh Harner Acrylic t40”x60”

1FSGFDU

•Colin O’Donnell• I’ve never been so scared, Completely unprepared, To say a single word to you. I’ve never been so shy, I’ve always been that guy, To do whatever I want to. And I just can’t explain it, You caught me by surprise, I can’t find words to tell you, Don’t think you’ll ever realize, That you are, by far, The perfect girl for me. And I can’t imagine, Just how my world would be, If you never walked into my life. I’m not sure I’d succeed, But I’ve finally discovered, Beautiful, you’re everything I need. You’ve brought out all my best, I never would have guessed, That my heart finally learned to fly. To be right here with you, Is all I want to do, As we gaze at the midnight sky. And I just can’t explain it, You caught me by surprise, I can’t find words to tell you, Don’t think you’ll ever realize That you are, by far, The perfect girl for me. And I can’t imagine, Just how my world would be, If you never walked into my life. I’m not sure I’d succeed, But I’ve finally discovered Beautiful, you’re everything I need.

14

There is one thing in this world that I know is true, And it’s that I’ll never find another girl like you, Because you are, by far, The perfect girl for me. And I can’t imagine, Just how my world would be, If you never walked into my life, I’m not sure I’d succeed, But I’ve finally discovered, My Angel, you’re everything I need.


Nec-Romantic Saschelle Palin Acrylic • 4’ x 7’

'BJSJFTPG.JTFSZ •Christian McPhate• Fairies dance around me Teasing me Tantalizing me Showering me In their dust Of misery Glittering wings catch rays Of sunlight Their mischievous smiles Reflect through my soul I feel their touch Softest of touches Caressing me Searing me Twisting me Confusing me Destroying me Until I am free

15


8IPBN* •Melissa Howie• Hello out there, you don’t know me I am trapped inside The world is around me But I am lost, so I hide I smile and say, “I’m great, how are you?” But I know it’s phony, I’m hurting and lonely You don’t know me Neither do I I try to figure out why I think and feel this way But when I do I get confused I go round and round with analogies What could be the cause of my hurt, my pain? Sin could be the cause, or my raising could be the blame or maybe there is something wrong with my brain So many answers, but nothing feels right. God please walk me through the light Clear the pathway before me I am tired of tripping along life’s journey Stumbling over obstacles falling along the trails laying flat on my back with this ache deep within me Do you understand me? I know you must You’re the only one I can say that I trust Please let me know that you’re here while I’m on this ride Hold my hand I want to feel it, in my palm, holding tight Reassuring me….that I’m not alone in this fight I need to remember You are my Father and Author you knew me before I was born before there was time You knew my flaws and weaknesses my talents and strengths still you loved me unconditionally Wow, you think I’m great! I just need to wait and trust that my fait is in your hands So, I let go Reluctantly Unquestioning As I move forward down the lane of life, knowing that you have a plan and purpose For me My destiny

16

Self-­Portrait • Brittany Hunt Copper, Aluminum, Brass • 3”x3”x1/4”


Self-­Portrait • Lauren Miller Copper, Aluminum, Brass • 3”x3”x1/4”

)VNBOJUZ •Pratima Paudel• Narrow lanes and mystic moves Wandering around was my lonely soul Dreary sights and the innocent looks Gazing around was my ardent soul Why the innocent looks it make? Why the mystic moves it take? My soul ready to answer the quest Replied aloud- “Mystic moves to cure the poor soul Innocent looks to cure their pains so foul.” Where are the poor souls? Where are their pains? “Haven’t you gone to the somber land?” It asked. Cried aloud in distress my soul“People there are lean and thin Unhealthy they are I mean. Neither the fine clothes to wrap around Nor the proper diet there lay on the ground. No happiness, no joy to celebrate Only the pains for the survival they integrate. They’ve no choice what they gain or lose Broken bottles they use as their shoes. Prosperous we, can eat whatever we need But, so sad....... they’ve nothing to feed. Toys throughout the room, our children play Artless human skulls scattered around are our toys they say So pathetic, so pensive Don’t you feel the pain? Would prosperity ever rain on them? With this thought, I’m moving. For this sake, I’m pleading, Poor may live with joy I dream. Someday my dream would come true it seems. Drizzle of my only help it’s not gonna help. So, please if you are a human do a help Money money, it doesn’t have wings Life’s gonna dry up in the early springs. Orbs of humanity don’t buy for some money sake You can get it from the help you make. So, please put forth your efforts to make a change. Thirst for mirth let them quench. Let them live happily as we do. Help them feel they’re human. Let them feel they’re human.

17


Clockwise (from top right) Untitled • Jesssica Johnson Stoneware •6” x 6” x 15” Untitled • Jessica Johnson Stoneware • 9” x 6” x 15” Untitled • Jessica Johnson Stoneware • 8” x 8” x 17”

18


Clockwise (from top left) The Sum of Six • Cody Mason Stoneware • 8” x 12” x 9” Untitled • AJ Demeter Stoneware • 12” x 7” x 14” Maple Leaf • Kasey Stiles Stoneware • size A Pot I Used To Like • Cody Mason Stoneware • 6” x 6” x 14”

19


6OUJUMFE •Stephanie Guyette•

Your eyes open for the first time in hours. You look up at me and smile. The smile is a weak smile, but it is still beautiful and full of happiness. You speak to me in a barely audible whisper, “Where is it? Did I wear it here? I must have it.” I know instantly what you want, “No, you did not wear it here, or out to dinner last night,” I respond. It is odd, I think, that you did not wear it out last night, but then everything about this situation is odd. Another gentle whisper, “Will you get it and bring it to me, please?” “Of course, where is it?” Somewhere in your apartment is where it should be, but where it is, you cannot tell me. “I’ll be back soon, try to rest.” I go off to the parking lot to begin my expedition, although I do not know where to start. But that does not matter because I will do anything for you. After a six-minute drive, I am parked in the street outside staring up at your apartment window that faces the street. Your apartment is dark and lifeless. Up the stairs to the third floor, golden numbers, two- three- three, are nailed to the outside of your door. I search my pocket, find my key, and open the door. The lights are out so I search the wall with my hand for the switch. I am having no luck in finding the switch. I take another step into the doorway and trace my hand along the wall. “It has to be here somewhere,” I think aloud. Finally, about six steps in from the doorway, I feel the switch and flip it up. Nothing happens. What to do from here? Should I turn around and go back to the truck to find my flashlight? Should I continue to see if there is another light that works? With plan “B” in mind, I take another ten steps into the apartment and I find a lamp, or is it a hat rack? I cannot be sure. Further inspection reveals that it is a lamp, so I turn the knob. The sudden illumination of the room takes me by surprise. The light makes everything seem foreign. It is as if I had never been here before. The white walls are just as I remember. I wonder if they were always as bright as the walls in the hospital room where I have left you. Was the sofa always so fuzzy and such a vivid shade of mint green? It seems oddly out of place being so colorful within the white walls. I have no time to indulge my wandering mind because I am here for a reason; I promised you that I would come and get it for you and that is a promise I intend to keep. My search begins in the living room, where I am standing, at the moment, behind the mint green

20

couch. The coffee table, littered with magazines and a half-eaten box of chocolates, does not provide what I am after, so I make my way to the end table beside the burnt-orange recliner. The recliner is not really a recliner at all; it is one of those seventies-style chairs with an ottoman. I have never understood why you always referred to it as “the recliner.” It too seems so out of place. Not so long ago you brightened every room you entered with the glow of color that emanated from your smile. On the end table is a smaller version of the stand-up lamp I had turned on when I entered the room. I open the drawer, but there is nothing but bills, bills, bills, and more bills. I wonder if you ever pay these off or if they accumulate in this drawer, unpaid. I think back to the spring before the incident when we had the argument about your bills. “Money is not important to me; you are what is important to me.” That is what you said to me, and I love you for it. I scan the room one more time. I have to find it, but it is not in this room. Not finding what I am looking for, I turn to the door at the right of the living room. The bedroom lies behind that door. With a turn of the tarnished brass knob and a slight push, the door gives way to the room. It’s dark in here as well, except for a small illumination from the lamp in the living room. The switch is on the left side of the door at chest-level and with a flip, the light is on. The bed is messy;; it’s always messy. A memory of your voice echoes in my mind, “Why make it when we are just going to mess it up again?” I sit on the bed and suddenly I wonder how I made it over to the bed at all; I do not recall crossing the room. This is not the time for this, now. I must focus. I must find it. I make my way over to the dresser that is cluttered with everything you need to get ready for the day. My hands roam the assortment of items on the dresser. “It must be here somewhere,” I say aloud. One by one I open the drawers of your jewelry box. Of course, it is not in any of them. That would make sense; you never have put anything where it is supposed to go. On to the vanity on the north wall of the room, I open the drawers and rustle through the piles of things you will never get rid of. “It’s only stuff to those who are unimaginative, to those with an imagination it is all that is wondrous in the world. I hear that voice in my head again and see that smile; the smile that stole my heart to so long ago. I shake my head to clear out the thoughts of you so I can focus on my mission. I must find it, but where? The closet, perhaps? I enter the closet


and look at the shelves on the wall. Clothes and shoes are everywhere, as always;; heels and flats and sneakers are scattered on the floor. Some clothes are hanging, but most are strewn about the floor as if you had been frantically searching for just the right outfit. However, there is no sign of it. Where could it be? Everything in the bedroom reminds me of you: the smell, the state of disarray, and the mismatched lamps on the bedside tables that you picked up at a garage sale. The bedspread and sheets, covered in a swirl of pink and black; the mirror over the vanity covered in stickers, candy wrappers, and fortunes are items most adults would have thrown away. My mind is having trouble focusing on my mission, so I leave the bedroom. I decide that it might be in the kitchen on the bar that is always covered in an array of items; today, the bar holds everything from loose change to the necklace I bought for you for Valentine’s Day. Look, more bills. Stacking the bills into a pile, I glimpse what I have been searching for. Finally! It takes me back to our beginnings. The first time we met we were only fifteen, and for your birthday I made you a ring out of pewter. I had twisted two pieces of pewter around each other and soldered the pieces together at the ends. I turn the ring over in my hand and cannot believe you still have it and that it means so much to you after all these years. Making my way over to the giant mint, okay, it’s a couch, I sit and let my mind go back to the time we were both so young. The great thing about being so young is that we knew it was love because at fifteen it’s always love. I wonder had we stuck with our plan to run off and elope when we turned eighteen if our lives would have turned out differently. Instead, I broke your heart. I was such a stupid boy, then. I am a wonderful man, now. At least, that is what you say to me to comfort me for my decision. I need to get back to the hospital. I want all the time with you I can have. I turn off the lamp and find my keys. I return to my truck and begin the six-minute drive back to you. My mind goes back five years. It had been eight years since I broke your heart and seeing you again after all those years, I knew I had made the biggest mistake of my life. You were beautiful standing with a smile in the sunlight pushing a small boy by the swings. You looked different than I remembered you in high school: a little heavier, your hair a little shorter. But I knew it was you. I was terrified to approach you because I

knew you may still hate me, but I had to talk to you. I remember walking up to you half excited, half scared and saying, “Hi, do you remember me?” You smiled and replied, “Yes, I do” We reconnected from there. I finally made it back to the hospital. “Here it is, the ring,” I say to you. “I still don’t understand why you have to have it.” I slip the ring onto your pinky. I had made it so small that it fits no other finger. With barely a smile you explain. “Because, even when you made this for me I knew we were meant to be together. It just took one of us longer to come around than the other.” I smile back. “You are tired, you should sleep.” “Lie with me.” You move over carefully to give me room. I place my arm under your head. I place my

“Here it is, the ring,” I say to you. “I still don’t understand why you have to have it.” body next to yours. Your eyes close, and I softly kiss their lids, “I love you,” I whisper in your ear. You do not hear me because you are already asleep. I lay down my head on your pillow and cry quietly. I do not want to wake you. How did we get here? Many think I should feel lucky to have loved you not just once, but twice: once as kids and now as adults. Both times were the best times of my life. I do feel grateful to have had this love, but I do not want to lose it either. What will I do without you? My tears make my eyes heavy and my thoughts making my mind tired. I slip into a dream of you and me and our life as it should be. “Mr. Lacey, Mr. Lacey, wake up, sir.” A white coat is shaking me back to reality. “Yes, what is it?” I ask, groggily. “She has passed, sir,” answers the white coat. “Lucky her,” I respond. The doctor and the nurses look at me oddly. They would never understand.

21


Below: Untitled • Tatum Marak Pigmented Archival Print • 10”x6 2/3

22

Top right: A New Beginning • Rachel Tompkins Pigmented Archival Print • 6 2/3”x10”

Bottom right: Untitled • Tatum Marak Pigmented Archival Print • 6 2/3”x10”


23


#VMM •Karyl Williams• Before you judge me, take time to consider. Understand what makes me tick, think about what makes me quiver. Look into my eyes;Íž try to ď€ ďŹ nd the “meâ€? inside. Let yourself become my conscience; let yourself feel my trampled pride. Shower yourself with tears, those that you caused me to shed. Hold dear to your heart the crimson blood my ancestors forcibly bled Imitate their struggles, and replicate their strife, Try your best not to judge me until you remember them, and you’ve lived my life.

%FEJDBUFEUP%FMTB •Karyl Williams• I closed my eyes, and then I breathed, And inhaled the aroma of the air so thick with grief. I could see people crying all around And I knew that somewhere life no longer abounds. Yet the incandescent beauty of the sun still shone, The birds still sang. And there was life. I opened my eyes but I could not see, There were too many people surrounding me. The wailing of songs, the gnashing of teeth There was chaos that screamed “Oh God please don’t let it beâ€? Yet there was weeping. There was pain. There was silence. And there was life. I bowed my head, and then I prayed “Our Fatherâ€? I said, and then we were standing next to a grave, “Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.â€? But no comfort could be found, no peace could be gained. Yet the sky was blue. The owers were in bloom. And a teardrop fell, but still there was life. Unto my knees I suddenly fell, And, unwilling I joined together in this incongruous hell. Sore wounds were opened and mended hearts bled The most elaborate brush strokes could not hide the tears that were shed. Sad incantations permeated the hurt. The birds mourned. The earth stilled. And life was no more. Sorrow owed freely and Life drunk from the well Filled with a feeling of wrongness that none could dispel So I held my breath, and I counted to ten But I could not stop the tears, I had lost you again.

24


Clockwise from left:

Foolhardiness II • Sunkyu -­ Norris Screenprint • 11 1/2” x 15” Bonehead #1 • Lindsey Burks Screenprint • 11 1/2” x 15” Delivery • Audra Lambert Copper • 1.5” x 1 x 3” American Anatomy • Simon Welch Screenprint • 11 1/2” x 15” My Leader • Carlos Aleman Screenprint • 11 1/2” x 15”

25


26


Clockwise (from left): Salisbury Cathedral Kings College in Cambridge Salisbury Cathedral City of London Stonehenge Avebury-Thatched Roof Brenda Rich-­Miller Pigmented Archival Print 6 2/3”x10”

27


"8J[BSET5BMF •Kagan Love•

Stahldrache • Brittany Hunt Steel • 15” x 25” x 19”

28

Now shall be my turn to tell you a tale. It solemnly begins with a man and a pint of ale. He seemed to be there drinking away his blues, But his troubles had found him. The drinking was no use. Noticed he was by the tender of the bar. He was dressed quite officially to be found out this far. On him he wore robes of bright violet satin Seemingly darkening the room he now sat in. Around him was a sparkling black belt. The greatest perfumes upon him could be smelt. His sleeves were long and flowing freely, Or they could have been had he been dancing merrily. Yes his attire he surely did import. This man, as I mentioned, seemed the noble sort. The keeper of the tavern strode up to the man, And asked him quite frankly, “What be your plan? What brings you so far out from the town Sitting in here trying to make your sorrows drown?” The man sat up slowly, staring into the tender’s face. His bright blue eyes against his black hair seemed out of place. The tender now saw for the first time, The man’s physique was very well defined. He spoke in voice that was deep rooted in sorrow, “I have no more purpose. I can’t see tomorrow. These robes you see cost me everything I had, Even more really, for what I now owe my dad. These robes I purchased for I intended to impress, The girl of my dreams , my sweet Prioress. I’ve tried my hand for so very many years. I’ve done what I can. I’ve listened to my peers. Some of the things I’ve done I wish not to say. Steal, hurt, and even kill to give some away. All this has been done to no avail, For whatever I try seems doomed to fail.” The tender seemed lost inside his own thought. It seemed as if he internally fought. Then he said, “I can answer your prayers. There is a man who can help you upstairs. Go up and knock on the last door on the right, Though I warn you to prepare for the sight.” The man who can help you upstairs. Go up and knock on the last door on the right, Though I warn you to prepare for the sight.” The man did so slowly, as he was advised. He seemed drawn there, his motions exercised.


Jar • Marsha Hofbauer Steel • 25” x 14 1/2” x 19”

Unentbehrlich • Biggi Renz Steel • 18” x 15 1/2” x 16”

My Frog Prince • Mary Yehle Steel & Glass • 12 1/2” x 22” x 18”

Once upstairs, he moved down the dark hallway, Creeping quietly buy without sign of delay. He reached the large, black wooden door. Before he knocked, a voice said, “Come forth.” The voice was old but still strong and wise. The man opened the door seeking his prize. The room was darker than the hall outside. Lit candles and books stood by the man’s side. A little old man stood hunched with a long beard. Thought the man could tell there was nothing he feared. He motioned for the man to step closer to him. The man obeyed, the older watching over his glasses rim. The old man spoke, timing every single word, “You’ve come for my help, or so I’ve heard. You need help with a woman back at your town, But what you really want doesn’t wear a gown. You seek fortune and fame, and then seek her love. Those are your priorities, though not from above.” “Yes,” said the man, not sure what else to say. “I always wanted these things. Every day. I strive to attain a fortune of my own making, But not through carpentry, begging, or baking. I want it all and believe me I’ve tried. But for not. They end up a pain in my side.” The man waited for the older man to speak, Staring down at him, no longer meek. “I have something I think you’ll enjoy. Wait right there. I’ll be right back boy.” Off he stumbled through his piles of things, Some instruments quiet, others moving in rings. After what seemed like many long waited hours, The old man returned smelling quite sour. “I have here three bottles, in each a different brew. Take them and use them wisely all the way through. This one is blue and gives wealth and fame. Do not ask questions. That is all I can explain. This bottle here is red and filled with a potion of love. Drink it if you seek even the most beautiful white dove. Be wary of this bottle. Remember its color is gray. I advise you never to drink it from forever through today. I must tell you though, immortality is found inside, But I must also insist you place this bottle where it can hide.” The man took the bottles with an anxious look. The old man’s face wasn’t easy to read like a book. The man walked from the room without another thought.

29


Untitled • Tamara Allison Copper • 1 3/4” x 1/3” x 11/8” Formenverwandler • Biggi Renz Bronze • 3 1/2” x 4” x 7” Cellular Form • Lauren Miller Bronze • 3 1/2” x 5” x 4”

30

He made his way out of the tavern toward what he sought. Nearly a year passed before the man returned. He came back to the tavern to the old wizard. Up to the bar, the man walked confidently, And he summoned the bartender quite merrily. The tender now noticed the man’s robes were blue. Bright, flowing, they seemed too good to be true. His robes had streaks of the same violet as before, Then the tender noticed a great crowd at his door. “They are here with me today my good tender. I’d like to buy each one of them a drink of every flavor.” At this the man left, striding away over to the stairs, Then he went up, behind him flowed his clean black hair. He came back to the very familiar door. Yes he had come back to the wizard for more. He knocked only once before walking right in. The old man inside had been expecting him. “I knew you’d return. I saw it in your eyes. You’ve come back for more of my advice.” “Yes,” said the man. “I simply must ask. I have already consumed one bottle, one flask, And I had a thought while walking a garden through. I’ve had one bottle, the fame and wealth, can I drink two?” The old man smiled in an almost devilish way, Then he said this, “It is possible I must say. You may drink any combination of them you think. Yes it is possible to all three of them drink. But as I told you before you last time left, Be wary of the third, grey bottle. Listen with ears deft. It will bestow upon you the gift of everlasting life, But I still tell you it will bring less happiness than strife.” “Thank you my friend” the younger man said. “Perhaps next time we meet, you’ll see in my head, All the things that I’ve done and that I still wish to do. You might can see what you should do, too.” After this arrogant and insulting remark, The younger man stepped out, ready to embark. On a new journey, this time one of love, But the old man knew what would come this of. Many seasons passed. They came and went. Five years this time passed before came back the gent. The tavern, he found, had stood the test of time. It hadn’t changed at all. It stood perfectly sublime. The man came through the door, this time not the same. Yes, he was now different, and it showed as he came. He arrogantly pushed his way to the tender of the bar, Then he said, “For this I have come very far.” The tender said to him, “If you’ll just wait your turn-“ But he was cut off by the man’s words that burn. “You don’t understand or know just who I am.


I am now the king of all this beautiful land. I am love by all my subjects. I am powerful, too. Now again I say, you had better let me through!” The tender obeyed and again the man went up the stairs, To the same wooden door with his new cares. This time he didn’t even bother to wait or knock. He simply strode right in to the old man’s stock. The man didn’t wait for the wise wizard to speak. He immediately started talking, his mouth never growing weak. “I am king thanks to your potions old man, But I am still troubled, I hope you understand.” “I understand perfectly well your problem boy-“ The King cut him off, “I’m now a man with whom you can’t toy.” But you mustn’t be so vainglorious and wild. You’ve come seeking help from me because I’m wise, But you say you that don’t need help or advice.” “I’ll ask you one question, you helpless, old fool, And you had better answer with the needed tool. You warn me every time of the danger you gave, What exactly will happen if the last bottle I don’t save?” The old man looked up into the King’s eyes. He spoke slowly, in his voice no hint of surprise. “I’ve told you of all that I can possibly tell. The last bottle will forever prevent descent to heaven or hell. You have come here arrogantly into my room, But still I feel that I must try to save you from this doom. Be wary, listen up, and of my warning take heed, Make sure that is what you want before committing the deed.” The King’s anger rose up, but he held his tongue. Though deep down, his pride was still stung. “I’ve listened to all that you have told me thus far, Every single time that I have entered this bar. But this time is different for use my good sir. I cannot, will not go willing to meet the reaper. I have gained far too many beautiful things here, To just move on. I will not just disappear. Good day old wizard. We shall only once more meet, Aft this position I drink and the Devil himself I beat,” The young man turned around and left yet again, Leaving the old man alone in the room he sat in. He felt no remorse after having tried his best. The younger man, he found, was too full of zest. Many years went by before the wizard heard tell, Of what became of the young man and his spell. There came a knock upon the old man’s door, But this knock was different, not the same as before. The tender came in and talked in quite a rush. “Start again my friend, but be much clearer now, For I can’t understand what happened and how.” “I’m sorry, sire, but something’s happened that’s odd,

For there is a strange figure of a familiar body.” The wizard followed the man down the staircase, Then a smile graced the wise old man’s face. He moved to the statue that stood in the door, And took off his hat in respect to the poor. “My friends standing with me, learn from the king, For this is what greed does the those entering its ring.” The statue stood tall in the new king’s crown, Still holding the glass bottle that brought him down. “My potion made this man immortal, it’s true, But how many men would like to end up a statue?”

No Friggin’ Way • Marsha Hofbauer Mixed Media • 18” x 9” x12” Untitled • AJ Demeter Copper • 1 1/2” x 1 1/2” x 2 7/8”

31


Clockwise from left : Pure • Marsha Hofbauer Wood • 8” x 14” x 32” Kontroverse • Biggi Renzi Wood • 15” x 13 1/2” x 15” Untitled • Brittany Hunt Wood • 15” x14.5” x 15” Hirngespinste • Biggi Renz Wood & Steel • 15” x 15” x 32 “ Opposite: Rettenswert: • Biggi Renz Bronze & Trash Bags • 4’ x 7’

32


33


Top: Riders of the Storm, Bottom: Down Below• Cody Mason Acrylic • 7’ x 4’ (each)

34


I •Mary Havens• 4PTXFFUUIFTDBMFTPGKVTUJDFTXJOH *OESVOLFOEBODFPONPSBMTXJOHT *OUJNFUIFIBOEPGUSVUITIBMMMBZ 5JMMUIFOUIFMJWFTPGJOOPDFOUTMBJO *OQBJOBOEGVSZPGEJTFODIBOUFENBTT 5IFZUFMMUIFUSVUI ZFUOPPOFBTLT 5IFGBÎBEFPGKVTUJDFTIPVUTBMPVEo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o A1BSUPGUIFIFSEPSBDSJNJOBMZPVCF "OEXFIBWFKVTUUIFQMBDFGPSUIFF YoSPDLBOETUFFMo "QMBDFUPDBHF :PVSVOCFOEJOHXJMM 4PTXFFUUIFTDBMFTPGKVTUJDFTXJOH *LOPXTPNFEBZ 5IFZMMTXJOHGPSNF

35


Clockwise (From Top Left): Untitled • Hannah Segura Cutpaper •16”x20” Self-Portrait • Elliot King Direct Line Drawing • 10”x 8” Punch • Brenda Rich Pigmented Archival Print • 6 2/3”x 10” The One • Jason Byas Pigmented Archival Print • 6 2/3”x 10” Untitled • Megan Bramhall Cutpaper • 16”x20” Wish • Kaleigh Harner Screenprint • 11” x 15”

36


37


Bottom Left: Untitled • Tatum Marak Pigmented Archival Print • 10”x 6 2/3”

38

A Day at the Carnival • Mary Yehle Pigmented Archival Prints • 10”x 6 2/3”


39


Submission Guidelines Cover Sheet: All entries must include a cover sheet with your name, phone number and/or email address, and the title of each work you are submitting. Multiple entries may be listed on one cover sheet. The following statement must be included along with your signature and date: Realizingthatintellectualpropertyrightsmustberespectedandare,indeed,protected by law, by signing below, I indicate that everything submitted for consideration by me is original work, I am its only author, and I have the authority to offer it for publication in Voices magazine. For convenience, you may download a cover sheet from our web site at: http://libarts.mwsu.edu/english/voices/index.asp Format: Poems may be up to twenty lines. Prose is limited to six typed, double-spaced pages (preferably as a Word document). Do not include your name on any pages, but do number each page. Editors reserve the right to make changes necessary in ď€ ďŹ tting winning entries to the page. Submission Options: 1. Drop off a disc or hard copy in the VOICES box across the hall from Bea Wood 210. 2. Email entries to voices@mwsu.edu 3. Mail disc or hard copies to: VOICES 3410 Taft Blvd. 12725 Wichita Falls, TX. 76308-2095 Deadline: Midnight, Friday, December 11, 2009. Don’t forget the cover sheet! Selection Process: Blind jury and editors’ choice.

$FJMJOH'BOt#SFOEB3JDI.JMMFS 1JHNFOUFE"SDIJWBM1SJOUtwYw

40

Voices Magazine 2009  

Voices Magazine 2009

Read more
Read more
Similar to
Popular now
Just for you