Greetings From the Well House Matt Russell Production Editor
Following a successful debut, the mission for the Well House magazine to pursue in our second year was clear. We wanted to become a greater part of campus life and reach out to the local community. Our first step in achieving this was to establish an online presence by building a website. This opened up our potential submission base to writers and artists in all fields here on campus as well as in the greater community. The creation of the website also allows for the Well House to push the boundaries of how art is defined in the future by allowing online publishing of audio and video clips and podcasts. Another successful endeavor launched during the past fall semester was the Live Issue. This event, held in the IU Kokomo Art Gallery, showcased the visual art published put in display while the published writing was read by their authors. Not only did this event help in creating more visibility for the publication, but more importantly, it gave greater exposure to the talents of the writers and artists published in the first issue. This will now be an annual event every fall to help celebrate creativity on campus. Looking ahead to next year, the Well House’s goal is to continue its growth, and to include more diversity in art and writing and to expand our readership. A new internship program has cemented the magazine’s place on campus, and events like writers workshops will keep pushing us into the community as well. This is only our second year of existence, and we are still just getting our feet wet. So stick around, and see what we come up with next… 1
Table of Contents Greetings from the Well House 1 Matt Russell
Writing An Attempt To Hold The Picture Andrew Garnand
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“Doors� 6 Jeremy Ghazaleh
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War Sunlight Ambitions Work Michael Cunningham
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Happiness Amanda Byram
Madre Cayce Arnett Operation Iraqi Freedom Nathan Johnston
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Submissions Guidelines
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Art Sunny Marie McClurg Pieces of Time
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Cayce Arnett 9 Snap Schirean Glassburn Reaching Out
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Joseph A. Murphy Ancient Times
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Alisha Baird 25 Etude Andrew Garnand As a Child We Played In These
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An Attempt To Hold The Picture Andrew Garnand I only have my empty hands, some paper clips and rubber bands, and I will try to build you something of beauty. But I am just a modern man, with a song stuck in my head, and if it crumbles then please forgive me. Maybe I’ll attempt to recreate all the things we’ve grown to hate about each other and all of our friends, and we can knock it down again, take the bat and take a swing, and then you can’t say I’ve never given you anything. We can hold a bar-b-que and you can invite your sister too, and you can fix our guests that drink you love to make, with grenadine and lemon zest, and is that the cognac I detect which is making you more beautiful than ever? And now you’re looking back at me, your eyes like a combination VCR T.V., set to play back all of my fantasies. Like a wedding covered in white, and a child to say goodnight to, while we stay up late wrapping Christmas presents, drinking half glasses of wine, a cheap red, you know the kind, filled from a box on the kitchen table and I can taste it on your tongue, and as I breathe you into my lungs, I know I’ve never been so happy. This is how I picture everything, full of love, just like a scene out of some Technicolor movie. And trying to hold that picture there is what life is so don’t be scared, because nothing can ever hurt you here. So wrap your fingers up with mine, and we’ll sit down and count the time, until we both just go to sleep.
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Pieces of Time by Sunny Marie McClurg 5
“Doors” Jeremy Ghazaleh “I want to hold doors open for you.” “What? Doors?” “I know it sounds strange.” “Try weird.” “Weird, then. It is. It just popped into my head when I woke up this morning. I probably dreamt about it, or something. But, I mean it.” “In a metaphorical way?” “I guess I could be saying that I want to try and help you find and take new opportunities, that sort of thing. But I mean it literally, too.” “So, you...have a physical desire to go over to that door, open it up, and let me walk through?” “Yeah, I do.” “So, this is what crazy looks like?” “Probably. Holding doors open: that’s love, to me.” “...love?” “Um, yeah. Love.” “Love is holding doors open?” “Yeah! Think about it, okay? I go over there, and I hold that door open for you. What does that say about me?” “That you’ve got a fantastic future as a doorman?” 6
“Seriously, listen. I open the door for you - that’s like saying ‘hey, I’m going to put your needs before mine.’ I might really need to get through that door to wherever it is I’m going, but I’m going to let you go first. Isn’t that something you’d do for someone you love?” “I guess...” “But it’s going to depend on where I’m standing, too. I could be standing at the side of the door. So you see me, maybe nod politely, say ‘thanks,’ go on through. Nice and friendly. Like you’d love a friend.” “Uh-huh.” “Or, you know, I could be all in your way - maybe I’m leaning across the doorway to push the door open, and so you can’t get through to what you need because I’m blocking it, and you have to get around the obstacle that is me to get where you’re going. No doubt you’ve been with someone like that.” “Definitely, but—” “Or, hey! I could just be minding my own business, holding that door, and you could kind of brush up against me as you go through, or even be a little more aggressive about it if you felt like it.” “I think I’m getting the hang of this. You could even trip me as I walk through.” “But I would never—” “Well, I’ve known people like that, as well. You could close the door on me just as I get there, tell me to go find another one.” 7
“I wouldn’t—” “You could just prop it open for me and walk away, make me wonder whatever happened to the person holding the door.” “I don’t understand—” “Or you could—” “I could be behind the door, holding it open, and you’d never know it was me. Never know I was there, loving you the whole time.” “...oh.” “Yeah.” “I think I get it.” “You do?” “Yeah, and I think…you’re wrong. Or at least not entirely right. Because I could also choose to walk away, and never walk through the door at all. Find another door that was being held open in a way I liked better. Love isn’t just holding a door open – if nobody walks through, it’s wasted. All that time, effort, and energy is just wasted, no matter how well you’re holding it open. One-sided love is just that: one-sided. It has to be about both people: the one holding the door and the one walking through.” “Ah. So…” “So?” “So…are you going to walk through this door?”
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Snap by Cayce Arnett
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Madre Cayce Arnett You can feel the entire floor shaking as Mom sits there at the computer, her leg bouncing up and down as if it desperately wants to detach and get away as fast as possible. Her right hand is on the mouse, and she’s lost in the traffic of the Internet. Mom’s in her own bubble, and we’ve grown accustomed to not talking to her, knowing she won’t hear a word we say. My family and I have almost given up on reaching her there. The vibrating of the floor is so annoying. My sisters and I are upstairs, and we have to shut our doors to block out the feel and the sound of Mom’s hunting-and-pecking on the keyboard. That sound is even worse than the vibrating. The keyboard is so old and half the keys are sticky with grime and residue from nearly 14 years of use. I keep telling her to get a new one, but she adamantly refuses. A beautiful girl rode her bike down the sidewalk of Tulsa, Oklahoma. She wore jean shorts and a tie-up halter which showed off her skinny body. She was so young and already turning heads. A man rode his motorcycle down the street. She caught his attention, his greedy eyes staying on her as the distance between them grew. She watched as he crashed his bike. It wasn’t a bad accident, and she laughed at the man, the laughter rising from the purity and youth within her. 10
It took Mom 17 years to get a job. She chose to be a stay-athome mother all that time. She took a minimum wage job when it was clear we needed money. Mom complains a lot about the job though, and she always has a long story to tell us. My sisters and I dart our eyes at each other, a warning to get away whenever Mom begins one of her tales about work, and we brush her off. She goes back to the computer and back into the message boards where she is an infamous “spoiler” for “Survivor.” She finds out information about the show before anyone else and disseminates it on the message boards. Mom borders on obsession about the show. During the season, Thursday nights at our house are crowded with too many decibels of the show as she sits in front of the TV with a notepad and all the concentration of a neurosurgeon. Teresa was 16, and as it is for so many young people, it was her year for love. She loved a boy, and he told her how much he loved her, too. Hormones were raging, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. They made love once. His devotion wasn’t very strong though. He ran away when Teresa told him she was pregnant. She went through 9 months alone with her disappointed and livid parents. She woke up in a dark room, her young body torn apart by the birth of the child. She wanted to see the infant, but it was gone. Teresa’s mother was so angry that she took the baby and put it up for adoption. The girl was devastated. 11
She emancipated herself at 17 and left. Mom used to garden a lot. She transformed the empty lot of our backyard into a gorgeous, flowering garden which yielded us spearmint, peppermint, tomatoes, and one year, carrots. It took a long time for her to do. Every picture taken on Easter morning during our annual egg hunts showed the gradual growth of the gardens. “Survivor” nearly put an end to that, though. Hours and hours of her time were redirected into the message boards, where Mom was working feverishly to earn her place. She loves to tell us all how many hits her posts get, showing her blossoming fame in the “Survivor” community. You can talk to plants and flowers, but they can’t recognize your efforts. Teresa spent months in Hawaii on a round-trip plane ticket. She would ride her bike around the entire span of the island within a day’s time, and she loved the peace and serenity. She was there with some friends and one of her many admirers. He put his military ring on Teresa’s finger and asked her to spend her life with him. He was one of the many whom she denied. They ran out of money on the island, though, and came back to the states on the return ticket full of renewed energy about life. It was the 70’s, and nothing could stop them. 12
Teresa made her way to Italy, the land of her father and his descendents, and to the mountains of Switzerland. It was in Mexico, however, where Teresa found her niche. She took classes at a community art college in San Miguel de Allende for two years. She was the typical “starving artist,” selling her ceramic lemon juicers on the street. Teresa loved Mexico and the avocado tree which grew in her backyard. She could make fresh guacamole any time she pleased. “Hasta mañana,” Mom used to say as she tucked us in each night. It was nice to have a mother who put you to bed every night and greeted you happily almost every morning. Now we try our best to avoid her in the mornings—to avoid her menopausal moodiness and her pointless stories. Some days I don’t even have the time to talk to Mom before I end up in dreamland for the night, or she doesn’t make the time to talk to me. For 17 years Mom did everything for us—cooked, cleaned, healed our injuries, loved us unconditionally. Our house drifts into disarray as we still struggle to accustom ourselves to 17 years of having everything done for us by a mother who was always around. The sink piles up with dirty dishes, the carpets and floors are sticky and stained, and the candy bowl on the table sits empty and wanting. We can’t understand how she can sit on the computer all day when not at work and then yell at us about the house being filthy. “I’m not your maid,” Mom screams.
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Teresa ended up in Oklahoma in her late 20’s. Many countries behind her, many lovers, and many experiences had passed. She was at a bar one night with her friends in Tulsa. For circumstances unknown to Teresa at the time, they left and she was by herself with no way home. Randy was in Tulsa on a project with the Iron Workers, and he was taking a night off from the difficult, dangerous work. They talked, and he offered her a ride home. Flustered with the attention of this handsome, funny man, and intoxicated with the bitterness of tequila, Teresa forgot her purse on the floor of the passenger seat. Randy found her information in the purse, and they met again. The romance took off, and one night he got drunk and climbed the terrace of her apartment building to proclaim his love to her. They were married at the courthouse in Tulsa, and their honeymoon was spent in Arkansas. Mom has moved up at her store, and she is a manager now. She complains about the hours she works and tells us that our dad said she doesn’t have to have a job if she doesn’t want one. Mom considers quitting, but we know she isn’t serious. She enjoys being around new people. In all the years she was a stay-at-home mother, she only had two friends. One used her for transportation to the doctor on occasion, and on the way to pick up the woman once, I slipped on a patch of ice on our deck with no railings and cracked my head open. The friendship ended there. 14
Another woman used her for the purpose of babysitting her awful son. He once used the space behind our couch as a toilet, and another time, he dropped a bean bag on my head and sat on it until I couldn’t breathe. That friendship ended there. We’re glad Mom has people she can talk to now. She even got a cell phone last Christmas because she was becoming more and more needed by her job, and our family now can reach her when she is gone. Thirteen months after the marriage, Teresa gave birth to a little girl. She wanted to name the child Maria, but Randy thought it was too ethnic, and so she named the child Melissa. It was the 80’s then. The threesome had to leave their undersized duplex in Tipton, Indiana, where they had moved in order to be closer to Randy’s family, when Teresa became pregnant with her third child. They lived in Indian Heights in Kokomo when the little girl, Emily, was born sixteen months after Melissa. Teresa’s hands were full, and she was getting pneumonia with each pregnancy. She was alone most days, as Randy had to work hard to support the growing family. But he loved her very much, and would make midnight runs to pick up Pepsi when the cravings became intense. Teresa was shopping with her two little girls when she miscarried her fourth pregnancy two years after Emily. She had been carrying her first boy, and the loss devastated her. 15
But they tried again, and their last daughter, Jessyca, was born when the other children were 4 and 5. They now lived in a better part of Kokomo, and the family was complete. We all came home from school one day to find Mom in tears. She pulled us all close, and told us we had a half-sister. She and my father had hired a private investigator to track down a child she had given birth to 25 years ago. Mom looked at me especially and told me I would always be her oldest child, and that this was not going to be a bad thing for me-- she was not going to replace me. I was only 10. The child was adopted very young, and the adoptive parents had named her Jennifer. Jenny visited us only twice over the years. The first time we picked her up from the airport, Mom was in tears, while my father stood respectfully back with me and my sisters. Jenny told Mom that she would be crying too, if laser eye surgery hadn’t rendered her tear ducts useless. It must have been difficult for Jenny, because her contact with us lessened over the years. Mom once said she thinks about her long-lost child everyday. Teresa didn’t know where her life had gone. Her dreams were over, she had a family now. She had to take care of them, and it was exhausting. She felt trapped, and she felt Randy was tying her down. Teresa felt controlled, and she wanted so badly to leave and go 16
back to the carefree life she once had. But she loved her children, and her parents’ nasty divorce made her swear never to go through one herself. No one was left to understand her. Randy was always gone trying to make money to provide a comfortable life for his family, and Teresa felt she was raising her children alone. She wanted to lash out; she wanted to break the chains that were binding her. She wanted to flee. Sundays are difficult around the house. It’s the day when my father is home, and typically Mom is angry with him for some reason. Every war they have fought that I have been a witness to has been on a Sunday. He hit her once during an argument, and the police came to our house on a domestic disturbance call. As they questioned my father in the driveway, I was hyperventilating, sobbing, locked in Emily’s room while my parents took care of their problems publically with the law. My sisters didn’t seem to take it as seriously as I did, and I was the only one really crying. Mom took us away to the lake that day, constantly looking over her shoulder, convincing us he might come after her. We didn’t come home until late at night. He wasn’t there. No matter what they fight about, no matter what they yell and threaten, they love each other. The passion of the drunken man on the terrace and the woman who accepted this final propos17
al has worn off, but they would be lost without each other. They built their lives together, and they can’t leave that now. The last time they fought, something good came of it. He told Mom what we all felt—that she no longer cared about us, only about the world she was creating on the computer without her family. They made up a couple days later. After that, the house was clean, Mom talked to us, and the candy bowl on the counter was full. Mom used to paint all the time. She used to draw. We ruined all her nice brushes with our childish crafts, but Mom never cared all that much. I had one of her paintings on my wall for the longest time. She used to read mysteries a lot. She would watch daytime television while we were at school. But Mom was alone in all these activities. She uses the computer to connect to the rest of the world. Being a leader in the “Survivor” community seems ridiculous to us, but it means the world to her, and Mom has a place now, and it’s something for her to be proud of. She’s had cast members and producers send her souvenirs, and she loves to show them off. It took me a while to figure out why this meant so much to Mom. It gives her stale life more meaning, and it’s something she enjoys doing without us. As we grow up and need her to take care of us less and less, she needs more and more meaning. We blamed the computer for taking our mother away from us, and my dad blamed it for the loss of his wife. We are all selfish 18
in our own ways—we take Mom for granted, and she is too caught up in herself now to recognize that we still need her. I understand how she came to this. I relate. I’ve gone to Hawaii, I’ve gone to Italy, and Mexico and Switzerland will come in time. Mom tells us that we must not let men control us. She needs us to be independent for her. At 13 she was forcing the ridiculous idea of getting on birth control pills into my head, and at 16 I went to her in shame to ask for them. She cried as we headed to the doctor, but she understood all too well. The years pass, and I become my mother. You can feel the entire floor shaking as Mom sits there at the computer, her leg bouncing up and down as if it desperately wants to detach and get away as fast as possible. She’s in her world now, and we’re watching from the sidelines. I can still reach out to her.
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Reaching Out by Schirean Glassburn 20
Operation Iraqi Freedom Nathan Johnston Now that I've been back for a while, people ask me the same standard questions that can be answered with the same standard statements: Yes, No, Okay, Not bad, You get used to it. But that one question, that "You kill anybody?" always deep-freezes solid any ice that's been broken. I shake my head negative as I mouth the word Yeah. I nod my head up and down as my lips tremble No. It doesn't really matter; everything is so distanced now. You become desensitized to the grimmest of realities once all reason has been rationalized out of context.
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It's like this: a month in and you're really helping these people, they like you, want you here, need you here ---and then half your unit is standing over there at the south entrance to the market place and some little girl is offering up a piece of fruit and then she's gone and half of three of your best friends are gone and then it doesn't matter, it does not matter who dies, doesn't matter who you kill just as long as you keep at it because there's no point in keeping score: the game is over.
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Ancient Times by Joseph A. Murphy 23
War Sunlight Ambitions Work Michael Cunningham Dreams Ideas Children Church Gold and Silver Sober Drunk All lay now with in the trunk On the floor of this old attic Where time, death’s distant cousin, Visiting the vestige of the mind Takes a little bit more than it puts back in Until over the years nothing now remains But the slow swinging rocking chair And semi-lucid cribbage games. The stories all repeated on the Front porch at twilight And the enemy once more defeated While the eyes of all young grandchildren And great-grandchildren Widen with awe While the patient wrinkled glance Of Guinevere resumes her cooking Having heard the tale at least a thousand times.
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Etude by Alisha Baird 25
Happiness Amanda Byram The First View Driving down that highway, I felt free. Music turned up, warm air and sun rays breezing in through the open windows. My hair flying in the wind. I tried to think back to a couple of hours before when I had been just a few states away. A lifetime away. Everybody has bad days. The kind of day where anything and everything that can go wrong will. You wake up late, you burn your breakfast, the dog gets sick, you are late to your first appointment and so on and so on until you get to the end of the day and when you wake up the next day everything is back to normal, everything is ok again. A lot of people even go through rough times. A break up, a botched exam, loss of a job, or a friend. A few people get caught in a cycle of bad luck or poor choices, or a combination of the two. I think I was just stuck in everything. My parents separated after almost twenty years. Not one, but two of my best friends died. College was not nearly what I expected it to be, and I kept consistently falling short of everyone’s expectations of me. Where does someone go when their heart is broken and dreams are shattered? What does someone do when they cannot seem to get their head above water? What does someone do when 26
dealing with their daily surroundings gets to be too much of a chore? I packed my bags, loaded the car, and headed for Disney World. And not just for the weekend or a week but for eight months. They called it a college program. The administration wanted people to think we were learning things. The truth is I am not sure I learned one thing that would be found on any college exam while I was there, but I learned a whole lot about life. It was Disney World. The land of imagination, of hopes, of magic. It was the place where all your dreams come true. And whether or not that is just a slogan the park picked up to promote sales, I chose to believe it. Because I needed to believe it. Because I was so far off course, I couldn’t even remember what dreams were. Driving down that highway, I felt free. I tried to remember just hours before and I could only vaguely remember the way I felt prior to being on that highway leading me to the land of Disney. It seemed before I was suffocated. Hopeless. Lost. Hurt. Angry. I distantly recall that the walls felt like they were closing in on me, but in truth, I remember very little of how I actually got to the sunshine state, except to remember that it was all a blur. I do not actually remember the steps I had to take to get accepted to the program. I do not remember the roads winding through the states that led me there. However, I do remember with unfailing clarity the way I felt when I first arrived.
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Driving on that highway, I knew I was a far cry from the cold and lonely place I had left. Everything I had felt and dreaded and dodged and carried around for so long vanished in a second. The big issues in life that I had tried unsuccessfully to cope with, suddenly seemed ok. You can see the sign “Walt Disney World� that stretches high up in the sky across the eight lane highway from miles away. It is just open road and a colorful, sparkly sign inviting you in to explore your hopes and dreams. Just passing through the entrance into that world gave me peace of mind. In that single second I found hope and purpose. I took a chance, a risk, an adventure. Driving down that highway, I felt free. And it made me happy.
The Jungle
Cruising through the jungle, I feel so at home. Peaceful. Serene. At one with the mile and a half stretch winding through three continents and four of the worlds most amazing rivers. The journey begins by loading about 30 strangers onto my boat. They are all staring at me, expecting me to be happy and entertaining. I begin my spiel before we leave the dock. By the time we round the first bend everyone is already smiling. Laughter at the first joke. A success. 28
As we venture on, we are surrounded by alligators, croco-
diles, elephants, lions, and a few snakes. The trees are thick and dark green, as are the various forms of grass. We pass by or through a couple of waterfalls, whichever the case maybe. At certain points I catch a glimpse of the skipper of the boat in front of me. There are times I see whoever follows me. If either of us goes too fast or too slow, we will start to hear the others lines. But we all adjust accordingly, nod, and smile to convey that knowing look through our eyes. Cruising the jungle I feel so at home. Just before we turn the last corner, as we wait for the boats in front to unload, I get to know some of my passengers. Some from Orlando out for a day trip, most from out of state on some various form of vacation. All looking for fun and happiness. And then it is our turn to head to the dock. As quickly as these people came into my life, they go. Laughing and smiling. Happy for a moment. I have about fifteen seconds to cruise from the unload dock to the loading dock and then begin to do it all again. Another group, different people, same jungle. Each trip similar but like snowflakes, never the same. Every so often we get a break from the heat and the sunshine that seldom fails us. In the back of the jungle, hidden far out of sight, I sit beneath a tent with other people I only recently met but seem to know so well. And they are neatest of people. Some of the best people I will ever meet. We exchange stories and then we return to the jungle to help unload boats full of people heading 29
back to the streets of Magic Kingdom. I then hop back in the boat and I am ready to do it all again. It is so routine that I can drive the boat in my sleep, but it is never boring. I feel like I get to go to work and play all day long. Cruising the jungle I feel so at home. The people who enter my boat love me. I am the funny, smiling girl, who through the jungle opens the door to a little piece of the magic. Who would not want to be that person? In the jungle I gain confidence I did not know I was lacking. I am exactly the person I want to be. Even without the guests who filtered in and out, I feel at home because of the cast members who surrounded me. They teach me that everyone has a story and more often than not, they are sad ones, but that the great people in life are the ones who accept their sadness and rise above it. The great people in life are ones who can focus on others first. The great people in life take chances and push themselves to new limits, and then go beyond them. These people become role models for me because their attitudes, their personalities, their drive, are so much different than anything I am used to being around. And it is refreshing. The jungle is filled with foliage and rocks, elephants and gators, but mostly it is always filled with smiling faces and endless possibilities. Though I loved everything about the jungle, the sun, the heat, the boats, the guests, the trip, the thing that I liked the most were the people and the possibilities. Cruising the jungle, I feel at home. And it makes me happy. 30
The Parade I loved to watch the parade. I could feel the magic. I had been there for around three months and while I was watching the parade, as I did every night, I realized I was still surprised by the wonderment of it all. Disney World, it was so different from the rest of the world. Everywhere you went you were just submersed into that world, the world of Disney. And it never ceased to amaze me. Night seems to take longer to arrive there, but when it finally does, everyone takes their places. Moms would have areas staked out with blankets, Dads would make a last minute dash for popcorn, sodas, and other various treats. Kids, of all ages, would hang eagerly waiting on the ropes waiting for the parade to begin. My fellow cast members and I, who had set the parade route up hours before, took our position – the small opening that was always reserved just for us – right in front of the Liberty Bell, in the heart of Liberty Square. In an instant all the lights in the park go dark. And then from the darkness the music begins. Suddenly from a distance a light appears. Far away, but bright. The light draws closer and then seems to multiply until there is an entire lighted fairytale right before your eyes. Mickey appears first to lead the way. Then Cinderella with her mice and Prince Charming. Ariel, Snow White, Belle. All the 31
princesses are there. Goofy is there playing the drums. Donald. Daisy. Pluto. Peter Pan and Wendy. All your favorite characters come to life. And the people you love to hate are there, too. Captain Hook, Cruella, Jafar. Spectromagic they called it. And a spectacle of magic it was. So bright and so colorful that a real true description escapes me. Every character, every float, every light would go from bright colors to all white sparkles in an instant. Elegant, and magic. I loved to watch the parade. I could feel the magic. Same parade every night. Sometimes twice a night and it never got old. I sat there hundreds of times. Watched in awe hundreds of times. Had that little kid in front of the Christmas tree feeling hundreds of times. I saw the same characters, the same floats, the same sights over and over and yet every night I was just as eager as the night before. Even now if I close my eyes, or let my mind drift just for a second, I can feel it exactly. The cool, but not cold air. The breeze that blows at just the right time. The music, the lights, and the smiles on the faces of everyone around, and most importantly, on me. The pure happiness at the end of the day that made me think that I had been let in on the secret of the purpose of life. I think I found myself there on the streets of the Magic Kingdom, just before midnight. I loved to watch the parade. I could feel the magic. And it made me happy. 32
As a Child We Played In These by Andrew Garnand
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From the Well House Submission Guidelines Written works: Authors may submit any combination of the following: one story, one scholarly or personal essay, or up to five poems Specifications for submissions:
-Times New Roman font, 12pt -MSWord 97-2003 / .doc compatible format -Double spaced -Page numbers please -Maximum word count: 3,000 words -No statements of writer’s identity in actual text (i.e. last names in headings)unless for a specific purpose. If necessary,explain why they are present in bodyof email. -Scholarly papers: MLA or APA [accurate documentation required forconsideration]. Review of submission with faculty member is recommended.
Art works: Up to 3 pieces per artist Reproductions on a wide range of art including paintings, photography, prints,sculpture, and more (JPEGS of 72dpi) All artists are welcome to send visual AND written submissions with the understanding that ONLY ONE piece per author per genre (art and writing) will be published in any one issue.
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Circumstances under which works WILL NOT be considered:
-Works without titles -Works with author’s name or other identifying marks -Works submitted and emailed by third party -Works already published or simultaneous submissions -Works over allowed word count (3,000 words) -Works not following size requirement (JPEGS of 72dpi) -Works out of focus or poorly lit -Works that do not follow the guidelines above
Email Guidelines: All submissions need to be sent by email only. Full name of artist or author in subject line of email, along with title of work and either “Visual (or Art)” or “Written” submission. Please send all submissions via email to: submit.thewellhouse@gmail.com
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