From the Editor
It is with great pride and honor that I present to you this fifth print issue of From
the Well House. It marks a mile-stone for our publication: our five-year anniversary and the last issue of Volume One.
Through the issues in Volume One, From the Well House has expanded its reach
to not only members of our community and region, but to authors, artists and readers from across the world. The scope of our journal has also grown through our online issues, which have featured more diverse art, dynamic forms of prose and poetry, and rich experiences in music and multimedia.
In the coming years, I am confident that From the Well House will continue to
build its momentum and include ever-evolving expressions of art, as it embarks on the exciting next step of its journey with Volume Two. We dedicate this 5th Anniversary Issue to all who have stood by us and helped to make us the success we are today. We particularly want to recognize the efforts and contributions of a tireless staff and a generous collective of artists and authors. Thank you for your unfailing support!
-Andrew C. Turley 1
From the Well House Masthead
Staff:
Chief Editor: Andrew Turley Graphic Designer: Korey West Submissions Coordinator: Marjorie Schaeffner Public Relations: Pam Tina Staff Writers: Megan Weaver, Syra Shariff Webmaster: Jason Shonk Web Designers: Angel Hernandez, Korey West
Advisory Board:
Faculty Advisor: Dr. Eva Roa White Art Board: Prof. Gregory Steel Writing Board: Dr. Joe Keener Graphic Design: Prof. Erik Austin Deerly
Writing Review Board:
Suzanne Jones, Megan Weaver, Andrew Jones, James Cesare
Art Review Board:
Marc Vester, Rachel Brantley
Co-Sponsors:
School of Arts and Sciences, Academic Affairs, Humanities Department, Student Activities, Student Government Association, and the Center for Research and Creative Activity
Special Thanks:
Johnathan Grant, Annie Gundrum, Minda Douglas, Karla Stouse, Susan Skoczen, The Correspondent, Shearer Printing, IU Kokomo Art Gallery and Radio Free Kokomo
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Contents Grandma’s Colors Amanda Smith
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We All Remember Mellanee Neeley
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Roza Jamie Keefer
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On the First Snowy Morning of the Year Gabriel Doucette
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Temporal Dylan Scott
I See You Mellanee Neeley
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The Apple Alexis Nash
10
Monsters Katherine Woessner
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Window Shannon Name
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Cthulhu Summoned Mike Dukes
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Who I Am Andrea Gerig
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Beauty Andrea Gerig
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Thank God for That Dot Dylan Scott
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Grandma’s Colors
The heavy glass door slammed behind me as I punched in the code on the
keypad. The next door buzzed and the locks clicked open granting me access to the building. Smells of cabbage and cleaning solvent filled my nose as I walked past the huge, oak bird enclosure and toward the dining room. Near the corner of the dining room, she was sitting around a half moon shaped table with a nurse’s aide sitting across from her, spooning food-like mush into her mouth, handing her a glass of cloudy, thick fluid. I sat down next to her.
“Hi, Grandma, how are you?” I smiled as she warily took another bite of the
mush on the plate in front of her. She looked at me through the cloudy, glazed eyes that used to be a sharp, clear blue and smiled a fake, cheesy smile; nothing like the smile I remember from when I was a little girl sitting on her lap. Her right arm lie limp in her lap and her right leg sat motionless. To the naked eye, her face appeared normal but, to me, it was not the same. Her right eye sagged a bit, as did the right side of her mouth. Her right hand was puffy, cold, and stiff, not warm and flexible like the other. “I think she is finished if you’d like to go to the lounge to visit,” the nurse’s aide said to me. I could tell she was tired, so instead, I wheeled her back to her room. After walking the long hallway to her room, I opened the curtains to brighten things up a little.
“Would you like to lie down for a while?” I asked my grandmother; she
nodded silently. “Ok, I’ll be right back.” I walked out to the nurses’ station. Today my
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grandmother’s favorite nurse, Jason, was behind the counter. “Gramma seems tired today. I think she might want to lie down for a while,” I said to him. He nodded and followed me down the hall to her room. Once in bed, she quickly nodded off to sleep. Sitting next to her bed, I watched as she slept and I eventually began to doze off, too.
“Color! Color!” My grandmother yelled. Startled, I jumped, nearly tipping
over the chair where I had been sleeping. “Color! Color!” She pointed to the window. I walked over to it. “The window? What is wrong?” she nodded, an agitated look covering her face.
“Color!” She yelled, again, “Color!”
“Do you want me to close the curtains?” I asked.
“Color!” She howled again. Finally, I closed the curtains. She looked at
me, relieved.
I returned to my chair, and by then she was already nodding back off to
sleep. This was how things always went. It was as if she had her own secret language. Today the code word for curtain was “color.” Tomorrow, who knew what the word would be for curtain, or anything else for that matter.
I sat back down, now wide awake from the curtain ordeal. Within minutes
of getting out a book, my grandmother woke up again. This time, she didn’t say a word. She only peered up at me suspiciously, and then slowly tried to get out of bed. “Stop, Gramma. Let me get Jason to come help you. You can’t get up by yourself ! You’ll get hurt,” I begged, but she ignored me. I stood in front of her, blocking her path. “You need to wait for help,” I said. I searched for the call light, but of course, it was out of my reach. My grandmother looked up at me again, through the same
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cloudy, glazed over, confused eyes and continued to push her way out of bed.
“Help!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. At that instant, my grandmother’s
“good” arm swung toward me full force, hitting my face. I hadn’t seen that coming. Fear and shock rushed through me, leaving me nearly paralyzed. “Help!” I shouted again, louder this time. Still, there was no response. Giving in, I walked out into the hallway and again, yelled, “Help!”
Finally, Jason meandered down the hall, “What’s wrong?” He asked.
“Gramma is trying to get out of bed; she won’t listen to me.” Jason went
into my grandmother’s room to find her lying on the floor. She looked up at me, wild-eyed, angry, and confused. Jason called for help, and before she knew it, my grandmother was sitting in her wheelchair still glaring at me.
Across the hall from the room was a small lounge. The chair in the back
corner seemed like the perfect place for me, a twelve-year-old girl, to hide. I sat in that corner seat as hot tears rolled down my face, dropping onto my shirt. It didn’t seem fair. Why didn’t my grandmother listen? Why did she want to get up even though she couldn’t? Why had she tried to hit me? Although I was only twelve, I knew the answer to all of these questions.
-Amanda Smith
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Roza
Jamie Keefer
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I See You I know you don’t think I see you Sitting in the corner in your chair But I do I see all your potential and the disease you have But I know that you are more than your illness I know you don’t think I see you When your family doesn’t come But I do I see the lonely look in your eyes and the tears that haven’t run But I want to see you smile as you talk of the life you’ve lived I know you don’t think I see you Because you’re trying to eat but can’t But I do I see your frustration and shame of being dependent But I softly utter encouraging words while helping hold your spoon I know you don’t think I see you Uttering apologies at being wet
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I see the embarrassment of time taking its toll But I tell you don’t apologize because I’m happy to take care I know you don’t think I see you When you start to get confused But I do I see the aging process working on your mind But I do my best to explain, trying to remind you of the past I know you don’t think I see you In bed taking your last sweet breaths But I do I see your pain and suffering finally coming to an end But I sit by your side, holding your hand, comforting how I can I know you don’t think I see you Past illness and age, for who you truly are But I promise I do
-Mellanee Neeley
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The Apple Monday morning, the Jersey Mac apple proudly sits atop the teacher’s desk Sheathed in a glossy red peel, perfectly ripened and pregnant with many seeds Prattling students file into the classroom, as the apple sits in sweet, anticipating silence Waiting to discover the direction of its great enterprise through life Suddenly, one of the freckle-faced children snatches the apple up, and tears a bite out of its flesh A bit of frothy juice running down the little boy’s chin, he tosses a very confused apple into the trashcan before it even got its chance to shine, buried in dregs and crumpled paper Night falls, and the apple lies in an unfamiliar place, heartbroken and lost Its wound is turning brown, as it weeps a sour juice All it can see across the landfill are mucky puddles of toxic waste and garbage mountains Was this the destination of its crusade? Rotting in a pile of filth? Suddenly, the apple feels hazy, as if falling into an altered state of consciousness It can feel ethylene oxide bloating its warm, browning body, and the faster the apple respires, the faster the odorless, colorless gas is produced Though foggy-brained and befuddled, the apple is afraid. “What is happening to me?” it wonders.
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A metamorphosis is taking place. The apple’s insides melt into a chunky soup, as its wrinkled skin folds and collapses in on itself Overnight, the apple gradually sinks into the rich, black, loamy soil, becoming one with the earth, circling around the biosphere with spirits of every colorful organism The apple’s chubby, hearty black seeds are left behind, cradled in a terrestrial nursery Two seasons later, new life bursts forth, as a green bud pokes through the icy soil Day after day, the sprout grows taller and wider with authority and purpose A proud descendant of the apple, the tiny tree anchors itself firmly into the ground, declaring its place amongst the kingdom of Gaia When harvesting season arrives, each gnarled, stalwart branch spurts out clusters of pubescent green apples The pomaceous little infants have each been granted life, a million exciting journeys to be traveled The apple thought its life had been wasted, and unjustly stolen away Yet in the end, the apple’s destiny was paramount to all others, and bigger than it could have ever imagined.
-Alexis Nash 11
Window
Shannon Name
To see the full color original, go to: http://fromthewellhouse.org/?ax6kKKxQ
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Who I Am There are days when I know who I am, when I am solid in my bones, and my feet take root in the earth. I am walking in sunshine with the green of the leaves and the wind in my hair. Overwhelming scents of gladness, strong and beautiful, the Goddess shouts within me and I stride through the soil content to be worthy.
-Andrea Gerig
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Thank God for That Dot She got off the couch, and put down her phone. The bathroom door in the hallway closed. Sunday morning advertisers crowded the channels. Something is always a deal this time of the week. I finished her coffee. Her magazines were spread out, showing the things that she would talk about. She would want to go somewhere. We would. I’d buy a used book or new sandwich she could try
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and dislike for herself. I usually enjoyed the coda of these things, but not now. Not this waiting. How long can you stare down the end? With a cigarette, but no blindfold, I washed dishes. It took a moment for me to notice her standing by the table. Her eyes were red. There was something else I should have said, but thank God for that dot. Our lives were too unkind to join and share.
-Dylan Scott
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We All Remember I sit and watch the TV They fall over and over on every channel People jumping, running, crying Horror captured on each passing face The smoke and dust sweep in like a tornado Twisted metal, paper, bodies falling from the sky People tell their stories Grown men cry We all remember Each floor collapses one after another Screams pierce the deafening silence Fires rage with no water to douse them Some are trapped under rubble Mothers, Fathers, Brothers, Sons Daughters, Friends Where is Hope We all remember Searching for survivors
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Our flag flying defiantly above the debris Hand in hand crawling from the wreckage Confused, afraid, scarred Blood and tears like a river Heroes dying for strangers Thousands lost We all remember The towers fell Our world stopped turning Images burned into memories Holding our breath Praying it was all a dream Yet we stood stronger Clutching our loved ones We all remember
-Mellanee Neeley
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On the First Snowy Morning of the Year The snow crunches beneath my feet As I stroll along down the street Taking a daily walk
On the first snowy morning Of the year
My breath hangs with the icicles Dripping condensation
While I trudge through snow drifts Ankle deep
And giant mounds concealing cars Line what I presume is the road Small animal prints are all around Squirrels, cats, and dogs
Scurrying off to find warm shelter And I wonder if they find
The cold air as bracing as I do
But, that is enough I am cold
It is time to go find my own warm shelter
On the first snowy morning Of the year
-Gabriel Doucette 18
Temporal The rain does not tremble from the sky, no one is strolling towards the seventh green, and there’s no railroad yard. The birds are just birds. I no longer dream of moving to the Azores, and buying pineapples from a cart by my stone cottage. I’ve forgotten most of the Portuguese I learned. If there are more than 39 pineapples, I can’t count them. A ceramic knife is at work in a lobe of my mind. This is how to escape.
-Dylan Scott 19
Monsters I hate the monsters in my closet and yet I go on feeding them I am scared of their shadows in the dark and yet I open the closet door some nights and I let the monsters out for a while their faces reflect my past and I know each one by name I realize that I need the monsters and their shadows and that is why I care for them despite my own fear and hatred they are as children and do not comprehend enough
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to take responsibility for their existence hiding in the shadows of my closet at night until the time when I no longer need them they will be there haunting my dreams both invited and uninvited they exist and I sometimes join them in my closet at night
-Katherine Woessner
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Cthulhu Summoned Mike Dukes
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Beauty Beauty is found in a glistening mouse embryo Left at the top of the stairs. Beauty is found in the slip and shine of viscera. Beauty is found in the blood and feathers Scattered across the snow. Beauty is found in the rich black soil Made by the decaying bodies of loved ones. Someday, I will be killed by Beauty. Rejoice in the art, for even at the end, there is Beauty.
-Andrea Gerig
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