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MARINE CREEK REFLECTIONS

TARRANT COUNTY COLLEGE NORTHWEST VOLUME 14

MYTH AND MORTALITY


2013 FINE ARTS LITERARY JOURNAL

I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge myth is more potent than history dreams are more powerful than facts hope always triumphs over experience laughter is the cure for grief love is stronger than death.
- Robert Fulghum

Editors Note

MARINE CREEK REFLECTIONS

MYTH AND MORTALITY


Art may imitate life, but life also imitates art; everything the staff received focuses on the human condition, including the mystical and the mundane. Stories have survived for millennia because the world needs them. From classic childrens fairy tales to historical accounts, people have a thirst for something outside themselves. Im amazed by the interconnectedness we have with the people and the world around us, and how much our lives, though seemingly unique, overlap. Id like to thank everybody who shared their stories with us, be it through text, art, and the videos and songs in our e-book. Id also like to thank the editors for sharing this experience with me and making it memorable. I hope that Myth and Mortality allows you, our readers, to immerse yourself in stories and poetry and to take comfort in finding your place in the creative world. Victoria Forman, General Editor 20122013

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POETRY

Katie Beach Carla Beauclair Elizabeth Bickford Carmeci George Edwards* Katherine Flores Victoria Forman Ray Haney Joshua Jones Crystal Landrum Crystal Luna Kimberly Merrett Calen M. Meuless Amy Moisant LeeAnn Olivier* Jared Owens Pearce Owens David Parker Chris Rhoades Leila Smith Kathleen Spieldenner Kimberly VanKirk Alex Winters Kyle Woodburn

Kiss the Moonlight 7 A Rustle in the Grass 10 Table for One 23 You See Me 49 Amber Box of Secrets 12 Victim of Love 48 Empathy for Elmer 35 Upside Down 59 Brigit 6 She 63 Skinned 64 Carpenter Bath 14 Yellow Sadness 20 Winters Fog 6 Final Choice 31 Shakespeares Seven Year Itch 43 Long Past Nightfall 16 Dear Wolf 3 Not a Mans Domain 43 S.O.Stress 65 Envisioning 58 First Light 16 Goodbye Camelot 52 The Man Who Hated Math 26 A Beggars Plea 12 Wayfarer 30 Only Once 19 Sisyphus 61 Man and River 1

SHORT STORIES

Lindsey Anderson Katie Beach Carla Beauclair Destiny Bickle Elizabeth Hale Crystal Landrum Crystal Luna Alex Martinez LeeAnn Olivier* Jesse Proctor Leila J. Smith Kimberly VanKirk Alex Winters Kyle Woodburn

Old John 4 One Way 45 Split-Second Decision 50 Infinite 15 Deep Bathtub 57 Lily 31 Beyond Avarice 54 The Northern Forest 21 Taking Photographs Atop a Parking Garage 13 Love Like Saltwater 17 Life and Death 65 What Lies Beyond 56 Liquefied 24 The Shield that Wanted to be a Sword 8 A Slice of an Estate 38

*Faculty

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Marine Creek Reflections

ARTWORK

Miguel Aguilar Barbara Arabian Mary Ann Barker Katie Beach Karen Booth Jose Crooke Zachary Freeman Cindy Gates Melinda Gonzalez-Randall Antonio Guerrero Amy Hatch John Hartley Amy Hatley Haley Laye Richard Lowe Beverly Lundberg Joseph MacAuley Holden Marrs Eunjoo Maxwell Whitley McLendon Ivonne Noria Moreno Raku Gwen Rhine Elizabeth Robertson Jennifer Rodriguez Don Schol Grant Smith Harry Stark Patsy Stark Karen Tapia Shaina Vencill Sarah Wilson Kimberly Wohleb Kevin Zhen Abigain Zimmerman Katheryn Zimmerman Patt Zimmerman

Ode to Rampage 27 Swallows in Yellow Light 51 Weakness 11 Worship 11 Reclining 49 Boy in the Window 58 Fix It 42 Question 57 Alaska 25 Natures Leaf 53 Tres Amigos 37 The Question 44 Pilgrim Point 52 Legs 67 Knotty 41 Treasures Inside Back Cover Twins 51 Girl in Red Dress 60 A Night with Shakespeare 24 Memory Urn 62 Relinquished 61 Mechanical Inside Cover Falling Bridge 9 Gumballs & Dancing Shoes 40 Memories of Childhood 29 Ming He 53 Blue Vision 53 The Grove 53 Feathers & Fashion 29 Rail Road Lights 5 S.O.S. 65 Sleeping Dreams Front Cover The Canyon with River 34 Daffodils 34 Harry Painting Harry 33 Manos de Dios 34 Constellation 7 Mesquites on Marine Creek 36 Nesting Surprise 20 Zack 14 Candlelight 31 Empty Nester 37 Table for One 23 Guardian Back Cover Still Life 42 SheBear 63 Silver Wheel 39 Neurological Misfirings 3 Of the Woods 2

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Man and River


by Kyle Woodburn When man was young, and small, and thin He loved to watch the fishes swim. The banks would tremble at the force: Tempered, forged by rivers course. In coveting the rivers soul, A young man, chasing, has grown old. Greed has tainted youthful eyes. But river sees through mans disguise.

River fed his every need But could not slake or sate his greed. A young man seeks to change the course And steal the river at its source.

Foolish man, use rhyme and reason. Live with river through the seasons. From dark intruder on dark horse, Protect the river at her source.

Bearing set to perfect north, He mounts his steed to travel forth. Confronting foes and fighting fears Mans journey will last many years.

He snorted, sneering, at her offer, And maddened, set himself upon her. Through clouded eyes he could not see Invader he had come to be.

Battle, strife, and death, and stress, A warrior endures no less. Falling weary to his knees, He comes to rest beneath the trees.

An old man weeps, his greed betrayed. Bells now tolling, judge will say: Although you killed without remorse, No man can change the rivers course.

Am I floating? Am I sinking? Young man wonders, his eyes blinking. No sign of sword, or shield, or horse. Just he alone, and rivers source.

Marine Creek Reflections

Of the Woods Patt Zimmerman

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Dear Wolf
by LeeAnn Olivier I remember that winter the river from lover to beloved curled pewter with blood, encircling my

ankles as I slogged through its springs. I remember the rare snow silvered your blue

beard black, your black beard blue, unfurled from your gleaming whiskers. I remember the glimmer

of gunmetal eyes and quicksilver limbs, your whispers grizzling my skin. I remember the hunter

awash in gold glamour, his ochre no match for your chrome. Your pearled teeth nicking

Neurlogical Misfirings Patt Zimmerman

the folds of my cloak as we stained the white sheets, my heart a sweetmeat in a basket.

Marine Creek Reflections

Old John
by Lindsey Anderson Tarrant County College Northwest Campus Creative Writing Contest Winner First Place

His body was found early last fall. Wrinkled with time and crippled in old age, his corpse rested peacefully on a splintered bench outside of his old train depot, as if he had been waiting for someone. No one came. His body was discovered about a week after he passed. Most of the people in the town forgot about the humble old man who stood in his oversized uniform every day greeting folks with his southern charm and pocket full of Double Bubble for the children. When the depot closed seven years ago John hid like a recluse in his fallen sanctuary, fading to a distant memory. I met John once. Our conversation was nothing more than typical, a quick hello as he purposefully grabbed a generic pair of size 32 x 34 jeans from the shelf and placed them on the counter of my aunts resale shop where I worked that summer. I remember the look of his worn leather-like hands as he dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a few crinkled bills, each wrinkle telling another story. I felt strangely connected to John, like we were two lost souls moving aimlessly through life. Good day, maam, he muttered before placing his hat over his aging curls and walking out of the store. A month later he passed away. A year later his depot went up for auction. With nothing more than impulse and a few hundred dollars, I purchased it. The old depot rested 15 miles above town. The headlights of my rusty truck rose to meet the weathered and overgrown depot. Nature had taken her fair share over the past year. Hortons Depot est. 1849 still hung proudly from the depot. Over 150 years of families passed through this station. Proud to own this small piece of history, my heart wept seeing the neglect suffered in Johns absence. I purchased the depot to start my dream business. Tired of sifting through bags of other peoples worn and used

clothing, I planned to renovate the depot into an organic flower shop and fresh fruit stand. The soil was rich and untouched. It also didnt hurt that above the depot was a small one bedroom apartment. I paced the grounds, running numbers through my head about the size needed for different flower beds and fruit trees. It was then I noticed a small wooden cross peeking out of the high brush. I walked hesitantly over to the site, wondering if John had been up to something in his time alone here. The wood looked fresh. Carved across it was the name, My Brightest Star; My Heart. I was taken back for a moment. Who could have died here? Nestled at the base of the cross was a tiny wooden box with an apple carved delicately on the lid. I picked up the box and gently unlatched its clasp; inside was a small stack of letters written on aged stationary. The first letter read: My Brightest Star, The light from the stars burned through my window last night. Just one night before it was you and I dancing underneath those stars to nights sweet melody. My heart is still dancing at the touch of your soft hair against my face and the scent of your beauty around me. A part of me left with you on the train this morning and I dream of feeling whole again. Until next fall, All my heart, John I continued to read through the stack of letters, each one drifting deeper into a love that never made it into the legends of Old John. The power of his feelings for this woman kept me glued to his words. My feet carried me back to the station and upstairs to the tiny apartment. I
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found a thin blanket left behind in a cedar chest on the balcony. I wrapped it around my shoulders and rocked peacefully in Johns old chair to finish reading. The warmth of the ending day blanketed everything in a burning glow of orange. Evenings at the depot were breathtaking just as John mentioned in his letters. Almost every letter spoke lovingly about his time spent working here, the many friendly faces he encountered, the grueling work it required to keep running, and the peaceful evenings he spent on this very balcony wishing to share it all with her. The loss of the depot must have felt more personal to John. He didnt just lose a depot; he lost his passion. No one was buried underneath that cross. John left a symbol of his heart here at the depot where he felt it always belonged. Silently I thanked him for sharing this piece of him with me. I think he hoped whoever discovered it would cherish this place as much as he did. I saved the last letter for the finally moments of the day, to read as a final good bye to an unknown friend. It read: My Brightest Star, Its been too long since my eyes have met yours. I long for falls quick return. With every train signal I picture you bouncing joyfully off the train and skipping lightly into my arms. The scent of apples and cinnamon lingers in my tiny apartment. I see you barefoot in my poor excuse for a kitchen, covered in specks of flour and apple rinds. Every evening I rock softly in my favorite chair wishing for the gentle hum of your voice as your tiny hands work diligently to peel bushels of apples. I miss the time we spent kissing the days goodbye out here. I know that somewhere in the world below me you rest safely and happily in the arms of another. Know my love that I do not blame you for your choice to move on in life. But rest assured that in this world there will always be a man who loves you more. All my heart, always, John

Rail Road Lights Jennifer Rodriguez

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Brigit
by Victoria Forman With wanderlust coursing through her veins, No mortal or maven understands: She rules the fey amid great hurt and strain, But stays my friend. We travel through the lands In joy; through Tr na ng we trek! We find adventure in the mists as she Sits high atop my head. With her on deck, The quest begins: we start our secret spree, Ignoring duty on this unknown route . . . We gain the freedom for which we both yearn. Now facing great uncertainty and doubt Do we continue or seek safe return? Theres solace in her self-assurd smile As we depart from home and magic isle.

Winters Fog
by Crystal Luna Weary Winters, Droopy eyes, Dreary days, Gloomy surprise. Leery feelings Lost inside Merry wishes Gone and died...

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Kiss the Moonlight


by Katie Beach I yearn to kiss the moonlight my tireless grasp at beauty, love. Ever in my sleepless night I strive to reach the stars above. Soft beams illuminate my skin pale shadows of a slumbered dream, emberd once, now reignite and with bright eyes reflect their gleam. Pools of dark lay hidden tween ethereal and silver rays. A touch from you, their sorrows through they, too, your wondrous love light praise. Each and every lonesome eve closer to your star I come. Ever closer to your light; ever closer to my home. Ever in my sleepless night, I reach to kiss the moonlight.
Constellation Patsy Stark

Marine Creek Reflections

The Shield that Wanted to be a Sword


by Alex Winters

Once upon a time there was a shield that wanted to be a sword. The shield was a good shield, shaped as a kite and made of sturdy oak and a strong band of steel. She belonged to a squire named Tom and lived in the armory of a great castle with all the other shields and equipment of the soldiers barracked there. The swords lived in the armory, too, and the shield envied them with all her spirit. Every day, the squires came in, gathered their equipment, and practiced. For the shield, practice consisted of getting hit by the swords quite a bit and often being dropped or knocked into the mud of the training ground. The squires and soldiers showed much more attention to their swords, axes, and maces than to their shields and would swing their weapons swiftly from all sides. Cuts and thrusts and chops lashed out from their weapon arms while the shields would just hang on the other, clenched, arms barely moving. At the end of the day, the shield would watch in quiet jealousy as the squires and armorers carefully inspected each sword and lovingly polished and sharpened and fixed the slightest imperfection; the shields would be lucky to get the mud cleaned off. The splinters hewn out of them would not be repaired like the nicks and notches in swords. If a shield became too battered, well they had all seen shields destroyed and discarded. At night, she would listen to the swords whisper and chatter to each other excitedly about the days practice. They would laugh and jest about parries and ripostes, about lunges and strokes, while the other shields would snooze through the night. The shields didnt often talk; they never joked. Being a shield was a solemn duty, they would intone, and then would say little else besides some occasional boring gossip having to do with armor polish. She thought it was most unfair and didnt understand why the other shields didnt realize their life was so boring.

The swords get all the fun! shed complain. They sing through the air and claim all the glory! Why do we have to be nothing but targets for them? The other shields would simply stare at her in confusion. Once, one of the oldest, most battered shields took the time to respond to her heated cries. Young shield, he pompously pronounced, our purpose is a simple one. We are shields. The protection of a warriors side. It may not seem glorious to you, but Ill tell you now that the glory of swords is a myth. I hope you never have cause to truly realize that. A few days later the old dodder was hacked apart in a vigorous match between a sergeant and a knight. One day, the doors to the armory were thrown open much earlier than normal, and the rushing squires and soldiers who plucked the rudely awakened equipment did it with much cursing and hurrying. Swords were hastily handed about and shields were almost haphazardly seized. Instead of towards the practice yard, the rushing men dashed toward the stables. An excited whisper passed among the swords as they realized that they were heading for battle. The shields kept silent, in their normal grim way, save for the one shield that wept bitterly anew at not being a sword. After a ride on Toms horse, strapped to the side of his saddle like any piece of baggage while Toms sword rode comfortably in a scabbard on his hip, the equipment had overheard enough to realize they were going to fight a group of invading Northmen. The Northmen were raiders from the sea, and the soldiers job was to defend the people and the land from them. The Northmen were frightening, but the soldiers from the castle outnumbered them. Toms sword boasted that the Northmen were crushed and pushed back into the sea.
Myth & Mortality

Like the scum they are! he proudly exclaimed. Toms sword had a low opinion of the Northmen, seeing them as little more than thieves. He also sniffed derisively at their usage of axes over swords and noted that choosing such an obviously inferior weapon marked them as poor warriors. He continued to chatter on about the number of Toms fellows and the plan they had of routing the invaders. Unfortunately, for Toms horse and the rest of the soldiers, they hadnt planned on the Northmens ambush. The wicked twangs of crossbows (whom the shield had never gotten along with anyway) filled the air, and the orderly column of men was thrown into confusion. The horses reared and whinnied, the men screamed, the swords roared out of their sheathes, but the shields maintained their grim silence. Tom toppled from his horse, barely managed to draw his sword and plucked up his shield when a terrifyingly large and muscular Northman armed with an axe descended on him. The Northmans blonde braids swirled in the air, and, with a quick stroke from his wickedly cursing axe, he knocked Toms sword from his hand! Dust and debris filled the air, alongside shouts and battle cries. The Northman swung another mighty blow, far stronger than any launched in practice, that landed on the shield and she shuddered from the force of it and began to realize why her elders were so grim. Toms sword lay on the ground, far out of reach, but the shield could

hear his near hysterical cries. Men struggled all around them as the Northman descended on poor Tom who clutched only his shield. Many years later, in a great castle, the graying and dignified Lord Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, snatched up one of his giggling grandchildren running through his great hall. Lord Thomas, a wealthy man and respected soldier, owned many fine swords, horses, and suits of armor, so his grandson Robert was puzzled. Grandfather, why do you have that old shield above the fireplace? Why not one of the silver swords with gems or a shiny helmet? he inquired in a piping voice. His grandfather smiled and bounced him on his knee. Ah little one, he rumbled, its true that I have jeweled swords and gold trimmed armor. But that simple shield without that shield, I wouldnt be here, and, therefore, your father, your uncles, your aunt, you and all your brothers and sisters and cousins wouldnt be here. All because of that old shield? Yes, Robert, because of that old shield, for you see As Thomas regaled his grandchild with the now oft repeated story of his first battle, the sleepy shield on the wall listened with contentment from her place of honor and drifted off to dream of the glory she had earned protecting her warrior.

Falling Bridge Eunjoo Maxwell

Marine Creek Reflections

A Rustle In The Grass


by Carla Beauclair I journey to the meadow Where the river stretches wide. I see the spot where we would play When we were only five. Remember, we pretended That we were a Knight and Lass, When suddenly I thought I heard A rustle in the grass? You knew that I was frightened By the thing we couldnt see. You ventured through the wilderness To slay the beast for me. You brought our grandkids here last month To learn their legacy. Just in the nick of time, it seems, For now youre gone from me. We grew to adolescents And remained the best of friends. Wed walk out to the meadow Stealing kisses, holding hands. My heart would beat with longing For the day youd make your pass. Our first most precious loving Was a rustle in the grass. I stand here in the meadow And I read your epitaph: Youll know Im with you when you hear A rustle in the grass. We married in this meadow On a sunny summer morn. Two years and three months later Our oldest son was born. Wed bring him to the meadow, He would play, and we would laugh About our memries, as his plastic trucks Made rustles in the grass.

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Worship Mary Ann Barker

Weakness Mary Ann Barker

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Amber Box of Secrets


by Elizabeth Bickford Shake loose the citrine dreams of youth, From your golden tresses. Caress them gently Gilded wings of butterflies. Lock them Tightly. Sepia-tinted memories Of a once vibrant, lemon age. An amber box of secrets A treasure trove where Yielded ambitions lie. Do not curdle them. Butter cream in the sun Nurture them, so they may not succumb To the stagnant yellow waters of your mind.

A Beggars Plea
by Leila Smith Please. No. Dont. Touch. Me. Please. Dont. Touch. Me. Please Touch. Me. Please. Me. Please.

Please. No. Dont Hold. Me. Please. Dont. Hold. Me. Please. Hold. Me. Please. Me. Please.

Please. No. Dont Kiss Please. Dont. Kiss. Please. Kiss. Please. Please.

Me. Me. Me. Me.

Please. No. Dont Love. Me. Please. Dont. Love. Me. Please. Love. Me. Please. Me.

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Taking Photographs Atop a Parking Garage


by Aaron Martinez

Five months ago I moved away from my home, drifting from the opaque electric fog and kaleidoscope lights of San Antonio, to yellow concrete fields of Fort Worth, to help out my mother. She moved up here to a one-room apartment and needed help with the rent. Back in San Antonio she was getting beaten by her third husband, and after he was shot by a man while beating her outside a local gas station, she took what she could carry and ran up here. I wasnt doing much better. I was living on the streets shooting heroin. So we both fled to this solid city, running away from our own shadows. But shadows are always stitched to the skin. As we became adjusted to our new home I attended an art appreciation class at the local community college. In the middle of the semester our old hag of a teacher gave the class a photography assignment. She said, Take a picture of the city and bring it to class! After the assignment was due I noticed that all my peers just took pictures of their backyards and turned them in, bad black and white pictures of lonely trails and dull perspectives leading to autumn. Id never tried photography before. What I decided to do was take my mother downtown to model for me while I took her picture against the dripping backgrounds of this city. I took my fathers old digital camera and two packs of cigarettes for my model. Wandering around the city we ended on top of a parking garage a block away from the Fort Worth Public Library. It was a hot afternoon. The sweat danced

around us like a thousand terrible insects. I positioned her under a flight of stairs, and the shadows from the steps mixed and mingled with my mothers and I started to think of our shadows again. She took a cigarette from her purse, stabbed it in between her lips, lit it, and took a long sad drag. She pressed her back against the cement wall opposite the staircase and looked down, stared at her feet and her mind drifted away like the blue smoke from her cigarette, and then I knew what photographers look for. The skeleton of the soul and especially the broken soul, like a bird eating dirty crumbs, is a moment youre not supposed to see but comes from beneath you and along your crooked spine like bad ideas. I started to feel afraid. My mother took the cigarette from her mouth and exhaled. I took the picture; the smoke still in her lungs and pores. She looked up at me, took another drag like a pro and asked, So what did you think? wiping away the ashes from her new white shirt. I felt like a thief. Like I stole a moment that wasnt mine. Like a shadow. I looked at her and said, It was good. Lets go take some more. We wandered all over the city exploring our new home and stole more moments. Everywhere we went we stole and planted ourselves in the cement, and our shadows started to lag behind as if they were becoming unglued. We felt free and we laughed and gave our new bodies to the electric surroundings as we ODd from the earthquake of stupidity.

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Zack Patsy Stark

Carpenter Bath
by Joshua Jones Drawn by a fast blade Shards of wood besiege me Penetrating Deep Into the facets of my Pale porous labored skin

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Infinite
by Destiny Bickle

When I was a kid, I read a lot of teen fiction. It wasnt necessarily because I could relate to it, or that I even liked the plotlines. It was because teen fiction authors always seemed to have these random moments of extreme clarity. The one I remember best is from this novel published sometime in the early nineties when we still used cassette tapes and Friday night rentals from Blockbuster were the luxury I enjoyed at the end of the week. My dog-eared copy lies dormant on the dusty wooden bookshelf in my room; I havent picked it up in years. I always really liked the cover art, if only for its extreme minimalismbright chartreuse with this pretentious hipster sepia-toned photograph of a kids brown dress shoes in the top right corner, and the title, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, printed in a brown, ten-point Arial font. Somewhere on page thirty-nine reads this sentence, a standalone from the rest of the paragraphs: And in this moment, I swear we were infinite. I have read and reread that sentence many times in past years and I knew what it meant. But I never really understood. Not until now anyway. I hiked up here because they said that Crater Lake was something to see. They said it was gorgeous. Everybody says that about everything, though. The Grand Canyon? Check. It was alright. Niagara Falls? Meh. Aurora Borealis? Kinda wish I had been dropping tabs when I watched it, but it was nice, I suppose. Everybody has their own brand of beautiful, and I guess mine is a little less generic. This view, however, this moment, could not have been more perfect. Lying here, splayed in the clean white snow like this, the smoky Oregon skyline spread out above me, its stars spread out haphazardly like a tube of silvery glitter some toddler knocked over into a bucket of pure blue-black paint and it came out fantastic, because this

toddler was like Leonardo Da Vinci or something. The placid, clear lake reflects silver sky phantoms and its this infinite loop of space. Infinite like me. I cant move. Not because my vital organs are failing, just because I dont want to. I have to be careful or I might fall asleep, and we all know what happens when you fall asleep in the snow. But I think I could die right now and it would be okay. I could fall asleep, and I could die, and I could wake up an angel, and I am almost certain that heaven would look exactly the same. Fluffy banks of snow clouds, starry-eyed angels, and God in the Cascade Mountains. Sweet silence of good souls, swimming in the serendipitous lake of Shangri-La: flawless, perfect, peaceful, absolutely wonderful. I dont think about going back to work Monday. I dont think about my kids, or my wife, or my friends. I dont think about how I need to mow the lawn, or get new tires on the van, or finish going over the Davis accounts for my presentation or set up lunches with potential clients. I dont think about my failures and I dont think about my accomplishments. None of that matters to me right now because I am thinking about nothing. I dont think Ive ever thought about nothing before, but then again I cant remember because, well, I just flat out dont think, because I am infinite. Im getting sleepy now. I should crawl into my itty bitty yellow, poor excuse for a tent but I cant bring myself to do it. I cant break this panorama of perfect. The heavens are pulling me in. My eyes are getting heavier. My breath is getting slower. I dont mind. My soul is bleeding out of me onto the cold blankness of the ground and my brain is soaring among the galaxies. I think Im ready to leave it all behind. I could be infinite for infinity. Starryeyed angels, take me under your snowy wings. I have to meet the mountain god who created all of this in the deep lake of the beyond.

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Long Past Nightfall


by Amy Moisant I could have sworn I saw the moon that night As my heart beat with a quickened rhythm. Yet how was I to know of such a plight, When all I thought of was to be with him. How wrong I was to think that all would be well, While sensing unease as he turned away. I should have known when it came in the mail; Perhaps I wouldnt have a someday, And instead have given him my today. If only I knew that he would be gone, I would have shown him that I was his mate; Without shielding my face from the lost sun. Cant we go back to those nights of our past, Where there never was a need for these masks?

First Light
by David Parker Dawn is that time when fallen leaves rest easily, and do not think upon their lonely descent, but merely anticipate the vagrant gust come to free them from earths grave touch, however briefly.

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Love Like Saltwater


by LeeAnn Olivier This essay first appeared in the Summer 2012 issue of damselfly press.

As I study my genealogy chart, I love to say the languid names of my Cajun ancestors, names like Jean Baptiste Olivier and Marie Magdelaine Monpierre, liquid names that curl in the mouth like minnows, then unfurl and swim off of the tongue. I come from a family of fishermen. My immigrant relatives made their living catching silverfins and tiger prawns in the murky coastal netherworld of Bayou Black, the swamp singing in their veins, as lush as mellifluous green rivers. On a still, sweltering Sunday afternoon in August of 1856, long before hurricanes had female names, a violent storm ravaged Terrebonne Parish where my ancestors lived on the Louisiana coast, killing over two hundred people. The hurricane also destroyed the hotel and gambling houses at nearby Isle Derniere, leaving the island bereft, void of vegetation and split in half, the once bustling seaside resort transformed into a feral haven for brown pelicans and black-backed herons, royal terns and laughing gulls. Rains flooded the Mermentau River and destroyed crops along the bottom lands. Saltwater soaked rice fields in Bayou Black, stripped fruit from orange trees, and smeared the air with fragrant swirls of tangy brine and sweet citrus. Survivors clung to bales of cotton and washed ashore as the storm subsided. My great-great grandmother Delphine, whose name is a French-Greek hybrid of dolphin, survived the storm. She was fifteen when the hurricane hit. I imagine Saturday night before the great storm, Delphinethin as an egret wading through a tangle of bible-black vinescrept to the lip of the pier, dipped her net, and waited for crawfish. I imagine on Sunday morning after dawn, the sun turned the moor to loam, and a violet sheen skimmed the gulf. I imagine Delphine sprawled on the front porch, watching the veined sky

glower and sink and the vultures wheel and dive like black angels. I imagine that my great-great grandmother, like me, was a Catholic girl who harbored a secret pagan heart. On Sunday afternoon, the storm loomed, and Delphines limbs aquiver, she whirled and danced like a dervish while the sea swelled. She was Hurricane Delphine, deciding whom to love when she saw who could crawl from the shambles unscathed, who could cling to a bale of cotton and sweep ashore, his swamp-green eyes singed with salt, his blue-black hair braided with seaweed. This is how she would choose her mateher own personal Poseidon. I like to pretend this is how she met Pierre Zephirin Olivier, my great-great grandfather. A century and a half later, their ghosts dance on my ribs, their maritime blood brewing inside me, imbuing me with a hunger for salt and brine and sun. Perhaps this is why I swam as soon as I could walk, staying under the water until my flesh puckered and my green eyes burned, flicking my imaginary fins, twirling like a drunken ballerina, and tumbling feverishly, over and over, until I almost believed I could breathe water instead of air. A timid child too scared to climb trees or ride bicycles, I was always the first to dive, fetching pennies that glimmered like buried treasure at the bottom of the pool. Once I even swam with dolphins off the Mexican coast of Isla Mujeres, my hands gliding easily over the animals satin spines as they keened and twittered, their lithe, powerful bodies coiling around me, weaving human and dolphin skin into one skein. I felt like I was home. Shortly after I learned to swim, I figured out how to mix my fathers martinisgin rather than vodka, shaken instead of stirred, laden with green olives and poured over ice. I wanted to make myself useful to him. I remember the heady, acrid smell of the liquor,

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the clink of ice against the tumbler. I remember how he chilled the olives in champagne until they were smooth as emeralds bobbing in frothy bubbles. I used to dive for the olives submerged at the bottom of his glass, and I would suck the juice out of them, rolling them around on my tongue, loving their briny, ginand-champagne-soaked taste. They tasted like the ocean, like the swamp where my fathers people lived, like fishermen, olive skin and sea-green eyes and inkdark hairlike my father himself. While most of the girls I knew received cars and college educations from their fathers, the Olivier genealogy chart is the only thing my father ever provided for me after I turned eighteen and he no longer had to pay child support. My father and I never knew each other well. All we shared was the same saltwater in our veins. A born seaman, he served as a lieutenant commander in the Navy and was often stationed overseas at exotic-sounding places like Guam, and Bahrain, and Okinawa. When I was in elementary school, he lived in Japan for two years, so I became obsessed with that seafaring countrytheir painted Kyoto dolls, their sushi rolls and squid salad, their modular beds as compact as cupboard drawers. When my father returned to my mother and me in Shreveport, he didnt have much use for me outside of my bartending skills. He found me too fey, too fanciful, too peculiar. He called me a bleeding heart liberal, an egg about to crack. Then he left us for good. My father never really knew his fatherAlcide Olivier, nicknamed Frenchiebecause he died when my father was a little boy. In the only photograph I have ever seen of my grandfather, he stands, haggard and swarthy, next to my elegant grandmother, his shock of sable hair mussed and oily, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth. Working as a roughneck on a Gulf Coast oil rig, Frenchie traded in a life of fishing for a life of drilling. He

swapped the salt air for sulfuric acid, and his blackened, sea-starved lungs couldnt take it. So I suppose it isnt my fathers fault that he didnt know how to be a dad. He never had anyone to show him. In the French folktale, Love Like Salt, a king asks his daughter how much she loves him. She replies, I love you as much as fresh meat loves salt. The king is so perplexed by his daughters unusual answer that he disowns her and banishes her from the palace. Years later the banished daughter marries a prince from a neighboring kingdom and invites her father to the wedding. Still desperate to please her father, she requests that the food for the wedding feast be prepared without any salt. But the king spits the food from his mouth, declaring it tasteless. The king then embraces his daughter, apologizing for his neglect and admitting he was wrong to misinterpret her words. For the rest of the wedding banquet, the king relishes plump shrimp curled in crimson sauce, fat scallops soaked in butter, and brinedrenched oysters dipped in sea salt, affirming they are the best foods he has ever tasted. Unlike the mythical French king, I doubt my estranged father will ever appreciate my odd way of looking at the world, acknowledge the hole his absence carved into my life, or forgive me for being who I am. But I can try to forgive him. After all, his DNA is the salt that flavors my food. He gave me more than a genealogy chart, more than a lilting list of French names printed in black font on twenty pages of white paper. He gave me sea gods washing ashore. He gave me ancestors fishing under the feverish flambeau of the bayou, luminous as selkies drying their silken skins in the sun. He gave me a rich history from which I can weave stories, spinning them around in my mind like dolphins spiraling up from the bottom of the sea. He gave me my love for the water.

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Only Once
by Kimberly VanKirk I miss our time. That time... a moment, only once, Did I leave something of myself behind? Did I take a piece of you with me? Do we now bear both ourselves and one another? How?! when you were mine and I was yours. when we were Us... Together. That moment, only once, Locked in time, only once. That regrettable moment... too long, yet too brief. The best moment of my life. We bear it... strong held against its will, Unsure whether to cherish it or to loathe it... hoping that others may not be crushed by its burden, by its betrayal. to loathe you. and with you, to loathe myself Im sorry and Im not. stifled beneath our own suffering. How do we bear it?

for in that moment, only once we melted together our bodies entwined and our parts became interchangeable.

All that I would give to erase it -that moment only once, I would give just as much to have another.

Only once.

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Yellow Sadness
by Crystal Landrum
He stopped, stared, smiled flaunting cigarette-stained teeth; her golden eyes drifted away uneasy. The yellow-bellied fool wanted her, with or without sanction; he gets his way like the sun rises every morning. A heart pure as a daffodil, the scent wooed him as a killer bee he stretched out a jaundiced arm for her. She broke the darkness of night with lightning; the chase was intoxicating, golden air filled his lungs. Once a swan, now a mere duckling. The citrine moon sunk in sadness.

Nesting Surprise Patsy Stark

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The Northern Forest


by Crystal Luna

In a crooked old shack, lived a family poor and rough as stone. They wore grave faces of skin and bone. Watery soup flavored with a sliced potato set the table. The children slurped their supper. Their mothers eyes peered into her worst regret. Soaked in bitterness, she grieved over those burdens she bore; the children they could not afford to feed. As night crept, the children slept, and their parents stepped outside. Under the moonlight, the woman whispered, Is it really selfish of me? Im thinking of the greater good. Otherwise we all will starve here. I cant do much better. Ive worked myself to the bone, and still I cannot feed us all Only two at most. Why cant I ever keep a job? I feel so worthless, sobbed the man. Then it is settled, I know what to do. Fret not. Tomorrow when youre off looking for work, Ill send Edith and Aiden to pick berries conspired the woman. An opaque sun shone faintly against the morning fog, and the forest fumed of rotten decay. The man hurried off to search for work, and soon after the woman scurried over to wake the children. Arise children! There is much work to be done! Everyone must do their part. Hurry and get dressed. Then, be ready to go pick berries in the Northern Forest, ordered their mother. The Northern Forest! Aiden cried to his bewilderment. But, but Old Man Myers has always said... Beware, in the forest demons creep. And when you walk in knees deep, you can hear children weep. Twas a witch their souls did reap, whimpered Edith. Oh, a fools tale! Now fetch your baskets and get to work, or we all shall starve! shrieked their mother. There were no trails in the Northern Forest, for no one traveled there in fear that evil lurked within. Elders told tales of wicked witches feasting on small children as creatures gnawed on left over bones. The forest was bountiful with rotting berries. Aiden and Edith ventured

into uncharted territory in search of edible berries. Soon, light could not escape the canopy of entangled trees, and darkness overwhelmed. Spirits whispered of the children as demons grinned with anticipation. With nightfall upon them, Aiden kindled a weak fire with surrounding sticks and twigs, flickering flames delivered them from evil and confined demons to dark crevasses. Wicked spirits throughout the forest yearned to consume souls, especially those delicacies of innocent children. Aiden woke to a song of morning nightingales sung by a voice as sweet as a sirens. Frantically, he shook Edith. Edith! Edith! Do you hear that?! Yes, I do dear brother. How beautiful Never mind that. But maybe we can get some help to find our way back home. You mean you dont know the way? You know as well as I, there arent any trails round here! The children began to follow the sound instinctively as birds drawn to the south for winter. Through thickets and over a hill they came upon a small cottage. Aiden quickened; Edith trailed behind. Despite the murky forest, the cottage glittered like vitreous glass. A lustrous candy coating radiated a luminous shine that tempted the childrens hearts. An enticing, sweet aroma lured Aiden closer and closer. Mesmerized, he licked a shutter and nibbled at a corner. Mmmsweet delicious gingerbread! Here, Edith try some. Aidens face flushed with excitement. Never had he felt such delight. Edith cheerfully, but cautiously took a bite. From a sugary window, an elderly woman called out in a shrill voice. Hungry children low and poorwhy not knock at my door? Though slightly embarrassed, Aiden and Edith rapped at her door. A wrinkled, frail woman answered the door with a tender grin. Oh my darlings, you must be worn dry. Come in, Ill make delectable desertswhatever your little hearts desire.

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They gorged until they feared theyd burst. The fragile little woman offered her featherbeds to them. The children were obliged. Amidst her dreams, a cackling laugh caused Edith to stir from her sleep. She tried to wake Aiden, but he was fast asleep. So, she crept out the room. From a cracked open kitchen door, she peeked inside. To her astonishment, the woman was clutching a staff while she conjured spells over a cauldron. The witch swayed to the counter, chanted, and desserts appeared out of thin air. Edith was amazed and enchanted by the sight of the witchs power. Despite the overwhelming smell of vanilla and cinnamon, the witch smelled the stench of human flesh. I know youre there! I smell you my dear. Edith praised her magic, Oh my, your magic is wondrous! Would you be so kind to teach me? Although surprised, the witch decided an apprentice was a good as a willing slave. Aiden awoke to the smell of pancakes and berry jams. Sorcery captivated Ediths heart which made way for power and greed. The witchs magic was dark and corrupted her soul. After Aiden finished his breakfast, the witch spoke to Edith, The use of magic comes with a price my child. We must consume flesh to keep our powers from overwhelming our own flesh, or we shall wither unto nothing. Edith, blinded by frivolous glamor, agreed to aid the witch in fattening her brother for a feast. Aiden was

caged, unaware of his sisters actions. Edith will suffer, the witch threatened, if you dont eat it all! In effort to protect his sister, Aiden forced himself to eat everything served to him. After weeks of fattening, the weary witch decreed it time to cook him. She instructed Edith to light a fire to prepare the oven. She bound Aidens wrists and ankles with a holding spell and ordered Edith to throw him in the oven. Ediths irritatingly slow response frustrated the hungry witch. She cursed Ediths incompetence, grabbed the boy herself, and dragged him to the oven. Aiden squirmed weakly like a fish on the edge of suffocation. Suddenly, his eyes widened with hope as Edith ran towards him. But Ediths eyes reflected an eerie emptiness; coldly, she pushed them both in. Aidens heart tore when Edith slammed the oven door in his face. The witch immediately turned to ash, but not Aiden. Slowly, his flesh began to roast. His chilling screams of agony echoed across the forest. Excited demons anticipated the collection of a new soul. The evil deeds of his little sisters betrayal horrified Aiden. Seeds of evil far beyond their mothers grew inside her. Her heart darkened from crimson to ebony. She danced around and laughed, Now its all mine. All the magicand power. I wont need anyone. Ever. Blossoming wickedness transformed her heart into a black diamond. She gazed at the oven. A deep yearning for flesh filled her. A new Wicked Witch of the Northern Forest was born that day.

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Table for One


by Carla Beauclair Tarrant County College Northwest Campus Creative Writing Contest Winner Second Place

My eyes traverse the canvas for the millionth hour. Im sure Ive seen His fingers twitch, His mustache bristle, His eyes blink. His ever, never-burning cigarette has punched my lungs with acrid smoke. I hear His wheezing breath. He mocks me with His heavy-lidded eyes. He sized me up in a moment, yet here I stand, still trying to decipher the ancient hieroglyphics etched across His furrowed brow. I know they tell His story, answer all my questions about Him. But after all this time, He has revealed nothing to me except that in His presence, I am one-dimensional.
Table for One Sarah Wilson

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A Night with Shakespeare Richard Lowe

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Liquefied
by Kimberly VanKirk

A whisper of luminescence pries my eyelids open. The kaleidoscope flow of sun and sky mesmerize my ethereal sight as I lie in a cool, calm quiet, beneath the surface of a clear, fresh spring. Only an arms length from the air above, my body rests in the shallows, cradled by smooth pebbles. I feel myself softly holding on to air, but my lungs are neither tired nor sore. Its as though they could hold on to it forever. However, my heart cannot. The strong, steady pulsations weaken and grow further apart. As the last thump fades, I urge my lungs

to clear. Pockets of stale air gradually rise to freedom and disappear. I hold emptiness in my lungs, despite the heart muscles desperate plea for sustenance. A tingling develops underneath the skin of my extremities. The grasp on emptiness becomes difficult to maintain. A deep inhale; chest caverns flood. At first, the cold shocks my insides, but the water warms as my body cools. We equalize, merging into a single, fluid entity as the ebb and flow lightly rock my mind into slumber.

Alaska Cindy Gates

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The Man Who Hated Math


by Chris Rhoades Once there was a merry man, Who simply hated math. When he came across a divided road, Hed take another path. And to multiply with maidens, why, There is no better way. But to multiply with numbers high, Would take him the whole day. And sadly he could find no use, In imaginary numbers. Surely, cried he, they are obtuse, And cause no end of blunders! When asked to count and calculate, Hed simply smile and say; I think, instead, Ill procrastinate, So I can laugh and play. But then, one day, the worst took place, Upon a morning fine. The most beautiful girl, with perfect face, Gave him an X to define. If you want to date me, it wont be for free. Youll have to prove youre smart. And with mischievous glee, she added Y and Z, And laughing, did depart. For long and long our hero sat, With problem written out. He stared and frowned, scratched under his hat, And began to scream and shout. Id love to, she said, but it just cant be, And pulled her hand free with a jerk. You didnt earn more time, you see, Because you didnt show your work. Surely, said he, Ive earned more time, And he took her by the hand. Our evening would be most sublime, With all that Ive got planned. This is the answer that I sought, She said as they walked along. But this one date is all youve got, And Im afraid it cant last long. Why me, why me, oh why should it be, That I am cursed with this? I cannot cheat, for surely shed see That something was amiss! He took a break, so his brain could rest, Then he took another look. Inspiration struck! His plan was the best! Hed check the back of the book! And so at last, with answer in hand, He went to find his miss. Where, much to his credit, it all went as planned, And she gave him a small kiss.

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Ode to Rampage Miguel Aguilar

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Feathers & Fashion Elizabeth Robertson

Memories of Childhood Ivonne Noria Moreno

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Wayfarer
by Kathleen Spieldenner

I am a cactus in full bloom Beautiful, yet untouchable. An ocean of deep thoughts, Adrift in my own sea. I am flexible... Willing to bend, I will not break. A wayfarer, On the road of my existence. I am content To elevate the ones I love to help them shine. I am gentle, tender, effortless A comforting embrace. A witch Casting my own fate. I am stalwart, Sturdydependable. I am all these And more.

I am not a toy: A ball of string to a curious cat. nor am I a cyclone Thriving on destruction. I am not a lost little girl... Found my bread crumbs; I am not afraid, Only hesitant. I am not where I will finish... An astonishing voyage. I am sure... I am not convinced you are.

Not an open book My passages remain uncovered.

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Lily
by Crystal Landrum

I first saw her silhouette in the window on a summer day. I continued to watch and fell deeply in love with her. I learned her interests and habits from a distance. When she danced, I smiled. When she watched a movie, I watched with her. And when she undressed, my heart raced, longing for the day she would be entirely mine. Months passed along, just the two of us. Then one night a strange man came over. He started to kiss her and placed his filthy hands on her body. I yelled for him to stop but he continued. I grabbed a gun, raced to her apartment, knocked down her door, and put a bullet through the perpetrators brain.

Her beautiful green eyes looked at me in horror. My hand reached for her but she resisted. Lily, how could you? I asked. Silence. I felt betrayed, all I did was protect the woman I loved and she wasnt even grateful, so I aimed the gun at her chest and fired. I sobbed, quietly realizing my world had crumbled. I cradled Lilys body, holding the gun to my head. Finally, together.

Candlelight Karen Tapia

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Final Choice
by Kimberly Merrett
Searing sting of influence, river through my veins, cascades from arm to fingertips, smothering a callous pain. Trembling lips struggle to pass breath dry, cracked, turning blue. Eyes, wide and white, strive to clear a hazy view. A slow surrender to crimson eclipse, as craving cools and consciousness slips. The edge of life and death, which do I choose?

From heavens cloud extends an angels hand; a gentle clasping round wilted wrist... Flitter in my heart, pressure in my chest, depleted lungs defiantly expand... Collapse... I revile his desperate kiss, and release myself to the dark abyss.

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HARRY STARK
19342012

IN MEMORIAM

Harry Stark was an inspiration to students and faculty with his admirable work ethic and continued experimentation. Never satisfied, Harry pressed on to create a large body of work by which to remember him. Harry Stark, an asset to any class, with his sense of humor, will be missed.

Harry Painting Harry

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Manos de Dios

Daffodils

The Canyon with River

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Empathy for Elmer


by George Edwards By an iron bar backyard fence, In the grass, I saw the evidence: Two brown puffs of fur, one mostly white And what was, no doubt about it, The hind foot of a rabbit. if you would have it, more abundant life Shades of even the Peaceable Kingdom Where lions shall lie with lambs, But specters, too, of Australia overrun And empathy, of all things, for Elmer Fudd, Because of the foot-high fig tree I planted That bore figs in its first few months, Such rare bad luck Here in suburbia Where rabbits Leapfrog in the moonlight And lounge at midday Ten feet outside sunrooms Hardly moving Even should you lunge at them . . . So what to make Of the left hind foot, The tuft of fur, Which has much amazed who was a country boy When bigger boys went rabbit hunting With .410s and .22s And dogs, on their own, Gave chase to those which strayed too close And laid their lifeless bodies At our happy feet. And what proves upon investigation To be the very cottontail, Here where I dare not dream of shooting rabbits And dogs only dream of sleeping on the couch? What but that coyotes are not dogs And rabbits, apparently, are not roadrunners. Fatally gnawed by fall. I planted another, and there they were, one rearing up on it While another watched. Pesky wabbits!, for the first time I understood.

This has, I said, amazed me In my amazing American dream or,

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Mesquites on Marine Creek Patsy Stark

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Empty Nester Shaina Vencill

Tres Amigos Melinda Gonzalez-Randall

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A Slice of an Estate
by Kyle Woodburn

Signs and cash registers were out of place in this giant cedar house, Chadley Estate. In every room, tables had been set up with items of value on display. Price tags covered every item, down to the ornate crystal knobs on some of the doors. It appeared no room or possession was off limits. As I pushed through the throngs of senior ladies sifting through china and trinkets in one of the manors three kitchens, my nose was attacked by perfume and mothballs. I coughed quietly and made my way into a hallway to escape. Here, I was pushed into a line of men, which was not moving quickly. Pressure from the queue trapped me behind a rough-skinned old man with aviator glasses and a John Deere hat. His blue overalls and dated haircut made me wonder what was at the end of the line. It probably wasnt art. We inched forward through a short doorway into bright fluorescent light. I blinked until I was surveying a six car garage. The same display tables were here, on concrete instead of carpet. The queue passed slowly around each table like a procession of ants. We peered down at tools, toys, bikes, and more, each marred or discolored from years of disuse. I had been breathing through my shirt since the kitchen. Seeing large garage doors at the far end of the garage, I dared to take a breath, coughing again as the smell of rat urine and mold struck my nose. Lines of people in black shirts were carrying bags of trash from other areas of the house out of the far door. Each of them wore matching uniforms, marking them estate sale employees, probably hired by the newly departeds survivors. I ducked out of the line as it came near that door, wondering where they stored all the bags. They were throwing the black bags onto a hill of trash. I walked around it, lifted an eyebrow at its size. The black mound was at least three feet taller than me.

Hours in the Texas sun had not helped the smell. The odor changed as I trudged some forty feet around the pile. I began to study its contents. Bags covered old papers, denim shirts, banana peels, glass bottles, and any items not valuable enough to sell. Letters, items with names and initials, and photographs had been discarded as well. I began to see quilts, handmade fabric, and the rough angles of picture frames. Finally! I gave a quick look around, but nobody could see me on this side of the hill. Each of the frames was simple, usually black or brown. I lifted them in stacks. Old black and whites of a couple in the 1940s covered baby pictures of a blonde child in the 1980s. The same childs high school graduation photographs were behind these. I stared down. In my hands was a canvas, two feet wide and three feet tall. It was an oil painting of a smiling child peeking out from behind a large tree; confident strokes, blended colors by an experienced painter. I ran my hands across the textured surface of the tree and onto the softly colored background. No visible initials or signature on the front or back. I knew it was not a print, though. Flipping it back over, I studied the childs face. It only took me a few minutes to find the homes owner in the crowded house. I looked for the only person not interested in buying things. He pulled his eyes away from the floor to see what I was inquiring about. Thats trash. Nobody wants to buy that, he said, and returned his gaze to the tiled kitchen floor. Youre lying, I replied quietly. I tucked the canvas under my arm and waded out the door through the tides of people. He looked up a moment later at a fifty dollar bill on the table.

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Silver Wheel Katheryn Zimmerman

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Gumballs & Dancing Shoes Whitley McLendon

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Knotty Amy Hatley

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Still Life Kevin Zhen

Fix It Jose Crooke

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Not a Mans Domain


by Jared Owens On Capitol Hill, Shit falls from the mouths of men. Opinions Smelling. Stench of arrogance, Political jargon. Right wing redefines, What is rape? legitimate rape Todd Akin No business of yours! Big business buys, Our politicians minds. Republican Richard Mourdock, Speaks out of line. Male chauvinistic principles. Ignorant men talking for God, Blasphemy! Boasting their untruths! For lies spoken, Pockets paid fat sums. War on women, Waged, denied. Female body, Not a mans domain. Abortion, Women and God decide. Men need to shut the fuck up.

Shakespeares Seven Year Itch


Calen M. Meuless Shall I compare thee to an Autumn day? For though your leaves do swirl with zip and zest, Their rouge and gold a product decay The rot within, itself soon manifest. Cool breezes which once welcome brows received Now noses nip and foolish fingers bite. And sweet perfumes that Spring before conceived Have given way to sneeze infectious mite. Your once green crowns have now all turned and felled and soon your harvest, too, shall cease bear fruit. My eyes and hands so captive once you held Give up their station, longing new pursuit. What more to wish for Winter season come That what lay festring might soon hence be gone.

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The Question Antonio Guerrero

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One Way
by Katie Beach

Meredith took off her glasses and shook her hair out of the knot shed twisted at the base of her neck. She shimmied open the window to her study and lit a cigarette, took a long, deep drag, and stabbed the flame out on the brick ledge as she exhaled the only taste of her vice she allowed herself each day. And she needed it today. She plopped down at her desk and rubbed her temples. Pregnant? She cringed at the thought of what kind of backward, amoral sex talk Richard had had with their son that led him to get a girl pregnant at fifteen years old. If the apples are ripe for the pickin, son But surely he wouldve cautioned him to use a condom. After all, he knows better than anyone to cover his tracks if hes having illicit sex, she mulled bitterly. She figured sex with young girls was just one more thing her ex and her son had in common, another nail in the no Meredith allowed sign crudely posted to their clubhouse. She needed a vacation. After this case, she mused. She had the money set aside, the Caribbean destination picked out, the muscular, tanned, exotic sexual mistake already dreamt up. After this case, she would dump her problems on Later and buy a plane ticket; maybe a one-way ticket. She laid out her notes and loaded her case recording into the tape player. The girls voice through the speakers sounded like a jazz singers, husky and seductive. It seeped from her throat through her teeth like cigarette smoke: Patient Case #730: I suppose you could call it an addiction. Pretty soon they all start to run together in my memory. Meredith: Tell me about the last one. How does it start? Patient Case #730: You know, Meredith, theres nothing like a first kiss; that electric moment when all the pent up tension

connects and ignites. The energy swells in the dark, bubbles in its fury, and heats your core. The anticipation arouses you. Your skin tingles and your mouth salivates. The hair on the back on your neck stands up. Every touch sparks against a dark backdrop as the rest of the world blurs away. Thats what I whispered in the darkness, Theres nothing like a first kiss and I knew what was going to happen next. He already had his hand in my shirt. Next, hed stick his tongue in my ear and try to unbutton my jeans with one hand. To distract him, Id take my shirt off and let him fondle my breasts while I steeled myself for what came next. Hed be so preoccupied, hed never even notice when I pulled the switchblade out of my pocket. Id ease him to the ground and straddle his groin. Id grind against him until I could feel him hard under me; hed close his eyes and groan with pleasure. And just when I was sure he couldnt take it anymore, the knife would plunge into his neck. Id feel his hot blood stream from his jugular. I couldnt stop now even if Id wanted to... My body would shake with the thrill of release. Exhilarated, Id stab and slash, shredding his skin. Id slash until the body beneath me was nothing more than a pulp of flesh and blood, until I my lust was satisfied. I had already forgotten his name, just like Id forgotten all the others My tongue was in his ear now, foreign and yet so familiar. So I leaned closer to him and sighed into his ear, Oh Daddy Meredith paused the tape as Chase burst into the study without knocking. Mom, whats for dinner? Im starving! Why dont you make yourself a frozen pizza, honey? I really need to get this done. Ugh, he groaned. Whatever. Did you talk to Shaynas parents yet? About?

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He looked at her in that disparaging way that Richard did when she was too stupid to read his mind. About getting rid of the baby. Dad said you should talk to them because since youre a girl and a doctor theyll listen to you. Why dont you just talk to Shayna about it? You know, like an adult The look, again. I dont wanna talk to that whore. Watch your mouth! Whatever. Besides, shes, like, Catholic or something and she said she wont do it. Meredith fought the urge to roll her eyes. But she was more than willing to break the vow of chastity? Chase smiled and shrugged. Chase, Im not cleaning this up for you and Im certainly not going to join a crusade to take away this girls choice about her body. Chase stomped out of the study, muttering something that sounded to Meredith like, fucking bitches. Mouth! she screamed, exasperated. There were times when she was sure she could strangle that kid. Whichreminded her she turned back to her notes and pressed PLAY: Meredith: Did you enjoy killing them? Patient Case #730: I know what you want to do. You want to label me. You want to put me in a little box labeled sociopathic with extreme rape trauma syndrome and ship me off to a nuthouse so you can pat yourself on the back for keeping some poor, disturbed girl out of prison. Ive read every book youve got on your shelf. Hell. Ive read your book, Meredith, and I know those girls. They lash out for attention and then blame their childhoods. They lie to see if they can get away with IT just to feel superior to somebody. Those girls are pathetic. Meredith: And you? What makes you act out? Patient Case #730: You do think Im crazy. You think those men died because of what my father used to do to me? Oh, Meredith, youre better than that. You know I wouldnt kill anyone without reason. No, those men died because Im stronger than all the pathetic victims out there. The women who couldnt cope as well as I have, who wouldve come

across those men at some point in their lives and come out the other side crying. Those men werent worth the oxygen they breathed. They didnt deserve to live. Meredith: What makes you so sure? Patient Case #730: Because I saw them! The first one, he got his girlfriend smashed at a frat party and then let all the pledges fuck her. One of the others beat the shit out of his girlfriend every time another guy looked at her. And the last one? He found out he got a girl pregnant, and the next day she accidently fell down the stairs at his dorm. They all deserved to die, just like my father. Meredith: Maybe, but your father died in a car accident, not a murder. Patient Case #730: Lucky him. Meredith: Did you enjoy killing them? Meredith jumped when the phone rang. She lifted the receiver to Richard yelling on the other end. So, do you hate all men, Meredith, or just the ones in your family? Do all men fuck inappropriate partners or just the ones who can ruin my life in the process, too? she fired back. He sighed as though she had been the one to interrupt his evening, Chase called and told me that you want that little slut to keep the baby just to teach him a lesson. Well, Im starting to figure out where your son got his attitude toward women. I told him I didnt intend to fix his problem and I had no right to try and influence Shaynas rights to her body Meredith, he interrupted, shes not keeping that baby. If youre not going to do something about it, I will! he paused, dramatically, And I wont be as nice about her rights to her body as you are. Richard hung up the phone with an ear-splitting slam! The fury bubbled up inside Meredith as she carefully placed the phone back on its cradle and counted to ten. Maybe it was this case, but she now realized how a person could get angry enough to kill. Unfortunately, her job was to help come up with a viable psych defense and extreme anger and disgust for men wasnt going to work. She was

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about to press PLAY again when she noticed shed had the answer all along: Rape Trauma Syndrome was a form of PTSD, which caused latent bouts of violence when provoked and was considered viable self-defense. Any girl with RTS would likely carry a concealed weapon and men like these would certainly trigger a PTSD dissociative state. It was perfect. Meredith lifted the phone to her ear to call the public defender, but rather than a dial tone, she heard Richard talking to her son. vitamin C. Shes still early along, so it would work. You just cozy up to her and slip her the dose every day for five days. Tell her its a health shake for pregnancy, or something. I dunno if shed fall for it, Dad. Shes pretty pissed at me. Shes a scared little girl. Just dangle your carrot, and shell go where you want. And if not, she could always just fall down the stairs! (Laughter, while Meredith cringed.) Dont worry, the vitamin C should work just fine. After all, it worked on Meredith slipped the phone back onto its cradle. Her insides squirmed as she tried not to think about whose name might occupy the end of that sentence or about the miscarriage shed had right after she and Richard married. A flare of rage flushed over and consumed her and a thought ignited: a horrible, nasty, cancerous idea. She let it swell for a moment, then came back to her

senses. Youre the key expert witness in a murder trial! Youve spent your career studying the mind of serial killers for a cure, not so you could use Her thoughts were interrupted by the deafening, shrill chirp of the smoke alarm, followed by a string of curses, and finally, Chase invading the solace of her study once again. There, Mom, I tried. Now will you make me my dinner? and he slammed the door. Meredith stared at the door for a moment, too furious to move. Rationality slowly seeped from her mind as an eerie composure took over. Tomorrow. I have another session with her tomorrow. Meredith knew her session tapes were all subject to subpoena, and she couldnt ask her patient aloud. She took a pen and paper from her desk and scrawled a note: I know why you did it. I can get you out of this. When youre free, I have a job for you. Meredith folded the note and slipped it into her file folder. She pressed PLAY: Patient Case #730: Every subsequent kiss is a mere reflection of the magic of that first one, a desperate grasp at a feeling that is long gone Listening, Meredith tidied her desk and turned back to her computer. She scrolled through the pictures of the online brochure, taking in the beckoning white beaches and beautiful faces. Then, clicking on the page she always kept open just in case, she booked her flight. One-way.

47 Marine Creek Reflections

Victim of Love
by Carmeci I watch the way you move I watch the way you dance I cant get you outta my mind Youve trapped me in a shrine For everyone to see The things you do to me Ohhh baby cant you see

Youve made me lose my mind You bent me outta shape No one can take my life away Cause youve taken it away...

The way you look at me You make my insides bleed They bleed for you to be with me Cant you see that youre killing me...

Cant stand to see you leave So scared to be alone Ill do whatever you plea If it hurts Ill love you more Guess the pain is what it takes

Chorus: To be with you... To be with me To be alone As the vicious cycle turns Im a victim of your love

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You See Me
by Elizabeth Bickford Your haunting eyes see through me... To places no ones ever seen, The outskirts of my cluttered mind. Through the carefully constructed facade, The mask I wear for the rest of the world. Thoughts of you take a beautiful shape there... So stunning it almost hurts to look, to really see. But you see... You see me. Ive been hibernating for so long-One winter turns to two, turns to four, turns to six. Then you come-- tearing apart my den... Exposing me to life, and how it can be, So bitter so sweet. Had I really been asleep that long? A prisoner in my own thoughts. Alone... so alone. But you see... You see me. Time to shake the sleep from my restless legs, And clear my double vision. Its so easy with you here by me. Funny now, how I was dreading it. Strange that I thought it would-Somehow damage me. Even stranger still, it didnt. I wish I learned to walk sooner... Learned I was only hiding from myself. But you see... You see me.

Reclining Katie Beach

49 Marine Creek Reflections

Split-Second Decision
by Carla Beauclair

She stood in the aisle pondering her fate, the florescent light above emitting a macabre buzz-humm. She shifted uneasily and fingered the tiny diamond that hung from her neck on a thin gold chaina gift from Jason, now long gone. He hadnt given her the necklace, merely inspired her to buy it. Jason had been wonderful while hed lasted. He enjoyed life to the fullest, took things as they came, and believed that a certain amount of self-indulgence was essential to ones sanity. In the very short time they had been together, a bit of that had rubbed off on Barbara, as always happened with her friends. Even a brief encounter can have its effect on you. After Jason had come Thad. Thad was a glorious adventurer. He had taken her places she had never dreamed of knowing, but he, too, hadnt lasted long. Somehow, none of these men in her life seemed to stay around as long as she would have liked. Now she stood at a crossroad again. Three very different, yet equally appealing, men stood vying for her attention. Take me home, Barbara. Take me home. She studied their faces, one by one. First there was Reif. God, he was a magnet! She could see him straddling his motorcycle, in a black leather jacket and aviator shades. He reminded her of Tom Cruise in Top Gun. He would be a wild ride, fast and dangerous, but, ah! The thrill of it all!

Then there was Zeke. What was it about a cowboy that drew women like flies: roughhewn hands turning tender with passion? Sheer masculinity of work, softened by southern charm? Or that adorable way they have of tipping their hats and saying, Yesm? And of course, there was Damon: Damon in his classically understated designer suit; the successful business magnate who would keep her in fine satin, sipping champagne until the wee hours. They were all so exciting, so enticing, and yetshe had to pick one. Only one. It was about then that her conscience broke in. Its ridiculous, you know? You should be more responsible, go home alone, watch a little television and go to bed early! Its despicable how youve collected them and amused yourself so briefly, only to move on to the next They each smiled at her beguilingly. Take me home, Barbara. Take me home. She knew she would love them all, at least for a while. But who to choose? Would the others still be here waiting for her when she returned? Perhaps she should just go home and call up an old friend. Attention customers: The Book Rack will be closing in ten minutes. Please bring your final purchases to the register at this time. Oh, to hell with them! She turned her back on the sensuous smiles and grabbed the new Cornwell novelin hardback.

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Twins Amy Hatley

Swallows in Yellow Light Barbara Arabian

51 Marine Creek Reflections

Goodbye Camelot
by David Parker Flames dance with apathy in this city that once knew peace. Grey columns stretch skyward where once great towers stood. Silence creeps among the old stones where children once laughed and played. The charnel stench of ash settles where once lush gardens bloomed, And the flames grow cold where now the whispers of life fade.

Pilgrim Point Amy Hatch

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Ming He Raku

The Grove Gwen Rhine

Blue Vision Gwen Rhine

Natures Leaf Melinda Gonzalez-Randall

53 Marine Creek Reflections

Beyond Avarice
by Crystal Luna

Frantically, she skittered amongst the shadows of her sanctuary. The moonlight reflected through crystals across her cave. Long, entwined strands of hair draped over her sunken face. Maddened by her greed, paranoid delusions flooded the sorceress. She foresaw her sons to inherit her great power. Chaotic visions of the young men evoking her defeat flashed before her. The thought of a weak, decrepit body haunted her. She cursed them, despite their tireless efforts to please her. Masked behind kind lies, I see avarice within their eyes, she muttered resentfully. She paced into the caves mouth. The full moon drew in the tide. She listened to waves beat against broken cliffs below. I shall prolong prophecy. The sorceress called for her sons. The younger two conceded naively. With Wind at her command, she swept up her two naive sons and heaved them out her cave. The eldest son, irritated with her never-ending orders, lingered until sounds of the skirmish allured him. She chanted. Wings erupted from the back of the elder son as he transformed into an eagle. He grasped his young brother, but his brothers body swelled beyond his grip and plunged to the sea. A jet of water sprayed across the horizon. The eagle gazed; below, his brother emerged a whale. The eldest son, witness to his mothers wickedness, snuck out a tunnel. He traveled to a village tavern. There, an old man spoke of the kings daughter held captive in the highest chamber of Ominous Tower hidden in the heart of Arcane Forest. Countless knights and brave men vow to rescue the lovely maiden, but none surpass the creatures of the forest... It is said, she is cursed, bewitched, and he who frees her is destined to inherit great power! Her plight tugged at him, and so he began to wander towards the forest.

The density of Arcane Forest intimidated him a concerning spectacle. Adventitious roots of ancient trees protruded from the earth. He wormed into the forest through an entanglement of vines. The thickening canopy choked the forest of sunlight. The air cooled. Luminous eyes lurked around him in the darkness. The disorientating eclipse overwhelmed his senses. He lost all direction until voices bellowed nearby. As he veered towards them, rays of light escaped. A sudden breach of sunlight nearly blinded him; he reached a clearing. Two giants towered before him. We know of the cleverness of small men. Hear our quarrel and aid with your clever mind. Though meager and uncertain, he dared not offend such colossal creatures. Surely, I will listen and offer what I can, he replied. We spent all day quarreling over this rune; in vainfor our strengths are matched. Why dispute over a stone Stone! Do you not know? It will grant a sole desire to its keeper. How about a race? I shall carry the rune further into the forest. When I call, the race will begin. The simple giants agreed without question. He clutched the rune. As he whisked away, his thoughts drifted. He fantasized about freeing the kings daughter. He sighed then whispered, If only I was thereif only I was climbing the stairs of Ominous Tower. And with his next blink, he appeared amidst the towers stairs. He climbed to the highest chamber. But rather than a young princess, he met a wrinkled, thin skinned woman. Her voice quivered, I thought no one wouldno

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one would everPlease, Ive been enchanted by the high priestess of the crystal cave. I am confined heretortured out of spite and jealousy. I regain my youth each night only to wilt again the next day. She stepped in front of a mirror enclosed by a veil of spider webs. Her reflection, though scaled by dust, relieved her delicate porcelain skin. Pained by her misfortune, the young man longed to free her. He listened intently. Water falls beyond the east side of the tower. Near its end lives an enchanted boar. He is ill tempered and cruel, but trapped inside him lives a mystical creature known as Phoenix. Phoenix carries an egg, cradled inside the egg rests a powerful crystal ball. Through it, you can free me. But careful when taking the egg! If it hits the ground, it will burst into flames and the crystal ball will melt. Then, I will remain trapped here until death and all your efforts will be in vain. Outside the tower, he retrieved a spear from the naked bones of an old corpse. A nameless man, probably one of the many fallen brave men the old man spoke of. His brisk, unwavering steps dug into the ground. The intense power of the waterfall sounded as he approached. Near it, he spotted a monstrous boar. Crouched behind trees and vines, he crept closer to the boar. The rancid stench of death filled the air. He observed as it savagely consumed a carcass. In light of the opportunity, he threw

the spear swiftly. The boar let out a furious uproar kicking and charging until it fell over. Phoenix emerged with the egg encased in her clutched talons. An eagle called in the distance. His brother swooped down and pursued her past the waterfall. Sharply, he struck her with his beak. The egg dropped near the shallow end of the sea. Just as it set aflame, a whales tale rose out of the water and a large wave splashed over the fire which cooled it instantly. Transcending luminosity radiated out through its cracks. The eldest son placed the crystal ball in a pouch then ferried aback of the whale toward the cave. When the whale could swim no closer, the eagle carried him up. The eldest son called his mother. Anxious to rid herself of her remaining adversary, she hurried without the slightest suspicion. When she attempted to attack him with her magic, the crystal ball drained her magic and her spells were destroyed, thus restoring the princess. His brothers appeared back in the cave in their natural forms. The three brothers absorbed their mothers power. And since her magic and soul were bonded as one, she withered before their eyes. Drained, her shriveled corpse fell He never saw the princess again. Shortly after she was returned to her castle, her father died. As his only heir, she fulfilled her duty as queen, but never forgot the eyes of the man who saved her. The eldest brother, ever linked to the replenishing crystals of the cave, took his place as a high priest of the Arcane Forest.

55 Marine Creek Reflections

What Lies Beyond


by Leila J. Smith Tarrant County College Northwest Campus Creative Writing Contest Winner Third Place

She sits at the small table with a cup of cocoa in her hands. The tiled balcony gathers warmth as the sun continues to peek around the buildings. She is content. She looks at the double doors across the cobblestone street. How she loves that house with the glass doors framed in blue. She smiles as she thinks about the years she has lived across and above house number 3 on Rue DEmbrasser. A street that belongs to lovers. She closes her eyes and remembers she was once one of those lovers who traded passionate kisses on the steps and in darkened doorways. Sometimes she still shared passionate kisses with Jonquil in the doorway after an evening out. Passion.love.it does not belong just to the young. She knows she is fortunate to love and to be loved by a man like Jonquil. Her smile grows while she thinks about him asleep in their bedroom. He will wake soon then join her as he does most mornings. Their time on the balcony together is..special. Her eyes open and she looks at the blue doors again. So much has happened over the years beyond those doors. Families have come and gone, but this couple has stayed the longest. From her balcony she has seen the wife, Marie, send her smartly dressed husband, Phillip, off with a hug and lingering kiss, looked while Marie watched until Phillip turned the corner. She wondered what Marie did behind the doors after he left. Sometime the smell of baked goods drifted onto the balcony. What a heavenly scent. She would breathe deep, trying to pull the scent into her every pore. Cooking and kitchen warfare never were her strengths. The sounds of doors opening and closing, venders setting up and calling to each other catch her attention. Ah, yes. Daily sounds of Rue DEmbrasser as it slowly breathes life into those who walk its pavement. She

knows some of the inhabitants of this street well. Mrs. De la Coeur, usually the first at the grocery to make sure she gets the best picks of vegetables; Mr. Boyden and Mr. Krenzenski meet outside the bakery for their daily chess game. Those two have played against each other longer than she has been on the street. From her balcony, she calls to them, greets them as they pass by. They wave back, often stopping to tell her the latest happenings in their family sagas. Even Marie and Phillips own family saga unfolded before her eyes. She remembers being shocked to see Maries waistline gently swelling over several months. She watched from above as they awkwardly kissed over her growing belly. How excited she was for them. Jonquil was by her side the day Phillip brought Marie and Morgan from the hospital. They enjoyed the way Phillip gently escorted Marie up the stairs and through the doors as she held the bundled newborn. Morgan becomes her time clockkeeping her informed of the years quickly blending into each other. The blue doors of house number 3 on Rue DEmbrasser are a secret portal into the future. The door closes, Morgan is an infant; the door opens, Morgan is crawling; the door closes, Morgan is three; the door opens, Morgan is learning to ride a bicycle; the door closes, Morgan comes home from the first day of school. She is now a part of the before school routine; daily, Morgan waves and blows a kiss in her direction before dashing down the street. How blessed she has been to watch the blue doors across from her balcony. She rests her hands gently on the arms of her chair. She has news for Jonquil. She releases the breaks and begins to push herself into the apartment. Soonsoon, her balcony will become a magical, secret portal to the future.

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Deep Bathtub
by Elizabeth Hale

She heaved against the bathroom door, closing it as she slid down the smooth glass. Her slender hands, marred with rich purple paint from her latest canvas, groped helplessly at her bedraggled red hair. Her eyes rained hot stinging tears as she tried to comprehend the contents of the Dear Jane letter crumpled at her feet. She stood, eyes scanning the mess that had become her life. She turned on the hot water in the ancient claw foot tub and disrobed. How pathetic she looked standing there naked in front of the mirror. Tiny long scars on the insides of her milky thighs made a road map of pain. She cast her eyes upward, away from the shame of a miserable youth. They met themselves, puffy and forlorn. She disgusted herself. She sat on the edge of the porcelain tub, tracing her nimble fingers just above the water line, when some dark part of her woke deep within. She knew the answer; she would do to him what he had done to her.

She submerged her body in the scalding water, grabbed his old fashioned straight razor apparently he forgot it when he skulked out in the middle of the workday and with teeth gritted against anguish, she carved a deep and eternal T. Blood bloomed along the cut on the once perfect skin. Minutes passed as she penned, in blood, her last statement. Her breathing generated a slow high pitched whistle, like the sound of a ghost train. Her head lulled against the rim of the tub. The need to let go of the anguish eased as she slipped from this world; dead hazel eyes fixed on her suicide note: Thomas, If I were a deep bathtub would you sink down to the bottom of my love?

Question Zachary Freeman

57 Marine Creek Reflections

Boy in the Window Karen Booth

Envisioning
by Pearce Owens Sitting in a place of peace, Day dreaming in awakened sleep. Flying still on my feet, My mind steps away from me. Thinking of precious things.

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Upside Down
by Katherine Flores Nothing was the same, Now that it was turned upside down: The ceiling takes on the floors face As rainfalls and blizzards plummet upwards And flowers droop down as they bloom Frightened business-clad citizens Desperately cling and cry on Stable walls and streetlights, so To prevent reverse skydives into emptiness. Cars attach to black concrete tops With tires made of sticky rubber. Attics revert into basements, Happy smiles into bitter scowls, And typical life into zany madness! Until she solidly lays her head On the floor everything switches Back the way it was before Dizzy, she spins herself around Little braids whip warm, summer air And states to her fuzzy, stuffed companion: Why cant life be flipped upside down?

59 Marine Creek Reflections

Girl in Red Dress Haley Laye

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Relinquished Joseph MacAuley

Sisyphus
by Alex Winters In my Infancy, I worshipped the sun For its light and warmth. As a child, I dotted the skies with pantheons of gods: Ram-headed men, thunder lords, and gods of war. I became a Man and met a grave a singular One A being of Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah. In the future, I will implore the great Logic Computer Of the Cosmos for Answers. Through it all, I wonder if my choices and Beliefs match the truths Ill find In Death.

61 Marine Creek Reflections

Memory Urn Beverly Lundberg

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She
by Victoria Forman I want to quit Dont want to live, Live like this, Quit the world Free my mind If not my self Under the thumb Of the man, Of men, Lady parts offend. (Cant think For myself Women must be chaste.) Dont tell me How to live Cant be trusted With a choice Society says Im to blame when Strangers catcall on the streets, No matter what I wear. Thoughtful men Offer help To lady-loving women (Who clearly need A stiff one to Straighten. Them. Out!) Awaiting a day That may never Arrive Flaunt it, girl! You yell, Leaving me to clean The mess youve left behind Im not sure What to do So I drink Like a fish Beyond all hope And prayer Compelled by crotch You grab my ass Enamored with My need to hide I hate this world, And it hates me, But some day Change will come, If I just Believe

SheBear Abigail Zimmerman

63 Marine Creek Reflections

Skinned
by Ray Haney Who knows the heart of men? The Shadow do! But do we have a Shadow who sees us now? A Shadow, a mirror that sees us through? Through our false and through our true. Cuz we are false. Our world today: It fake; it hollow; and nobody know and nobody say the emperor has no clothes. Naked. Naked we be, more bare-ass than when we was born. Dressed in innocence now skinned to be polite. Polite equals lies: White lies, social lies, life lies. Damn lies! Cowards think were bein nice. Truth scares us. Truth aint always soft or nice or genteel. Truth be harsh, Tough -- brutal. You cant handle the truth! screams Mad Jack, and he screams Truth! Nobody brave enough to anger someone with truth. Nobody strong enough to earn disapproval with truth. Giants no longer walk the earth. So we cower behind simpering smiles, cooing, and kindness. Our shadows all fade Becomin thin and nothin

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S.O.Stress
by Jared Owens Salvation dies in flames inside minds of Veterans everyday, Infinite S.O.S swirling in post-traumatic stress. Entranced by horror, standing alone with his mouth agape. Help never came as soldiers laid dying in wait. Hopeless memories like white hot pain driven bullets Salvation dies in flames inside minds of Veterans everyday, How many men did the madness take? Black and white images of death and distress, Entranced by horror, standing alone with his mouth agape. Evacuation orders turned astray. The rescue helicopters failed quest. Salvation dies in flames inside minds of Veterans everyday, Dead remain buried, graves inside his brain. Powerless, abilities to forget he does not possess, Entranced by horror, standing alone with his mouth agape. Violent memories survive as hunters, he remains their prey. A militant mind at war, though he wears civilian dress. Salvation dies in flames inside minds of Veterans everyday, Entranced by horror, standing alone with his mouth agape.

S.O.S. Don Schol

65 Marine Creek Reflections

Life and Death


by Jesse Proctor

The men were lined up ready to do their duty. Some with rifles, some manned the cannons, some on horseback shouting commands with sabre in hand, others waited behind to do what was expected of them. Many of them could be called boys instead of men, but they all felt some kind of fear. They stood there awaiting orders. Some of them wondered how they ended up standing in formation with rifle in hand opposing those who at one time were fellow countrymen. They reconsidered the reasons they had enlisted. Was it out of duty to country or just the sense of adventure? Was it to experience the glory of battle that had been romanticized in stories but did not actually exist? Whatever the reason there was no turning back now. The majority of the men that had enlisted were issued a firearm, trained to use it and taught to follow orders. The order of the majority was to kill their enemy. A few others were given different jobs of service during the war. Those that had an education like Malachi were given different orders. When Malachi enlisted he expected to be issued his rifle and be given the order of the majority. The needs of the Confederacy expected something different from him. Instead of a firearm to kill, Malachi was issued a set of books and the order to save lives. The books were medical guides. Along with his books were the instruments of his new military trade. Among the tools he was given to perform his job was a tool that would get the most of his attention. In a small box was an amputation kit. The order was given followed by a deafening smoke filled confusion. Cannon blasts rang out. Triggers pulled igniting the powder charges that sent small chunks of lead flying across the field of battle. Men and boys charged to meet the enemy on the field of battle in an attempt

to secure a small piece of land from the hands of their adversary. For the majority, the battle had begun. They were hard at work carrying out their order while Malachi anxiously waited behind in a medical tent to do his duty. The nurses readied the tables. They made sure there were plenty of supplies at the ready. While they rushed back and forth double checking the supplies of towels, water, chloroform and other medical supplies, Malachi waited with his arms crossed preparing for the battle he would have to face shortly. He had read his medical books over and over. His issued tools were ready and he knew his orders. This was not the first time Malachi had done his duty, but it never got easier, only more efficient. The battle was at full tilt. The lucky ones either never got shot or received their bullet in the heart, or better yet, the brain. The battle raged, and Malachis work had just begun. A young private with a bullet wound to the leg bled in pain on the table before Malachi. The lead mini ball had ripped through the soldiers shin, shattering the bone a few inches below the knee. Malachi opened his amputation kit. The tools inside were shiny and sharp like new. He quickly grabbed the tourniquet as a nurse was pouring chloroform on a folded towel. Malachi wrapped the leg with the tourniquet and began to twist. To accomplish his order, he must stop the bleeding. The private screamed into the chloroform soaked towel and a moment later fell into a chemical induced sleep free from the pain. All around wounded were brought in and nurses rushed around like an angry hive of bees. Levees makeshift tourniquets and temporary bandages held back the flood of red. With all the commotion Malachi stayed focus on
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carrying out his order. With the tourniquet in place he reached for the small scalpel like knife and made four rounded cuts a few inches below where he would sever the leg. He fileted the skin like a fish and pulled it up over the knee. His next instrument was the double edged knife. With force and finesse he cut into the meat of the calf muscle all the way around the bones of the young soldiers leg. He encountered some resistance. Malachi continued to cut away meat on the lower portion of the leg that was considered as good as dead until he could see the tendons and connective tissue that stopped his knife. He set the knife aside and took the small serrated blade from its spot in the tray. Like an experienced woodworker, he cut at the tendon with a sawing motion until the only thing holding the leg on was bone. The small knife-like saw was not up for a job like this. As quickly as the knife was put down, Malachi had taken up the center piece of the kit. With a forceful motion he

held the saw flush against the stump that would be the remainder of this young mans leg and cut through the bone. The lower portion of the privates leg was now separated from his body and discarded. The same leg that carried him into battle had now been reduced to a meal for maggots. With the battle crushed leg gone, Malachi took the hook and forceps in hand and fished the artery from the stump. With forceps, he pulled the wet rubbery vein out far enough to get his blood soaked fingers on it and tie it off. Now he folded the fileted skin down over the stump and a nurse quickly stepped in to apply bandages. The battle had raged and was now over. The majority had carried out their order and served death to the enemy. With his tourniquet kit and the rest of his issued medical instruments, Malachi carried out his order to postpone the inevitable. Long after the fighting stopped, Malachis fight to preserve life continued.

Legs John Hartley

67 Marine Creek Reflections

2013 CONTRIBUTORS
Miguel Aguilar Lindsey Anderson Barbara Arabian Mary Ann Barker Katie Beach Carla Beauclair Elizabeth Bickford Destiny Bickle Karen Booth Carmeci Jose Crooke George Edwards Katherine Flores Victoria Forman Zachary Freeman Cindy Gates Melinda Gonzalez-Randall Antonio Guerrero Elizabeth Hale Ray Haney Amy Hatch John Hartley Amy Hatley Joshua Jones Crystal Landrum Haley Laye Richard Lowe Crystal Luna Beverly Lundberg Joseph MacAuley Holden Marrs Alex Martinez Eunjoo Maxwell Whitley McLendon Kimberly Merrett Calen M. Meuless Amy Moisant Ivonne Noria Moreno LeeAnn Olivier Jared Owens Pearce Owens David Parker Jess Proctor Raku Gwen Rhine Chris Rhoades Elizabeth Robertson Jennifer Rodriguez Don Schol Grant Smith Leila Smith Kathleen Spieldenner Harry Stark Patsy Stark Karen Tapia Kimberly VanKirk Shaina Vencill Sarah Wilson Alex Winters Kimberly Wohleb Kyle Woodburn Kevin Zhen Abigail Zimmerman Katheryn Zimmerman Patt Zimmerman Miguel Aguilar Lindsey Anderson Barbara Arabian Mary Ann Barker Katie Beach Carla Beauclair Elizabeth Bickford Destiny Bickle Karen Booth Carmeci Jose Crooke George Edwards Katherine Flores Victoria Forman Zachary Freeman Cindy Gates Melinda Gonzalez-Randall Antonio Guerrero Elizabeth Hale Ray Haney Amy Hatch John Hartley Amy Hatley Joshua Jones Crystal Landrum Haley Laye Richard Lowe Crystal Luna Beverly Lundberg Joseph MacAuley Holden Marrs Alex Martinez Eunjoo Maxwell Whitley McLendon Kimberly Merrett Calen M. Meuless Amy Moisant Ivonne Noria Moreno LeeAnn Olivier Jared Owens Pearce Owens David Parker Jess Proctor Raku Gwen Rhine Chris Rhoades Elizabeth Robertson Jennifer Rodriguez Don Schol Grant Smith Leila Smith Kathleen Spieldenner Harry Stark Patsy Stark Karen Tapia Kimberly VanKirk Shaina Vencill Sarah Wilson Alex Winters Kimberly Wohleb Kyle Woodburn Kevin Zhen Abigail Zimmerman Katheryn Zimmerman Patt Zimmerman Miguel Aguilar Lindsey Anderson Barbara Arabian Mary Ann Barker Katie Beach Carla Beauclair Elizabeth Bickford Destiny Bickle Karen Booth Carmeci Jose Crooke George Edwards Katherine Flores Victoria Forman Zachary Freeman Cindy Gates Melinda Gonzalez-Randall Antonio Guerrero Elizabeth Hale Ray Haney Amy Hatch John Hartley Amy Hatley Joshua Jones Crystal Landrum Haley Laye Richard Lowe Crystal Luna Beverly Lundberg Joseph MacAuley Holden Marrs Alex Martinez Eunjoo Maxwell Whitley McLendon Kimberly Merrett Calen M. Meuless Amy Moisant Ivonne Noria Moreno LeeAnn Olivier Jared Owens Pearce Owens David Parker Jess Proctor Raku Gwen Rhine Chris Rhoades Elizabeth Robertson Jennifer Rodriguez Don Schol Grant Smith Leila Smith Kathleen Spieldenner Harry Stark Patsy Stark Karen Tapia Kimberly VanKirk Shaina Vencill Sarah Wilson Alex Winters Kimberly Wohleb Kyle Woodburn Kevin Zhen Abigail Zimmerman Katheryn Zimmerman Patt Zimmerman Miguel Aguilar Lindsey Anderson Barbara Arabian Mary Ann Barker Katie Beach Carla Beauclair Elizabeth Bickford Destiny Bickle Karen Booth Carmeci Jose Crooke George Edwards Katherine Flores Victoria Forman Zachary Freeman Cindy Gates Melinda GonzalezRandall Antonio Guerrero Elizabeth Hale Ray Haney Amy Hatch John Hartley Amy Hatley Joshua Jones Crystal Landrum Haley Laye Richard Lowe Crystal Luna Beverly Lundberg Joseph MacAuley Holden Marrs Alex Martinez Eunjoo Maxwell Whitley McLendon Kimberly Merrett Calen M. Meuless Amy Moisant Ivonne Noria Moreno LeeAnn Olivier Jared Owens Pearce Owens David Parker Jess Proctor Raku Gwen Rhine Chris Rhoades Elizabeth Robertson Jennifer Rodriguez Don Schol Grant Smith Leila Smith Kathleen Spieldenner Harry Stark Patsy Stark Karen Tapia Kimberly VanKirk Shaina Vencill Sarah Wilson Alex Winters Kimberly Wohleb Kyle Woodburn Kevin Zhen Abigail Zimmerman Katheryn Zimmerman Patt Zimmerman

Myth & Mortality

68

2013 EDITORIAL STAFF


Faculty Editor Theresa D. Heflin, B.S., M.S., Ed.S. General Editor Victoria Forman, English Student Staff Editors Katie Beach, Sociology/Psychology Elizabeth Bickford, Dental Hygiene Raymond Haney, English Crystal Luna, Geology/Engineering Jared Owen, Culinary Arts Kimberly VanKirk, English Kyle Woodburn, Computer Science
Front Cover Art: Sleeping Dreams by Grant Smith, Student | Inside Front Cover Art: Mechanical by Holden Marrs, Student Inside Back Cover Art: Treasures by Amy Hatley, Student | Back Cover Art: Guardian by Kimberly Wohleb, Student

Graphic Designer Patricia Ann Kimble, Coordinator of Graphic Services Photography Rita Short, Staff Photographer

Marine Creek Reflections is a publication produced by the students, faculty and staff of Tarrant County College Northwest Campus. Theresa D. Heflin, Ed.S., Faculty Editor Tarrant County College Northwest Campus 4801 Marine Creek Parkway | Fort Worth, Texas | 76179 817-515-7209 Printed by Tarrant County College Printing Services Press run: 300 copies Copies are available from: Tarrant County College Northwest Campus English Department

eBook available @ http://marinecreekreflections.weebly.com/index.html

Marine Creek Reflections 2013 received invaluable assistance from the following: Rick Heyser, Ph.D. & Staff, Tarrant County College District Printing Services Christine Hubbard, Former Dean of Humanities, Tarrant County College Northwest Campus Teri Tooley, Humanities, Tarrant County College Northwest Campus Additional editing assistance: Angela Chilton, English Department
2013 Tarrant County College NW.MCR.P30.04932.04.13.PAK: An Equal Opportunity Institution/Equal Access to persons with disabilities.

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