Second Prize Kathryn Hedin

Transcription

2013
Tableau
Drought
By
Kathryn
Hedin
You made me happy.
That was a long time ago.
Back when there were still leaves
on the trees
reaching out to the sun to pull in
warmth and the first rain of spring came
trickling down the strands of your
hair
only to run down your cheeks your lips burrowing in your beard and
falling off in sheets.
Gwen
by Brittany Rolston
Pool Ladies (oil painting) by Richard Reese
She was larger than life
a booming voice,
the warmest of smiles,
big arms for hugs,
long stories, tales taller than she
Yet, in the casket she looked so small
2
HSL Poetry Contest
|
Honorable Mention
Midland College
Back when you had a beard
and when we saw love in everything. Before long days and nights in fields
of dirt and drought
with men looking for black gold, deep
in the ground where water can’t reach
required a clean shaven face and your pale, white skin turned deep
brown A color we both laughed at in the front
seat of our car,
--my arm against yours-since we reflected sunlight off of each
other for years.
But, a year came and went And another
And those hairs on your chin,
they are long gone.
no, they don’t send a ripple of chills
from the top of my spine to my
fingertips
Tableau 2013
Photo by Karen Patterson
And I’m only lying to myself by
saying it’s because you shave now.
But really, you haven’t been anywhere
near me since I cried and forced you to
kiss me.
This only lead to a peck on the
forehead
and a bang echoing through our house
As you slammed the door to leave.
Our whole house shook for days until it settled into its current low,
constant weep.
And our skin that bounced our light
back and forth,
recharging and energizing well, now, you absorb everything I cast at you.
and it dies there. words, love, affection.
There is never anything in return.
There is never anything.
We are nothing.
And I sit in our dirt backyard
where there are two dead pecan trees
and a once great, now shriveled oak
and I think about how there has been a
drought in Texas for over two years.
And as I count back
I think I know why everyone prays for
rain, now.
Maybe, it might bring back more than
the grass. And the trees.
Maybe life will seep back into the
foundations that have not so gently
cracked
from neglect
Maybe everyone has a lover they are
waiting patiently for.
So I close my eyes
and pray for rain.
HSL Poetry Contest
|
First Place
3
Tableau, an annual publication to display representative
student work, is a collection of selected writings from the
Midland College English Department’s Annual Creative
Writing Contest and the winners of the Annual Hilda
Simmons Levitt Poetry Contest. Midland College art and
photography students illustrate the writings.
Tableau was created to provide Midland College students
with an opportunity to see their literary efforts in print. The
literary works in the magazine were judged worthy of publication by a panel of professional academics and writers
who require that the work meet strict standards of literary
merit. However, the inclusion of a work in Tableau should
not be construed by the author, the sponsoring organization, or the general public as an implicit Midland College
endorsement of the contents of the work. The contest
coordinators and the Fine Arts and Communications dean
serve as the editorial board and make the final decisions
on what literary works are included in the Tableau.
The Tableau staff reserves the right to edit for space limitations but will strive to preserve the original content and
meaning of each piece. Tableau is produced through the
cooperation of the Midland College English and Communication departments.
Printed by Qualified Printers, Midland, Texas.
© 2013 Midland College Communication Department
Rebecca T. Watson
Contents
Gwen by Brittany Rolston ............................................................
Drought by Kathryn Hedin ........................................................
My New Song by Eniola Olowookere ..................................
Three poems by Corey Wood .................................................
Two poems by Kathryn Hedin ................................................
It Starts With Leaving Tonight by Blake Rackley ...
Thanks, Life! by Bethany Pitchford ......................................
Words Before the Dawn by Amber Power ......................
Something More by Ashley Cross ........................................
Gold Dust by Amber Power ......................................................
The Sound of Lungs Expanding by Corey Wood .....
What’s a Smart Question? by Michael Gutierrez .....
Beating the Heat by Rachel Harmon .................................
When You See a Deer... by Blake Rackley .......................
Marriage by the Hour by Corey Wood ............................
Hollywood Story by Blake Rackley ......................................
My Scariest Moment by Asley Pillado ..............................
Dog Tags by Jasmine Lewis ......................................................
Somewhere by John Bosworth ................................................
Creative Writing Contest
At the Spring 2011 Creative Writing Awards Ceremony, the contest was
renamed the Rebecca Watson Creative Writing Contest to honor Watson,
who was instrumental in the creation of the contest in 1975. Watson retired
in May 2011 after 35 years with the college.
Creative Writing Contest Judges:
Fiction
Allia Mariano, Instructor of Writing and Composition,
McNeese State University
Scott Thomason, Instructor of Writing and Composition,
St. Joseph’s University
Poetry
Ross Feeler, Instructor of English and Clark House
Writer-in-Residence, Texas State University
Narrative Essay
Lorraine Slattery, freelance writer living in Salzburg, Austria
Helen Delahunty, retired English teacher living in Newry,
Ireland
[email protected] | 432-685-5597
Hilda Simmons Levitt Poetry Contest
Hilda Simmons Levitt
The Hilda Simmons Levitt Poetry Contest
is in its 25th year. The late Stanley Levitt
4
Contest Information
established the contest in 1986 in memory
of his wife, Hilda, who had taken many
classes at Midland College.
Mrs. Levitt graduated with honors from
Louisiana State University with a degree in
journalism. At LSU, she studied English with
Poet Robert Penn Warren. From 1952 until
she died in 1986, Mrs. Levitt lived in Midland
where she took creative writing courses at
Midland College.
After Mr. Levitt died in 1994, the
Levitt’s children, Carol Levitt Schwartz, of
Washington, D.C., and John Simmons Levitt,
who died in 2004, pledged to continue to
support the contest. Mrs. Schwartz continues
to fund the yearly awards.
For 35 years, the Levitts owned and
operated the General Clothing Store on East
Florida Street. Mrs. Schwartz still owns her
childhood home on Midland’s south side.
The judge this year was William Wenthe,
the author of three collections of poetry: The
Birds of Hoboken, Not Till We Are Lost, and
most recently, Words Before Dawn, published
in October 2012 by LSU Press.
Additionally his poems have appeared
in Poetry Magazine, The Paris Review, The
Southern Review, Tin House, The Georgia
Review, TriQuarterly and many other
journals, and have earned him numerous
accolades including fellowships from the
National Endowment of the Arts and the
Texas Commission on the Arts, as well as
the Natalie Ornish Poetry Prize, the Everett
Southwest Literary Award, and two Pushcart
Prizes.
Born and raised in New Jersey, Wenthe
earned his B.A. from College of the Holy
Cross, and his M.A. and Ph.D. from University
of Virginia.
He now lives in Lubbock and is professor
of creative writing and modern poetry at
Texas Tech University, where he has taught
since 1992.
Midland College
HSL Poetry | Honorable Mention ................................................
HSL Poetry | First Place ..................................................................
HSL Poetry | Fourth Place ..............................................................
CWC Poetry | First Place ................................................................
CWC Poetry | Second Place ...........................................................
HSL Poetry | Third Place ................................................................
CWC Fiction | Third Place .............................................................
CWC Narrative Essay | Third Place ...........................................
CWC Poetry | Third Place ..............................................................
CWC Fiction | Second Place ..........................................................
HSL Poetry | Honorable Mention ...............................................
CWC Fiction | First Place ...............................................................
CWC Narrative Essay | First Place .............................................
CWC Fiction | Honorable Mention ............................................
CWC Narrative Essay | Honorable Mention ..........................
CWC Narrative Essay | Second Place ........................................
HSL Poetry | Second Place .............................................................
2
3
6-7
8-9
10-11
12-13
14
15
16-17
18
19
20
21
22-23
24-25
26-27
28-29
30
31
Staff
Editor
Troy Pardue
Production Staff
Mary Margaret Peterson
Becca Byrne
Vanessa Alvarado
Jacob Plunkett
Denise Sanchez
Allison
Chair of Journalism
Bob Templeton
Student Publications Lab
Instructor
Kristen Covington
Creative Writing
Contest Coordinator
Diane Allen
Cover Art:
Hilda Simmons Levitt
Contest
Coordinator
Brendan Egan
Dean of Fine Arts &
Communications
Billy Feeler
Girl with the Flower Headdress
by Amanda Repnak
Editor’s Note: The following writers received awards in the Rebecca Watson Creative Writing Contest or the Hilda Simmons Levitt Contest.
However, due to limited space, these pieces were not published.
Berlin by Victoria Orona, HSL Poetry Honorable Mention
Cover Up by Jordan Trimble, HSL Poetry Honorable Mention
The Aftermath by Raudel Arteaga, RTWCWC Poetry Honorable
Mention
Modern-Day Slavery by Amber Gonzalez, RTWCWC Poetry Honorable
Mention
Tableau 2013
His Liquid Queen by Kelsea Rice, RTWCWC Poetry Honorable
Mention
Abstruse Sequestered Abstraction by Dusty McCollum, RTWCWC
Poetry Honorable Mention
Soul Letter by Hailey Hopkins, RTWCWC Poetry Honorable Mention
Table of Contents
5
My
New
Song
By Eniola Olowookere
My home is an old man.
He stretches his tired bones, longing calmness.
I run my shaking toes down his pink walls, grave out my sister’s initials.
My eyes look the way a mirror feels.
I don’t miss you at all.
My legs bring me to the house.
Red and blue angels sit on the roof, their eyes bore into me.
My crown of light breaks, I’ve seen too much.
A shot of strobe light anesthesia and I’ll be fine cause I’m starting to feel frosty.
The sprain nails of ransom crack my degrading soul.
My face is round as clear and innocent as lightning.
I glide through the white sky, rest my head on a big star.
Bola can’t stay stationary, reflection scream their lungs out.
The star may drop; a golden pulsar in the night.
As the singing sun hides behind the reflective moon.
Reflective calm hides the pleasant song, blackmail my cosmic enjoyment.
J’ai une ame soliataire.
Daisies implore me to keep them secure in my patio.
As the sun commence a new day, my new song.
Photo by Jacob Plunkett
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HSL Poetry Contest
|
Fourth Place
Midland College
Tableau 2013
HSL Poetry Contest
|
Fourth Place
7
Grand Prize
Corey Wood
A Quiet Dinner
Because we have spoken of everything
that has happened today, we sit in knowing silence.
The sky is becoming rust outside
as we listen to the whining symphony
of metal kissing porcelain.
You look up from your plate
long enough to show a soft smile;
I am back at that park
when your hands gripped
tightly to a kite string.
You laughed at the frivolous wind
as you chased the twisting kite.
Later, we lay in the grass as stars
pin-pricked through the dark sky,
whispering stories to one another
scared of the small slivers of air
falling between our words. We talked
the moon into existence that night
under the warm hum of summer,
the white noise of ourselves.
And now we sit, content in knowing
the other sits across from us,
needing no noise other than forks
against plates and the comforting sigh
of our lungs expanding.
Onions
Stay here. Speak of familiar things for a while.
-Wallace Stevens – Debris of Life and Mind
When I asked you to speak of familiar things
you spoke of onions, the smell working its way
into your nostrils, the dull sting of earth and must
permeating into your Popo’s hands,
brown and strong, speckled with the dirt
of his garden. I imagine these hands being of leather
although that is not fair. I never felt his fingers
on my chin, letting the damp scent of earth
work its way into my skin. Maybe I am romanticizing
the idea of him, of his culture etched into the dark
lines weaving across his palms (my pale hands
don’t know where they came from) as he pulled
from the earth, letting his fingers grip tightly
to the roots. Were they strong
against your cheek; could you feel the grit of dirt
massaging its way into your dimples? Did he speak
to you in that tongue I adore so much? Saying
te quiero mija, te quiero.
I Saw it on the News
When I saw it, the magnificent fire climbing
against the deep blue of midnight, the headlights slicing
unforgiving through the darkness, the one woman –
you would expect her to be a man
because we equivalate bravery with manhood,
but it was a woman, with her arms flailing
her voice piercing through the chaos of car horns
and tears, screaming at the pedestrians standing
idly by, coaxing a frenzy of anti-human nature
until there was a mob standing by the burning
car, lifting the twisted metal in unison
against the bright squeals of steel caving in.
The man, grabbing the limp arm of a body
and pulling it desperately away from the wreckage.
When I saw this, I believed that maybe
just maybe, we are connected, that our hearts
beat just the same as the frantic woman’s,
the man’s pulling the body, the body’s dull thud
being pounded back into life by a paramedic.
Photo by Mary Margaret Peterson
8
|
First Place
|
Poetry
Midland College
Tableau 2013
|
First Place
|
Poetry
9
Riptide
The last time you left me
(the number of which I lost count)
I stumbled down to the end of the dock,
my feet catching every odd warped, broken board
Salt from the air mingling with the
salt on my cheeks.
I made it to the end and sat
crumbled really
to watch the waves come
and go
(as you went).
Second Prize
Kathryn Hedin
Reaching up with every swell
the waves threatened to take hold
and drag me
down
down
d
o
w
n
Oh-But they did not know
that my
mind
body
heart
were so heavy
that these weathered boards were itching for relief
(as I was)
ready to give way
and then,
surely then,
--unassisted-I would sink.
Photo by Kristen Eads Covington
10
|
Second Place
|
Poetry
Midland College
Mourning
At your burial
The Everlasting is his heritage
I could only wonder how the sun
And he shall rest peacefully
Had the nerve to shine
Upon his lying place
But it did.
And let us say:
And it does.
Amen.
Photo by Becca Byrne
Tableau 2013
|
Second Place
|
Poetry
11
I’m sitting up past my bedtime
Staring down the clock
Tossing a ball in my hands
In my head I’m tossing thoughts
There’s a gig tomorrow in Flagstaff
My name’s on the signup sheet
I’m just a tank of gas away
But I can’t seem to move my feet
Cause tomorrow around 9am
A mid-term has my name on it too
Tonight’s the night I must decide
Chase the dreams or follow “suits”
What would happen if I took the
leap?
I guess I’ll just have to wait and see
My bags are in the pickup
And my head is in the clouds
But to make my dream reality
I’ve gotta ditch this town
Those who stay here forever
Only show of their regrets
So I’m cashing in all my chips
And placing the biggest bet
On my dreams
And it all starts with leaving tonight
When momma wakes up tomorrow
She’ll cry a pool of tears
When dad sees what I threw away
He’ll scream then he’ll drink beer
On my dreams
Now I’m here in Nashville
The rain is pouring down
But I close my eyes and go to sleep
Here in my new house
I guess dreamers might be crazy
For doing what they do
But the crazy thing about us
dreamers
Is that we make our dreams come
true
On my dreams
I’m sitting up past my bedtime
Staring down the clock
Tossing a ball in my hands
In my head I’m tossing thoughts
Word travels fast around this town
Can’t wait to read the lips
And hear the groans of my
townsfolk
Saying, “What a stupid kid.”
It starts with leaving tonight
Photo by Kristen Mitchell
by Blake Rackley
12
HSL Poetry Contest
|
Third Place
Midland College
Tableau 2013
It’ll be behind me when I take the
leap
There’s nothing I can do now
But just wait and see
HSL Poetry Contest
|
Third Place
13
Thanks, Life! by Bethany Pitchford
The rickety old fan made an annoying
didn’t fully understand it until that week.
noise. I just stood there, unable to move.
“I already miss Midland. Did I menYou would have thought my feet were cetion that they don’t make band aids for
mented to that floor. Madison’s sobs rever- broken hearts?” I asked my best friend
berated throughout our end of the house.
while texting her on the way to Kermit.
This is it. This day is finally here. We’re
Maybe that’s why heart break is so
about to leave. A trip down memory lane.
hard to recover from. There’s no magic
I’d held myself together fairly well, all
band aid or super glue to try and hold the
things considered. I’d let it go and finally
pieces together before they shatter. You
come to accept it. Acceptance is hard.
just have to pick them up all the fragile
Hell, moving is hard. You can take the
pieces one by one and attempt to put the
house, but not the memories. Challenge
puzzle back together. It’s starting ALL the
accepted. I flipped off the living room
way over. Starting all the way over is no
light, and my heart broke a little more.
easy task. We had been in that house for
How can a person’s heart break when it’s
twelve years-most of my life, and it was
already been shattered to pieces?
the only “home” I remembered. Talk about
I saw my reflection in the screen door.
a high school graduation present. Thanks
“You’ll never forget your life here. It’ll life.
always be a part of you. This is the house
“I thought if I could touch this place
that built you.
That scar on
your heart will
make you stronger in time. Scars
don’t fully heal
for a reason, you
know,” my reflection said. “If you
don’t go now,
you never will.
Now, move your
ass and don’t
shed too many
tears. You don’t
need to. Been
there. Done that
enough. Deep
Scream (mixed media) by Kristen Mitchell
down, you might
be okay. You’re tough. But don’t take self- or feel it, this brokenness inside me might
credit for that one. You know you couldn’t start healing…”
make it without the people that love you.”
“NO!” I exclaimed, quickly changing
Mom waited for a minute before she
the radio station.
drove off, like she did at the front door. It
“We cannot handle that song yet.”
was good to take a moment. It helped my
People think that once you find a new
Mom, my sister and I let go again. It was
house, that’s it’s all magically okay again.
okay, in a bizarre sort of way.
That is not true. Homesick still comes. The
Mom started to pull away, and my
hurt of leaving is still there. Sometimes I
heart sank 2,663,199 stories. Suddenly, I
think that if I wish with every part of me,
was petrified, but not hysterical. I wanted
we’ll wake up at home one day. Life does
to climb over the boxes, reach out the
not work that way, or turn out the way we
window, and hang on for dear life. I heard
think it should. People are mean and the
somewhere in a book once that “young
good guy does not always win. Nothing
people don’t realize that heart break can
changes a person’s view on fairy tales and
catch up with you on any given day” but
reality quite like growing up does. Reality
14
|
Third Place |
Fiction
sucks sometimes. Change happens. Life is
not always great, and that’s just the way it
is, plain and simple.
What hurt the most was not being able
to do anything to change the situation.
There is nothing comparable to feeling and
being powerless. Completely powerless.
All we could do was wait. And wait. And
keep waiting. My parents tried everything
to fix it, but nothing worked.
That is what happens when the land
lord keeps the money instead of paying
the bank. It is a sad story, but it is a reality.
Our land lord turned out to be a crook in
the end, and most likely got away with
every bit of it. Leaving hurts. But what’s
even harder to deal with is the anger at the
person responsible.
There’s not a particular moment when
a place starts to
feel like home. I
just had to make
a conscience
decision to start
making the most
of everyday so
homesickness
wouldn’t get
the best of me.
There’s no cure
for it except
Patience and
Time. Having the
patience to give
Time, TIME, is
one of the hardest
things ever, but
it is all I could do.
Wait. Wait for the hurt to be easier to deal
with and for the answer to the question
“why.” Sometimes the only answer is
because GOD said so. Other times, He is
gracious enough to explain more.
I didn’t know what strong meant until
it was the only option. The hurt will never
completely go away. But when something
as big as that happens, you come to a certain point and realize that you’ve actually,
finally, healed. It should never be forgotten
because even though we still had to pay
him, it does not mean he was right. And
also because the move caused by the actions of a greedy person forever changed
my world.
Midland College
Words Before the Dawn
by Amber Power
I don’t know what it is about morning,
The sun peeking over the horizon,
And the pink and orange tones glowing across the sky,
Putting my cigarette up to my lips,
Smoke drifting away in the wind,
And the breeze swirling around, which cannot be seen.
Maybe it’s the sound of rolling thunder,
Or the soft tones of ragtime,
With static of cars on the street,
And the birds are chirping hello.
Maybe it’s the smell of you still on my clothes, lingering.
Maybe it’s the way I sip my tea.
In this peaceful moment of early morning,
My mind just kind of drifts,
Drifts away as I close my eyes.
My thoughts whisper to me;
Sense, reason, theory.
What does this entirely mean?
West Texas Beauty (Oil Painting) by Eryn Williams
Tableau 2013
HSL Poetry Contest
|
Honorable Mention
15
Something More by Ashley Cross
He simply hangs in the air, dreaming
of what it is to fly. Others of his kind
have experienced that true freedom,
but he has not. He is different; not
falling, not flying. Gravity attempts to
drag him down, but he is suspended,
hanging, dreaming. He guards my
room with his cold, glittering eyes and
sharp talons. The flickering tongue of
flame roaring out from between his
razor-like teeth from the cavernous
depths of his maw frightens away
intruders. In his mind, he challenges
all who enter: Who dares to enter
this place, the place guarded by me,
the fearsome Jabberwocky? Who
challenges me? Yet, for all of this, he
is still simply a wooden carving, held
aloft by fishing line, attached to wings
by paperclips, sparkling red fabric
cut to look like flames glued to his
muzzle, seemingly a dragon. But can
he be called a dragon if he cannot fly,
breathe fire or escape from his bonds?
What would cause a person to label
him as either a dragon or a toy? The
answer: imagination. My dragon is
what I make of him. If I believe that
he is a dragon guarding my room, he
is. What is he without imagination?
A wooden toy. What am I without
imagination? Another face in a crowd
of faces? Another letter in a stack of
letters? Another body, consuming the
oxygen and fresh water of the world?
Passive observer? Hunter? Prey? As
of yet, I do not know. My life revolves
around imagination, dreams, freedom,
and unanswerable questions.
I cannot imagine a world without
imagination. I do not want to. That
life, that existence, would be a cruel
and miserable one, without color or
thought or (I shudder to even think
it) books. Reading is my passion,
and at times I cannot believe how
16
|
imagination comes to life with ink
on paper. How can simple words
convey such a sense of friendship and
belonging? Just as wood comes to life
with my dragon, stories come to life
with imagination. The brilliance and
creativity housed within the covers of
a book show me what I desire for my
future. I want with all of my being to
muster up the courage and ability to
join the brave ranks of people with
the strength and fortitude to put their
thoughts on paper and out in the world
for all to criticize. They inspire me to
let my imagination soar away, even if
I cannot keep up with it. Eventually,
after enough time has passed, I will
catch up.
Dreaming keeps me alive. I
live through my dreams, both
my subconscious dreams and my
conscious daydreams. Random and
confusing as they are, these dreams
give me a purpose. At times, I feel
that I live in a perpetual fantasy world
and my dreams show me glimpses of
reality. I never want to quit dreaming
because dreams unlock my mind. My
wooden dragon, Jabberwocky, dreams.
I know he does. He is waiting for the
day when his dreams become reality,
when he can fly free instead of being
hung from a hook. I can empathize. I
too am waiting for my dreams to come
alive by working for them and—in the
more impossible situations—writing
about them.
Is freedom not what every being
wants? Sentient or not, capable of
speech or not, every creature needs
freedom. Caged tigers pace in their
cages, children wish to leave their
homes and be independent, selfsustaining. My definition of freedom
is free of all bonds and ties. Freedom
Third Place |
Narrative Essay
for me is a lonely place then. If a
person were free of all ties, nothing
would keep them anywhere. With no
family to return to, no home, a being
would simply be a wandering soul
at the mercy of the wind. Temporary
freedom may be what I seek.
Temporary freedom is the freedom
I am close to getting in my dreams:
nothing holds my ethereal soul down
except for my corporeal body. Reality
is the only thing in the way of my
dreams and freedom.
Ah, the unanswerable questions
in life. The question “why?” seems
prevalent. What person has not asked
“why?” at one point in their life? I
question everything because questions
lead to learning. Even if a person does
not find the answer to their question,
the search will teach them something
valuable about themselves and their
world. My Jabberwocky no doubt
questions his life. He wonders why he
cannot fly as do others of his species.
He questions why his fire does not
burn, why the flames does not smell
of sulfur. Why does no one hear my
warning, fear my presence? Why?
My carved dragon represents who I
am in many different ways. He comes
to life with imagination, dreams,
questions, and he longs for freedom.
Without any of these intangible items,
he is a still, lifeless carving. Without
any of these intangible items, I do not
matter. I am just another face, yet with
my words and imagination, my dreams
and questions, I too can take to the air
and become something more.
Behind These Lion Eyes (Print) by Rae Lynn Fulton
Midland College
Tableau 2013
|
Third Place |
Narrative Essay
17
My phone rang, shattering the small fog
of dreams hanging over my head. I looked
at the clock, blood red numbers blinking
2:58. I grabbed my phone, desperate to
silence the sound of bells ringing through
my room.
“Help me.” The words exhaled through
the phone like smoke, soft and lingering.
“Maria?” I asked while climbing out of
bed finding the first pair of shorts on my
floor. She was scared, terrified. I could
hear it in her voice. I grabbed a shirt and
keys off my coffee table as I headed out
the door.
“He’s in here. In my room.” Her voice
held the same eerie tone.
“Who’s there?” I knew the answer. Mr.
Grisham, the man who owned the house
before her. He was killed during a break
in, his throat slit. A small detail the realtor
forgot to tell us. I reached my car in a full
sprint.
“Mr. Grisham.” I turned my keys listening to the engine moan to life. Of course
she is fine. I knew this. Mr. Grisham was
dead, but he was very much alive to her.
She needed me there.
“It’s okay babe. Just calm down.” I
could hear a whimper through the phone;
she was crying.
“He…he…he has a knife.” Chills slithered up my spine. It was her voice,
the low air of it washing over me
like cold water. It was bad this
time. She’d had scares before, often
claiming to feel hot, moist breath on
the back of her neck when she was
alone, and even one time claiming he
was standing at the foot of her bed.
But never this, never scared for her
life.
“I need you to calm down babe.”
The asphalt of Indiana Avenue was
slinging by at close to one-hundred
miles an hour. The air sliced through
my window. “It’s all in your head.”
“It’s not in my fucking head.” She
screamed
the pitch
of a crazy
woman.
High and
shrill,
cutting
into my
eardrums.
I had to get
there. She
needed me.
Third Prize
Amber Power
Gold Dust
We are all gilded.
We put smiles on our faces
and we act as if we are covered in gold.
We believe we are happy,
Yet we lie and we cheat,
And on the inside we’re rusted.
Perfected robots, never at fault,
When beneath that facade
We’re dark, and we’re dangerous, and we don’t care at all.
I pushed my accelerator as far as it would
go, my car climbed to 115, ignoring the
haunting yellow blinking of caution lights.
“Just stay on the line babe. I’m right
here.” The hairs on my neck were standing straight up as my car blew past 4th
Street. Only a few more miles. I couldn’t
shake the feeling that this was real, of
course it wasn’t, but something in the
back of my head kept asking what if it is?
I remembered the first time Maria told me
about the breathing on her neck, the damp
warmth of someone else’s lungs. It freaked
me out at the time as she explained being
able to hear him exhale behind her. I blew
through a red light.
“He’s coming towards me.” Tears
soaked through her voice. She needed me.
“I’m gonna die.”
“No you aren’t baby. Just stay on the
line. I’m right here. Nothing is going to
hurt you.”
Police sirens flooded into my rearview, I
wasn’t stopping. Not until I knew she was
okay. “It isn’t re..” Her scream rattled my
phone, forcing it’s way into my ear drum.
“No, no , no!”
“Baby, babe… Maria” I screamed into
the phone as I saw her house up ahead. I
heard gurgling, deep heavy breathing. At
The sound
of lungs
expanding
by Corey Wood
least she was still breathing. She is okay.
I jumped out of my car without killing
the engine. The sound of sirens wailed
loudly behind me. I ran for the door.
“Sir, put your hands above your head.”
“My girlfriend!” I screamed, running
back to my car to get the keys. “Someone
is in there with her. I heard her scream.”
This came out in one breath, loud and cluttered. The officer took his hand away from
his belt, unsure of what to do. I didn’t have
time for a verdict, I got my keys and went
for the door. The house was dark, unnaturally dark. I listened for any kind of sound,
a sign she was okay. All I heard was the
cop outside spitting codes into his walkie.
He followed in behind me as I headed for
her bedroom, tiptoeing.
Maria’s legs were
protruding from her closet.
A dark pool was seeping across the door frame.
Everything became numb: I
saw the body without registering the blood coming from the
neck, I could smell the metallic
taste of copper, hear the cop into
his walkie “We’ve got a suicide.
Front street, house.” The cop
shook my shoulder, snapping me
into reality.
“What’s the address?” His voice
was tight and frantic. I didn’t respond, frozen. “Son, I’m gonna…”
He kept talking, but I wasn’t
listening. The hairs on my neck
were tickled slightly, air – damp
and hot – was climbing down
my spine, I could smell his
breath, Mr. Grisham’s rancid,
death-like breath.
Girl with the Flower Headdress (Sculpture) by Amanda Repnak
18
|
Third Place |
Poetry
Midland College
Photo by Mary Margaret Peterson
Tableau 2013
|
Second Place
|
Fiction
19
What’s a Smart Question? by Michael Gutierrez
A generation is reared at a modest hazelnut table.
The foundation of
Beating the Heat by Rachel Harmon
creativity is upheld by four husky farm table legs.
Just a small oblong natural wood table; what sustenance,
gives strength to the body, to the heart, to the mind?
What gets consumed? Everything gets consumed
food, words, ideas and love.
The smooth flat surface exposes a heritage on the both side and imagination is born,
from your seat you can see the ocean, mountains, and great civilizations.
What’s a smart question, daddy?
What’s a four letter word,
spelled and spoken the same in every language?
Why did you name me Bella?
Every question
is a smart question.
TAXI,
because it means beautiful,
did you finish your Homework?
Why did the angel come and talk to Mary?
I’m a bird right, Daddy, not a worm?
God sent him.
When can I walk to school alone, Daddy?
You’re a bird, Faith,
when you’re 19!
From the le corner of the table a warrior arises, arm wrestling and staring contest,
great battles are raged and wars are forgoen.
Can we play the Shark-man?
Dolphins drink milk, like Tristan. Dolphins’ are mammals and like Tristan.
Mama! What was your high, today?
What was your low?
Right now is my high!
The kids were a little batty.
On these four corners of the table everyone has a voice and a view.
What structure could be more important than the family table structure?
Their strength comes from what we teach them and how they believe.
The real symbol of God’s love and the only legacy we leave, our children.
What is our birthright? At the table, ask all the smart questions, you can ask.
20
HSL Poetry Contest
|
Honorable Mention
Midland College
Tableau 2013
|
First Place |
Fiction
21
Photo by Troy Pardue
When you see a deer you see Bambi,
I see antlers on the wall...
Blake Rackley
“When You See A Deer You See Bambi,
I See Antlers Up On The Wall…”
November 5th, 2011, 5 a.m. I was woken up by my friend’s dad. I didn’t get out
of bed easily though. After being asleep
only 5 hours, it was time to tackle the day,
or should I say the dawn. It was opening
day in Schleicher County for the 2011
deer season. My friend had invited me to
go down to his ranch house with some
other family and friends to experience
the greatness that was the deer season.
Having never been, I jumped at the chance
22
|
when it was offered. Now, I was groggily
filing through my suitcase trying to put on
articles of clothing appropriate for hunting, cold weather, and gutting a deer, but
I didn’t mind. If this day ended with me
taking home a deer of my own, it would
mean the world in more ways than one.
After what seemed like a gallon of
coffee, I was finally awake enough to be
excited for the task at hand. However, as
excited as I was at the moment, it was
about equal to the nervousness I felt.
I found out the night before I’d be by
First Place
|
Narrative Essay
myself in a deer blind, I’d handle a gun I’d
never used, and would have to shoot it for
the first time if a deer came my way. I had
never done any of these things prior to this
trip. Why did they think I could do this? I
was nervous, but I put on my bravest face
and gave a smile when told it was time to
head out.
After about 15 minutes of getting lost,
finding my way, and wrestling up the
ladder to the blind, I was in position and
ready to go for whatever may come my
way. As I sat by myself in the stillness of
Midland College
the early morning, a sense of calmness
came over me, I was beneath a sky full
of stars; in peace and quiet and I was sitting completely still. It felt soul-warming
almost to be that serene seeing as how the
morning started off groggy with a stomach full of worry and nerves. I felt in my
heart I was ready for the task at hand. That
was, until the deer feeder went off without
warning. It sounded like the devil himself
was cackling. But after I realized that what
I heard was normal, I resumed my calm
mood and prepared myself once again.
As the sun started to peek over the
hills that lined the ranch horizon, I heard
noises. I took out my binoculars so I could
match what my ears were hearing; it had
only been 20 minutes since the feeder
sent me into a premature heart attack. But
I was already hearing rustling and what
seemed to be a faint crunching noise.
As I looked through the binoculars, I not
only saw what my ears were hearing but
what I needed to see to pull the gun from
my lap and put it into position. There in
the distance, about 100 feet away stood a
tall, 8-point buck. He was enjoying what
he thought was breakfast, but to me was
bait.
Was this it? Am I the one doing this?
It’s now or never. These thoughts all
raced through my head as I set the gun up,
looked through the scope, and put the gun
on fire mode. I took a deep breath, said a
prayer, closed my eyes (not recommended), and pulled the trigger. The shot rang
out loudly through the acres of the ranch. I
made myself open my eyes. The deer I had
my eye on was lying on the ground. “I did
it. I GOT HIM!” I had said to myself.
Following what I’d been told, I waited
15 or so minutes before I walked down
and over to the deer to double check that
he truly was no longer living. As I walked
over, any nerves from the morning that
remained from earlier were replaced with
excitement as I took each step closer to
my deer. My deer…that felt so cool to
think about. Nobody assisted me, told me
when to shoot, or pointed out the deer
for the picking. I felt extremely manly at
that moment. The best part was texting
my friend’s dad with the message, “Guess
whose gun shot that was!?”
That moment was a high marker in my
life timeline. It was a first time experience,
it was emotionally draining, but I enjoyed
it all thoroughly. But it was also a small
Tableau 2013
dream realized that, in the recesses of my
mind, I told myself would most likely
never come to pass. As life would have
it, growing up I didn’t really have a dad
around to teach me the things a young boy
is supposed to learn from his daddy. My
dad was around enough to be able to say
he supported us financially, but that was
about the extent of it.
Despite this setback, I grew up quite
normally in the midst of the absence. My
mother worked hard and raised my brother
and me to work, love yet fear God, and be
the best we can be. However, around age
eighteen, I looked around and saw how
much I had been or was currently missing
as a growing man. I would have just been
happy with some guy friend’s to hang
out with. My mom had always taught me
and my brother to pray. In the situation
I was in, that’s exactly what I did. I told
God that just wanted a good group of guy
friends to hang out with and get to experi-
“
I had a dream
for myself
and I got see it
come to pass
in the most
unimaginable
way.
”
ence the stuff I missed out on growing up
or was presently missing.
In November 2010, I was sitting on the
couch in my living room watching my
boxed series of “FRIENDS,” thinking of
how cool it’d be to shoot a deer of my
own. In November 2011, I was silently
thankful for that answered prayer as I
stood over my very own deer. I thought of
the task I had accomplished just minutes
before along with all the other wonderful
things that had happened in the last 365
days. I had not only got one guy friend,
but six who are the greatest friends I could
ask for. They taught me how to play basCreative Writing Contest
|
ketball, baseball, golf, a plethora of video
games, how to shoot a gun, and so much
more.
The experience I had is one that is
shared by many men and even some
women in the world, day in and day out.
So, to say it was unique in the sense of me
killing a woodland creature wouldn’t say
much. But the unseen thoughts, emotions,
and feelings that came with the experience are what made it unique to me. I
had honestly thought an event as great as
killing and gutting my own deer would
never come to pass. Whether anyone reads
this and feels exactly how I did at the
moment isn’t what I’m after. What matters
and what I choose to share is that I had a
dream for myself and I got see it come to
pass in the most unimaginable way.
That’s been a reoccurring theme in my
life. I have certain goals and dreams that
I would like to pursue and they come to
pass, but almost never in the way I think
they will. That’s where I believe a spiritual lesson was learned in what I accomplished. The token of faith for something
hoped for is a great one. So many times,
people try to make thing happen on their
own and what they want is not what they
expected, or they fail. But when it comes
to pass unexpectedly, it seems like such
a blessing and a lifelong memory to the
person it’s happening to. I feel that’s
something I’d want to share with someone
who reads this narrative.
The biggest way this event impacted me
is how I plan to put my experience to good
use in the future. I plan on sharing this
experience with my son or sons when they
are old enough to do so. A goal I have set
from the experience is to make sure that
the experiences that I have been blessed
with; I can pass onto my kids. I don’t
want my kids to have to go elsewhere to
experience the things a father should teach
his children. Why go to friends, family, or
outsiders when the one who is supposed to
be teaching them is teaching them?
As I grow and the next generation
comes up behind me, I will be a leader to
my children and grandchildren, both son
and daughter. In my opinion, this was the
unseen but most significant part of my
experience with my deer. It is more than
antlers up on my bedroom wall. It is a vow
to me and my future kids to never give up
on being the best person, friend, and father
I can be.
First Place
|
Narrative Essay
23
Photo by Denise Sanchez
Marriage by the Hour
by Blake Rackley
Travis’ fingers swam through
her thick locks of dark brown hair.
He could smell her shampoo from
where he was laying, something
citrusy, different from her normal
ocean breeze scent. He closed his
eyes and let her smell sink into his
nostrils, but she was even wearing
different perfume today.
“What perfume are you wearing
babe?” She turned around and
looked at him with soft brown
24
|
eyes. Her face held the look of
slight confusion.
“I think it’s called absolutely
irresistible or something like that.”
“What happened to the perfume
you usually wear?” He admired
the lines slowly forming on her
forehead as she tried to remember
what happened to her favorite
perfume.
“Must have used it all.” Travis
leaned over to kiss her.
Honorable Mention
|
Fiction
“I’ll buy you some more.”
They laid in silence for a while;
Travis wasn’t sure how long it was,
but figured Catherine was keeping
track of time. She kept glancing up
at the clock, probably running the
list of today’s errands through her
head. Catherine had always been
the practical one and he had always
been the romantic. He couldn’t
watch the clock or worry about the
day after they had sex; he had to
Midland College
lie next to her naked, two skeletons
completely exposed, and let his
mind wonder through the slide
show of memories they had created
together. The more he thought
about her, the more emotional
he got. It was really a boring
story- how they’d fallen in love
– began dating high school and
somehow found a way to work the
relationship through the busy years
of college. Now it was almost ten
years since they had gotten married
in a small church in their home
town, and he was still hopelessly in
love with her.
“I love you Catherine.” He
guided her face lightly with his
fingers on her cheek and found her
lips again. “I love you so much.”
She let an awkward smile form on
her lips. “Thanks Travis.”
He felt a little sting from not
hearing it back, but he didn’t let it
get to him. He was the romantic
and she was the realist. It made the
relationship more stable, but every
once in a while he had to coax kind
words out of her.
“I’m so glad I married you. Even
after ten years of marriage, I still
can’t help but smile when I lay
with you.” He lifted the covers and
kissed her on her shoulders. “And
even after ten years you still look
great naked.” He smiled at her in a
half flirty, half affectionate way.
“Thanks.” She was blushing a
bit, but looked more uncomfortable
than anything. “Um, can I, I know
this isn’t a good time, but” Travis
smiled as she stumbled over her
words. She was adorable when she
was nervous.
“Can I get my money. I mean
I’ve been here almost two hours
and I have to get back to other
clients.”
Tableau 2013
She was standing up and
grabbing her bra in one swift
motion, like a well rehearsed
dance.
“What are you talking about
Catherine?” His eyes were slowly
dimming.
“Shit, Travis. I like you, I do, and
you pay so well, but I can’t do this
every time.” Her bra was on and
latched and she was pulling up her
laced thong. This move was more
awkward than putting on the bra,
but still looked routine.
“but Catherine.”
“I’m not Catherine!” Her voice
cracked as she tried a quiet scream.
“I am Stacy. I am not your wife,
and you know this Travis. We do
this every time.” She tried to steady
her voice as she saw his eyes filling
with tears. She felt for him, she
always did, but today was the worst
yet. He was pulling the blanket to
his mouth, like a scared child, fear
sinking into his face as audible
sobs coughed out of his throat.
“I just want to be with
Catherine.”
“I’m sorry about your wife.”
She allowed her fingers to glide
down his cheek, offering any
encouragement she could. “I’m
sure you two were deeply and
desperately in love, but pretending
I’m her isn’t going to bring her
back.” His sobs sank back into his
throat, but she could still feel his
hand trembling.
She didn’t know much about
his wife except that they looked
similar, and she died in some
horrible car accident. Stacy felt
bad for him, but business was
business. Travis was a regular
and paid extremely well, but she
didn’t get paid to be his psychiatrist
(although she was sure she got paid
|
a significant amount more than his
psychiatrist).
Travis stood up still naked,
and found his pants thrown into
a corner. He pulled out a money
clip and counted out five thousand
dollars.
“Here. I’m sorry about that.”
His eyes were still watering, but
his voice just sounded numb.
Stacy counted the money, a force
of habit, she knew Travis would
always pay what he promised if not
more.
She found her jeans, slid them
on, and crammed the money into
her front pocket. She pulled on
her blouse and grabbed her purse.
She was about to leave when he
interrupted her.
“I’ve got another five thousand.
Would that pay for another two
hours of you being Catherine?”
She looked at him with pain in her
eyes, but money was money.
“I’m gonna need a cigarette first.”
She pulled out a pack of menthols
and a lighter.
“Catherine didn’t smoke.” She
let the cigarette sit on her lips and
lit it.
“Then you’ll have to let me
be myself for a few minutes.”
He looked as if he was going to
protest, but instead he buried his
face in a pillow and cried softly.
Stacy took off her blouse and
jeans and smoked the cigarette in
her lingerie. When she was done
she flicked the cigarette into the
toilet and walked into the bedroom.
“Hey baby,” she let her fingers
unclip her bra as she walked
toward the bed. “Sorry I’m late, but
they had me grading final exams all
afternoon.”
Travis’ lips met hers. “I missed
you Catherine.”
Honorable Mention
|
Fiction
25
y
r
d
o
t
o
S
o
yw
l
l
Ho
“Hollywood
is a place where they’ll
pay you a thousand
dollars for a kiss and
fifty cents for your soul.
I know, because I turned
down the first offer
often enough and held
out for the fifty cents.”
–Marilyn Monroe
Hollywood,
California, is tagged
by many people as
the place where
dreams come true.
It’s the heart of the entertainment
industry. People flock to the West
Coast every year in hopes of becoming
the next James Dean, Britney Spears
or Whitney Houston.
But the place where dreams come
true has a dangerous side. All too
many times there are tragic news
stories about celebrities overdosing,
paparazzi taking their jobs to
dangerous extremes and the ever
popular downward spiral of a sad actor
or actress who was once a rising star.
Even though there are pros and cons,
young adults still take a great interest
in pursuing careers in entertainment.
26
|
y
e
l
k
c
a
r
e
k
a
l
b
by
Although the
industry is considered one
of the hardest industries to achieve a
career in, the faithful few are willing
to go the extra mile in hopes of
fulfilling their dreams.
Sarah Caroline Ransom, a senior at
Greenwood High School, has decided
despite all the risks to pursue a career
in acting.
“Ever since I was in elementary
school, I knew I wanted to be an
actress,” Ransom said. She has
played lead roles in various school
productions and is involved in the
drama team at her church.
Honorable Mention |
Narrative Essay
“Most people think it’s stupid to
go for that because it’s such a hard
thing to get into. But honestly, I would
rather go and fall flat on my badonk,
rather than regret not trying at all,”
Ransom said.
Ransom said instead of packing her
bags for Tinsletown, she is going to
get an education in theater arts where
she can study her craft before she tries
to make it in the big time.
“I think there is a foolish way to try
the acting thing and there’s a smart
Midland College
way.
I feel like I’m taking
the smart way,” Ransom said. “I want
to study theater and really develop
my skills so that when I go out there
with everyone else, casting directors
will hopefully see that I’ve got the
edge.” When it comes to the negative
side of the entertainment business is
intimidating, she says it doesn’t bother
her.
“I have a standard I live up to. Yes,
this is my dream but I’m not willing
to sacrifice who I am for the sake of
winning an Oscar,” Ransom said. “I
have morals and people that I love
who already tell me now when to get
Tableau 2013
off my high horse. I want that to stay
the same when I start acting.”
Though many try to achieve their
dream of being in show business,
some had a small bite of the dream
and it left a bitter taste in their mouth.
Sara Ramirez, a freshman at
Midland College, wanted nothing
more growing up than to be a famous
singer.
“When I was little up until I was
about 18, there was no doubt in my
mind about what I wanted to do. I
was going to be a singer, period,”
Ramirez said.
Ramirez had been singing
since she was in elementary
school and was favored by
many of her teachers and
coaches as a little star. She
sang in plays, on her church
team and even sang lead in a
band.
“We would sing all around the
Odessa area in bars and clubs and
festivals. It was pretty cool to see us
just make music and out of nowhere
create a following of fans that would
come and see our shows,” Ramirez
said. “One time we sang on the patio
at Graham’s to this awesome crowd
and it was probably one of my favorite
performances.”
As the years went by, Ramirez said
the negative side of the entertainment
industry is what made her want to
leave her childhood dreams behind.
“I auditioned for American Idol and
The Voice and it was nowhere near
what I thought it would be. It was a
lot of long waiting for such a short
audition. The producers were the only
“judges” I saw and they were rude.
They made you say and do stuff just
|
for the sake of television. It just wasn’t
what I had pictured in my mind,”
Ramirez said.
Ramirez also said the behaviors she
sees in current stars made her nervous
as well.
“Here’s the thing,” Ramirez said. “I
love going to Target with no make-up
and just shopping all day long. I love
getting coffee with my friends on the
Starbucks patio. I feel like when you
reach a certain level of success in
show business, you just can’t do those
things. I hate the thought of having to
tour constantly and always be gone
and always having to put a smile on.
It just seems like more stress than I
could take.”
She has instead chosen to do
something completely different with
her career path.
“When the band broke up, I got
a couple of jobs here and there and
finally became a nanny for a while. It
was then that I realized how much I
love working with children,” Ramirez
said. “I decided that I could make a
bigger impact by going into a career
that would let me work with children,
specifically special needs kids. They
are so close to my heart. Who knows,
if I still want to sing really bad, I can
do music therapy or something.”
Although she won’t be pursuing
a singing career under the big lights
of Hollywood, Ramirez said she will
never stop singing completely.
“I could never just stop singing; it’s
a part of me. But instead of going and
trying to share my gift with the world,
I found I’m much happier just singing
in church, where I can be close to my
friends, family and the people I love
most.”
Honorable Mention |
Narrative Essay
27
My
Scariest
Moment
I‘d never been good at
being vulnerable so this
terrified me, but there I was
susceptible to the will of nature. I wanted to scream and
yell at the doctor that something had to be done, but
there was nothing that could
be done. I sat in a room for
hours only to be sent home
with a follow up visit that
would most likely prove
devastating diagnoses.
A few short hours before
I was in the doctor’s office with the blissful news
that everything was right
on track. The thoughts of
something being off course
with this pregnancy had
been dismissed by the poke
of a needle and with the
reassurance of the doctor
that I was just over spent
because I was mothering
four other children. With
orders to relax and to get
some much needed rest I
was sent home. What a fool
I had been to even doubt
that my lovely child was
in any danger. I went on
about my day with a sense
of bliss and joy illuminating me as I did my daily
28
by
Ashley
Pillado
Photo by Denise Sanchez
chores and prepared myself
for an evening of work.
The children were fed
and I kissed my husband
goodbye while halfheartedly
heeding his warnings, to
take it easy.
I teased him, telling him
he didn’t know the will of a
mother on a mission. I gave
a quick hug and fair well to
my children as I got in my
car and headed out to work.
Already feeling a little
drained, I drove up to my
part time job that freed me
from diaper duty and spelling lists for a few hours. I
wanted to call in sick but I
|
Second Place
|
knew I needed to put money
aside for my maternity
leave. I put my code into
the time clock to start my
shift and I could already tell
by the mounting orders it
would be a busy day. It was
the day before Thanksgiving
and people were in a rush to
order and be on their way.
It was my night to work
the window, the busiest
place to be stationed in a
fast food restaurant. Several hours into my shift I
grew hungry but I knew
the end to this rush was
nowhere near, so I pushed
on. Suddenly I felt a gush
Narrative Essay
of warmth roll down my
legs. I thought for a moment
that perhaps the unthinkable
had happened and I had wet
myself!
How embarrassing this
would be because everyone
I worked with were immature teenagers. I handed off
the headset to the new kid,
explaining to him that it was
an emergency and I needed
to rush to the bathroom.
Never did I imagine finding a pool of blood running
down my legs. There I stood
in a public bathroom, in dismay at what was happening.
I picked up my phone and
Midland College
dialed several times before
finally reaching my spouse.
I was in shock but it would
take him too long to reach
me and I was only a few
short blocks from the hospital. I got in my little old
jalopy to rush myself to the
emergency room. Finally
I reached the front of the
hospital where the emergency room was located and
leapt out of my car, rushing
through the sliding doors.
I arrived at the hospital
not knowing how to explain to the nurse what was
happening. If I dare said
the words aloud I would be
Tableau 2013
forced to face the truth. The
young nurse handed me a
packet of papers to fill out
and explained to me that she
needed my insurance card.
I screamed at her that my
husband was on his way and
I would be in the waiting
area until he arrived, so he
could deal with the paper
work. I couldn’t even spell
my own name much less fill
out paperwork! My husband
arrived shortly and mistaking my fear for annoyance
he explained, that I had left
the car running and unattended so he had to park
the car and that’s why it
had taken him so long. It
didn’t take him long to fill
out the paperwork and we
were shortly put in a back
room awaiting a doctor. The
doctor examined me, drew
more blood and sent me
down stairs for a sonogram.
At this stage in pregnancy
the doctor said there really
wasn’t anything that could
be done but to send me
home and wait.
I don’t remember sleeping
that night or even the next
morning leading up to my
doctor’s visit. I know my
husband must have dressed
me and driven me there but
|
Second Place
I can’t or don’t want to remember. We walked in and
were quickly ushered to an
exam room where they told
me my labs did not show a
viable pregnancy.
I didn’t understand what
was happening until the
nurse explained I would
need a procedure that would
vacate any tissue left over
from the miscarriage. It was
the first time I was fully
aware that my child was no
longer with me and I would
not have a birthdate to recall
or a grave to visit, just a
memory of a cold room
where I prayed as they took
what was left of my unborn
child.
When I left the hospital
I remember being told that
even though I was no longer
pregnant I might feel some
symptoms of pregnancy for
a while. A person cannot
fathom the torture of the
feeling that you still have
a pregnant belly but you
will never lay eyes on your
child. The reality is that I
had no clue that three years
later I would still long to
hold my child.
|
Narrative Essay
29
Dog Tags
by JASMINE LEWIS
Oval, dull shine,
Dented, carved.
I slowly slide them over my
head.
They fall with a bit of a clang.
Last name, Johnson, carved in.
I slowly finger the carvings.
The only evidence of those few
years.
Now mine to be proud of,
Now mine, to remember.
Cold as his eyes when he thinks
About those years.
People he watched die.
The people he helped kill.
They made him who he is.
Jaded, scarred, strong-minded,
Willful, nostalgic, wise,
Proud.
This set of dog tags,
I wear with pride.
His last name
The only visible thing.
His story, his legacy
Everything he is
Passed down to me.
Dented, dull, rarely worn.
Cold, yet warm.
Reminding of who I am is who
I want to be.
To make him proud.
To be successful
Not just for me
But for him.
Hoax (digital) by Sara Basaldua
Somewhere by John Bosworth
you are alone in the hospital room
and a fragment of sunlight filters through the curtains
and attaches itself to the back of your trembling hand
somewhere a woman is fumbling with her keys in the ashy dark
trying to remember the last time she really smiled
dogs are barking
sirens are wailing
the city is becoming steadily less alive
somewhere someone is saying that poetry is stupid
as the world around that person hums with a mysterious energy,
and the people that they never noticed felt love and joy and pain
somewhere a person is seeing the ocean for the first time
Photo by Troy Pardue
30
HSJ Poetry Contest
|
Honorable Mention
Midland College
Tableau 2013
HSJ Poetry Contest
|
Second Place
31
27 Club (Print) by Guillermo Barraza
is a proud partner of the Midland College Student Press

Second Prize Kathryn Hedin

Transcription

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