Executive Editors – Misty Dunlap Sheila Scott

Visual Editor – Kalsey Stults

Supporting Cast - Eric Brand Dave Chambliss Jonathan French Rocky Holland Zack Nabors Jennifer Parrish Madilyn Peay Beth Reed Lyndsay Riggs Crystal Springer Marah Vogt Sarah Williams

Faculty Advisors - Chris Hill – Department of English and Modern Foreign Languages Jeffery Longacre – Department of English and Modern Foreign Languages Tomi Parrish – Department of Communications

Eli Anderson

BeanSwitch Staff

Art Table of ContentsFire and Ice Cody Speed CoverBallet Dancer Memori DePriest Mystic Moon Zachariah Dickson Not Ready to Leave Here Cody SpeedTearfall Zachariah DicksonDrops of Jupiter Cody SpeedDistant Places Bring Lonesome Faces Cody Michael WilliamsThe Calling Mary Jean Hall? Alexandra StoverWish Right Now Cody SpeedSadness Zachariah DicksonGaze Alexandra StoverTree Woman Cries Zachariah DicksonDance It All Away Beth CrockerTo be Unmeasured Cody Michael WilliamsWaterland Zachariah DicksonBlooming with Hue Jocelyne BarchetAnother View of the Eiffel Tower Kara KidwellAbstract Painting Lauren SuiterCenter Melanie O’NeilWine Bottle Aaron BurksAlone at Last Megan Schwab

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Curious Aquarium Jocelyne BarchetNighttime Melanie O’NeilGilt and Crystal at the Louvre Kara KidwellNight Sky Dreamscape Jocelyne BarchetBlackhole Sun Zach JohnsonOil Alexandra StoverInto the Dark Cody SpeedThe Companion Diane ShawTilted, Twisted, and Worn Donna HackerWonderland Zachariah DicksonFeather Stone Cody SpeedDeadly Substance Jocelyne Barchet12:30 Aaron BurksTimeless Kait Scott

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Literary Table of ContentsThe Wedding Dance Belinda BarkerThe Visitors Sonny TaylorThese Shoes Belinda BarkerWe Buried a Boy Today Belinda BarkerBenefits Brittney ReedIn God We Trust Ashley BurtonA Sideways Glance Kristin BrooksWonder Lust Rachel HurstColorful Jami MillerThe All Powerful Hairy Hand Jonathan Lucas FrenchThe Question Cody JarmanEphemera Brittney ReedA Modern Pyramus and Thisbe Misty DunlapRotting Teeth Rachel HurstThe Gremlin of All Hallow’s Eve Eli AndersonShould I Do This? Regan WardThe Shakes Toshya LeonardFamily Photographs Belinda BarkerRoad to Recovery Rocky HollandPlease, Professor Kathleen Alford

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Ballet Dancer Memori DePriest

Title: Ballet DancerMedia: Graphite Pencils

Size: 11 x 14 inchesIntention: Wanted to try a technique we had done earlier in figure

drawing while it was fresh on my mind.

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the wedding danceof dreams yet untolda ballerina I am! grace and beauty to behold

a dress of organzaor leather or laceand the joy of completion ripeon my face

my Papa in earnestshowing his prizeand me in his gloryreflecting his eyes

the wedding danceof dreams now tolda woman I am! graceand beauty to behold

Belinda BarkerThe Wedding Dance

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Belinda Barker Zacharia Dickson Mystic Moon

Graphic Design2170 X 2996 pixels

Capturing the eye of the viewer with the many aspects of the night, and provoking the same mystified emotion that one has

when looking at the moon.

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Sonny TaylorThe Visitor

Sitting in the hospital waiting room, a little girl swings her legs slowly. Her hands are braced on the semi-soft plastic of the chair cushion as she looks around the sterile, dimly lit room with soft brown eyes. Hospitals are nothing new to this four-year-old, though for once she’s experiencing the waiting room as a visitor, not a patient soon to be ushered back into a room. Still, the nurses are familiar to her. Her gaze halts its exploration of the off-white walls as the squeaking of shoes reaches her ears. Glancing in that direction, she smiles hesitantly at the woman walking towards her, a nurse she knows from her countless visits here. This nurse, she remembers, is particularly gentle when drawing blood. “Hi!” she chimes sweetly, giving the woman a delighted smile, revealing teeth that are just crooked enough to be charming, along with deep dimples. The nurse stops by the little girl’s chair, the squeaking of her typical white shoes coming to an abrupt halt. “Hey, sweetie,” she answers warmly, her voice low and soothing. To the little girl, she sounds like what a nurse should sound like, comforting, gentle and friendly. Reaching one calloused hand into the pocket of her hot pink scrubs, she pulls out a prized piece of candy for the girl, a small red lollipop wrapped in clear plastic. Smiling, the girl takes the lollipop and opens it, popping it into her mouth with a soft lip-smacking sound as she mumbles a polite, thank you. The nurse laughs, reaching out to ruffle the little one’s dark curls. “Are you excited about meeting your little brother?” Gazing up at the nice woman’s angular face and pretty green eyes, the little girl rolls her eyes. “Not really. Babies are ugly. But, Momma says I ain’t gunna thank that when I see him,” she answers honestly, knowing that it isn’t right to lie. The nurse laughs, shaking her head slightly. As the tip of her long blond ponytail brushes against her back, she gives the girl a conspirator’s grin.

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Sonny Taylor

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“I thought my little brother was ugly when he was born, too. And he sure did annoy me. But, I loved him, and when he woke us up in the middle of the night with his crying, I’d always try to help my parents get him back to sleep.” The little girl wrinkles her nose, her pale lips turning downwards to form a serious frown. “I sure hope he don’t keep me up all night. I gotta go to school, ya know.” “I’m sure you’ll be able to get plenty of sleep, sw--” The nurse’s response is cut off by the sudden voice booming in the air, the intercom speaker almost visibly rattling from the sound. She lets out a startled sigh and stands quickly. “You be good now,” she calls as she rushes off, her shoes squeaking again, much faster this time. Nearly an hour later, a painfully long amount of time for the little girl, a doctor comes out and leads her back into a room. She skips along beside him happily, her tiny legs working overtime to keep up with his long strides. Once in the room, the girl lets out a delighted cry of “Mommy!” before rushing towards the woman. She half climbs onto the bed, struggling slightly with its height, to plant a loud cherry scented kiss on the dark haired woman’s sweaty cheek. Then she freezes, her brown eyes locking on the bundle in the baby bed next to her Mommy. “Is that him?” she asks curiously, not looking away from the bundle to see her mother’s smile. “That’s him, alright. You have a little brother, possum britches. His name is Nathan,” the mother answers weakly, obviously more than a tad tired from the hours of labor. The little girl hops off the bed and walks slowly over to the baby’s bed, stretching up on her tiptoes to see him better. As her mother and the doctor talk, the girl stares at the little thing in the bed. It doesn’t look completely human; its head is big, its body is too long, its hands are chubby, and its fingers are so tiny that she isn’t sure they’re fully formed. As she stares at him, the little thing blinks slowly and then gazes up at her with squinty blue eyes. She reaches over slowly to touch his puffy little hand, wondering why his skin is so red that when she touches it the spot around her fingers goes all white and weird looking. The baby

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wiggles his fingers slightly, barely a twitch, and she slides her index finger against his palm. As he closes his tiny little stubs around her slim digit, a delighted smile breaks across her innocent face. Practically glowing with happiness, she gazes adoringly at the little boy until he closes his eyes again and releases her finger. Finally, she looks towards her mother again. “Mommy?” she quips quietly, not wanting to disturb the baby. “Yes?” “I gunna call him Bubba,” she answers, as though this is the most simple, and highly important, thing in the world. For around six months the little girl goes to school when she has to, but otherwise she stays home, practically attached to her brother’s side. In her mind, the rapidly growing baby is the most precious thing in the world. She doesn’t mind when he cries. She patiently allows him to pull on her long brown curls. She giggles at how much noise he makes when he’s happy and how he smiles when he sees her. Life is perfect. One night, at her grandma’s house, Bubba is lying on the couch while Momma gets ready to change his diaper. The girl prances into the kitchen, opening the door to the large white refrigerator and looking around in it. Not finding what she wants, she shuts the door and heads towards the back porch to ask her Pa if he can help. However, before she can cross the distance, she hears an alarmed cry. She rushes towards the sound quickly, hearing her Bubba’s wail start up. Before she can get to him, she’s scooped up in her Daddy’s arms and carried in the opposite direction. Daddy takes her home, without Momma or Bubba, and for hours she paces the house, whining impatiently and demanding to see her brother. Finally, Momma comes in the door, Bubba in her arms. The little girl rushes towards them, rambling on a mile a minute wanting to know what’s happening and why everyone’s so upset. “Bubby just hit his head,” Momma explains quietly, as the strapping baby boy reaches impatiently for his sister, making grabby hands. Satisfied with this response, and seeing that he’s okay, the little girl reaches up and slides her own sun-kissed hand into his chubby paw. Things go back to normal, for a few days.

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Three nights later, the little girl stands in the waiting room of a hospital, yet again. This time, tears streak down her cheeks and she clutches her jacket closed around her pajamas. A Beanie Baby puppy is firmly squished between one arm and her chest as she sobs quietly, pleading with anyone who will listen, to please tell her what’s wrong. She can’t understand why her Bubba was shaking so badly, or why her Momma and Daddy are crying and they aren’t allowed to see him. As they cart the little boy out of the hospital on a stretcher, into the awaiting helicopter, the little girl rushes after him. She stands in the hospital doors, watching the massive blades slice through the air, practically cowering away from the terrible sound. She watches with wide, terrified eyes as the giant metal beast takes her brother away. Then, she’s rushed off to her grandma’s house while Momma and Daddy go to take care of Bubba and bring him home. Not a week later, she’s sitting in the miniature rocking chair in the middle of her grandma’s living room, clutching the same stuffed puppy to her chest. Her face is still streaked with tears, but she’s smiling up at a man in a dark suit. This man, his light brown eyes warm and welcoming, jokes with her. He asks to sit in her chair, and she squeals in protest, informing him that he’s too big and will break it. He asks to see her puppy, and she clutches it tighter, her bright smile suddenly fading. He sighs, his dark skin lacking in a certain glow that shows someone is enjoying his activity. Brushing his lanky fingers through his short brown hair, he crouches down in front of the girl, giving her a very serious look. And then he asks a round of questions that range from just plain silly to absolutely devastating. Finally, she’s in tears again, glaring up at this man. His eyes are no longer warm but full of sorrow. He smoothes over his dark suit nervously, unsure as to how to face the wrath of this tiny whirlwind. “My Mommy and Daddy are not mean. You are mean. Stop bothering me. Go away. NOW!” Her voice rises with each word, until she’s shouting at him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes nearly black with fury. “They never hurt us!” she adds in a softer tone, the words broken by a sob, before she rushes out. The man in the suit thanks her grandma for their time, shaking her hand and apologizing for upsetting the little girl. Then he turns to his partner, a man

with a similar appearance but no fondness or sympathy for children. This man had been ignored by the little girl during the entire meeting, as she’d heard him telling her grandma that they didn’t want her seeing her mother or father. “I think she made it pretty clear,” the nicer man says as they take their leave. Days go by, the funeral passing in a blur that she doesn’t even want to remember. She cries almost constantly, wanting her brother back, wanting to see her parents, wanting to know why God is being so mean. The days turn to months before she’s allowed to live with her parents, only seeing them when supervised. During this time, the only comfort to her is her dreams. Every night, she experiences the same dream. A soft glowing white light surrounds her, and soon enough she isn’t alone, but in the company of a beautiful woman with long blond hair and comforting green eyes. This woman, however, isn’t dressed in hot pink scrubs or bringing lollipops. A white dress that seems to flow and flutter constantly covers her willowy form in a demure fashion, the sleeves falling well past her hands. Large white wings sprout from her back, a source of interest to the girl even though she understands what they mean. The feathers ruffle occasionally, in response to some movement or action, creating a comforting sound that soon becomes the little girl’s new version of her brother’s laugh. And a thin ring of gold hovers above the woman’s head, glowing with the same bright white light as everything else in this dreamscape. The woman brings news, her voice somehow holding every happy memory the little girl has of her brother. The news is always the same. Bubba is okay, he is happy; he is with people that love him. He is not gone. As much as the little girl may want to stay in this dream with this woman who reminds her of happiness, she cannot. Soon enough, life returns to happiness; though, there are moments of great sorrow. She returns to her parents. She grows up. She never forgets the visitors of her youth: the nurse that told her it was possible to like her brother; the man in the suit that tried to gain her trust, simply so he could question her about her parents; and the angel that visited her dreams to help her find closure. But most importantly, the adorable little boy, who was the most amazing Bubba in the world, while he had the time to be, the little boy that changed her life, and left a deep mark on her heart, soul, and family. 8

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Not Ready to Leave Here Cody Speed

Not Ready to Leave HerePen and Ink

8x11Leaving behind someone you love.

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these shoesnever worn in my youthstiff and unyieldingperched high on their lofty place waiting

these shoesbrought down with halting purposealien and newbeside a dress the color of mourningwaiting

these shoescreased with maps from my tearsscalloped and hot fallen from downward eyes that cannot turn awaywaiting

these shoesrediscoveredbroken and plianthidden beneath the silent storiesof my lifewaiting

Belinda BarkerThese Shoes

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Belinda Barker

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Tear Fall Zacharia Dickson

Graphic Design1384 X 3648 pixels

Represents the sadness of losing a loved one, through the heart of a grieving child.

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we buried a boy todaya beautiful boy

the sound of a mother’s silent mourning

the soundof your own child’s grief

unimaginable soundsunanswerable questions unthinkable answers

the sound of each heart rendingjoining all the othersdesperate to make sense of the beautiful boy’s death

the soundof young men in unisontheir cadence crushed and strongsinging the swan song of the boy

the sound of love

we buried a boy todaya beautiful boyIn loving memory of Jacob Cole Nunley (September 22, 1993--September 10, 2012)

Belinda BarkerWe Buried a Boy

Belinda Barker

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Drops of JupiterCody Speed

Acrylic on canvas20x16

Looking up and seeing the one you lost in the stars.

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You sit across from meand tell me about my retirement options.Even you know this is ridiculous:the tiny giggle bubbles from your lipsat the end of each sentence.You were running late—I’m twenty-three.I must make you feel awkward.

You tell me about my new lifeinsurance policy, and I wonder if I diedhow much money my parents would get,if it would be enough for even one roundof my father’s chemo. If it could gathereach hair from his pillow, weave it into somethingother than an empty bank accountand a line of zeros.

My face is pale but unfair, unlined.They call me sweetie on the phone, ask for my superior.The little I command is too much.They want to know where I hide my incompetence.I must keep it in my tiny pocket of years,sewn into the hem of my thrift store skirt.

You push pages across your deskand I sign each one with my namebut also with thank you,with I’m sorry,I don’t want this,I have no place in my life to put it.I don’t want this,I have no place in my life to put it.

Brittney ReedBenefits Distant Places Bring

Lonesome Faces

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Distant Places Bring Lonesome Faces

Cody Williams

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Mary Jean HallThe Calling

The CallingDigital Photo

Capturing the beauty of nature.

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It all seems the sameJustification for a gameReality for a peaceA color of a painting for which we might beThe same God in a different landHolding the same hands Leading people to understandYet you hate and migrateAnd won’t seek face ofAnyone who looks differently Than youWho speaks with more slurs than you do?And we sin and say only God can judge meLike it is ok to be a slob of whom we teach not to beIt all seems the sameJustification for a gameReality for a peaceA color of a painting for which we might beWars based on differences And we neglect what is significantFor prized possessions that fade awayAnd say we want a piece of heavenYet don’t search for righteousnessOr pray to understand what needs to be understoodThis is a land where people look at your shoesBefore they speak to youAnd ask what you do Instead of asking about youIt all seems the sameJustification for a gameReality for a peaceA color of a painting for which we might be

Ashley BurtonIn God We Trust

We base our trust in a government we distrustAnd take from the poor Knock if you may on murderers’ doorAnd we claim that every hard working person is evilWe belittle if they don’t meet the standards of everyone elseWe have forgotten about the collective goodAnd only think about selfWe say Amen Although we don’t agreeWe get on our knees to do everything but praySo I sayIt all seems the sameJustification for a gameReality for a peaceA color of a painting for which we might be

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Alexandra StoverNoah’s Ark

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Cody SpeedWish Right Now

Acrylic on canvas20x16

Saying goodbye to all your dreams and wishing for a reprieve.

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Beth quietly retrieved her coffee from the counter of the coffee shop, and retreated to a corner seat in the back of the supposedly warm, and welcom-ing café. She couldn’t help but enjoy the warm rays of the sun that, regardless of the bold orange blinds, seemed to be drawn to her like two magnets, that had found themselves in the bottom of the cluttered kitchen ‘catch-all’ draw-er. She seemed to be surrounded by warmth: the friendly waitress behind the counter who had smiled, as she had unknowingly given her the incor-rect change; the rays of sun passing through the windows; and the appealing sideways glance of the handsome young gentlemen, sitting across from her sipping, on what appeared to be a latte, covered in rich cream. Wait, this last entry in the never-ending lists of her mind was one that had not been noticed, or logged mentally, before. She found herself out of her comfort zone, being one who usually melted, unnoticed into the scenery. The man reminded her of Steven, her ex, who had broken her heart, just a few months before. She had fallen in love with him, and the year that they had been together, had been wonderful. Beth had always been a quiet person, who never said much, and was always in the shadow of others. Steven had the un-canny ability of making her forget about her self-conscious nature, and could draw her out of herself enough, that she could enjoy life. She had finally learned to trust him, and had started to picture their future together, just as her world had come crashing down. He had sat her down at the kitchen table, in the apartment that they shared, and bluntly told her that he had met some-one else. He left shortly after that, and she hadn’t seen him since. This had propelled her back deeper, into her painfully shy world of self-consciousness, and withdrawal.Seeing this man, Beth thought to herself, that maybe this was the start to a new beginning, a second chance at a life with someone else. She held her breath as the man smiled, rose to his feet, and started to make his way to her table. Her heart fluttered, as his shiny black shoes waded through what

Kristin BrooksA Sideways Glance

had once been a cup of coffee strewn along the floor that had carelessly and in-efficiently been cleaned up. Her mind flew to the possibilities of what he might say to her, and what she could possibly say that would keep him from running in the opposite direction. She always had been able to say just the wrong thing that would cause a guy to quickly excuse himself, from her presence, but maybe she had learned enough from Steven, to keep this guy from bolting.He grew closer and closer, and time seemed to pass slower and slower. Time was jolted into what seemed an endless Hades, as he passed by her and reached for the decorative handle of the exit door, she had unknowingly placed herself be-side, as she felt her hopes diminish and her dream for a normal life disappear, along with the handsome stranger, around the bustling street corner.

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Zachariah Dickson Sadness

Graphic Design2265 X 7681 pixels

Emotions: meant to be seen, not held in and thought on.

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Alexandra StoverGaze

Watercolor (landscape) Acrylic (characters) on canvas18x24

Putting my original characters in their natural environ-ment for the first time.

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I want to take this worldAnd crack it within these trembling hands.I want to take itAnd press its fractures to my lipsSo that I can drink deeply of itsWonders and secrets.

Rachel HurstWonder Lust

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Cody SpeedTree Woman Cries

Graphic Design2264 X 3046 pixels

Even when the world around you is beautiful, it does not make up the grief within oneself.

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Blue lips, Red eyesViolet patches on my skin

Reluctant apologiesMean nothing when

Released from those lipsAnd then I hear him

Whisper “you are my favorite fragile thing”And I am in love again.

Jami MillerColorful

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Beth CrockerDance It All Away

Permanent Marker and Sharpie9x12

Expressing joy, youth, and freedom in the use of the figure and the colors.

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Jonathan Lucas FrenchThe All Powerful Hairy Hand

He was lying there in the rank smell of urine and shit, stiff, like a fish you left in the back of a pickup too long on a hot day. With his pants and underwear at his ankles it was almost surreal seeing him there, in the basement of the church, where my family knelt and prayed, sang and danced. With an open mouth and eyes wide open, stuck, frozen in time, his face was mashed against the cold cement floor. It was so much to take in, standing there seeing him. I didn’t dare move nor make a sound. I just stood and stared, listening to the music and the people I knew to be good, dancing and celebrating Jesus in all His glory, in the sanctuary above. It was Willard, the retarded boy, who didn’t like to be touched by anyone he didn’t know. He was Mrs. Dowdy’s grandson and she had taken him to every church service I ever been to. His beard was one of wonder, one that could never be groomed, due to his erratic violent movements. He sat often in front of me and my family, and I would peer at him and ponder as to what he was thinking, as he moved his head as if flies were all about. He was unique, gray haired at an early age, with yellow and black teeth that were usually clenched. He had aged eyes that seemed to look beyond this world and into another. I admired him, admired his blood vessels that ran wild, standing out on his arms like markings on a map. I admired his strength for throwing people about when they would try to place hands on him. He was almost a super hero in slacks, Willard, the retard. Now he was beneath me, dead in a puddle of his own piss, with people dancing above unbeknownst to his new form. A hand was placed on my shoulder, coming from nowhere, startling me, almost like it was a hand of God himself. It was Brother Rick, dressed in black as always, holding me, reassuring me. Standing there we looked at poor Willard. “Dear Lord, what in the world was he doing?” Brother Rick said calmly, clenching me close, my elbow at his waist.

Staring at Willard, it was a thought, his words, though none of real reason. I was young and knew not a lot, but I knew it wasn’t what Willard was doing, rather what had been done to him. With tears in my eyes waiting to fall, my body tensed up with every movement of Brother Rick’s big hairy hand, working its way up my neck, as I looked at the last of my mindless super hero. I thought I was special. I thought I was the only one. I thought if I could’ve been Willard, I would’ve been strong enough, mindless enough, to fight back; I wasn’t, and neither was he.

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To be Unmeasured

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To be Unmeasured Cody Williams

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This is not a poemnor is it a short story

nor a playnor a dance, painting, or sculpture

It is present merely to raise the questionJust like you or I

The universe is wideit is an eternally silent plane

but if a being gives a voice to the voidis that not meaning enough?

Cody JarmanThe Question

Cody Jarman

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WaterlandZachariah Dickson

Graphic Design1930 X 3804 pixels

Showing the fluidity of both ocean creatures and humanity, and our ability to change and warp to the changing of the world.

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Jocelyne Barchet

Acrylic Paint18x24

Showing a full spectrum of color centered on flowers.

Blooming with Hue

Jocelyne Barchet

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Kara Kidwell

Digital Photo4320 x 3240 pixels

Showing an angle of the Eiffel Tower that is not normally seen.

Looking up the Eiffel at Night

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Lauren Suiter

Acrylic on canvas11X14

An abstract piece that contains no recognizable forms yet depicts an overall happy mood.

Abstract Painting

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Melanie O’Neil

PhotographCapturing the beauty of Mother Nature.

CenterLauren Suiter

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Aaron Burks

Charcoal on Paper18x24

A study of still life with light, shadow and tone.

Wine Bottle

Aaron Burks

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Megan Schwab

Oil on Canvas28x 22

Endeavoring with oil paints for the first time.

Alone at Last

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Jocelyne Barchet

Pastels11x14

Representing the curiosity of a young person’s mind.(Notice the child in the bottom-left corner)

Curious Aquarium

Jocelyne Barchet

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Melanie O’Neil

PhotographShowing how bright the world can be at night.

Nighttime

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Brittney ReedEphemera

I find my pleasure in cheap things meant to be taken offlike the leopard-print slip that slidesover the cleft between thighswith a purring, symphony of zippers

meant to be thrown awaythe books never made for top billing on any shelfpaperbacks born to die kicked under bedspages still sticky with cherry soda and lust

to be tossed asidethe thin edge of night and morningwhen another cigarette forever is never the lastand the car tires binge-eat asphaltlike they’re looking for love at the bottom of the cookie jar

made cheap and easythe lucky can buy happiness from gumball machines,find it in lipstick, unicorn pinkglitter stickers on early ‘90s trapper keepers

both trashy and inanearraying selves in junk,building lives out of cast-offs from the bottom of the drawer,lighting blonde Jesus candles while radio starlets gyrateon tarnished silver screens

They wouldn’t call it tacky if it didn’t stick in your heart.

Brittney Reed

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Kara Kidwell

Digital Photography4320 x 3240 pixels

Showing a chandelier from another angle.

Gilt and Crystal at the Louvre

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Misty DunlapA Modern Pyramus and Thisbe

I am having a love affair between the walls

knock once for are you thereknock twice with a long pause in between for I want to kiss youknock three times for reassurance that everything will be okay

we will not wake up in ten years to find we still have nottaken that road trip or won a Nobel Prize

we sleep as close as we can to our shared wallbacks pressed, ribs uncurleda knuckle running against the eggshell white paintas if the color was the soft crook of an elbow

whisper all your fears, regrets, plans, likes

I will keep an empty tumbler on my windowsillready to listen

Misty Dunlap

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Jocelyne Barchet

Oil paint18x24

Resembling a dream.

Night Sky Dreamscape

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Zach Johnson

Charcoal on Drawing Paper9x12

Realizing an idea.

Blackhole Sun

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Rachel HurstRotting Teeth

His fingers sailed across the decaying teeth, lithe and caressing. Each one gave in to his touch hesitantly, and whispered music between the trees and the moonlight. Melodies soared into the night, carried on his breath with each slow exhale. Around him the world hushed. No cry of the birds were heard, no movement of the wind called. All the sounds of the night fell quiet in the presence of him and the long forgotten instrument. The stars, as well, took a step back at the show of his hands’ gentle play. Sour wood permeated the air and foliage spilt forth from its core. The feel of the ruts and scars marred along the keys matched his own on the curve of his lip and those along the delicate lining of her heart. It was an outcast to its owner, just as the girl with shaking hands was to the lover before him. Each groan of an unyielding chord struck him, just as the hardness in her words would. Despite its quiet beauty, abuse had left its scoring mark on the piano, leaving its spirit broken for nature to take back into its bosom. No amount of skill would again beckon its beautiful language. Its love cast away from its owner, just as his beloved had been. No, neither the piano nor the girl would sing for him, as they had for those that touched them before. But still he would remain.

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Alexandra StoverOil

Oil painting on canvasBeing striking and complimentary of the colors within it while remaining loose.

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Eli AndersonThe Gremlin of All Hallow’s Eve

I tell you now of a beast of oldWho walked the earth with courage bold.Listen close with fervid earAnd lean in close so you may hear.He walked these hills, these plains, these woodsAnd even terrorized our neighborhoods.His figure is ghastly, his spirit you’ll feelAnd his presence alone will make grown men squeal.His long lanky limbs leave no print in the earthAnd he is ghoulishly misshapen for lack of girth.He prowls the night with malice entailAnd he uses the land for his shadowy veil.His hair hangs long from all four limbsAnd cursed be the soul that catches a glimpse.His long ivory claws stay sharp from useAnd from them he learned to deal man abuse.His large sunken eyes can be spotted at night,They’ve been known to emit a ghoulish green light.Do not be fooled, he is no boorish bruteHis mind is as sharp as yours and mine to boot. He is often seen tracing the water’s edgeAnd is occasionally spotted peering from a mountain ledge.We know not where he next will creepBut we know that he can never sleep.

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Cody Speed

Pen and Ink8x11

Facing the darkness and pain is always better with a friend.

Into the Dark

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Regan WardShould I Do This?

Should I do this? What if I’m gonna regret this? John’s pale face feels like it is gradually beginning to sizzle under the scrutiny of the sun’s rays. Kate draws his attention, away from deep thoughts, with the breathless sigh to his right that brings goose bumps to every inch of his skin. He is so warm and so cold; he is incredibly confused but also absolutely sure. Her freckled collarbones slowly rise as the small bits of pollen around her face rush to her pink, slender nose. A few strands of pumpernickel-colored hair slide elegantly across her high cheekbone and strong jaw line, as she tilts her closed emerald eyes towards him.“What?” she says.“What ‘what’?”“You’re staring at me. You can’t hide it from me anymore, ya know?”“So, you can just sense that now or something?”“Yeah, pretty much. Ever since high school,” she says.“Ah, yes, Arlington High. How you loved that place.”“Oh, hush. It’s not like you were having the time of your life either.”“I started to, senior year.”“Now you’re just sucking up.”“No really. Just like right then; your giggle always made French easier.”“Weren’t you just blessed the only seat open was right in front of you, then?”“Nah, first thing that came to mind was, ‘Ew, freshman.’”“Don’t even pretend. I knew what you were thinking the first day of freshman year.”“You’re weird.”“You’re the one staring.”“True.”“So?”“It’s nothing. You just look relaxed is all.”“Wow.”

“Huh?”“You suck at lying, even with my eyes closed.”“I thought you were sleeping, so I was going to play a prank on you.”“Really? What prank was that?”“No, I’ll just save it for later,” he says.“You weren’t going to play a prank.”“You can wipe that little smirk off your face, smart butt. I did have a prank.”“Then do it. I still have my eyes closed, don’t I?”“You won’t like it.”“Isn’t that the point of a prank?”“Not my prank.”“Then why don’t you do it?”“Maybe, I will.”“You’re too careful about things. You need to buck up, Mister.”“You pick on me now, but wouldn’t you want any boy to be careful with you?”“I’m not pickin’ too bad. And, of course I would, but you’re different.”“You don’t want me to be careful?”“No, you just aren’t anywhere near normal.”“Aren’t we just a pair then?”“I don’t want you to feel like you have to be. I mean, come on, we’ve known each other for about seven years now, right? If I haven’t decided by now that I hate your guts, when will I ever?”“True.”“Seriously, John, I’m only kidding. What is it? You looked like you were about to be sick… but just now you look like you could up and kiss that frog sitting by that half-sunk log over there. What is up with you today?”“I just wanted to ask you something.”“And that’s your prank or…”“Yeah, kind of.”“So, what is it?”“You’re kinda cute, you know that?”“Do what now?”“Will you marry me?”

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“You are a jerk.”“What?”“You do not ask a girl to marry you as a prank, if you want to live to see the mornin’ after.”“Sorry, I didn’t think it would bother you.”“It didn’t.”“Liar.”“Hey, I do have a real question for you, though.”“What’s that?”“Wanna propose to me?” “I just did.”

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Diane Shaw

Acrylic on Paper14 x 21

Signifying the universal behavior pattern for those who have the ability to be a loyal companion without the need to be self-serving.

The Companion

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Toshya Leonard The Shakes

All of the fine ChinaHas been put awaySince the fateful hourGrandpa got the shakes. Grandma took out the TVAnd the garbage too,But judging by her expression,It didn’t do much good. There Grandpa sits talkingTo all of no audience,And all the doctors can prescribeIs a dose of plenty patience. As Grandma’s wrinkles grow,Grandpa’s condition stays the same.The pills; the drugs; the war; the Man;Those are who to blame. He can remember the pastAs clear as the blue sky,And all Grandma can doIs sit back in her rocker and cry. Grandpa hasn’t been his bestSince April of 1965.Grandma is out of mind,But at the same, still alive.

Grandpa talks about the bombsAnd when the missiles flew,But ask him about the kids,And he doesn’t have a clue. He still yells into his pillowAnd cannot help but weep.It’s probably been a thousand nightsSince Grandma’s gotten any sleep. It’s not that she doesn’t care;It’s that she cares too much.No offense to God,But her prayers haven’t had luck.Grandma just wants company,For she can’t drink coffee alone,But it would be just as easyTo send Grandpa off to “the home.” Grandma understands that ageIs a force that you can’t fight,And with it comes rage,Which Grandpa fights every night. Grandma still claimsThat Grandpa’s love is there.Even if they are crazy together,It’s a love that they still share. All of the fine ChinaIs still put away,But Grandma remainsWith Grandpa and his shakes. 56

57

Donna Hacker

Digital PhotoCapturing the early morning light that is reflecting on this quirky old rugged white picket

fence.

Tilted, Twisted, and Worn

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Belinda BarkerFamily Photographs

heart falling first mind scrambling behindsearching for a holdto recapture the snapshotbefore this flash in time

family photographsnever taken forgotten to be forgotten

in the space not yet awake and not yet sleeping even there and even then

they awake in dreams of muscles reenacting the slow motionsplummeting down into the darkest roomwhere a stopped heart must remember how to beat and a body so plagued with weariness leaves a spirit whose brokenness is its only beauty

family photographs never displayedforgotten to be forgotten

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Zachariah Dickson

Graphic Design632 X 2616 pixels

Giving the viewer a new reflection beyond the looking glass.

Wonderland

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Cody Speed

Clay/Metal/Feathers19x22

The higher and brighter the feathers, the closer to the spirits you are. Influenced by African masks.

Feather Stone

Cody Speed

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Rocky HollandRoad to Recovery

Russell Russo was a compulsive gambler. Compulsive was a nice way of putting it. Russell needed to feel the exciting rush of betting like a drug addict, needed to feel the high of premium heroin. Lady Luck is a bipolar wasp, uncertain, untrustworthy, and ready to strike at any moment. Russell had been in recovery for half a year. It had been six months since his last paycheck was blown, his last bill went unpaid and his last relative had cut him off. RussellhadstoppedatDave’sGasandGrubbtofillhistankafterwork.Thereappearedto be only one clerk working behind the counter and Russell stood at the end of a long line of rushhourcustomers.Theclerkwasoverwhelmedandthecustomerswerebecomingagitated.Russellglancedaroundthestoreashewaited,andhiseyescametoaflashypurplesignwithsilverstars,advertisingthestatelottery.Therewasanewscratchoffgameavailable,RedHot25’s,andthesigninformedhim,thathecouldwintwenty-fivehundreddollarseveryweek,forlife.Heimaginedwhatitwouldbeliketohitthatjackpot.Heimaginedwalkingintoworkthenext day and telling his boss to piss off; being able to retire early and spend the rest of his days relaxing.Hethoughtofwhatitwouldbeliketopayoffallhisloans,thestudentloans,aswellas,thegamblingloans.Hecouldhaveitall,forjusttheminor,tiny,insignificant,short-terminvestmentoffivedollarsoutofpocket. “Next!” the store clerk said, waking Russell from his daydream. “Pumpnumberthree,packofMarlboroLights…andaRedHot25,please.”Russelltoldhimselfnottofeelguilty.Itwasonlyfivedollars;besides,themoneywenttowardscollegescholarshipsandnewroads.Allhehaddonewasdonatefivedollarstoagoodcause.Thiswas not a big deal. Russelltookaquarterfromhispocketandbegantoscratchthelotteryticket.Heabsolutely hated scratching tickets one play at a time; he always scratched the entire ticket all

at once and looked for the winning numbers after. Russell’s heart dropped to his stomach, as hesawaflamingtwenty-fiveappear.Helookedacrosstotheprizes:freeticket.Russellwasglad he wasn’t walking away empty handed. It was like he had gotten two tickets for the price ofone,whichmadethefivedollarinvestment,worthitinhismind. Hescratchedticketnumbertwo.Thatonewasabust.Russelldiscardedtheticketintothetrash.Hestartedtowalkoutoftheconveniencestore,whilethinking:If the odds are one in three, then one of the next two tickets could possibly have a cash prize, right? Russell busted onthenexttwoticketshepurchased.Thinkingthattherollofticketswasboundtopayoffatsome point, now more than ever, he bought two more. “Hotdamn!”Russellsaid,ashefinallyhitfifteendollars. “Would you like to keep playing or do you want the cash?” the clerk asked him. Russellheardhisnextwords,asifhewerehavinganoutofbodyexperience.Hisconscience was screaming at him from some far off distant land, but it was too late; the warninghadfallenupondeafears,andhelostcompletecontrol.“IwantaLuckyHorseshoe,OutstandingAces,Quick$50,10xTheMoney,Bingo,CoolDice,PlatinumDiamonds,CentofCash,Dazzling7’s,FlamingCherries,HotSlotsandCrazyEights.” “Anything else?” the clerk asked, indifferently. “A one dollar quick pick for the Cash 4 evening drawing, any order.” Russell placed his Cash 4 ticket in his wallet, took a seat at the small table in the back of the store and began to scratch. ThirtyminuteslaterRussellheardhimselftellingtheclerk,“ThisismylastroundandthenI’mdone.”Fifteenminutesafterthat,hesaid,“Afewmore,thenI’vegottogo.”Finally,therush started to wear off and the guilt started to set in. Russell’s conscience had caught up with him. After two hours, Russell had lost close to two hundred dollars, including the money from the handful of times he had won.

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Russell sat in his Nissan Civic staring at a picture of his wife, Renee, and his three children.Hekeptaphotographofhisfamilytapedtohisdashboard,hismotivation.Ithaddonehimnogood,today.Hewasgoingtohavetogohomeandtellhiswifewherethetwohundreddollarshadgone.Heimaginedsittingdownatthekitchentable,andtellingher;which,wouldbefollowedbytheunbearableconversationthatwassuretocomeafter.Hecouldalreadyseethehurtanddisappointmentinhereyes,theworstpartofitall.That,however,wasasituationhe’dhadtodealwith,timeandtimeagaininthepast.Tonight,therewouldbeanewone.He’dhave to tell his three sons, that they would not be going to the ballpark this weekend. It would havebeenhisyoungestson’sfirsttimeseeingalivemajorleaguegame. Itwasn’tunusualforRusselltoworklate,everysooften.Hisbosswasn’tstingyaboutover-time,duringthebusyseason.HecalledRenee,totellherthathe’dbecominghomelate.Thelieseemedinsignificant,comparedtowhathe’dinevitablybetellingher,laterthatnight.Hishopewasthathecouldstopoffforanightcapfirst,andstayoutjustlongenoughtoreturn,when his boys had gone to bed.

Hestoppedathisusualdrinkingspot,Tessa’sBarandGrill.Hewalkedin,loosenedhistie, took a seat on a small brown leather stool, and noticed a video poker machine, three stools down from him, sitting at the end of the bar. “Whatthehell,”hesaid.Hefedthemachineadollarandbegantoplay.Hedidn’tgetthe same kind of rush playing the video poker machine, as he got playing the scratch cards; the machine didn’t pay out in anything but points, and if you were lucky, your name on the high score screen. “Lookslikesomeone’soffthewagon,”saidTessa,asshesatdownontothestoolnextto him. “Idon’treallywanttotalkaboutit,Tess,”hereplied. RussellandReneehadgonetocollegewithTessa.HeandTessahadevendatedbriefly.ReneehadbeenTessa’sroommate,which,washowRussellhadinitiallybeen

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introducedtoher.Tessahadkeptintouchwiththemsincegraduationandremainedaclosefriendofthefamily.ItwasincollegethatRussellfirstdiscoveredthejoysandsorrowsofhisgamblingaddiction.Hehadtakenupsportsbetting,andithadgottenserious,whenhe’dlostasubstantialamountofhisstudentloan.Luckily,Tessahadtakenpityonhim,andleanthimthemoney,thatallowedhimtopayfortheexpensesofhisfinalsemester.Now,alltheseyearslater,whenthingswentwronghestillwenttoherandspilledhiswoesoveracolddrink.Tessawas a very caring person, his best friend. “Howmuchareyouout?”sheasked. “Two,”hesaid,staringatthevideopokergame. “That’snotsobad,Russ.Atleast,it’snotlikeyourtriptoReno.” “TellthattoRenee,”Russellsaid,asheputanotherdollarintothemachine. “She’sveryunderstanding,Russell.Youknowthat.You’resick,andyou’vebeenworking hard, to overcome this thing. No one’s going to fault you, for a small relapse, this soon.” “It’sbeensixmonths,Tess,”Russellsaid,lookingathernow.“Christ,Iwassupposedto take my boys to the game tomorrow, and now I have to tell them, we can’t go, because their daddy’s a screw up. I picked a hell of a week to relapse.” Russell had tears and frustration in his eyes. Tessaplacedherhandonhisshoulder,andsaid“You’re,notascrewup.You’re,human.Youputyourpantson,onelegatatime,liketherestofus.IsthereanythingIcando,to help? Would you like me, to talk to Renee?” “Can you lend me two hundred dollars?” Russell asked. It pained him more than anything, to hit people up for money to cover his gambling losses, but it never stopped him fromdoingit.Hispridenevermattered,asmuchas,theshamehefeltfromnotbeingabletoconceal what he’d done, from his family. “DoIreallyneedtoanswerthat?”Tessasaid,soundingalittlemorehostile,thanshe’dintended.“YouknowIpromised,nottoenableyou.”

“Iknow.you,andeveryoneelsewhomatters.HowaboutarumandCokethen?” Tessasteppedbehindthebarandpreparedhisdrink,givinghimadoubleshotofrum,butonlycharginghimregularprice.Sheleanedagainstthecounterandwatchedthebrokengambler play video poker, biting her lip and wanting to do something to help him. An idea poppedintoherhead,andshegrabbedacocktailnapkinandpen.Shejotteddownanameand address, and slid the napkin in front of Russell. “What’s this?” he asked. “I’ll make a long story short,” she began. “I let a guy I was dating run up a tab in here, alittleoverathousanddollars,andwehadafallingout,lastmonth.Henevercamebacktopayit.ItoldhimI’dinvolvetheauthoritiesandweagreedtosettleitforfivehundred.Iwassupposed to pick up the money at his place, after work tonight; you do it, and you can keep two hundred of it.” “Tessa,no,I…” “You’dbedoingmeagreatfavor,Russell.Ireallydon’twanttoseehimagain.Thisisn’tmeenablingyou;thisismepayingyoutodoajob.Whatdoyousay?” “I don’t know what to say. I promise I’ll repay you.” “Justpromisemeyou’llstickwiththetherapy,Russell.Youcanbeatthisthing.Iknowyoucan.Youtakeyourboystothebaseballgameandhaveagreattime.Remember, they’re depending on you to get well.”

Russellthankedherandhurriedtohiscar.Onceagainhe’dbeeninabindandTessahadbailedhimout.Buthereallywouldpayherbackthistime,andhewasmoredeterminedthanever,tocontrolhisvice.Thistime,he’dlethisaddictionhurtnotonlyhimandRenee,buthisboys.Russelltrulybelievedhecouldbebetterthanthat.Hewasgoingtodorightbyhisfamily and was going to do right by his overly generous friend.

Hiscarcametoastop,inthedrivewayof566MemorialStreet.Heglancedatthepictureofhisfamilyonthedash,ashepulledthenapkinfromhispocket.Theguy’sname

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wasBrian.Russellwalkedacrossagraveldriveway,toawhitetwo-storyhousewithalongwoodenporchonthefrontofit.Hethoughtitwasagorgeousplace;hadawell-keptlawn,twocar garage, garden, and a porch swing. It was a nice little slice of the American dream; like somethingoutofamagazine.

Herangthedoorbell,andashortmomentlateritwasansweredbyalarge,gruff,unshavenmanwearingapoloshirtandkhakishorts.Themanhadangerinhiseyes,andRussellwonderedforasecondifthishadbeenagoodidea.Brianwasbuiltlikeaprofessionalfootball player, and Russell could smell whiskey on his breath.

“Whothehellareyou?”Brianasked.“I’ma…uh…coworkerofTessa’s.Shesentmetopickupthemoney.”

“YouworkforTessa?”Brianasked,lookingRussellupanddown. “That’sright.” “HowcomeI’veneverseenyouintherebefore?” “Juststarted;gothiredonasafloorbouncer,”Russellsaid,hopingtoendthisencounterquickly. BriansnickeredatRussellandbegantolaughathim.“You’reabouncer?Youalwayswear a suit and tie to work?” “When it’s appropriate,” Russell said, feeling foolish now. “So,wereyousupposedtocomeoverhereandroughmeupfortherestofthemoney,Mr.FloorBouncer?” “Justwhatwasagreedon.”Russellwasgettingextremelyuncomfortable,now.Hethoughtonceortwiceofturningaroundandboltingbacktohiscar.HewishedBrianwouldjustshut up and give him the money. “So,you’reheretoroughmeup,forwhatwasagreedupon?” Good God!Russellthoughttohimself.Thesituationwasturninguglyfast.“Look,I’mjustheretopickupthefivehundred.I’mnotlookingforanytrouble.”

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BriansteppedclosertoRussell,chesttochestwithhim,staringintohiseyesandsizinghim up. Russell tried to look away and was almost sure, he was about to get punched in the face. “Waithere,”Briansaidandwentbackintothehouse. “Thankyou,”Russellmutteredunderhisbreath,relievednottobelyingontheground,with a broken nose. Brainreturnedtothedoor,holdingaMossberg12gaugepumpactionshotgun,withpistolgripacrosshischest.“Idon’tknowwhatkindofcrapTessaistryingtopull,butyoucantell her, if she wants the money, she can take me to court. Now, get the hell off my porch.” Russellhadn’tevenwaitedforBraintofinishhislastsentence,beforehe’dturnedaround, and sprinted back to his car. When he’d put enough distance between himself and thehouse,hepulledofftheroadandtriedtogethisbreathingundercontrol.Hethoughtfora second, he might have been having a heart attack, but as the adrenalin started to wear off, he caught his breath and calmed his nerves. Russell looked at the picture of his family and slammedhisfistsontothesteeringwheel.Hewasbacktosquareone.Hewasgoingtohaveto go home, and tell his wife, he’d lost the money, and tell his boys, that they’d be watching the gameinthelivingroomontheflatscreen.Andnow,he’dmessedthingsupforTessa,aswell.Russell decided to head home, and get it over with. Hestartedthecarandturnedthevolumeupontheradio,totryandconcentrateonsomething,otherthanwhathewasabouttoface.Hecaughtthetailendofsomenewrocksong, and as it faded out, the DJ announced, “Up next, we’ll have tonight’s winning lottery numbers.” Russell suddenly remembered the Cash 4 ticket he’d purchased earlier and quickly dugitoutofhiswallet.HelistenedastheDJreadthroughthePowerballandCash3drawings. “NowforyourCash4eveningdrawing,thenumbersare:Three,four,three,andthree.” Russell looked at the ticket, and his adrenaline was suddenly pumping, as it had when thecrazymanhadbeenthreateninghim,withashotgun.LadyLuckhadstunghim,andhe

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couldfeelthepoisonenteringhisveins.ThenumbersonRussell’sticketread:3;3;4;and3.Russelltriedtorememberthejackpotforthreeidenticaldigits,inanyorder.

Hepulledintotheclosestgasstation,andaskedtheclerktotellhimwhathisticketpaidout.Sheranhisticketthroughthelottomachine,andontheelectronicdisplayappeared:WINNER!$1,200!Russellcouldn’tbelieveit.Astheclerkhandedhimbackhisticket,hefoundhimself,onceagaintemptedbythescratch-offs.Hehadextracashnow,morethanenoughfora couple of go-rounds; perhaps, a quick trip to the casino, instead. Russellthoughtofhisfamily.Hethoughtofhiswife,Renee.Herememberedhisboysandthegametomorrow.HepicturedTessastandingbehindthebar,withthesadpitifullookonherface,andtheoffertobailhimout,again.Hethoughtofallthepeoplewhomeantsomething to him, turned around, and walked out of the store.

Thenextday,hewouldgiveTessaonethousanddollars,andtellherBrianhadcometohissenses,anddecidedtosettlethingsevenly.Hewouldtakehisboystotheballparkandputtheremainingtwohundredtouseonhotdogs,sodas,andsouvenirs.OnTuesdaynight,the next week, he would go to his gamblers anonymous group therapy session, discuss his relapse,andbeginhisjourneyonceagain,onthelongroadtorecovery.

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Jocelyne Barchet

Charcoal18x24

Looking through the eyes of the artist while sketching.

Deadly Substance

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Aaron Burks

Charcoal on Paper18x24

A study of still life with light, shadow and tone.

12:30

Aaron Burks

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Kathleen AlfordPlease, Professor

Oh please, professor, please shut up,My head, my brain is stuffed, full up,I know I need to pay attention,Butmymind’sgonepastallredemption,Soplease,professor,pleaseshutup.

It’s not that I don’t want to learn,It’s not that this class I spurn,It’sjustthatI’vemyfocuslost,And I know not listening will cost,Soplease,professor,pleaseshutup.

I hear you speak, but nothing stays,Iknowmyeyeshavegotthatglaze,I’m sorry I don’t seem to care,About the things you’ve got to share,Butplease,professor,pleaseshutup.

Cutclassshort,justthisonce,I feel like such a royal dunce,Theothersseemtofeelthesame,Headsduckedlowintiredshame,Oh please, professor, please shut up.

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My hand is cramped, my eyes have crossed,My foot’s asleep and I’m plumb lost,Oh please, oh please, oh please dear prof.,Letushavejustanhouroff,Please, professor, please shut up.

Please professor, don’t be sad,And please don’t let us make you mad,It’s not that we don’t care – we do!Wejustneedsometimetorenew,Soplease,professor,just–pleaseshutup.

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Kait Scott

TimelessDigital Photography

Documenting the passage of time.

Timeless