INKLING
Spring 2020 & Spring 2021
Volumes 30 & 31
Inkling
30th Anniversary Double Edition
Inkling is the creative arts magazine of Lone Star College-Tomball. Students of LSC-Tomball are invited to sub-
mit poetry, essays, short stories, or artwork for this annual publication. All copyrights revert to the authors and
artists. No portion of Inkling may be reproduced without consent of the individual contributors.
In order to acknowledge and honor the unique experiences we have shared between these two Spring semesters,
this special double issue contains a COVID section that includes work in which both current students and
alumni explore the challenges of living in quarantine, as well as the impact COVID-19 has had on our lives and
our academic community. We are proud of the strength, resilience, and grit our students exhibit in these pages as
they continue to seek connection and create beauty through the literary and visual arts.
Volume 30
Editorial Staff
Amanda Black
Ethan Hiltscher
Sabrina Hiltscher
McKayla Miller
Karina Reynosa
Regina Roeli
Emily Sievers
Ananya Sontosh
Cierra Willner
Advisers
Mari-Carmen Marín
Catherine Olson
Kyle Solak
Volume 31
Editorial Staff Cover Art
Andrea Omotosho Different
Asia Solomon-Scott Regina Roeli
Advisers Layout
Melissa Studdard Rosalind Williamson
Catherine Olson
Debra Becker
Acknowledgements
The Inkling staff, editors, and advisers would like to extend their sincerest thanks to Lone Star College-Tomball
for the opportunity to publish the double 30th and 31st edition of our magazine.
We’d like to thank sponsors of this year’s reading series: Dr. Lee Ann Nutt and the Office of the Presi-
dent, the LSC-Tomball Library, and the Office of Student Life. With their support, Inkling was able to host an
on-campus reading and an interview with the 2020 Texas State Poet Laureate, Emmy Pérez. Additionally, we
of the Inkling staff would like to express our vast appreciation to Karina Reynosa, Emily Sievers, and Ananya
Santosh for their efforts in conducting and transcribing the Emmy Pérez interview for publication in this year’s
magazine. And, of course, tremendous thanks go to Emmy Pérez for sharing her time, talent, and lyrical poetry
with us.
We offer thanks to Dean Melinda Coleman in the First Year Foundations Division. Thanks also go to
Shannon Marino and Lisa Gutierrez in the Office of Student Life, to Sonya Cerdan for our new Inkling logo,
and to Bobbye Silva in the Lone Star College-Tomball Community Library for supporting us throughout the
year. We must thank issue 30’s Inkling faculty judge, John Rollins. Finally, special thanks go to English professor
Douglas Boyd for giving up part of his spring break every year for the past thirty years to proofread early drafts
of this magazine and give Inkling essential editorial direction.
Most of all, special thanks go to the talented and inspired students of Lone Star College-Tomball. Each
year, we collect hundreds of submissions, and in the end, we are able to showcase only a handful of the creative
works that LSC-Tomball students have to offer. Many thanks to all of the student contributors this year, in past
years, and in years to come. This magazine would not be possible without you.
Contents
ISSUE 30
The Fountain of Youth Amara Okoye
First-Place Poetry Winner 9
Mommy Amara Thomas
First-Place Prose Winner 11
Truly Homeless Wells Westmoreland 14
Everything Is Stars Liliana Richards 15
Battling Panic Amanda Black 16
Brain Rupture Wells Westmoreland 17
I Just Want to Sleep . . . Sabrina Hiltscher 18
The Hunt Amanda Black
Second-Place Poetry Winner 21
Tutorial Amanda Black
Second-Place Prose Winner 22
Acquainted with the Cold Amara Okoye 26
A Story About a Girl Starr Henk 27
An Abrupt Change of Plans Jeannine Hill 28
As the Sky Fell Joanna Wright 32
Though Stars May Blaze in Twilight Joanna Wright 33
Emmy Pérez, 2020 Texas State Poet Laureate: A Conversation Karina Reynosa, Emily
with Inkling Sievers, & Ananya Santosh 34
Starlight Growth Amanda Black 41
Scream? Sabrina Hiltscher 42
This Is the End. Please Turn Back Logan Luther
Third-Place Prose Winner 43
This Touch of Gold Joanna Wright
Third-Place Poetry Winner 45
Revenge Amara Okoye 46
Hard Work Pays Off Aspen Miller 47
Sounds of the City Cade Coleman 50
COVID-19-THEMED WORKS Hannah Mourino 52
A Series of Short Stories and Poems That Teach Me 55
Quarantine, Day 365 Rosalind Williamson 56
Like Criminals Elizabeth Myles 61
Life in Quarantine Sarah Huntsman 62
The Nurse Matthew Smith 63
The Physician Matthew Smith
The Patient Matthew Smith 64
The Quarantine Matthew Smith 65
The Virus Matthew Smith 66
ART
Cesar Cristal Maldonado 68
Lost Awesziana Roberson
First-Place Art Winner 69
It’s Still Charcoal Nicolas Marroquin 70
We Regina Roeli 71
Leaf on the Wind Sabrina Hiltscher
Third-Place Art Winner 72
Spring Frost Sabrina Hiltscher 73
Daydreamer Awesziana Roberson 74
Storm Aftermath Amanda Black
Second-Place Art Winner 75
Werifesteria Awesziana Roberson 76
Philocaly Awesziana Roberson 77
Winter of the Snow Owl Karley Morris 78
Journey Awesziana Roberson 79
ISSUE 31
Moon Child Bailey Stringfellow
First-Place Poetry Winner 81
Ari’s Home Raquel Wood
First-Place Prose Winner 82
Pretty Doubts Asia Solomon Scott 85
The Prescriptions Asia Solomon Scott 86
Self -Portrait as an Abstract Painting Asia Solomon Scott 88
Choose Hoe, Always. Asia Solomon Scott 89
Reflection Hannah Smith 90
Self -Love Cake Andrea Omotosho 93
The School Chronicles Part I David Ramirez 94
Puppet Francesca Bocchini 96
Hi, This Poem is Titled: No, It’s Not About Him Please Stop Asking Jessica Saul 97
Blue Days, Black Nights Jessica Saul 98
On Frail Wings of Vanity and Wax Jessica Saul 99
Painter’s Block Tristan Sharrosh 100
In Loving Memory Dakota Davis 106
The Long Fall Dakota Davis 107
The Longest March in History Dakota Davis 108
A Blooming Computer Instruction Manual Jeremy Cortinas 109
Let Me Vent Jeremy Cortinas 110
The Unexpected Guadalupe Barron 111
Impostor Mia Williams 115
The Look Alike Julia Cheek 116
My Favorite Season is Fall of the Patriarchy Chelsea Wilkerson 118
First Day to a New Life Joseph Clark 119
Lilac Madisyn Beilowitz 121
Church Shooting Hannah Bray 122
Morning Hannah Bray 123
Good to Be Home Haylyn Hanks 124
Contributors 125
ISSUE 30
POETRY
The Fountain of Youth
Amara Okoye
first-place poetry winner
Welcome to the new world
A virgin land
Never before touched
By the hands of man
With untamed jungle
And unpaved streets
Where Mother Nature
Reigns as queen
Over the savage
Anarchy
Thick black boots
On a white sand beach
End the island’s
Celibacy
These men have come
To seek a treasure
Not found in chests
But in the milk
Of the island’s breast
For there runs a fountain
And from it spews
The secret to eternal youth
But look! One man
Has lost his way
Or maybe he
Has gone astray
Alone
He roams
In the great
Unknown
To seek the fortune for himself
A monopoly on health and wealth
9
POETRY
The scoundrel seeks
The scoundrel finds
The scoundrel drinks
The scoundrel dies
The water runs
Through his veins like blood
And drowns his heart
Avenges the earth
And cleanses the world
Of his tainted soul
Drink of this water and thirst no more
You won’t live forever
But you’ll never grow old
10
PROSE
Mommy
Amara Thomas
first-place prose winner
“We finally made it to the park, Maja. So you can enjoy the swings.”
Maja couldn’t contain her excitement, balling her fists at her chest. She was in her mother’s arms, and
they were walking along the path. The leaves were changing to their beautiful oranges and yellows as autumn
was approaching.
It wasn’t often that her mother would hold her like this. She could feel the fluffiness of her mom’s jacket.
The jacket was made of fur, real fur not faux. Maja’s nose filled with the sweet aroma of perfume that her mom
was wearing. When they were this close, Maja could see her mom’s broad nose and dark eyes. She’d never seen
those features this close before. Her mother was much darker than she was and so beautiful; she was like a prin-
cess. Maja wished she could be as beautiful as her mother when she grew up.
“I li—” she hesitated as her mother put her down. The older woman hated when Maja stuttered, and she
fidgeted. “I like your jacket mommy.” Maja offered a big smile.
For the first time her mother returned it warmly. “I like your face.” She snickered, tickling Maja’s side.
The little girl squirmed, writhing closer to her mother. She wanted to get away, but she also enjoyed being this
close to the older woman. “Come on, let’s go to the swings.”
The swings weren’t far to walk to, and for the first time they were empty. Maja hated when big kids were
on the swings; it was intimidating and scary. Today she could get on, have her mom push her, and squeal as loud-
ly as she wanted. There were no worries of what the older kids might think of her.
Being on the swing was wonderful; it satisfied Maja’s desire to sprout wings and fly. She could feel the
wind and tried to spread her arms to soar. Instead, she clenched the metal chains with her fists, afraid of falling.
“Mommy, can I ask you a question?” Maja dragged her feet against the rubber mat beneath the swings.
Pumping her legs had become tiring, and the swing was nauseating her.
“Sure,” her mother said, offering her hand to Maja as they continued strolling around the playground.
“What’s your real name?”
There was a moment of silence, “Florence.”
Maja nodded, taking in the word. “Florence Oliver.”
“Florence Scott.”
“But my last name is Oliver. Why is it different?” Maja was speaking as slowly as she could, careful not to
fumble on any of her words.
Florence Scott didn’t respond. Instead, she looked into the wind. Maja’s heart sank as she worried that
she’d said something wrong and would be spanked. She grimaced in preparation, but no hit ever came. What
Maja received instead was a laugh. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you, eventually. But don’t worry about it, sweetie.
How about you and I play a game?”
Maja wanted to know more about her mother. If her mother wanted to play, though, she wouldn’t ob-
ject. She nodded and smiled when she saw her mother’s face lit up.
“Okay, let’s play hide and go seek.”
Maja hated that game. “Okay, Mommy.”
“Go behind that bush and count to twenty, okay? And I’ll go hide.”
Maja nodded again, following instructions. She skipped over to the bushes and ducked down to hide.
11
PROSE
Slowly she counted.
“One. Two. Th-Three. Four. Five…”
At around ten, she became nervous and thought nothing would be wrong with peeking to see where her
mother had gone. When she looked up, the woman was nowhere to be found. The park wasn’t too crowded, but
Maja couldn’t see the big gray coat her mother was wearing. When she finally spotted it, she could see her mother
heading to the car.
Sneaky! She’s hiding in the car!
The little girl smiled to herself, knowing her mother’s hiding spot now. She started counting again, ex-
cited to squeal “Twenty!”
Maja peered above the shrubbery and looked in the car’s direction that her mother had gone to hide in.
It was gone now. She looked down the road to see if she’d just been looking at the wrong car, but she saw nothing
that looked similar.
She...left me. Maybe it was an emergency. I’ll wait.
It wasn’t the first time her mother had disappeared like that. Last time she could look at the emergency
contact number on her book bag and call her father. This time there was no way to call her father. Besides, Maja
was having fun with her mom. She decided it was best to just play and wait.
Minutes turned to hours. The sky turned from the warm afternoon sun to the frost of night. Maja
could feel only the pain of hunger as she shivered on the park bench. It wasn’t fun to swing or run anymore as
her stomach growled, clawing at her insides. The steady chill that blew against her exposed skin worsened the
anguish. Her mind drifted from food to the beautiful fluffy jacket her mom was wearing and the way her mother
smelled like a princess.
“Are you lost?”
The voice came from a man in a uniform, a policeman. He approached the bench Maja was on.
Maja shook her head. “I’m waiting for my mommy.”
The officer looked around, “Is she close by?”
Maja shook her head. “She went in her car.”
The man looked at Maja with wide eyes. Now he sat at the far end of the bench. “I’ll wait here with you.
It’s dangerous for a kid to be here alone.”
Maja just nodded, holding her shivering body. She wanted to be somewhere warm to eat something and
go to sleep. After a long while the officer began to speak again.
“What’s your name, darling?” the officer asked, beginning to shrug off his coat.
“I’m Maja.” Maja spoke carefully again, as she would around her mother. She wanted the police officer
to know that she was smart and could speak formally.
“Hi Maja, I’m Officer Stone. You look like you’re freezing. Have you eaten recently?” She shook her
head. Now the officer was close enough to put his jacket over Maja’s little shoulders. It engulfed her in warmth,
and she was surprised that it wasn’t smelly. It didn’t smell like her mother, but it was still pleasant.
“Okay, little Maja. I’m bringing you to the police station so we can call your mommy, okay? We’ll pick
up some food on the way there, anything you want.”
Maja nodded, opening her arms for Officer Stone to lift her. Anyone who was offering food would have
been able to take her away. She was glad it was a policeman; the police were safe; there was no reason for her not
to trust him.
As the officer carried Maja to the car, she rested her head sleepily against his shoulder. He was warm, and
his promises of food comforted her enough to allow sleep to take over.
12
PROSE
“Do you know your mommy’s name, Maja?”
Maja nodded, smiling, remembering the perfume-scented woman who was carrying her this way before.
Her dark skin, her dark eyes, she could see her so clearly. “Florence Scott,” she whispered.
13
POETRY
Truly Homeless
Wells Westmoreland
I don’t know where home went,
the place where I feel safe.
I just feel like I’m on the run,
a journey to an unknown place.
The trip I went on years ago,
has set me into action.
I’m always moving, I never settle down,
to me having no home
isn’t an infraction.
Until the light comes,
and I’m left feeling empty.
Any joy I have has gone away,
my brain is thinking the other way.
It is paradise, then agony,
overall a drone monotony.
I wish I could break free,
but I’m afraid this is meant for me.
14
PROSE
Everything Is Stars
Liliana Richards
Day and night. I work hard to keep them happy. To give them wishes and wonder, but it is never enough. More,
more, more. That is the word I hear the most. You see, my stars are not ordinary. I was born with the gift of ce-
lestial tears, and once the correct amount is assembled together, a glistening star is created. These stars are bigger
and brighter, the exception being the sun of course. Every single day I am being drained, and I can feel it, too.
You would think that my people would take better care of me, but they do not. To them I am just their source.
I am constantly producing stars, mixing together all of the ingredients and putting them into (I guess you could
say) a universal oven.
“How’s the next batch coming along?” Stefan asks. He’s the closest thing to a friend I have. From time
to time he’ll check up on me and bring me gifts. In another time, Stefan would be more than just a friend to me.
But in this time, it is forbidden.
“Why must I be gifted with such a curse? Why aren’t there others like me?” I ask these questions every-
day, although I know that no one has the answer. Stefan is kind enough to listen to me babble about myself all
of the time.
“You don’t have to do this forever, you know. There’s got to be another main ingredient that our people
can use instead of leaving it all up to you. You don’t look so well lately.” Stefan frowns.
All I can do is laugh. His concern for me warms my heart, but it also frightens me. We’ve joked about
running away, but if our people found out, we would be in big trouble. Stefan would get the worst of the pun-
ishment. “My looks do not worry me. At least they don’t anymore. I barely step out of this room!” I exclaim.
Before Stefan can respond, the beeping interrupts him. The next batch is finished.
“You should go before anyone notices how long you’ve been gone,” I say quietly. I don’t wish to be alone
like this, but this is just the way it is.
“I’ll come by tonight to make sure you make it to bed, if that is all right with you?” Stefan asks.
“Yeah, of course it is. I’ll see you then.” We give each other small hug, accompanied by a sad smile.
Stefan never came back. Little did I know, his reason to come back that night was to encourage me to
run away with him for real this time. But someone found out; they caught him stealing supplies that we needed
to escape. He was sent to a facility, almost like a prison, but he was alone with no cellmates. Now we are both
alone, but his hell is different from mine. I continue to work myself tirelessly, and he does nothing at all, which
will lead him to go mad.
Years later, I am still producing my stars. My last batch was dedicated to Stefan, whom I cried many tears
for.
His stars shine brighter than any other.
15
PROSE
Battling Panic
Amanda Black
Pain. Loss. No. This will not be me. I face the beast. This beast of dread and doom. Its eyes promise torment by
stripping me of what I value in this world. I cannot let it.
My legs are pulled from under me. I roll away. Physically, I would not be fast enough. I am not strong nor
fast nor agile. But this battle is in my mind. This is my beast. So when I hit the ground, I roll because I can. And
I already know what to do because my mind works the fastest from within.
I take my sword, unsheathe it; my legs are spreading to stand, palm pushing myself up while I raise my
blade—
The beast lunges at me again. I am ready this time and I dodge. I spin and hold my blade out, nicking the
beast as I whirl away from it. Blood dots the hard ground, and I am not afraid. Not anymore. This is my territory.
We are in my mind and in here—in the mind of a writer—this beast will bend to my rules.
Its teeth gnash, flashes of what it wants sting my mind. Those teeth—all named different things: doubt,
fury, hatred, fear, failure. Those teeth threaten to close around my throat. But they will not. Because this is my
stomping ground.
I throw my blade down and hurl to my knees. Fur bristles from my skin. My own fangs, fangs of hope,
love, productivity, trust, they are here. And they will tear away the fear.
We fly at each other, each aiming for the throat, but I check myself just before we collide and dodge. A
rush to the side, skidding paws into the dusty ground, nails scraping as a growl thunders in my throat.
This is my victory.
Mine.
I wait for it to come at me. I wait. It hurtles towards me. I brace myself. I am not as large as it, but with
all of my tools, I have become stronger since we last met. I will not fail.
The beast lunges. I whip back, snaking my lithe body under its, and I flip to my back where I have a per-
fect shot. My jaw wrenches his throat. Dark blood spills over my face and fur. The beast wails in agony. It dances
away from me, sputtering and choking, spattering blood in great blots as it backs away. As it glares at me, with
those eyes, those promising eyes, it snarls, “I will be back.”
Yes, you will. And I will be ready.
16
POETRY
Brain Rupture
Wells Westmoreland
My mind is a turbulent cyclone,
I hear an eerie screeching tone.
My senses reach out to explore
the very epitome of gore.
I can hear the sound fading away,
I can see the light fading into a new day.
My mind is foggy,
my conscience dim.
I have entered down into the dark again.
17
PROSE
I Just Want to Sleep...
Sabrina Hiltscher
Tina squinted down the mountain, looking at the village resting in the valley. That hadn’t been there when she
had gone to sleep... .
She dragged herself out, blinking in the evening sunlight, yawning. Her eyes were half closed, but she
could still see clearly.
“Humans. Always building things everywhere,” she thought, shaking her head. She walked back into her
cave, flicking her tail at the roof.
She didn’t like to be woken up mid-nap. Rock rained down, half blocking the entrance. Then she paused.
Something had woken her. But... what?
Probably nothing important. She found her spot and lay down, ready to finish her hundred-year nap,
curling her wings comfortably over her head.
“What are you?” a voice said. It was a human language, though she couldn’t for the life of her remember
which one, and the voice sounded male. And young.
She shifted, looking for the source of the voice.
He was standing in front of her half-finished rock pile.
Should have finished that. Sleepy work is never finished.
He was holding a lantern and peering at her curiously.
“Can you talk?” he asked.
Which language is that...
“Yes,” she said, picking a language that sounded similar.
He frowned. “What?”
Guess that wasn’t it. She tried again. “I can speak.”
“Do you speak Leithrian?” he asked.
Liethrian? What in the name of Skye was that?
“I don’t think so,” she said, trying another language.
He sighed. “That’s not very helpful. I get that you can talk, just not Leithrian, and I’m guessing you can
understand me. Wait a minute. That doesn’t make sense. If you can understand me, why can’t you say
at least a little bit in Leithrian?”
“Because that’s not how this works.” Tina said grumpily, and yawned. “How many languages do you
know? Maybe we can find one that both of us know.”
“Okay, that sounded kind of like those guys who were talking with my dad the other day.” He fell si-
lent—finally—and seemed to be thinking. “They were from... Tenlath, I think. Do you know Tenlath?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But you humans are constantly changing the names of things, so maybe it’s now
called Tenlaith. When I learned it, it was Shardian.”
“Wait—I got that part! Shardian? Shardi doesn’t exist anymore. It was conquered by the Ruists, then the
Pairsis, and then Pairsis fell apart, and now that area is called Tenlath or Sparl.”
“When did humans start actually studying history?” Tina asked, trying yet another language.
“Maybe if I draw a map and show where we are, that would help?” the boy asked.
And maybe if I drop you down the mountain, you’ll stop talking, Tina thought. Although it is kind of
entertaining…
Tina yawned again, wondering if he’d finally get the hint.
18
PROSE
“Does that sound like a good idea? Here.” He pulled a stick of chalk out of his pocket and started draw-
ing on the floor.
Tina put out a claw and stopped him, then rummaged behind her, pulling out a map and setting it in
front of him. He started looking at it, muttering to himself quietly.
Tina closed her eyes.
A few moments later, he was being loud again.
“See, right here? That island isn’t an island anymore; it erupted again and connected to the mainland.
And that peninsula sank a while back; so did the island right next to it. There was an earthquake or something.
Tina looked at the island in question and smiled wanly. Do they always forget? That island and penin-
sula ALWAYS sink. Then come up. Then sink. Every couple hundred years or so. The curse of Alihra, wasn’t it?
Or was it the curse of Hja’rhi…
“But we’re right here.” He pointed.
Tina raised an eyebrow.
How would she not know where she had decided to sleep? There were stories told of those who got too
sleepy to pay attention where they were going until they crash-landed, but she was taking a nap for crying out
loud. Besides, she didn’t put much stock in those stories. Who would be that foolhardy? Then again, she had
been in her fair share of ridiculous competitions as an adolescent...
“This area is called Leithria. Almost a hundred years ago, it was part of Driag, but we broke away. then
Leithria took over most of Driag.” He pulled a face.
Ddriagi! That was it!
“Fascinating,” she said.
The boy jumped. “You do speak Leithria!”
“When I learnt it, it was called Ddriagi.” she said dryly.
“How long ago was that?”
“Before I went to sleep.”
“How long did you sleep for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A while. And I’d like to finish my nap, if you don’t mind.”
“How long will that take?”
“That depends on how often I get interrupted,” she said.
“Sorry. I didn’t know you were sleeping. But there was this shaking, and then all these rocks came tum-
bling down the mountain, right below me! Well, not right below me. But still close!”
“Hmm. Are you planning on leaving anytime soon?”
He pulled a face. “I guess. Dad will be upset if I miss my lessons again… Is it okay if I come back tomor-
row?”
“Not really. I’ll be busy.”
“Oh. When will you not be busy?”
“I don’t know. I’m a very busy dragon.”
“Oh, so THAT’S what you are!”
“What clued you in?” Tina asked sarcastically. “Wings, tail, scales, scorch marks, nap patterns, language
problems, or the fact that I just said I was?
He looked dejected. “Sorry. I guess it is kind of obvious if you say it like that. But the light in here isn’t
too good, and... wait, if you’re a dragon, then you’re going to be napping for a really long time, aren’t you?”
“If I don’t get interrupted every few years, yes,” Tina said semi-grumpily.
“Oh. Well, bye, then.”
19
PROSE
The boy climbed out, and after making sure he was a decent way down the mountain, Tina finished
closing her door.
Then, she went back to sleep.
20
POETRY
The Hunt
Amanda Black
second-place poetry winner
My paws pound the earth. Ice chills my gut. I am speed. I am wind. I am all of my fellow wolves driving toward
our goal. Twin eyes peer from the brush nearby, the only sign hinting that our prey is not alone. We are silent,
our motions soundless as we glide through the trees.
My alpha trills and our throats split. I howl, the sound clawing out of my throat and bursting from me,
echoing in my packmates.
Our prey knows we encroach. But it is too late. We have it surrounded. The faint crackle of leaves means
nothing to us. We descend upon our prey. It thrashes, knowing we come, hot licks of adrenaline washing over
us like cold, crashing waves.
My alpha strikes, fangs gnashing, claws burying into flesh. We follow. We are a barrier around the prey. It
cannot escape.
Red mars the ground as my alpha seeks the killing blow. The prey thunders to the ground, hot and sticky from
the fight. We gather around, licking our chops and allowing the alpha to bask us in praise for a job well
done. We are sky. We are night. We feed this day, and it is glorious.
21
PROSE
Tutorial
Amanda Black
second-place prose winner
I blinked, staring into the distance as a lanky blue troll strode up to me. He wore a patchy brown vest with a
V-neck and buckled leggings. I raised a brow at his bare feet, grinning when I saw that he only had two rather
large toes. His twin tusks protruding from the mouth of his toothy smile made me chuckle. He waved and
looked me over.
“Ray?” I asked, nervously.
“Here it’s Quintus. So call me that. Quin works too when we’re in-game.”
“Um... okay...” I nodded, unsure.
Ray—Quin—continued, “Have you done a quest yet?”
“I picked some fruit and killed some boars,” I said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the questgiver I
had just finished speaking to—a broad shouldered orc woman brandishing a meat hack.
“Big heap tutorial mode.” Quin rolled his shoulders. “Yeah, it gets better.” He adjusted a leather strap
across his chest and checked my weapon. “Looks good, but the next quests might be a bit more difficult. Want
some help?”
“Sure, that’d be great.” I lifted my fingers. “Kinda out of mana, though.” Without mana, I couldn’t cast
spells. Without spells, I wasn’t very good at killing things quite yet. I hoped that would improve as I gained more
levels.
Ray—Quin—reached into a shoddy little sack tied to his belt. He pulled out a skein of something that
was larger than the bag itself.
My brow furrowed.
“Oh, it’s bigger—”
“Magic bag, yeah. I have four of them. They hold ten things in each one.”
“Ten things? Even if they’re massive?”
“Yep. It’s... complicated.” He shrugged, handing me the skein. “Drink.”
I took it and gulped lukewarm water. My face twisted in slight disgust, but when I inhaled, my fingers
crackled with magic. “Wow, that helped a lot!” I said, impressed.
“Gotta relax and have some food and water after battles. It helps perk you up. Restores health and
mana.” I nodded and took another swig. “So,” he asked, pulling a longsword from the scabbard on his back,
“What next?”
I read my quest log. “I need to find this scout. He hasn’t reported to his post in a while.”
“Ah, let’s go then. I’ll cover you. The mobs around his location are aggressive.”
I raised an eyebrow, “Mobs?”
“Enemy NPCs.”
“NPC...” I tapped my chin, pondering.
He sighed, “Non-player character.”
“Ah.”
We searched the area. Giant scorpions prowled the hills. I could hear them chittering at each other, scraping the
dirt with their legs. One of them spotted us and screeched. I readied a lightning bolt, channeling magic into my
22
PROSE
hands.
Quin ran at it; no, he charged. He was fast. His blade sliced through the thick carapace as if it were butter.
I hadn’t even finished casting before it died. I tried not to look too impressed as we continued.
We came upon a very dead tree on a flat expanse. Large rocks circled the tree, and a figure slumped against the
trunk. I raced over, forgetting all else. It was the troll scout. I landed on my knees and took his shoulders. He
twitched, and I sighed with relief.
“Are you okay?” I asked, “What happened?” Concern leaked from my voice. I knew he was dying.
The scout coughed weakly. “Big scorpion. Leader... making them attack. Kill it...” he groaned, slumping
further into my grasp.
“We need to get you help. You need medicine.”
“Antivenom.” I heard Quin behind me.
“Antivenom?” I asked him from over my shoulder.
Quin rubbed his tusks in thought, “He needs antivenom from the big one that stung him.”
I leaned the injured troll gently against the tree again, then stood, determinedly. “Okay. Let’s go get it.”
Quin stepped in front of me. “Cres, you’re too low level to take on that scorpion yet.”
I glowered. “Then help me.” He hesitated, rubbing his long neck nervously. I stiffened my stance and
stepped in front of him. “Then move. I’m going to save him.”
“I don’t—”
“Running out of time here.” I gestured to the troll. “Dying dude.”
Quin sighed. “Fine,” he said, slouching. We left to head to the pit where the scorpion leader resided.
I gulped as I gazed down at the pit. It was so full of scorpions that some were crawling on top of one another.
Two of them gnashed at each other, starting a fight over a spare spat of land. The first creature slammed a thick
claw on top of the other’s back, causing it to screech and skitter away.
“That one.” Quin pointed to a large, blueish scorpion. It was at least twice the size of any other scorpion,
and it looked as if it were sleeping. “It’s level six.”
“I’m...”
“Three.”
My face hardened. “We can do this.” I looked to him. “You can help, right?”
“Yeah, but I can’t guarantee your safety. I should be fine, but you...”
“Well, why don’t I wait up here, and you get the stinger?” I asked.
He shook his head, long pointy ears flapping softly. “You have to participate. Help fight and do damage
if you want experience and the quest item.”
I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure how long the troll had, and I knew I couldn’t just leave him there. I looked at
Quin and nodded. “Okay, I’ll be careful.”
“Are you sure?” He asked seriously.
“I have a heal. Just try to keep as many off me as you can.”
He nodded, and we descended into the pit.
Quin charged. Four scorpions immediately ran to him, pincers raised to attack. I crept up to follow, readying a
lightning bolt. I targeted the scorpion behind Quin and fired. The scorpion screeched, its carapace blackened
and crackling. It looked at me angrily. Quin noticed its attention shifting. He lifted a thick foot and slammed
it onto the hard ground. Thundering waves of force crackled outwards and stung the scorpions surrounding
23
PROSE
Quin. I covered my ears at the sound of the stomp. The scorpions raged at the sound, forgetting me completely
and turning back to attack Quin.
I channeled another lightning bolt and flung it at the same scorpion. It keened and fell, dead. Quin
slashed two scorpions, and they split in two—four halves of scorpion fell to the ground at his feet. Two more
remained. They were in poor shape, but others were looking towards the ruckus, tails poised to join the fight.
I ducked behind a nearby rock, channeling another lightning bolt. I peeked out and fired it at one of
the injured scorpions. Its carapace sparked and burnt as it fell. Two more had joined the fight. Quin was looking
weary; as he drew back for another cleaving slash, a scorpion pegged him in the stomach with its tail. Quin still
brought his sword down to attack, but it was weak. It barely penetrated the scorpion’s carapace. Quin clutched
the bloody wound in his gut. I cringed. Another scorpion took the opportunity to land a tail stab in Quin’s back.
Quin went down on a knee, spitting blood. I leapt out from the rock, channeling another spell. A fourth
scorpion chittered behind me, but I didn’t stop casting. The heal went off, surrounding Quin in a dazzling green
aura. His two wounds began to knit together, and he stood ready to fight again. He slashed quick, taking out the
scorpion in front of him.
“One more!” I shouted with glee. I could cast again, but Quin now had the situation under control.
Conserving my mana, I let him kill the last scorpion.
“Yes!” I punched the air as Quin wiped his brow. “Great job!”
He looked at me and gave a thumbs up.
Then his eyes widened. “Cres!” He rushed at me as I heard a clicking behind me. I turned just in time to
see a giant blue tail coming at my head before pain split my consciousness and I blacked out.
I came to quickly. I blinked, shaking off the stun. I hadn’t even fallen over. Quin was in between me and the scor-
pion, in a violent spar with it. He had two new wounds, and they were oozing a greenish goo. Venom. I started
casting a heal. It went off, and Quin seemed to perk up. Just as the heal went off, the blue scorpion turned to me
and swiped. Its tail hit me in the side, knocking the wind out of me and sending me flying. I rolled away, gasping
for air as pain throbbed at my ribs.
Dizzy, I looked toward Quin. More venom dripped from his half-healed wound. I had to heal him again.
I scrabbled at the ground, dirt flying around me as my fingers scraped the hard earth. I sputtered, my brain threat-
ening to shut down. What was my health at? Low. But so was Quin’s—and he was the one fighting. I had enough
mana for one more cast. I had to get closer.
I pushed past the pain, scrambling up on all fours and crawled closer, doing my best to avoid nearby
scorpions and stay conscious. The smaller scorpions would probably attack under normal circumstances, but
Big Daddy Scorp had taken over. The little ones continued with their own squabbles and whatnot.
I made it close enough to cast just as Quin went down. He wasn’t unconscious, but the blue scorpion
had knocked him over and stunned him. He was weak from the poison. The scorpion looked at me. My heart
sped. There wasn’t much time.
It came at me, kicking up dust and dirt, chittering angrily. I rolled out of the way, barely avoiding the
stinger as it crashed into the ground, cracking the earth with the force of its attack. I saw my target: a hole where
Quin’s sword slash had damaged the carapace and cracked it open. I scooped my staff off of my back and charged.
Aiming carefully, I thrust the staff into the wound. The scorpion screamed, thrashing around and caus-
ing me to lose my grip. I fumbled, but was able to dodge a few blows before backing away. Now was the time to
use that last bit of mana. I cast. My brain fuzzed, hitpoints low, but I pushed through. The cast went off.
The scorpion was still flailing around, trying to get my staff dislodged when the lightning bolt hit. My
staff cracked as it acted as a lightning rod, drawing the spell through the wood and into the scorpion’s wound.
With a horrible screech, the massive scorpion twisted and flailed. Sparks of lightning crackled around its body in
24
PROSE
its death throes, and it went down. It was dead.
I exhaled, relief washing over me. I wobbled toward Quin, who blinked woozily at me.
“You okay?” he asked, grunting as he sat up painfully.
I reached down and picked up his sword. Panting from the exertion, I dragged my way over to the scor-
pion and sliced off its stinger. I looked at Quin, who only had enough energy to nod.
We helped each other recover before taking the stinger back to the scout.
He survived, and we all made it back to the campground.
I logged out immediately after that, to Quin’s surprise. He called me on the phone while I was driving
minutes later.
“What happened? Where’d you go?” His gruff voice crackled over the phone static.
I grinned, my other hand gripping the wheel, still feeling the rush of the battle in my bones, pumping the
gas gleefully as I sped out of the driveway.
“I’m going to buy that damn game.”
25
POETRY
Acquainted with the Cold
Amara Okoye
The cold was like a child...
Eating away at me bit by bit
My nose, my toes, my fingertips
Only daring to touch the edges of me
Nipping at my extremities.
Rosied my cheeks. Reddened my lips.
Eating away at me bit by bit
The cold was like a doctor...
Though my nose stuffed and my throat sprained
His touch began to numb the pain
In a polished and pristine white coat
He checked my lungs and heart and throat
And soothed my symptoms with a chill
As I swallowed his freezing pill
The cold was like a stranger …
Its winds glanced over my every inch
It tried to get to know me
It shook my hand and it turned red
The cold suddenly burning
Then timidly it said hello
And spoke to me in windy blows
The cold was like a mother...
With winds that rocked her young to sleep
With mounds of snow that cradled me
Chattered a lullaby with vibrations
Shivering cold into warm sensations
With blankets of snow she made a bed
And held me close. And tucked me in.
26
POETRY
A Story about a Girl
Starr Henk
Her
Her eyes are daunting,
Her thoughts haunting.
She seems so hollow,
Like she’s waiting to wallow.
She’s in despair,
Says she has no air.
She trembles and shakes,
And says that her heart aches.
Recovery
It wasn’t easy,
To always feel so queasy.
I didn’t want to try,
It seemed simpler to die.
I pushed through,
And started to feel new.
I’m starting to come back,
And I’m so happy to be on the right track.
New Beginnings
I’m feeling okay,
But I’ll take it day by day.
I made a lot of progress,
And now know not to repress.
I’m finally happy,
And I’ve wanted that badly.
I can’t stop grinning,
To new beginnings!
27
PROSE
An Abrupt Change of Plans
Jeannine Hill
Seven days, five workdays and then I will be a free woman. Soon, I will be free of the day-to-day work responsi-
bilities. I can sleep late as I want or stay up late reading a good book. There will be no schedule for me to follow as
I will be free to do whatever I want, whenever I want. These are the wonderful thoughts that are going through
my mind on this beautiful Friday morning. As I sit at my kitchen table, finishing my breakfast, I am getting
excited about my future plans. Little did I know something was about to happen that would change everything.
Actually, I am not “working” these last few days. My replacement has been hired, and I have been train-
ing her for the past week. She is doing the work, and I am monitoring her progress. She is younger, but eager
to learn. She will do just fine in the new position. The work is challenging, and I have enjoyed it over the years.
However, I am ready to move on with the next stage of my life. To enjoy the “fruits of my labor”.
I have been planning this day from my first day of employment. I did not know what I was going to do
when I stopped working. I did know I would need the funds to take care of myself and my needs. I saved my
money, invested a little and worked my “what if” plans carefully. I wanted to be prepared for just about anything
that might arise. Now was the time to do this, and now I knew what I wanted and how to make it happen. Bet-
ter get on the road and get to work, I thought. Next Friday will be here before I know it. I gather up my briefcase
and laptop and head out the door. I can feel that big smile on my face as I make my way to the car.
Forty-five minutes later, I am pulling into my parking space at work. “Workday traffic, one more thing
I soon will not be dealing with.” I say that out loud. Though there is no one to hear me, it makes me happy to
utter the words. As I make my way into the building, I think to myself that I really have enjoyed working here
and being a part of such a great company. I know that after next Friday, my life is going to change dramatically.
I cannot wait!
I make my way to my temporary workstation across from the cubicle where I sat for many years. Now
that cubicle belongs to the person who is handling responsibilities that once were mine. Allison is hard at work.
She nods when she sees me and says, “Good morning, short timer.” She smiles, clearly poking fun at me. I smile
back.
“Hard at work I see. Any chance today could be my last day?” I say, and the smile disappears from her
face.
“Oh, no way! I still have a lot to learn and you still have a lot to teach me!” “You cannot leave yet!” As I
start to chuckle, another voice says, “Ms. Hawthorne, you will be here until next Friday. So, the answer to your
question is a resounding “No”! From her tone, our boss is serious, so I sit down in my chair and begin to set up
my workspace for the day. I notice a packet of paperwork on my desk. I pick it up just as my boss comes into the
opening of my cubicle. “Those papers are for your final payroll disbursement and your exit interview. Please take
the time today to look them over. Come see me after lunch so we can get that taken care of. I want to make sure
everything is in order before you leave next Friday.”
“I will start on it right now,” I say, smiling and nodding to her. She nods back and walks away. I roll my
chair over to the edge of my cubicle and watch as she leaves our area. “Wonder what she is mad about”? I think
to myself.
“She is not mad, she is sad,” Allison says.
“What?” I exclaim.
She looks at me and replies, “You ask what she was mad about.”
“I said that out loud?”
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PROSE
“Yes, you did, and I answered your question.”
“How do you know she is sad?”
She stares at me for a moment, shakes her head and then gets back to her work on the computer. So I pull
out the latest paperwork and start working on getting it completed. I smile as I work my way through it. Soon, I
finish my part, and I am ready for the meeting with my boss after lunch. I glance up as Allison starts over to my
cubicle. She sits down in my visitor’s chair.
“Got a question?” I ask, smiling over at her.
“No, just an observation.”
She seems very serious, and I ask her, “Everything alright?”
“With the job, no problem. You have been great this week. I appreciate your help and your patience. I
have enjoyed working with you.”
“I have enjoyed working with you as well. You are catching on quickly and I know you will fit in here
nicely. Ms. McKensie selected a great candidate when she hired you.”
“Thank you for that. It means a lot!”
“You are welcome. I mean it sincerely!”
“I have noticed something around here this week,” she goes on to say. “Everyone seems happy for you but
at the same time they seem sad too.”
I look at her, and I am not sure what to say.
“They are going to miss you.”
I stare at her with confusion clearly showing on my face.
“They will!” She nods at me with a bit of defiance in her tone.
“What are you talking about? We are co-workers, and for the most part I get along with them. However,
I do not think ‘miss me’ is an accurate description of the situation.”
“You do not see it, but as a newbie I can tell you for a fact it will be an issue for them.”
“They say you are the ‘go to’ person around here. You are the one who takes time with their questions
and makes the effort to help with their requests. Most of them say that you know just about everything there is
to know about the operation. They also say, if you do not know it, you know where to find the answer for it.”
“Although they have made me feel welcome here, I can see they will miss you when you leave next Friday.
That includes Ms. McKensie!”
“She has been a great boss and I have enjoyed…,” but she cuts me off. She edges closer to me and starts
to say something, but she is interrupted by one of our co-workers.
“Hey, short timer? Better come see what is on the TV in the lunchroom. This is definitely something of
interest to you.”
We both stand up, bumping into each other in the process. We step back and glance in the direction of
Vince, who has just called out to me.
“Are you trying to set me up so you can surprise me with a cake? I told all of you not to” … I notice his
expression and the way he is looking at me. I suddenly know what I am about to see is serious. We follow him to
the lunchroom, which is now full of people. The only sounds are coming from the TV in the corner. As I move
closer to the TV, I notice that the picture is the scene of a very large fire. Large amounts of water are crisscrossing
over the scene in an effort to put the fire out. However, it is the bulletin that runs across the bottom of the screen
that catches my attention. As I read it, I am in a state of shock. I cannot believe it. However, a camera pans
around to a large sign on the property. As I stare at the scene, I am witnessing the end of my dream. The place
where my “future plans” were to take place is burning to the ground.
Someone places their hands on my shoulders and gently pushes me into a chair. As the scenes continue
to play out, cameras are showing all the devastation and destruction of the once beautiful all-inclusive resort
29
PROSE
type facilities where I could still remember dreaming of how I was going to spend my time. Gone, all of it now
just a burning pile of debris. A reporter is talking, but I cannot follow the conversation. Something about loss
of life, massive destruction and such devastation. I know without asking that it is possible some of the people I
met there and some of the employees who worked there are among the loss of life. This saddens me even more.
I cannot watch any more of this. I stand up and make my way back to my cubicle.
Even though I have trouble finishing out my workday, I still think about the people who lost their lives at
that beautiful facility today. At least, I’m lucky. I had planned to move there in the coming weeks. I had a few
more things to take care of before I headed to my new home. Now, I have to accept the fact that I will not be
going anywhere anytime soon. I will just have to deal with this new set of circumstances that I am now facing.
My coworkers come around to tell me how sorry they are about what happened. I thank them for the
care and concern. The office is very quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Usually on Fridays with the weekend
approaching, there is talk of plans and lots of laughter. Today they seem concerned about how I am handling all
of this. Most know of my plans and how excited I was to be starting my new adventure.
About 4 o’clock, my boss appears at my cubicle. She motions for me to follow her. We go to her office
and sit down. Suddenly, it dawns on me that we had never gotten to my packet of paperwork that she wanted
to deal with before the end of the workday. I stood up and said, “I am sorry.” “I forgot all about the paperwork
that you wanted to deal with. Let me go back to my cubicle and …” She raises her hand and points for me to sit
back down.
“Right now, that paperwork is the least of my worries,” she states. “What I am concerned about is you.”
I’m startled by her comment. It must show on my face. “What is that look for?” she asks. “You do not think
that I can care about what you are going through?” I must be staring at her because she just shakes her head. “I
know you are still in shock over today’s events. All of us are concerned about you.”
“I will be fine. I just need time to sort things out and decide how to move forward from here.” I say,
almost half believing it. “At least I am still among the living” I say, flippantly.
“Do not joke!” she says sharply. She seems angry and irritated. I wonder why.
I decide it is time to excuse myself and head for home. I stand and say, “Anyway, I guess I will head home
and start cancelling some of the arrangements I have made. Looks like I will be staying in town for a while.”
“Come spend the weekend with me!” she says emphatically. “You do not need to be alone to process all
of this. Whatever you need to do, can wait a few days while you take the time to adjust to the situation.”
“I need to let the realtor know I will not be selling my house. There are other things that need to be dealt
with quickly. I will have to deal with this sooner or later. Might as well be now.”
“I disagree,” she says as she stands to face me. “Rushing into this while still emotionally upset will not
bring the results you want. Let us help you. Let me help you.”
It has been so long since I have let anyone see how emotionally upset I can get at something like this. In
the past I had always dealt with my problems alone. Suddenly I do not want to be alone and have to deal with all
these issues by myself. So, I agree to go with her.
“Alright,” I state wearily. “I will leave it for Monday. Hopefully, by then I can get a better grip on my
emotions. Maybe a weekend away might be good for me.”
“Splendid!” she exclaims “Go get your things and meet me at the elevator. I will only be a few minutes.”
I wander back out into the office area, surprised to see everyone has left. I walk to my cubicle, pick up my
things and make my way to the elevator. My boss is waiting for me. As I walk up to her, she pushes the button for
the lobby. We get into the elevator, the doors close, and we speed quickly to the first floor. As the door opens, I
walk into the lobby and start to head for the parking lot to get my car. She grabs my arm to stop me. “Let me
drive you,” she says softly. “You are in no shape to be behind the wheel.” I start to protest, but she silences me.
“Remember I am here to help.”
30
PROSE
“Okay,” I say, “Lead the way.”
After we have made it to her car and we are comfortably seated inside, she turns to me and says, “How
about we go to your place and you can pack a few things for the weekend? You will be more comfortable and able
to relax. When you feel like talking, we will. When you don’t, we won’t. How does that sound?”
“Are you sure I am not interfering with your plans for the weekend?” I ask.
“Nope. I had nothing planned, but your situation changed that.”
Before I could protest that I am, in fact, interfering and I want to say I do not want to impose, she stops
me with a wave of her hand. “Listen closely, Ms. Hawthorne!” she says, accentuating my name the way she does
at the office, making sure I am paying attention to what she says, knowing all along that I always pay close atten-
tion to the boss. “I value you as an employee. I also value you as a person who I would like to get to know better.
You will soon be leaving the company but before you go, I hope we can establish a friendship as well.”
To say I am stunned is putting it mildly. Before I can say anything, she continues, “I have wanted to be a
friend to you, but because you were an employee that was not possible. Now, I can be frank with you and discuss
this with you. Let’s take some time this weekend to discuss your personal issues at hand and your thoughts about
a possible friendship.”
That brings a smile to my face, and I can see she is happy I am receptive to listening to what she has to say.
“I believe we can do that. Hopefully, I will not be too big of a pain while I deal with my change of plans
about my future.”
“You need to talk about it. I will not judge you. I would like to be here for you as a friend would be. That
is what I hope we can accomplish.”
And accomplish a great deal over the weekend we do. In talking about everything, I’m able to realize that
I do, in fact, have a new friend in her. I also realize that the people in our office care as well. When I return to the
office on Monday, I’m better able to deal with my situation. Though, I’d had an appointment to talk with an
attorney about the financial matters regarding the place I’d planned to move, I decide not to make any new plans
at this point. I definitely need to stay put for the time being. I finish out the week at work. I decide to let them
have a small party for me on my last Friday on the job. I also find out that having new friends and opening up
to them is the best thing that has ever happened to me. While I’m still sad about what happened that caused me
to change my plans, I have come to understand what it means to let people into my life. I let them see that away
from work I can relax and enjoy their company as good friends often do. One of the best things that happens
is that Samantha, my former boss, and I become even closer as we discuss our thoughts, ideas, and plans for our
futures. I find it interesting how much we have in common. Had my plans to leave the area come to pass, I
would have never known how much she cares nor how much I could come to care for her.
31
POETRY
As the Sky Fell
Joanna Wright
Tell her that she spent too much time
In her fortress reaching glassy skies—
Set upon a great icy hill,
With those strong walls towering high.
Tell her that she has gone insane—
Fantasies far from those mundane;
That adventures called her far away
To feral lands that none can tame.
Call her crazy for her burning dreams
That danced as fae in worlds unseen—
But listen now to seven short words,
She’s just as wild as she seems.
But let no one ever call her weak
‘Cause when the sky fell dark and bleak,
Crashing violently all around her—
Not even once did her bright eyes blink.
32
POETRY
TThwoiluigghhtStars May Blaze in
Joanna Wright
She was brighter than sun that blinded your eyes.
More brilliant than the stars of a distant night sky.
Something ethereal sparked all around her
Too good to be true—like a curse’s soft lure.
Perhaps it was her smile, like cosmos above,
That made you wonder what she was thinking of.
It could have been the hope in her eyes so blue,
That made you believe any dream could come true.
But with a light so blinding, nobody knew
That within her heart’s garden, there was no dew.
So the flowers all faded, trees burned to ash.
But that was all hidden beneath her smile’s flash.
She laughed through it all, every stumble, each hurt.
At her scuffed knees she scoffed, brushing off dirt.
Still she smiled, ignoring storms and lightning
For, surely, those things could not steal her shining?
—and that is why some say stars don’t shoot across the sky at all.
No, sweet darling, they only
fall.
33
INTERVIEW
Emmy Pérez, 2020 Texas
State Poet Laureate: A
Conversation with Inkling
Conducted and Transcribed by
Karina Reynosa, Emily Sievers, and Ananya
Santosh
connections between wildlife and the people of Texas
and Mexico who have lived along the Rio Grande for
generations.
The following interview was conducted by In-
kling editorial staff the same day she read at our cam-
pus.
Photo © Texas A&M INKLING: Do you remember the first thing you
Emmy Pérez, the 2020 Texas State Poet Laureate, came wrote? What drew you to writing?
to our campus in February 2020 to read from her po- PÉREZ: One of the first things I recall was something
etry and answer questions about her work. Originally I wrote in fourth grade because I came across it again
from Santa Ana, California, she has been living along later on. My handwriting was really shaky cursive and
the Texas border for twenty years, six years in El Paso, it was a Halloween-related story. I also remember in
where her family has deep roots, and the remaining fifth grade writing a letter to Los Angeles Dodgers
time in McAllen, where she currently lives and teaches pitcher Fernando Valenzuela. I lived in California
nearby at the University of Texas, Rio Grande Valley, then and was a big fan of baseball and his pitching. I
Edinburg campus. She has an MFA from Columbia don’t know if you know who he is. I still have this let-
University and a BA from The University of Southern ter somewhere, which was a class assignment to write
California. a letter to someone. I wrote, “I hope I can be a fast
pitcher like you someday, but my dreams never come
Her poetry collections include With the River true.” It was kind of sad. I liked playing fast-pitch soft-
on Our Face (2016), Solstice (2003, 2011, 2019), and a ball, and I was disappointed that women couldn’t play
third book forthcoming from TCU Press. Her poems professional baseball. I remember the feeling and the
have been published by the Poetry Foundation, the letter.
Academy of American Poets, and numerous national- INKLING: And what interested you in writing?
ly recognized literary journals. She has received poetry PÉREZ: I always loved to read, and encouragement
fellowships from the National Endowment for the from a few teachers helped me realize that what I
Arts, CantoMundo, and others. Pérez’s poems watch
nature closely and see in Texas’ borderlands sacred
34
INTERVIEW
wrote was interesting. When I was in middle school, think that element of surprise is kind of what grabs my
I remember rebelling against assignments. There was attention, and it really helps me in writing my poetry
one assignment that a teacher gave us that asked some- as I’m a visual thinker. The smells of the rain are beau-
thing like, “What would you do to impress a member tiful, but I also like to see the little snails that come out
of the opposite sex?” Today people would say that after the rain and the plants responding to the rain.
“opposite sex” is not inclusive language for all genders, INKLING: You like the rarer things. I had to look up
but even back then I didn’t like presumptions behind so many words to read your poems—unusual grass-
the assignment, so I wrote, “I would take him to the hoppers and butterflies, for example.
field and hit some home runs over the fence” (even PÉREZ: I had to look them up too. I would take pic-
though I couldn’t hit home runs over the fence). And tures and then try to find out what they were. I think
then I remember my teacher liked it a lot. On some there’s an app now that can help. I haven’t used it
level I thought, “Maybe it’s a good thing to be kind yet—seems too easy.
of snarky in my responses.” She probably read a lot INKLING: So since you have this keen sense of na-
by young women about perfume and clothes or some- ture, do you have your own garden that you take care
thing, I don’t know. Later, when I was in high school of at home?
(ninth grade), the teachers wanted us to write an essay PÉREZ: I wish I did, but I don’t. When I was grow-
about Martin Luther King, Jr., but I wrote a poem. I ing up, we did have gardens briefly. And so I know
didn’t want to write an essay. I cared very much about that [having those gardens] played a role in my love
the topic and an essay wasn’t right for me. My teacher of nature. At one time, my mother tended a garden
submitted it to a contest, and it won the contest. At and I remember eating fresh peapods from it. Later,
the time, I only knew poetry by listening to my broth- my father and I planted an even smaller garden, and I
er’s hip hop records—I liked hip hop. So I used end remember one strawberry grew. I took care of it, and I
rhyme. ate it. Now that I’m a parent, a couple of years ago one
INKLING: Do you still have the poem? of my children asked if we could have a garden, and
PÉREZ: Somewhere, yes. When I rebelled against the we still haven’t planted one. I need to do that someday
assignments even in small ways, the writing always felt soon. But I’ve been so busy for the past several years
more honest to me. that I think all the plants would die. I want to make
INKLING: As a mature poet, you write a lot about time for one.
nature. What is your favorite aspect of nature to write INKLING: You said something about having had
about—like rain or animals or the sky or plants? limited exposure to nature as a child. Do you think
PÉREZ: These days, the opportunity to go outside to there is something about having limited but cherished
think and write is rarer for me than when writing my exposure to nature as a child that makes a person be-
last book. But when I was writing it, it wasn’t neces- come a poet of nature?
sarily any one of the things that you mentioned. If I’m PÉREZ: I think it’s certainly possible because it was a
out walking in a wildlife refuge, I don’t know what miracle to see that strawberry grow.
I’m going to see. I might just catch the tail of a javelina INKLING: You raised that strawberry, as small as it
running into the brush. If I’m riding my bike, and I was.
turn around, I might see the [whole body of a] javelina
running before it disappears. Or I might come across
an armadillo. Or I might see an Altamira oriole or an
orange or grapefruit in a tree. It’s often random. So I
35
INTERVIEW
PÉREZ: Yes. And it was organic because we didn’t erty, and I/we exist. The river has spiritual importance
have any insecticides, so I would go out there, use to me. There is more to the image as well, but I’d rath-
a stick, and flick off these little insects. But then no er stop here for now as I’m writing about it and most
more strawberries grew after that one. Sometimes a everything else in the interview so far.
neighbor’s fruit trees would grow on our side of the INKLING: It really says something about your vi-
fence. I always thought the fruit was beautiful, and I sion—your inner eye—because for so many people,
used to like to climb other trees as a child. Life was it’s a scrubby little river. They can’t see its beauty.
different in the ‘70s and the ‘80s from what it is now. But an artist pays attention to nature and looks more
We were wild. closely and sees beauty and mystery.
INKLING: This question takes us in a new direction. PÉREZ: Thank you. Yes, I spent a lot of time near it,
You have two poetry collections, Solstice and With the and not everyone has that time. I should also mention
River on Our Face. Why did you choose these titles, my poem “Not One More Refugee Death” that ends
and what were you trying to say in each book? the collection. Yes, I wrote a book about the river as
PÉREZ: I’ll start with the first collection, Solstice. Af- beauty and something that sustains life in its regions,
ter I spent a few colder winters than I was used to in but I also acknowledge how people die crossing the
NYC and the East Coast, I paid more attention to the river because border militarization sometimes leaves
seasons and had a greater appreciation for the gift of migrants little choice when they are fleeing extreme
more sunlight when I was growing up. When I moved circumstances in their home countries. The poem isn’t
near Gallup, New Mexico, and eventually El Paso, I about someone who dies crossing the river; the poem
realized that I loved summer solstice best because it’s is about a young man from Guatemala who made it
the longest day of the year with the most light. The across, unaccompanied, and who unfortunately died
title poem “Solstice,” however, is about more than of heat exhaustion once he arrived. The Rio Grande
the seasons, though light is an important image. It’s Valley community mourned his death. The title of the
just a one-word title, but it embodies the kind of book poem comes from an activist event that I attended in
I wrote—a book of short, carefully crafted poems. McAllen.
There’s more, but I think this should suffice for now INKLING: The Rio Grande River informs much of
as the work should stand on its own. your work, especially in this latest volume. Aside from
INKLING: And what about With the River on Our the river, who or what is your greatest inspiration, ei-
Face? Where did you get its title from? ther in writing, in life, or both?
PÉREZ: Poet Linda Gregg talks about “resonant PÉREZ: That’s a hard question because I have so
sources” in her essay “The Art of Finding.” The Rio many different inspirations. Of course, I’m going to
Grande is a resonant source for me. My maternal say my mother because she always encouraged my ed-
grandfather’s family was from El Paso for at least a few ucation. She is also a great storyteller. Whenever she’d
hundred years and since it was part of Mexico, before tell me stories about her childhood, she was so animat-
the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. They lived near the ed that I really do think that is part of why I am a writ-
river, close enough that there was a canal with water er. Her stories and our family history brought me to
from the Rio Grande near their home. My grandfa- El Paso, so I likely would have never lived in Texas had
ther grew a garden, and my mother and her family sur- she not told me about it all. I needed to move there
vived poverty with the help of the vegetables and fruit and try to find out what my formal education did not
that they grew, all irrigated by water from this river. teach me about Mexican American, Native American,
Like so many other people, my mother survived pov- and other suppressed literatures and histories in our
36
INTERVIEW
country. So, most everything that I’ve done since I fin- join a cause they don’t feel moved to help with. I wish
ished graduate school in 1995 is try to learn through I had been more active in social justice issues when
my own reading lists, experiences, travel, and commu- I was younger. I believe I would have had I known
nity-based work. more truths of the founding and the history of this
INKLING: As you mentioned earlier, “Not One country. More about native peoples, more about the
More Refugee Death” is not about a refugee drown- various civil rights movements, including the Chi-
ing in the Rio Grande River but about his being killed cana/o Movements. More about the current issues of
by the harsh environment on this side of the border. the day. Now, as a parent, I try to teach my children
Living twenty years along the border, I’m sure you’ve about history, current issues, and social justice. They
faced certain things that most people don’t see every go with me to marches, and genuinely seem to enjoy
day. What obstacles have you faced? them, but if they’re not up for it, I don’t make them
PÉREZ: I am very privileged because I have a good go. So, yes, if students and young adults are interested
job, and I am documented. Some of the obstacles I’ve in becoming activists, it can be a beautiful thing that
faced are in feeling powerless watching border walls can help them feel hopeful. Hope is one of the main
built here since 2008/2009. I write about this in the goals of activism—to give other people hope and to
poem “Río Grande~Bravo,” about the limitations of give yourself hope that you can help change policy
writing poetry. More recently, knowing families have and minds for the better. Because things can always
been separated on the border as national policy and be better now and for future generations, right? Some
very close to where I live is devastating. In my latest, students might not yet know the full power of their
unpublished work, I write about how in Summer voices and actions. Again, I think this has to come
2018, I wished I were a lawyer. But as a poet, even if I from within, and that is sometimes dependent on the
can’t see everything with my own eyes, I refuse to ig- quality of our educations within the context of our
nore what is happening in my community. Again, po- lived experiences. Sometimes we have to take it upon
etry doesn’t change policy, but I can talk to people be- ourselves to learn more about what we care about and
yond the borderlands, share my poetry and hopefully want to change.
help some see some of the issues beyond newspaper INKLING: Do many people in the Rio Grande Val-
headlines and soundbites of heightened rhetoric from ley go to protest marches these days, considering how
politicians. So some of the obstacles I face are in feel- much the Texas border with Mexico has been in the
ing that I can’t help enough as a borderlands resident, news? Are protesters in the mainstream, or are they
but maybe some of my poetry, along with the work fighting against the current?
of many other writers and artists, can help contribute PÉREZ: Yes, for sure many more people have been
to the human story of what it was like for us to live organizing alongside existing groups and movements
during these times as witnesses. and creating new ones. They have been attending
INKLING: There is such empathy in your poetry. It marches and getting involved in other ways, but we’ll
makes perfect sense that not being able to help enough never match bigger city numbers.
would be hard for you. How important do you think INKLING: Right, people are busy living, getting by.
it is for students and young adults to get involved in PÉREZ: Yes, but people are going, and thanks to so-
social issues? cial media, they are able to share experiences and help
PÉREZ: That’s a good question. Well, first, social ac- inspire those who can’t or don’t participate. The peo-
tion has to come from within. We have to be moved to ple unable to attend a particular march might watch a
act. I don’t think young people should be pressured to friend’s livestreamed video, their posted photos, even
37
INTERVIEW
video snippets. This documentation can be more life, and lush foliage is all over your poetry.
comprehensive than the news and helps give people PÉREZ: Oh yes, definitely. When I moved to the Val-
hope because as you mention not everyone has the op- ley, for a time I had a stressful transition, between a
portunity to go out there and march, much less orga- new job and moving from El Paso. I used to spend
nize. Maybe they are exhausted from work, including more time then at the refuge alone in the land before
laboring as a parent or caretaker. Or they may be ex- I had kids. It’s a healing and unusual place. It’s a gor-
periencing accessibility and other obstacles. Or maybe geous place.
they feel hopeless about a cause, but if they see others INKLING: Is there any routine or setting that works
participating, that could be a spark to feel assured that best for you when you write? For example, do you
others in their community and beyond are speaking write indoors or outdoors? When there’s music in the
up about issues they also care deeply about. room?
INKLING: One of the pressing issues for the Rio PÉREZ: I don’t really have a specific routine, but
Grande is how the wall may destroy wildlife in places for me, whenever I have the chance to go outside and
like the Santa Ana Wildlife Refuge. Can you tell us walk, I try to write. I can write really well when I’m
how the Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge and the walking. It helps me think. But that’s writing first
plan to expand the wall figure into your work? drafts. I can write a first draft anywhere. Sometimes,
PÉREZ: The refuge is a beautiful place, and people I’m in my bed typing, usually on my phone, an idea
from all over the country come experience it. It’s near as I’m falling asleep. This kind of writing is like a jour-
the river. I wrote the first poem in my last collection nal entry. However, if I am going to craft a poem, I
while in the refuge. Just a few years ago, the feder- have to sit down—and I don’t always really want to
al government had plans to extend the border wall because I prefer movement. I have to force myself to
through this national wildlife refuge because it would spend those hours shaping it. Sometimes I’ll print out
be easier for them to do quickly. One of the hardest a draft, hand-write revisions or the whole thing again,
jobs the government faces right now is condemning then take it back to the computer—but I have to sit
land from private landowners for more proposed down. So my routine depends on which stage a poem
walls. It’s important to know that most of the walls is in. I always tell my students, “In the early stages,
that have already been built since 2008 or so are not we’ve got to write when we’re feeling it because our
right at the river. They are built on the levee. That was poem is like our dream we just had—we’re going to
the plan for Santa Ana as well. The space in-between forget it in five minutes if we don’t write it down.” Af-
that proposed section of wall and the river has some terwards, I know most of us then need to spend time
of the most beautiful riparian habitat. We don’t want crafting it. That stage is indispensable.
border walls anywhere, but this particular plan was INKLING: When you write a poem like the first one
devastating as are all the plans. It included an 150ft in With the River on Our Face, “And It’s You,” it’s
enforcement zone, which meant they’d clear habitat graphically all over the page. What are you up to there?
south of the wall. In 2017-2018, many people in the PÉREZ: When I first drafted that piece, its lines
Rio Grande Valley and beyond it organized and pro- weren’t scattered over the page as they are now, but
tested, so thankfully, for now, and this could change, a good friend of mine and great poet, ire’ne lara sil-
the refuge and a few other spots are safe; however, va, read the piece and said, “You know, I’ve heard you
plans for funded sections of more border wall are very read this poem many times, and when you read it, I
close by. And wildlife refuges like Santa Ana remain hear it with more pauses in it.” Then she showed me,
vulnerable, despite their ecological importance.
INKLING: The imagery of Santa Ana’s birds, wild-
38
INTERVIEW
at the poem’s start, how she’d been hearing me read PÉREZ: Yes, I do think it’s important to find com-
it, so I changed the way the poem looks on the page munity. Nowadays, you can connect with other like-
to better reflect how I heard it/spoke it. Many other minded writers online and form a group, though I
poets use white space as well for this effect. think meeting in person is more effective. Like you
INKLING: Other poems you’ve written are also have, students can also join or form a group while in
graphically spread across the page. So you’re thinking college. I also encourage my students to consider par-
about sound when you do that? ticipating in open mics, even if they feel shy.
PÉREZ: Yes, for me when there’s white space, there’s INKLING: We actually host an open mic at this col-
silence and space for movement of the mind before lege every fall.
the next words appear. It means something, and it also PÉREZ: That’s great because opportunities to par-
helps with the intended rhythm of the poem much ticipate in readings can help us polish our work for a
like punctuation or lack of punctuation and other tangible audience. I also think it’s important, beyond
formal considerations in a poem. live readings, to help hold each other accountable to
INKLING: What advice do you have for someone the work of writing and also be nurturing to one an-
who wants to pursue writing as a career? other, and not overly critical, to say, “Hey, let’s all have
PÉREZ: I would say to just do it. You don’t need any- an equal exchange of our work. Maybe in two weeks,
body to give you permission. You just have to write we’re all going to submit a piece to each other, and
and not worry about publication. For me, I write to then we’ll meet in person a week later and give each
survive. When I was twenty-two, I wanted to go to other an equal amount of time in talking about the
graduate school in creative writing because I was sur- work.” Having a community can help a lot.
viving some trauma and felt I made the most meaning INKLING: That’s what we try to provide in our cre-
when I was writing. I’m very fortunate that I was able ative writing club—community, especially for begin-
to obtain an MFA [Master of Fine Arts]. Graduate ners.
school helped me learn more about craft, but I also PÉREZ: That’s wonderful. Also, it’s important not
had to unlearn some afterwards to come more into my to judge your own writing too much right now, to
voice and style, which is ever changing. Not everyone have empathy for yourself, and to just get it all down
needs to go to graduate school in creative writing to and encourage each other. Every year, you’re going
be a writer. It helped me and others, but many writers to be better. Every time you’re reading a book or you
never had the chance to attend and still wrote books. hear work at a reading, you learn new techniques and
Either way, writing takes a lot of dedication. And get your own ideas. If you keep at reading and writ-
many of us still need full-time jobs, which compete ing, your writing will improve every year. Then you
for our best energy. But one of the greatest rewards might look back and say, “Oh my goodness, I’m so
of writing is the meaning you make for yourself. It’s embarrassed about my writing when I was younger,”
important to know that you might not make a living but you shouldn’t be, because that’s just where you
with your writing and make peace with that. Believe were at the time. So be kind to yourself at all stages. Be
in yourself, in your writing, and never give up if it is patient and keep at it.
your dream.
INKLING: Do you think writers should try to con- INKLING: So last questions: now that you’re the
nect with each other and share their work, much as we Texas State Poet Laureate, what do you want to tell
do in Inkling? the people of Texas about poetry and our state?
39
INTERVIEW
PÉREZ: First of all, I want to say that becoming the
Texas State Poet Laureate for 2020 was a surprise.
Someone nominated me. I didn’t seek it out, though
I knew I was being considered. I feel grateful for the
recognition. At the same time, I see being poet lau-
reate as an opportunity to introduce more people
to other poets in our state. I especially enjoy sharing
presentations about Texas borderland poets because
they’re wonderful and I don’t think they always re-
ceive enough air time. For example, I enjoy talking
about Gloria Anzaldúa’s work on borderland poetics
and more. As we all know, Texas is more than stereo-
types about big trucks and cowboy boots, though to
be fair, we have our fair share of trucks and boots. I
want to raise more awareness of poets and scholars
such as Margo Tamez, who is a member of the Lipan
Apache Band of Texas, and other poets active in rais-
ing awareness about social justice issues through their
work. I hope to impart that poetry is a beautiful art
form, that it’s not something that is hard to under-
stand. In our educational experiences, it can seem that
way, especially when we’re mostly reading and getting
tested on works from five hundred years ago. But I
think everybody can write a poem or speak a poem or
sing a poem. Everybody has a poem in them in some
way.
40
POETRY
Starlight Growth
Amanda Black
I will get stronger. Under the moon, I will grow in its glow.
The sun eats time. So much to do during the hours of light.
But in darkness, things slow down.
No more doctor’s appointments, no more shopping.
No more cooking or cleaning or pretending to smile while someone demands I do the impossible.
In the night, I rise. I make my own way.
Time is mine and I use it to run.
I run and I run fast towards the person I want to be.
With the moon at my back, its silver glow bathing me in freedom from the sun’s demands.
I will find myself and blossom in the starlight.
41
POETRY
Scream?
Sabrina Hiltscher
(I)
Really want to Scream, after all
I don’t
Feel so good—
‘Cause I
Don’t want to keep on going
When I fall, and
I keep dragging myself up
Too tired to think, and
I’m not
Strong,
I feel so
Hopeless,
Never going to be
Alright, I’m
Turning this thing around.
Alright, I’m
Never going to be
Hopeless,
I feel so
Strong,
I’m not
Too tired to think, and
I keep dragging myself up
When I fall, and
Don’t want to keep on going,
‘Cause I feel so good,
I don’t
Really want to Scream, after all
42
PROSE
TBhaicskis the End. Please Turn
Logan Luther
third-place prose winner
I don’t really sleep anymore. I just don’t. On the grind, through my skin and down to my bones. Seems like these
days my only friend is isolation. 2000 pages in textbooks that I’ll never read thoroughly, 500 hours left on a cos-
metology license, and 1 ache pounding down the left side of my brain at all times. 75 miles a day sounded fun
until I realized that I had to do all the driving by myself. Spending my lunch money on gasoline, some for my car
and some for me. Dreaming of getting my paycheck and waking to $1.67 in my account. Living the Capitalist
American Dream.
This is the end of me, please turn back.
Google Search: How to stop trying to be the girl he wants you to be and become his waking nightmare.
Last night I noticed that you finally unfollowed me, and I bet if the need were ever to arise, my number would be
blocked. More for your sake than mine, I’m assuming. After more than one awkward encounter after our fifth
breakup I’m feeling that maybe it’s time. I for one am sick and tired of 3:00 a.m. messages asking if I wouldn’t
mind stroking your ego and maybe something else. All I want to talk about is the art that no one ever asks me
about anymore, but maybe you only ever asked so that I would show you something more. It’s been three years,
and you still never listen when I speak.
This is the end of us, please turn back.
Another letter to her that I know I’ll never send, penned under the pale light of a crescent moon, pages
stained with perfume and tears that ache with loneliness and all that other Shakespearean bullshit that I feel
through my veins and pouring down my cheeks. I leave lipstick on the page and tuck it beneath the others in the
drawer that I never check anymore. I know that we’re so far from one another, and I know that I can’t be the only
one you have in this undefined relation/friend/kiss/question-mark-ship that we have but I also know that a little
love, some type of love or a hint of emotion, is better than absolutely nothing.
I hope to God that this isn’t the end of us. It would break me to turn back.
My first club, my first bar, in some strange college town with some old friends of mine, playing pool with
a stranger, the self-professed “world’s worst pool player” who grows increasingly upset when he realizes that
somehow I am worse than him, he’s flirting and I can’t blame him, till he asks if I’m drinking. I show him the x’s
on my hands, and he backs away before stepping closer. Telling me about some band he’s in, a touring member
at the ripe age of twenty-seven, drifting away when he realizes that I won’t fuck him in the bathroom. Looking
for another seemingly straight girl in the only gay bar in town.
The end of him, that’s for sure. I’m turning back.
I hear this symphony in the back of my mind in this odd crashing way. My own melody lilts above it as
the words tumble through my brain and through my fingertips in their own off-key and offbeat way. I tend to
protect everything but myself. I can’t seem to find a healthy way to take care of everyone and everything while
also managing myself in a healthy way. And that leaves me sitting in this puddle of tears, liquor and lemonade.
The only one crying over me is me. I spread the buttercream icing that is myself thinner and thinner over the
world’s longest cake (10,461 ft. 4.26 in). I grow thinner and thinner and start new meds that won’t ever work,
and no one seems worried. You look lovely, have you lost weight, what’s your secret? I only drink water, eat small
43
PROSE
infrequent meals, never sleep, and starve myself occasionally. Even as I wither away, my stretch marks remain.
The end of me and it won’t even pay off. Have a nice life without me, I am delightful, and you will probably
never miss me. Staring at this screen, eyes burning in the blue light, I have realized that you can’t be lost if no one
is looking for you. When I finish in about ten seconds, please feel free to shove this to the darkest corner of your
mind, literally never think about this again, or forget it in its entirety because—
This Is the End. Please Turn Back.
44
POETRY
This Touch of Gold
Joanna Wright
third-place poetry winner
Perhaps he’s King Midas
for every time his soul
touches upon my own
blackness is dispelled
and for a moment
I might just be
convinced
that I am
made of
gold.
45
POETRY
Revenge
Amara Okoye
How woeful is the man who lives
His entire life and just forgives
Every transgression, every sin
For surely he is a fool
Some debts take more than words to pay
Not shallow lies, a shallow grave
A debt from which no man is safe
Until he pays his dues
A tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye
A fair exchange, a death for a life
And sweet revenge, it shall be mine
A vendetta sworn upon you
A poison flask, an empty glass
To hide the body is the task
A toast today, tomorrow mass
But I know this much is true
Do not be quick to right the matter
This is wisdom ages old
Take your time to set the platter
For revenge is a dish that is best served cold
46
PROSE
Hard Work Pays Off
Aspen Miller
The first day of school was always the best. It was a time of new beginnings and new chances. Excitement could
be felt running rampant through the halls as we reconnected with each other after a short summer break. How-
ever, the joyous reunions would be short lived as the teachers would be eager to get started with lessons. This
particular year, my best friend and I had decided we would try out for the track team together.
“We have no classes together this year, and this is the perfect way to make sure we still see each other,”
Maria insisted.
I agreed to give it a shot but worried I might let her down. I had not been a part of the track team for two
years and was unsure if I would still be able to run as fast as I once had. As I waited for Maria to meet me at the
end of the athletic hall, I overheard the track coaches talking about tryouts.
“This year we can’t afford to go easy on them,” I heard Coach K say. “If we want an actual chance at
nationals, we can’t afford any weak links.”
“Agreed,” I heard the other coach say.
As the voices got louder, I scrambled to reach my headphones in my jacket pocket. I put one bud labeled
R in my right ear, and the one labeled L in the other, attempting to look busy. Once they entered the gym, I took
my headphones out and knelt down to put them into my backpack. As I zipped up the smallest compartment of
my bag, I saw purple Nikes approaching from my peripheral vision. I knew it was Maria without even looking up
because I had helped her pick out that specific pair the day before. With my best friend by my side and her words
of encouragement ringing in my ears, I stepped through the gym doors and into track tryouts.
“Listen up, ladies!” Coach K boomed above the rest of the chatter in the room. Immediately, the entire
room fell into silence, as we excitedly gathered around her.
“This year we’re kickin’ it up a notch. Even if you were a part of the team last year, you shouldn’t think
of that as your golden ticket. You will have to work twice as hard to make it again.” Coach K paused to glance
down at her crimson blue Champions Sports stopwatch.
“Let’s start with one hundred yard sprints, and we can work our way up to six miles. The top three scores
will have an opportunity to become team captain,” explained Coach K.
As she brought the whistle up towards her mouth I covered my ears with my hands to avoid the full
impact of the deafening noise, but lowered them when it did not come. Coach K dropped the whistle and add-
ed, “You must complete the required six miles within the time allotted. Failing to do so will result in immediate
termination, so to speak. Any questions? No questions? Good.”
That was the last thing she said before piercing my eardrums with the shrill screams of that damned
whistle.
The quick flowing sea of navy blue tiled indoor track was the only thing I could focus on. Slowly my
vision started to blur as I became exhausted, and I could no longer see the runners around me. With only half a
mile to go before completing the last sprint, I looked down at my feet in an attempt to will them forward, when
it happened. I collapsed onto the hard gym floor in a sweaty heap of exhaustion. The room was spinning like a
top, and as I tried to sit up I was met with an unimaginably sharp pain in my right temple that encouraged me to
stay down. Suddenly Coach K was kneeling next to me. “Are you okay? Can you sit up?” She asked.
By now the room had begun to slow, and I was finally able to sit up without falling over.
“I’m okay... I can finish it,” I said trying to get up. With an arm around my waist, Coach K helped me to
my feet.
47
PROSE
“You had a good run, kid, but we gotta get you to the nurse to get checked out. I’m sorry.” Noticing my
obvious disappointment Coach K added, “Hey, don’t worry. There’s always next year.”
I reluctantly allowed her to help me hobble to the nurse’s office while the entire room watched. Maria,
looking half dead herself, tried to flash me an encouraging smile as I was half dragged, half carried out of the gym.
Unfortunately, it only made me feel worse for having let her down.
I went home soon after being cleared to do so by the nurse. I wanted to wait for Maria, but since she had
successfully completed tryouts, she had to stay for another hour with the rest of the girls that had made the team.
I wanted to be happy for her but couldn’t shake the feeling that I had failed. Later that night Maria called to ask
how I was feeling.
“Hey. I saw you go down today during tryouts. Are you okay?” asked Maria.
“Yeah, it just sucks that I was so close. I literally only had half a mile to go,” I replied.
“If you want, we can run together over the summer to make sure you’re ready for next year’s tryouts,”
Maria suggested.
I thought about giving up, believe me, but I didn’t want to let Maria down a second time so I agreed.
“Great! We will start the day school lets out, okay? Okay, good!” Maria exclaimed.
That summer we woke up around five o’clock in the morning every day and met at the school’s outdoor
track for morning stretches. After that, we did random combinations of sprints. Then we would finish with
however many miles we felt we could manage. The cool morning air made for perfect running conditions, and
we were often treated to the warm and impossibly bright yellow rays of the sun. In the beginning, my progress
rate was less than desirable, but as the weeks passed, I began to run longer distances with ease. When I finally
found a rhythm to the strenuous activity I once viewed as madness, I felt strong. Like anything was possible.
That’s when I knew I was ready.
“Good morning, girls! It’s good to see a few new faces in here today. We will be starting with three
hundred yard sprints and work into the six-mile stretch.” Coach K looked up and out at us, her eyes eventually
landing on me.
“As most of you know, the top three competitors will have a chance to be this year’s team captain, so I
urge each of you to dig deep today. I’m sick and tired of seeing the same girls take the cake around here,” said
Coach K.
As I stepped onto the navy blue track, I was transported back to the previous year, when I passed out
in front of everyone. Images of that day threatened to eat away at my determination, and I could almost feel the
pain in my right temple again, so I took a deep breath, and got into ready position. I told myself that this year
would be different, because this year I was ready.
We took off like bullets leaving a barrel at the sound of Coach K’s whistle. With a total of six miles to run,
I decided I would save most of my energy until the very last lap in order to best avoid what happened last year,
so I stayed behind most of the other girls and took my time during the first four laps. It wasn’t until the fifth lap
that I started to speed up. With the end in sight, I pictured myself barreling through the finish line, throwing my
arms up, and exploding with joy. I could feel gravity tugging at my feet with increasing firmness as I neared the
end, encouraging me to slow, every stride bringing me closer and closer, but never close enough. Finally, when
the finish line was within reach, I threw myself forward with the last bit of energy I could muster and tumbled
onto the gym floor. Coach K rushed to my side for the second time, and helped me to my feet.
“You did it! You made the top three!” Coach K exclaimed.
“I... I... what?” I asked through strained gasps of breath.
“You made the team, and you finished in third place, which means you will have an opportunity to be
this year’s team captain!” repeated Coach K.
I was amazed. I couldn’t believe I had managed to finish tryouts, let alone make the top three. With flam-
48
PROSE
ing lungs, I rushed to find Maria, who had been waiting by the water station with one other girl that finished
tryouts early.
“That was incredible!” Maria said as she raised her right hand up for a high five. “You killed it.”
I met her hand with my own, creating a loud smack of victory.
“Thanks, but I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Yeah I know,” she said as she smiled, and threw her hair back over her right shoulder. “You can thank
me by turning down the team captain position.”
“Deal,” I agreed.
In the end, I learned that hard work really does pay off and that nothing worth having in life is ever easy. I
believe that the work and effort I put into training my body to become faster made reaching my goal all the more
meaningful. I now realize that overcoming the obstacles we are faced with in life is what helps us grow and learn.
I will take the lessons I learned from being a part of the track team and carry them with me throughout the rest
of my life.
49
POETRY
Sounds of the City
Cade Coleman
Cities can be so chaotic at times
The sounds are so distracting even from simple tasks,
To non-natives it can be intimidating and even frightening.
People that call city home see the sound as serene though.
The sound of birds chirping to their young in the brisk fall weather.
Car horns blaring as they are in standstill traffic on their way to work.
The sound of a million voices speaking but not saying a word.
Wind rustling through leaves peacefully, here then and gone.
Parents taking their young to the park, the same as every other day.
Everyone following their beautifully orchestrated routine as is normal.
Indeed the sounds are relentless.
But that day was different.
All the sounds were gone.
The city was not restless, but rather speechless.
The whole city gazing on those towers.
They were representatives, ambassadors of freedom.
They stood for an idea.
All countries can work together for a better future.
Through hard work and trade, as a civilization does.
That idea was brought down by a religion,
In an attempt to send a message.
Two planes and a heart filled with hate.
This was all it took to separate thousands of families forever.
This attack did something that no president has.
The whole country’s focus was on one thing.
First responders became anyone with two working hands.
Many knowing this was the last time they would see their kids.
Last time they would see their husbands and wives.
Last time they would see their mom, dad, and siblings.
Not even getting the chance to say they loved them one last time.
But they knew the means was worth the cause.
That was the day the whole city cried.
50
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Inkling Creative Arts Magazine, 2020-2021
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