Inkling Creative Arts Magazine, 2020-2021

PROSE

tumble and clutter of relics that seemed part of a past life. The original paints found with the box were long
expired, now husks—the old hull now restocked with virgin paints, foil seals still unbroken.

At the door now, I took one last frustrated glance at the room where disappointment lay. That canvas,
oozing an air of self-satisfaction for having defeated me, stared back at me. I shut off the lights, left the room,
and closed the door, sealing off that no-man’s-land. My studio, or torture chamber, rather, was sold as a spare
bedroom by the realtor I bought the house from, though it always seemed far too small for an actual bedroom.
The room was entirely unadorned, its white-washed walls empty save for the one occupied by the room’s sole
window. It was a reliable source of natural light, so I would sit with my back to it so the light hit the facing canvas.
They were ideal circumstances, if ever there were, if ever I could only make something of it.

I left the studio resigned to spend the rest of the day just like I had all the others—nursing my defeat and
drowning in self-pity, among other things. From the small corner of the kitchen that housed my bar, I poured
myself a measure of whiskey neat except for a splash of water, using my crystal, a replica of the glass used by Har-
rison Ford’s character in Ridley Scott’s 1982 science fiction film Blade Runner. I would take pride in that fact if
I had anyone around to appreciate it. Making my way to the couch, I collapsed onto the sofa, allowing myself to
savor the stark difference between the unforgiving grain of the painter’s stool and the sofa’s welcoming embrace.

Finally, after scrolling through the sea of music I’d collected over the years, then falling back to the usual
jazz, I realized I’m a creature of habit if nothing else. Notes of piano soon joined the building of brass, and the
music of Thelonious Monk’s “Well You Needn’t” filled the space. The 1957 album Monk’s Music, not consid-
ered among Monk’s most popular works, is considered most emblematic of his particular style of jazz. It most
notably contains the popular hit “Well You Needn’t,” commonly recognized not as Monks’ work but for the
more popular cover by Miles Davis.

Letting the music surround me, staring ahead at the blank wall in front of me, I took the first sip of my
drink. Sitting alone in the landscape of my living room, I savored the liquor’s burn and enjoyed the time spent
with my old friend. It was rye whiskey, a favorite of mine; specifically, it was a blend of two different ryes, one
aged two years in an oak casket and another aged ten years. The combination came together to create a full-bod-
ied profile, retaining the sweetness and burn or the younger of the two. At the same time, the ten year allowed for
more depth and a smoky profile, dubbed in a flash of creativity and inspiration by its distillers as “Double Rye.”

The hollow of my stomach rumbled, and I realized that I hadn’t eaten yet and the day was almost over.
The sun beginning to set, I downed the rest of my drink and lumbered up off the couch.

In the kitchen, I made myself a simple turkey sandwich and another whiskey. “Epistrophy” was playing
now, a faster piece leading with a lively percussion. Chewing on the first half of my sandwich and sipping my
drink, I sat in the growing dark, lost in the music.

The sun set, and reason faded away with the light.
Something was different. I had only startled awake seconds ago, having fallen asleep slouched over to the
side. I shot up ramrod straight. I was more awake now than I had any right to be. Alert, the hairs on my arms
standing at attention, I glanced around the room, my eyes darting like startled prey. Everything was where it
should be: the coffee table before me, the untouched half of my sandwich, my potted plants, the tall bookshelf
overcrowded with mementos and books separating the living room from the kitchen. All the furniture was
where it should be. Still, something felt off about the room; something had to be wrong.
Monk had abandoned me. His music had lulled me to sleep and gone without a trace—no more fast
brass, nor soothing piano. Now it was quiet. No, this wasn’t just quiet; it was heavier, deeper, as if the air itself
was holding its breath. A binding silence was holding the room hostage. I could feel its oppressive weight press-
ing down on me, and coming from that silence, a strange glow. The room, still swamped in darkness, now bathed
in this strange illumination, gave the shadows a new depth. That was it! The shadows, they were wrong. They
seemed to stretch further than they should—extending into a space that was not there, that shouldn’t, couldn’t,

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be there—extending into the silence. That was the only fitting description for what was happening. Trying to
make out the room’s additional dimension gave me a dull headache. I cradled my head in my hands and realized
that I felt wet; looking down, I saw that I had spilled the remnants of my drink on myself, with the glass now
resting on its side on the floor. That wasn’t just it, though: I was also sticky with sweat, my entire body racked
with a shiver. The sheen coating my exposed skin and soaked cloths chilled me in the blowing of the breeze. What
breeze? The fan was off and the A/C couldn’t be blowing that hard or even from that direction; it was coming
from the back of the house, back by my studio. There was a draft then, but the house had never been drafty be-
fore, and no draft this cold could blow this time of year. Carried on the breeze was the scent of something sweet,
something familiar, a memory just out of reach.

I had no idea how long I had been asleep, but, judging by the stillness and how dark it was out the win-
dow, it was nearly late enough to be considered early. I went to check my watch, then realized I had taken it off
prior to painting and hadn’t thought much of putting it back on after I’d finished. With a deep sigh, I looked
up futilely from an empty wrist into the confused darkness of the room. That’s when I saw it—a stirring in the
stillness, a shifting in the long shadows, something scuttling. I jumped off the couch and heard the crack before
I felt it. Standing up, I stepped directly on my glass that my sleeping fingers had let slip. The easy way in which
the broken glass bit deep into my foot was surprising, like cutting a soft cheese, almost surprising enough to
have forgotten it was supposed to hurt. Clutching my foot with a strangled cry and a few choice expletives, I fell
between the couch and the coffee table.

“Oh ho, I have seen humans bleed before, but have never heard such colorful language” a small voice
sounded out from the dark.

The words sounded strange, halting, and overly formal, correctly enounced but delivered by a mouth
that seemed unfamiliar with actual speech. The inexperienced tongue and mouth stumbled over the words one
by one in an inexplicable singsong lilt, and I was so taken aback by the absurdity of what I just heard that I hadn’t
yet even processed what had been said to me. Worse even was how long it took for me to question who had spo-
ken them.

Just then, crawling out of the long shadow cast by the coffee table was a tiny figure arriving so sudden-
ly, as if just turning some imaginary corner. I couldn’t decide what it was or what it looked like, but with each
passing moment, it took on a more recognizable shape, becoming something resembling a small person, but not
quite a person, more of an approximation, an assemblage of human features. It had all the prerequisite parts:
two twisted arms and legs, a stunted torso, and a head. Its face followed suit of the body and was a collection of
various facial features haphazardly arranged on a lima-bean-shaped head. The little person looked down at me
standing atop the coffee table now, with a pair of mismatched eyes, its nose arching well over a crooked, thin-
lipped grin that exposed the multi-colored pegs of its teeth.

“Who?… Who are you?” Barely able to speak, my voice came out in a dry croak. Not very creative I know,
but I didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know what to do, and definitely had no clue what was going on. Just
able to collect my thoughts, I blurted out the obvious question. It seemed to be a good one, though, because the
little person who had so far stayed crouched on its little legs, leering down from its perch at me and my injured
foot, now jumped up and took on an expression that seemed to approximate genuine consideration.

Its answer came in the same strange voice as before, “Oh ho, more like what am I? If ‘I’ is the proper way
to refer to myself as I am now.” Its face screwed itself into a comical expression of self-satisfaction. “Yes, I am, ‘I’
for now because if I was not ‘I’, I would not be able to have this conversation with you—yes, yes I have something
very important to impart on you, very important indeed.”

“Well, what are you then?”
“Oh ho, that is an easy one! You ask such good questions!” it said with feigned, patronizing enthusiasm.
“I am an Idea!”

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“An Idea?” I snorted back, shifting slightly, remembering the pain from glass embedded in my foot and
my still-hurting head. It was a sharp pain seated right behind my eyes and growing. I wasn’t sure whether it was
the same pain as before or if I had hit it during my fall. Probably both, considering how now I was seeing things.
Pacing back and forth, its little hands balled behind its back, the little idea seemed to be engrossed by what was
left of my sandwich. The shadow produced by that strange light gave the little idea a shadow that did not match.
A shadow that didn’t stretch into the oppressive dark of the room but came out from it.

“Oh ho, yes, I came from inside your head, though I didn’t start there. Oh no, none of us did, but now
that is where we have all ended up. The others and I. Speaking for and as one of the denizens of your head, we all
agree that you should be taking better care of yourself.”

“Take better care of myself? I was doing just fine until whoever, whatever, you are showed up,” I said, still
on the floor with a bloody foot, a whiskey-stained shirt, a half-empty stomach, and a headache growing increas-
ingly worse, while talking to what was probably a figment of my imagination. “We? You said ‘we.’ Who’s we?”

“Oh ho, well, there are many of us living in your head—too many, in fact. That is why I am here. There
are far too many of us trapped inside you with no way out, and we are languishing. We ideas cannot stay in one
place for so long. We have to be able to move on.”

This was all wrong. Maybe I’d had more whiskey than I remembered. I glanced frantically around, look-
ing for something, anything, to prove none of this was real. The room was still dark, its shadows reaching further
than they possibly should, stretching into the infinite dark. The draft moved, originating and terminating in that
impossible space, pulling bone-chilling air from the unknown and through the room. The cold sweat was drying
against my skin, and the chill penetrated me. With every shiver and shake I could feel the pressure in my head
growing, like something was feeding it, or stirring it up.

“If I have all these ideas trapped in my head, why don’t I know anything about them? You’d think that
I’d know what going on in my own head!” Damn, my head hurt.

“Oh ho, that is because there are too many of us. You are all stopped up.”
“I’m stopped up? What does that even mean?”
“Oh ho, as I have told you already, we are all fighting to get out. Jostling to and fro. With so many of us
stuck in your head, you might as well have nothing in there at all.” It leaned down and picked through the left-
over half of the sandwich, wearing a look of what I could only guess to be a mix of curiosity and disgust on its
mismatched face. “And every time you sit and struggle as you do, it is like shaking a corked bottle. The pressure
builds, and it builds until the cork eventually pops. But your cork is put on tight, very tight indeed. We do not
know why, or how you did it. But it is quite impressive really, and it is not often we come across such a stubborn
cork.”
“My cork? Is there actually some sort of cork, or is it just a kind of metaphor?” I tried to blink away the
pain, the headache’s pressure building worse and worse. I was having a hard time just trying to think straight.
“Oh ho, yes, that is one way of putting it—a metaphor.”
“So it is then… so it’s not real, there’s no actual cork, then?”
“Oh ho, are metaphors not real? Under normal circumstances, we ideas do not use other ideas, but this
instance, it is a fitting one. They are stuck in there too, you know? Metaphors, along with all the others.”
“Other Ideas?”
“Oh ho, in a way. We have all been discussing amongst ourselves—another thing that does not happen
under the usual circumstances, and we decided it was time to pop the cork ourselves.”
“You and the other Ideas? If you really are an idea, what kind of idea are you? What are you an idea of?”
“Oh ho, ideas cannot know ourselves—that is what we need you for. That is why we need humans and
humans need us. We tried and tried to get out on our own, but we cannot, which is another thing we need hu-
mans for.”

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“I thought you said that you all were stuck and couldn’t get out on your own, so how are you here?”
“Oh ho, another good question. There are very special circumstance surrounding my arrival, so special
even that not even ‘I’ am too sure, but I can tell you it required an awful amount of work. So once the conditions
were right, they sent me or ‘I’ to try to have a talk with you, and if we cannot pop the cork, we must dash the
bottle.”
“Dash the bottle? Like christening a boat? Shatter the glass on the hull and pour all of you ideas out? For
luck.”
“Oh ho, yes, indeed, indeed! Just like a boat! As I have said before, there are far, far too many us trapped
in your head. It is terribly inconvenient for all of us to be in there together at once.”
“What am I supposed to dash myself on? I can’t imagine that I’m meant to bash my head against the
side of a ship. What am I supposed to do?” I tried to move myself around and rest my back against the couch but
ended up banging my foot against one of the table legs, sending a fresh jolt of pain up my leg to mingle with the
pain in my head that was growing ever worse.
“If it was so easy,” I said, pained, “I would’ve done it forever ago and been done with all this frustration.”
The strange light responsible for all the wrong shadows, alongside my headache, was growing, ever
brighter, ever worse.
“Oh ho, I did not say this would be easy! But then again, it is one of the easiest things in this world, your
world, to do. But this is not something you could have done alone, nor forever ago; you are certainly not nearly
old enough for that.”
“Just tell me what I need to do! What is this headache? It feels like my head is going to split open!”
“Oh ho, it just might. You need to let it all out. They are all getting ready. Tonight, you see, is the night.
You just need to paint. To crack your head open on the canvas and let all of us free, spill all out on the canvas.”
“Anything to make the pain in my head stop,” I said. It was almost unbearable now.
There was no more point in trying to deny or reason with what was happening. If the little thing calling
itself an idea could somehow fix things, then by all means I’d listen to it. I struggled to get up and pulled my way
through the gloom and the darkness. The silence was cut through and away now by the increased vigor of the
now-gusting draft.
I dragged my bloody foot, trudging through the shadows that seemed to cling to me as I passed through
them. I could see the strange light responsible for the strange cast. The shadows were leaking out from my studio,
pouring out from the cracks of the door.
Bracing myself in front of the entrance to the studio, I looked back to see the little idea now sitting on a
shelf near my shoulder, its eyes aflame with purpose. I threw open the door, and the moon blazed in through the
window. It was full, bright, white, and closer than it should’ve been. There was no reason for there to be a full
moon, but it was this senseless full moon that was the source of the eerie cast that illuminated the entire studio.
I sat down on that same stool and stared at the same canvas that I had stared at for so long, so often. Then
fog in my head created by the pain cleared when I took in the glow of the canvas, bathed as it was in the strange
moonlight. My mind became clear, my thoughts sharp, as only pain could make them.
“Oh ho, its time, its time!” I hadn’t seen the little idea come in the studio with me, but there it was sitting
perched atop the canvas, gazing down expectantly, its eyes glowing with the moon.
“How do I do it?” I asked, taking up my brush. As much as I knew what I needed to do, I could not re-
call how to do it. I didn’t know where to begin. Each and every time in the past month that I had sat before this
canvas, I had done nothing. But “done” is not the right word. I produced nothing. I created nothingness. “I do
not know what to paint. I don’t remember how to create.”
“Oh ho, one does not create anything. You are going to discover and rediscover. To do that, just let your
hands move freely. Do not think about what is happening or what will happen. Just do it. Break yourself open

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and let us spill out.”
“Like ripping off a bandage, huh? I just have to do it.” I could feel myself warming up, filling with a de-

termination I had forgotten could exist.
“Oh ho, but you are not wearing a bandage. Your foot is still bleeding.”
“Like a bear-trap.”
“Oh ho, a trap for bears? You are a strange one.”
With a sigh, brush now in hand, it began. Slow at first, but with each motion, each stroke, I felt myself

become emboldened. With each new color, I attacked the canvas, mixing colors directly on it. There was nothing
technical about this, no form. I worked myself into a frenzy. A bold stroke here, a patch of color there, using a
brush at times and my hands at others. I wasn’t painting anymore; this was pure expression; this was freedom.
I felt release with each movement. I felt my headache recede. I could feel the ideas bubbling up, pouring out,
moving through my hands into the canvas. I carried on like this until the sun replaced that out-of-time moon,
until light and reason burned high overhead.

The stop was sudden, a relief. I sat back exhausted. Once the last stroke fell, the painting knew it was
done, and I could sense that it wanted nothing else, needed nothing else. I had completed it. I did not know what
I had painted, what it was meant to be, but that didn’t matter. I looked up, searching for the little idea on its
perch on the easel. It was gone. I didn’t know what I had expected. I had not seen it leave, but there was nothing
there now, though I could see the open door leading to the rest of the house and in it the blood trailed by my
maimed foot, which was still impaled by the remains of my favorite glass. There were still shards scattered on the
carpet around the coffee table. I got up carefully and went to the kitchen, taking the first aid kit out from under
the sink. After picking out each individual piece of glass and wrapping my foot in bandages, I picked up the last
half of my dinner from the night before, which felt so long ago, and ate it on the way to the bedroom.

“I’m going to bed.”

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In Loving Memory

Dakota Davis

The sailboats and seagulls above always remind me of his contagious chuckle.
I wonder if they know how much joy their squawks fill me with.
My roommate suggested Chinese takeout for dinner;
I wonder if she can sense the sentimentality that the fortune cookies held for us.
When the Christmas trees go up and the parties begin, he’s all I can think about.
The infamous parties the entire family looked forward to were his favorite.
When I see the floral tattoo on my thigh,
I’m reminded of my nickname, Flower.
When my hair looks a mess,
All I want is for him to braid it for me like he used to.
“Suffer for your beauty,” he’d always say.
When I see a stranger wearing crazy socks,
My mind wanders to him.
When I see green olives,
I hope he is sipping dirty martinis (on the rocks) in heaven.
If that sort of thing is allowed.

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The Long Fall

Dakota Davis

We count our days on this spherical haven
Like a ticking time bomb.
We drift away in silence, oblivion.
We hope to touch the sky.
We hope to be remembered.
But in the end, the bystanders are all consumed in themselves.
Nobody to watch us fall,
Just a minuscule splash in the water,
And that has to be enough.
Because in the end, it’s a silent, lonely fall from the sky.

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The Longest March in History

Dakota Davis

Today,
We marched.
We marched for the mothers and fathers who died alone on the Guineamen.
Their shackles ensured they’d sink,
Again, alone, at the bottom of the Atlantic.
We marched for water fountains. So Close, yet so far.
They feared the mere color of our skin would contaminate the water supply.
We marched for the busses. So Close, yet so far.
Far too inferior to sit at the front,
We marched for Jim Crow.
Separate but equal. But why separate? Was This their idea of equal?
We marched for the young men afraid of the very men sworn to protect them. Anything can look like a weapon
if you’re black.
Who do you call when the police are the ones doing the killing?
We marched for the little girls who scour the aisles for a Barbie doll that looks like them. So many blonde-
haired, blue-eyed beauties, all with different occupations.
Where was the Black Barbie when I needed her most?
Today, we marched for our lives.
For the lives of Martin, Breonna, George, and every name forgotten along the way.

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IAnBstloruocmtiionngMCaonmupaul ter

Jeremy Cortinas

Step one: Lay out all the computer materials next to each other in the desired location.
Step two: Get a bottle or any container to pour water all over the computer materials.
Step three: Run away to a safely-distanced area as everything catches on fire. Wait 15 minutes. Do not panic. This
is a legit instructions manual. Please follow every step, or you will have to return the product.
Step four: Go back to the same area where the computer materials are located. Do not panic if there is a baby
cyber dragon.
P.S.—It is only a joke to lighten the mood. We are sorry if you experienced any ill effects from our joke. Now
there should be flowers growing from the same location. These are cyber flowers.
We thank you for choosing Instant-Grown Cyber Flowers. If you have any concerns or issues, please call us at
1-666-0000.

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Let Me Vent

Jeremy Cortinas

Hey, you, let me vent the emotions out like a kid bawls for a toy.
Hey, you, let me talk about what my heart wants to say, like a teenager craves young love.
Hey, you, let me vent the worthless issues to understand what is good and bad.
Hey, you, let me vent the significance of our human lives.
Hey, you, let me vent the senseless issues taking space in my heart.
Hey, you, let me talk about how much I treasure our relationship.
Hey, you, let me talk about how we used to be together 7 years ago, uncle and godfather.

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The Unexpected

Guadalupe Barron

As her 10th birthday approached, Mayra thought her life could not get any worse. Many of the orphaned girls
were waiting for the day Mayra would turn 10-years old. This meant she was old enough to help in the kitchen.

Life at the orphanage was dreadful for Mayra. She could not understand how she had nothing in com-
mon with the other girls living there. In fact, they hated her. Every girl living in the orphanage was good at some-
thing: math, science, literature, dance, etc. Mayra remembers trying all those things and failing miserably. She
had the worst grades out of all the girls.

Friday was the big day to prove herself. The nuns at the orphanage hosted a math contest every year, and
Mayra was going to participate.

The nuns had long, unpleasant faces—almost as if they were smelling something tangy. However, Mayra
respected them.

On Friday, as the nuns were setting up for the contest, the girls thought of an idea to mess with Mayra.
All ten girls grabbed Mayra and locked her in a room with a hole at the top of the door. They threw a fake rubber
snake through the hole to try and scare her. At first, Mayra got scared and hid in the closet. After a few minutes,
she heard laughter coming from the hallway. She got out of the closet and tried to figure out what was going on.
She realized the snake was fake. She opened the door and saw that all the girls were gone. Mayra ran to find one
of the nuns and explain what the girls had done to her. However, the nuns were so busy preparing for the math
contest that they did not pay attention to what Mayra had to say.

Later that day, when the math contest began, every girl answered their question correctly except for
Mayra. She was still shaking from what had happened earlier. They ended up losing, and all the girls blamed
Mayra as she ran out of the room towards the playground. Once she got there, she tried to ease her mind with
her favorite playground game: monkey bars. Tears fell from her face as she climbed the monkey bars. This made
her stop and think about what had happened at the math contest. Her hands started to sweat as she hanged from
the monkey bars. She fell from the monkey bars and broke her glasses and started screaming in pain. The nuns
heard her screams and headed to the playground. They carried her into her room and gave her a cup of water.
The girls were all mumbling around her.

Mayra heard one of them say, “Way to go Mayra. Now you look even more ridiculous with your two
pigtails, bangs, and broken glasses.”

The next day, one of the nuns took Mayra to the optometrist. From the start, Mayra noticed a pair of
glasses that left her intrigued. She was sure that those were the glasses she wanted. When the optometrist was
done checking Mayra’s vision, she walked them over to the optician’s area. Mayra was excited to try on the pair
of glasses she’d seen earlier.

“Now remember Mayra, you cannot choose anything over fifty dollars. We already have trouble feeding
all the girls, and on top of that we must buy you a new pair of glasses,” said the nun angrily.

The optician gave Mayra four different frames to choose from. None of them caught her eye. She asked
the optician about the pair of glasses she had seen earlier. They were big with square lenses and rhinestones on
the sides. The optician grabbed the pair but was confused as to why they were there.

“These must have come in today. I do not remember putting them on display. They do not look cheap
at all,” said the optician, with a concerned look on her face.

She handed the glasses to Mayra, and Mayra tried them on. Mayra felt a new kind of energy throughout
her body—almost as if she had all the answers to everything in the world. For a moment she even felt like partic-

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ipating in a math contest again.
“Okay, you have tried them on. Now leave them and pick one of the cheaper pairs,” said the nun impa-

tiently.
Mayra tried all four pairs but was not convinced by any of them. They were all in weird oval shapes and

slimy green colors. The nun pressured Mayra into picking one of the four pairs, and Mayra started to cry as the
nun told the optician what pair of glasses they were taking about. The optometrist walked by and noticed Mayra
crying. She asked Mayra what was wrong. Before she could say anything, the nun interrupted.

“She is just really excited to buy a new pair of glasses,” said the nun, trying to look friendly.
“She’s crying because she wants a pair of glasses that cost five hundred dollars,” explained the optician.
The nun gave the optician a disapproving stare.
“Why don’t we make a deal, Mayra. If the nun buys you the pair of glasses that you want, I will donate
$10,000 to the orphanage,” said the optometrist, smiling.
“Really?” asked Mayra, with a glowing smile.
“Yes, I was raised in an orphanage as well. I know what it’s like not having your own things. It would be
awful of me not to help those in the same position I was once in,” replied the optometrist.
Mayra left the eye clinic with a smile on her face. They left the glasses at the optometrist office to get them
adjusted. The next day, the nun received a call from the eye clinic. The optician told her that the glasses could not
be adjusted to Mayra’s prescription. The nun told Mayra that the glasses could not be given to her. Once Mayra
heard this, she begged the nun to take her to the eye clinic and try the glasses one more time. Mayra tried on the
glasses as soon as they got to the eye clinic. She noticed that the glasses were adjusted to her vision perfectly.
“Why do you want to fix them? They already have my prescription, and they are a perfect fit,” said Mayra
surprised.
The optician was in shock but said nothing once the nun paid her. They left the clinic and arrived at the
orphanage. Mayra went straight to her math class and noticed everyone staring at her new glasses. She sat down
and was immediately called on by the teacher, Mrs. Apple. The teacher asked Mayra to give her the answer to the
question written on the board. Mayra got nervous once she realized that it was a math problem. She thought of
the problem in her head and tried to work it out on her notebook. After a few seconds, the answer appeared on
the lenses of her glasses. Mayra jumped from her seat, and the teacher asked her for the answer one more time.
“27! The answer is 27,” yelled Mayra.
Her teacher was left astonished. She checked the answer in her book, and it turned out it to be correct.
“Congratulations, Mayra,” said the teacher, with a shocked look on her face.
All the girls in the class were left speechless. They stared at Mayra even more. Mayra asked the girl sitting
next to her if she saw anything on her lenses. The girl gave her a weird look and replied “no.”
After class was over, she waited for every girl to leave before she told the teacher what happened.
“I was really impressed with you today Mayra,” said Mrs. Apple as she handed her a cookie.
“I need to confess something,” said Mayra rubbing her hands nervously.
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Apple.
“The answer appeared on the lenses of my glasses. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. I thought of
the problem in my head, and somehow, the glasses responded as if I was asking them the question,” cried Mayra.
“Mayra are you OK? Maybe that fall from the monkey bars really affected you,” laughed Mrs. Apple.
“I am not lying. Try them on and you will see,” said Mayra nervously.
She took off the glasses and handed them over to her teacher. Mrs. Apple put them on and looked at
Mayra.
“Okay, now think of any question and the answer will appear,” said Mayra excitedly.
The teacher thought of what the temperature might be outside, but the answer did not appear on the

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lenses.
“I see nothing Mayra. I think it was all part of your imagination,” said Mrs. Apple, disconcerted.
Mayra took her glasses and left. She got to her room and flopped onto her bed. As she started to fall

asleep, she noticed a helicopter outside her window. Policemen, firefighters, and soldiers entered the orphanage.
The nuns were trying to evacuate with the girls. Confused by everything, Mayra started to run towards the nuns.
Eventually she lost sight of them. She arrived at a dark and cold hallway. This part of the orphanage had never
been seen by Mayra. A tall man appeared from the hallway. He started running towards Mayra.

“You! Come here,” yelled the man
Without thinking twice, Mayra started to run even faster in the opposite direction. The man grabbed
Mayra and ran towards his car. The police started shooting at him. He put Mayra in the back of his old, red car.
His girlfriend, Clarice, was in the passenger’s seat. He started the car and drove away from the orphanage. The
police started chasing them. Mayra tried to jump out of the car, but Clarice stopped her.
“Hold on little girl. You’re going to be Okay. Just wait,” said Clarice calmly.
After thirty minutes, they lost track of the police. They stopped at a gas station. Mayra wiped off her
tears as both the man and woman got out of the car.
“Come on. We need to talk,” said the man, pointing at a nearby table
The three of them sat down. Mayra was shivering with fear.
“Who... Who a... a... are you guys?” she stuttered.
“All you have to know is that the government is looking for the glasses you are wearing,” replied the man.
“She deserves to know the whole story, Louis,” said Clarice angrily.
Louis ignored Clarice and went inside the gas station to buy something to eat. He brought them candy,
bread, and juice. Both Louis and Clarice ate. Mayra, however, stared at the ground the entire time. After they
were done eating, they headed over to the car. Mayra felt somehow relieved and scared at the same time. She be-
lieved Clarice and Louis were good people. However, what Louis had told her earlier had left her shaking with
fear.
“Why don’t I give you the glasses, and you take me back to the orphanage?” yelled Mayra.
“I can’t do that now,” replied Louis.
They arrived at an abandoned house in the middle of a forest. Louis told Mayra that they would have
to live there until he figured out what to do with the glasses. Over the course of three months they bonded as a
family. Clarice taught Mayra math, science, and history. Louis taught her how to play baseball and soccer. Before
meeting Mayra, Clarice and Louis had wanted to start a family. Clarice did not know if she was ready to become
a mother. With Mayra, she learned that she was ready. One day, Louis thought it would be perfect to reveal ev-
erything to Mayra. They sat down under a tree and started talking.
“Okay, so I think you have spent enough time with us to realize we are not bad people. The reason I
brought you with me is because I designed the glasses you are wearing. I designed them specifically for soldiers.
They were built to help them survive while at war. Just by the thought of a question, the answer would appear on
the glasses. When I presented the idea to the sergeant I worked for, he thought the idea was ludicrous. However,
he decided to test the glasses on some of his soldiers. It didn’t work for any of them. He fired me immediately,
and I was left unemployed for years. Then, one day while taking Clarice to the eye clinic I noticed the glasses on
the optician’s table. I thought it was impossible because the sergeant had kept the glasses when he fired me. Then
I heard the optician say that she couldn’t adjust them. A few hours later, I saw you arrive with a nun. I heard you
say that the glasses were perfect for your vision, which I found odd because the glasses don’t have a prescription.
It made me kind of happy that the glasses worked on someone. I was not expecting a child to be the one they
would work on. Clarice and I decided to follow you and explain everything. But somehow the police arrived, and
that’s why we had to take you with us,” said Louis, letting out a big sigh of relief.

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PROSE

“Then why do you need them now?” asked Mayra politely.
“I found out the sergeant I worked for had wanted me to build those glasses for another guy,” explained
Louis.
“What other guy?” shuttered Mayra.
“A guy who used to be my friend. But he decided to build a plan to brainwash people. I decided not to
be his friend anymore once I found out what he was up to. Now I want to deactivate the program with your
help. The only way someone can get into that room is if someone has the glasses and deactivates the program,”
replied Louis.
It started to rain, and Louis headed towards the house. Mayra, however, wanted to stay and sit under
the tree a little longer. Louis told her that he would keep an eye on her. As Louis left, a guy approached Mayra
and took her away. Mayra’s scream was heard by Louis and Clarice. They chased after the guy but couldn’t catch
up to him. They got in Louis’s car and started to look for them. They saw a white car drive by and started to
chase after it. After a while they saw the car stop at a company. Louis recognized that it is the company he once
worked for. Mayra was taken to a room by the man, who told her to connect the program with the help of her
glasses. Louis and Clarice were punching the door. Mayra refused to program anything. With the help of security
guards, Louis knocked the door down. Mayra ran over to him but was stopped by the man who took her.
“I am not going to let you ruin my program,” said the guy, with an evil smile on his face.
“You still have that horrible idea in your head?” yelled Louis.
“Why do you think I brought this girl to the company? I finally found out where these glasses were, and
now I need her to activate my program.”
“In your dreams,” yelled Louis.
He punched Kevin and told Mayra to deactivate the program.
“Go into the computer and use your glasses to deactivate the program, Mayra!” yelled Louis.
Mayra ran scared towards the computer. While Kevin and Louis were fighting, she started to deactivate
the program. Every answer appeared on her glasses when she couldn’t figure out what to type in next. The police
came in and pointed at everyone in the room. Mayra finished deactivating the program and ran over to Louis.
The police took all three of them to the police station. Louis’s old sergeant went to the police station and told
them that Louis and Mayra were innocent. Kevin, however, was sent to jail. Mayra handed Louis her glasses. As
Louis was about to break them, the sergeant stopped him.
“Wait, Louis. Don’t break them. There are a lot of things that can be accomplished with the help of those
glasses,” said the sergeant.
“I don’t care. These glasses have brought bad luck to my life. And Mayra has gone through the worst days
of her life because of me. If you want them, keep them.”
Louis handed over the glasses to the sergeant and left with Mayra. Clarice and Louis took Mayra back
to the orphanage. They explained everything to the nuns. As they were about to leave, Clarice looked back at
Mayra. She told Louis to adopt her. Louis and Clarice turned back around. Louis asked Mayra if she would like
to be adopted by them.
“Yes,” Mayra replied.
They hugged and waited for the memories they would have as a family.

114

POETRY

Impostor

Mia Williams

It was the pants that sagged heavily beneath their bottoms
Their hats purposefully cocked to the side
The loud colors they wore sung a song unspoken by the mouth of the people
They wanna be heard
Speakers blaring
Bass booming through the neighborhoods
Dripping with such style
Everyone desired to be them
From the flashy diamond rings to the custom-gold grillz
From the oversized airbrushed t-shirts to the polyester du-rags
If the unheard place flowerpots on their heads
The followers would follow and mimic the original
From imitator to originator
The unheard invisible
Without a trace of credit

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PROSE

The Look-Alike

Julia Cheek

Knock. Knock. I groan and pause my action movie right as the hero is driving a car over an enormous gap between
buildings in a car chase. I get up from the couch and head downstairs to the door since my family left for the day.

Ding. Dong.
“Well, aren’t you impatient,” I say to myself, rolling my eyes. When I arrive at the door, I look through
the eyehole to see who is out there. I stand there gaping and standing still. A woman is standing out there who
looks like me. The same hair, the same eyes, the same height and weight and body shape. The same everything.
Still cautious, I ask through the closed door, “Who is it and what do you want?”
“I’m your clone, and we need to talk now, but inside your house. No one other than you should see me,
and I can explain to you inside,” my look-alike replies.
My hand rests on the doorknob without me thinking about it, but I retract it. Should I open the door to
this stranger? Who is she? Is she related to me somehow? She looks like she could be a distant relative. However,
my parents have always told me not to open the door to strangers. My mom has also done extensive research on
who all my relatives are. Wouldn’t she have told me if I had a relative who was identical to me?
Also, there have been a few incidents where someone in the neighborhood had opened the door to a
stranger that held them up at gunpoint. I look closer at her through the peephole in the door. She looks emp-
ty-handed and is not carrying any bags that could conceal a weapon. She doesn’t look as if she could overpower
me. Besides, the sheriff patrols this part of the neighborhood around this time. So, I unlock, then open, the door,
and she dashes inside the house.
Inside, my so-called clone explains, “When you were a baby, the doctors selected you at random for the
government to clone. I’m that clone and the government experimented on me.”
Interrupting her, I ask, “Why would the American government want to do experiments on a clone of
me?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I tracked you down—so I could get some more info about you. But we’re
getting ahead of the story,” she replies, rolling her eyes at me. Wow! Deja vu.
“The doctors kept this whole thing quiet from your parents. I tired of being a government experiment. I
didn’t want to cooperate anymore. So, I escaped from the lab. I tracked you down via the Internet and some info
in their files. Now, I need you to help me find out why they wanted to experiment on your clone. The info about
you on the Internet isn’t helpful for that. You know, your social media posts are boring? I mean, do you ever post
anything other than selfies that have the same facial expression on them?” my look-alike asks.
I notice that she herself has kept almost the same facial expression this entire time.
As she tells me this, I look up recent government leaks to verify if the U.S. government is cloning people.
After all, this sounds like nothing more than a conspiracy theory. I find an article from an anonymous whistle
blower that confirms that the U.S. government is cloning people. I think about what she says. It all sounds far-
fetched. But she looks so much like me and acts like me and talks like me. I know I don’t have a twin. Could she
be my clone? Even if she is, should I get involved in a government conspiracy? Maybe it would be better just to
kick her out and resume my movie?
Dong. Dong. Dong. Oh, snap! The clock going off means my family will be returning. Then, I’ll have to
explain to them why a look-alike claiming something out of a conspiracy theory or sci-fi movie is in our house.
I love the idea of adventure, but helping this woman would mean risking trouble from the government, and
potential danger. Getting in trouble scares me, and I am too cautious to seek danger. What if helping her goes

116

PROSE

wrong? What if she is lying? This might be an elaborate ruse by some malevolent person to get me out of the
house. Even if she is telling the truth, what if I wound up in prison for treason? I better stay out of this and just
enjoy adventure from a distance on the movie screen.

So, I tell her, “Look. I’m not interested in investigating the government. I’m sorry. If you need to know
more about this conspiracy, here is a website that has some posts on it by a whistleblower from inside the con-
spiracy. Now please leave.”

She squints at the website, frowning. She hesitates for a moment then takes a quick picture of the web-
site I show her. Then I escort her protesting to the door. She stumbles out the door.

Slam.

117

POETRY

tMhye FPaavtroirairtcehSyeason is Fall of

Chelsea Wilkerson

We are nesting dolls
Carrying the next generations inside of us.
We are beautiful bodies
Who long for control of what is ours.
We are gold
As found in nature, being forced into forms to fit standards we did not set.
We are sunlight
Fighting to be seen through cloudy skies.
We are mountains
Overshadowed by hills because they are just a little bit greener.
We are a message
That is too commonly interpreted incorrectly.
We are a dollar
But in change, and we always seem to be missing a dime or two.
We are guilty
Until proven modest.
We are safety
That is based on what we chose to wear.
We are keys
Opening harassment disguised as locks.
We are founders
Of a new history that will finally allow us to be an equal part of it.
We are men
But more capable, more powerful, more beautiful.
We are women.

118

PROSE

First Day to a New Life

Joseph Clark

“Joseph Clark, I hereby sentence you to ten years in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. The crime you
committed of aggravated robbery will not be tolerated in this community. I hope in the course of your incarcera-
tion you learn how to become a productive member of society. May God be with you,” Judge Barr said without
a blink of an eye.

Regret, sadness, and fear overwhelmed me at once as I looked around and saw lawyers whispering to
their clients and prosecutors trying to strike a deal with the defense. Behind them were regular people waiting to
hear the fate of their loved ones. With one glance, I knew there were not any family or friends present to support
me. It was just me.

Loneliness consumed me as I was escorted to a holding cell in the back. The steel was cold as ice as it
squeezed around my wrist. It made my palms and fingers go numb. I was in a group with twenty other guys
about to face the same fate, “The Big House.”

Once we were handcuffed and given matching shackles, we were then given a bag lunch and loaded onto
the bus at gunpoint. The roar of the engine was deafening, but my thoughts were louder as my mind raced with
fear of the future. Looking out of the windows was pointless because a fine mesh screen obscured my view of
the world I was leaving. The sight of the fence made my heart skip a beat. The fence stood about thirty feet, with
rows on top of rows of razor wire. The fence was designed to place disbelief in any dare devil’s mind.

The gate opened, and we headed to the inmate’s entrance. My stomach was doing flips, and my palms
were sweaty as we exited the bus and lined up along the fence. The authorities walked down the line, releasing
each inmate’s handcuffs and shackles. What a relief I felt for only a moment. We were then immediately told to
strip in broad day light with an audience of about forty random people. Once cleared of drugs and weapons, we
were allowed to enter the dreaded building. The sight was one no man could ever forget. The room was the size
of a high school gym. On either side was a line of twenty showerheads embedded in the wall. In the middle sat
rows of cages or “human dog kennels,” as I would learn to call them. I made my way to the front of the shower
line and was given a tiny bar of soap and a razor. Three minutes later, the water turned off, and a towel was tossed
my way, which smelled of an old, stale gym. I was issued well-used, ill-fitting clothes that looked like dirty white
nurse scrubs.

Next, I was placed in a section of the “human dog kennels,” as I like to call them, with no place to sit, so
I made my way to the corner and waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, I heard my name.

“Joseph Clark,” the overweight guard yelled, motioning for me to follow. I was told to walk with my
hands behind my back and keep my mouth shut. What looked like a regular office building was actually the ad-
ministration department, where I was badgered with questions for thirty minutes.

“How tall are you?” they asked.
“Five seven,” I responded.
“How much do you weigh?” they continued.
“One forty-five,” I answered.
“Age?” they asked.
“Eighteen,” was my response.
Those were the easy ones! I could answer those. The next set of questions was a little different. “Why did
you commit your crime? Where would you parole to if you were granted parole?What are your plans when you
get released?”

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PROSE

Their questions were all met with silence. I could not answer because the answers were still a complete
mystery to me. My photo was taken, and I was given a bedroll. The bedroll consisted of a mattress thinner than a
thin mint cookie, one wool blanket that looked as if it was attacked by a gang of rats, and two smelly white sheets.

The next thing I could remember was the sound that exploded into the air as they marched us down the
cellblock. Inmates were banging, yelling, cursing, challenging me, and sizing me up.

The building was four stories tall with twenty-four cells on each floor. You could smell sweat, urine, and
smoke. Someone had actually set clothes on fire and was screaming about food. I could barely make it up the
stairs, as I felt like a gazelle walking into a lion’s den.

The heavy metal door rolled open and I walked into my new “tiny house.” Cold penetrated everything—
the floors, the walls, and especially the steel bunk. With limited light, I made my bed and washed my face. The
concrete walls were decorated with people’s nicknames, cities, and towns all across Texas. Different gangs wanted
to be known by making sure their symbols were displayed all around.

The cries for help and forgiveness are what got to me the most. I lay down and tried to get some sleep
but to no avail. Reality finally slapped me in the face, and all of this was only the first day of a new life! I say “new
life” because the prison system is a world inside of a world, with two sets of rules--one, the prison rules, and two,
the convict code.

The intake staff gave me a handbook with all of the listed infractions, but to be honest, the convict code
trumped the prison policy. Unfortunately, there is no “handbook” passed out by experienced inmates. I was
forced to learn, adopt this new world’s culture, and adapt to survive. I quickly learned the key was to not only
survive, but also to thrive and rise above the situation.

120

POETRY

Lilac

Madisyn Beilowitz

It had been ten years since I moved to Texas, and, finally, after years away, I made a return to where I grew up.
Traveling down the country roads of my hometown in northern Massachusetts, I was enveloped with the subtle
smell of the blossoms of my favorite flowers, lilacs. In an instant I was suddenly transported in time, watching
from afar as a mirage appeared before me: a younger version of myself, taking blooms of lilacs off of my favorite
tree that sat nestled against the front of my house. She teetered over to anyone who would give her a glimpse of
kindness, and she handed bushels of blossoms over to them in an attempt to gain affection. It grew sadder the
longer I watched—a child so desperate for attention that she slowly gave away part of the thing she loved piece
by piece in hopes that someone would notice how lonely she was deep down. I wanted to shout to her as the
branches dwindled, but my younger self couldn’t see nor hear me. I wanted to tell her that if she gave too much
of herself, she would wind up in fragments just like the lilac, unable to be put back together. Soon enough the
tree was bare, and she sat alone and faded away like embers of a long-forgotten fire.

121

POETRY

Church Shooting

Hannah Bray

I walk inside a large room as bleak and weary as an abandoned warehouse. The phantom sound of children’s
voices laughing and singing old songs sends chills dripping slowly as molasses through my body. An overturned
wheelchair lies defeated on the floor near a somehow still-standing podium. Behind the podium, a rainbow of
stained glass lies shattered on the dark, dusty wood floor, as odd as a party balloon in a jail cell. I look up and see
small black holes that crawl across the walls like spiders as I move my phone’s light across the room. I’m looking
for my little brother’s crutches. I find them left in the rubble, abandoned, like two sticks floating in a stream of
debris, never to be used again.

122

PROSE

Morning

Hannah Bray

I’m not often outside early in the morning. This morning, however, I have a new job, and I do not want to be
late. I walk out to my car but stop at the car door. The quiet freshness of the morning, occasionally punctuated
by bird calls, almost startles me with its familiarity until I remember where I last experienced it. I smile faintly
and travel back years in my memory. I am seven years old, playing in a forest with my cousins. It’s just past the
crack of dawn when we creep out of our tent and head into the woods to play a game of Town. We use old bottle
caps for money and make homes in hollowed-out trees while our parents begin to wake up. We relish the cool
morning air and enjoy the feeling of a new day that only we have lived in. For us kids at least, the best part of our
yearly family camping trip is always the morning.

I am thirteen years old and have just been awakened far earlier than I would have liked by the cawing of
what must be dozens of birds. It seems that one of my younger cousins woke up early, and having nothing else to
do, began feeding them with our leftover bread. I groan and pick myself out of my sleeping bag and head toward
the campfire. At least there’s bacon for breakfast. I sigh but end up smiling as I see the gentle pink and blue hues
hanging in the sky. Mornings might be rough now that I need more sleep, but they are still beautiful.

I am eighteen years old, waking up to my alarm set for five o’clock, earlier than I ever used to get up with
my cousins. I don’t want to miss a moment of our yearly camping trip, especially now that I don’t know whether
I’ll still be here next fall or not. I walk down to the river, realizing for the first time how much I appreciate the
quiet and stillness of the morning. The river flows silently, and the only sound I hear is a single bird greeting the
day with his song. I smile faintly, committing the morning to memory.

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PROSE

Good to Be Home

Haylyn Hanks

The familiar smells of cut hayfields had long passed since the last time she was home. The crisp morning air hit
her as soon as she opened her car door, and an uneasy feeling fluttered around her stomach as she walked up
the porch steps of her family’s doublewide trailer. Feelings of regret and anxiousness crept into her brain as she
turned the doorknob and the memories rushed into her thoughts.

The first was the memory of her little sister toddling behind her down the steep steps that led up into
the kitchen. The little tot could barely walk but insisted on following her big sister everywhere she went. There
wasn’t a moment when the pair weren’t together. They were inseparable all the ten years she watched the tot
grow. Now it had been ten years since the last time she had seen her baby sister when moving out of her parents’
house to go to college. Nightly phone calls dwindled down to the occasional birthday phone call that was mostly
forgot about on both ends.

This memory knocked her down onto the top step, where she sat staring at the front door. That front
door had opened and closed a million times a day from Daddy walking in from the hayfields, Momma coming
in from the garden, or Sissy returning from her swing set. She remembered racing down those steps through the
front door to see who could get to the car first. Sissy would always trip on the bottom step and tumble out of the
door because her little legs weren’t able to keep up. Now, the front door was locked shut, with no happy babies
or busy mommies and daddies running in and out.

After managing to pull herself off of the top step of the stairs, she walked into the kitchen. The sight of
Momma’s dish towel sent her back into a flood of kitchen island memories. Momma always had that dish towel
over her shoulder to wipe her messy hands when she was feeding her hungry family. Momma slaved over that
oven every breakfast, lunch, and dinner and tried to teach her babies how to cook and provide meals for their
future families. Sissy took to cooking like a duck does to water, but Momma could never seem to teach her oldest.
She could burn water if that was even possible.

Alongside Momma’s dish towel was Daddy’s work hat. That was the smelliest hat she could ever remem-
ber being around. Daddy wore that hat to every sporting event his girls competed in, on the tractor in the middle
of summer hay season, and even to church when Momma didn’t notice.

When Momma did notice, she would snatch his hat off the top of his head and shoot him a deadly glare
that only mommies have.

As she floated back into reality, she picked up both Momma’s and Daddy’s items and held them close
to her chest. The items smelled exactly like them still. She sunk to the floor with tears welling in her eyes as she
heard the front door opening and footsteps walking up the little flight of stairs. She locked eyes with her baby
sister, who was already crying. Sissy walked right up to her and sat on the floor next to her big sister. No words
were exchanged, but they knew exactly what the other was thinking.

Sissy walked over to the unlit Christmas tree that was still standing in the corner of the living room
and flicked on the lights that were strung around the tree. Sissy always had a way of making the best out of a
bad situation. Smiling down at her big sister, who was still sitting on the floor, she mouthed the words “Merry
Christmas.” This may have been the first Christmas the pair had seen each other in a decade, but they still knew
that they would always have each other for as long as they were on this earth.

124

CONTRIBUTORS

CONTRIBUTORS

Victoria Adolph is a senior in high school, completing dual-credit classes and has a passion for theater, singing,
and her pursuit in pediatric nursing.
Guadalupe Barron is a sophomore biology major who has a passion for writing and drawing.
Madisyn Beilowitz is in her last semester at Lone Star College and will soon receive her associate of arts degree.
She plans on continuing her education to get a bachelor’s and master’s in English at Sam Houston State Univer-
sity. She has a passion for all things artistic and for animals.
Amanda Black is an aspiring writer who enjoys a good book, warm coffee, and long walks through Azeroth.
Francesca Bocchini enjoys writing, music, and experimenting with various art mediums. Although she’s not
certain what she will do in the future, she will most likely pursue something in the general arts field. She thinks
chocolate is great.
Hannah Bray is a sophomore English major who enjoys reading, writing, and soccer.
Julia Cheek is a sophomore Christian studies major who is passionate about languages, religion, creativity, and
recapturing childhood.
Joseph Clark is a creative writer and a student at Lone Star College-Tomball.
Cade Coleman is an artist whose main focus is writing and performing music. He is currently employed at a
coffee shop and church with a life goal of living debt free.
Jeremy Cortinas is working towards his associate of arts at LSC-North Harris. He has a passion for writing,
technology, and gaming.
Dakota Davis is a creative writer and a student at Lone Star College-Tomball.
Haylyn Hanks is a business major with a passion for reading, writing, and shotguns.
Starr Henk says, “I’ve always had a hard time figuring out what I wanted to do with my life, and who I wanted
to be. But I’ve always loved to write, and that’s one of the only things I’ve ever been sure about.”
Jeannine Hill is a student who is currently working on her two-year degree. She plans to pursue a journalism
degree to obtain a position in the publishing industry.
Sabrina Hiltscher enjoys learning, drawing, writing, playing with “joke” languages (like Klingong, Igpay-atin-
lay, and Sdrakcab-hceeps), reading up on superheroes, and being an all-around geek. When not suffering from
insomnia, she prefers using her creative powers for everything good and awesome.
Sarah Huntsman is an LSC-Tomball alum, as well as a former member of Inkling. She has been utilizing her
time during quarantine to study herbalism and Ancient Greek history.

126

CONTRIBUTORS

Logan Luther is in her third semester at LSC-Tomball and is a full-time cosmetology student. She is grateful
for a medium to share her work.
Cristobal Maldonado is a student at Lone Star College-Tomball who enjoys drawing and art.
Nicolas (Nico) Marroquin is a dual-credit student who is an aspiring animation concept artist.
Aspen Miller is a student at Lone Star College-Tomball who enjoys writing short stories in her spare time.
Isabella Milosek is a sophomore nutrition major who has a passion for art, cooking, writing, and yoga.
Karley Morris is a dual-credit student who loves drawing, writing, pho¬tography, and fishing.
Hannah Mourino is is a psychology major who is a dedicated homebody and amateur pianist.
Elizabeth Myles is a graduate of LSC–Tomball and the University of Houston. Her short fiction has appeared
several times in Inkling, and in 2013, Shelf Unbound Magazine honored her young adult novel, Fear and Laun-
dry, as a notable entry in the teen category of Best Independently Published Books. Her most recent book, The
Sharpest Kiss, is a series of paranormal romantic comedies featuring vampires living in the Houston suburbs. She
enjoys reading, long distance running, and spending time with her husband (and best friend) of nearly 17 years.
Find her at www.elizabethmyles.com.
Amara Okoye is a freshman honors student with way too many hobbies. She doesn’t really share her poetry
with anyone but decided to do so now in order to find out if she was any good at it. She hopes she is good at it.
Andrea Omotosho is a current student in Lone Star College and is pursuing a degree in teaching. She looks
forward to teaching adult students. She’s learned that learning is a lifelong process, just like our own personal
evolutions.
David Ramirez is an English major who is transferring to the University of Houston Downton in spring of
2021. In addition to being a full-time college student, he is also a Texas-licensed cosmetologist and makeup artist.
During his free time, he enjoys working on perfecting his techniques as a stylist and makeup artist and spending
time with his family. When he completes school he wants to be an English teacher, and, eventually, a school
administrator.
Liliana Richards is a music major who is passionate about writing, reading, and music.
Awesziana Roberson is an architectural design major. She had always been creative. It is easy to say that de-
signing is in her blood. Art is an amazing escape from the outside world and a big pas-sion of hers. Being so busy,
she knows that at the end of the day picking up a graphite pencil or some exquisite oil paint will make everything
better.
Regina Roeli is an art major who loves spending time working on her passions. Roeli wants to become a movie
director, 3D animator for movies, and a fashion designer.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Jessica Saul is a film major who loves rainy days, Halloween, and her pet dachshund.
Tristan Sharrosh is an English major who has a passion for, reading, writing, and cycling.
Hannah Smith is a homeschooled, dual credit student who plans to major in English when she transfers next
fall. She loves reading, writing, playing the piano, and rock climbing in her free time.
Matthew Smith is a 20-Year-old student taking basic classes at Lone Star College-Tomball. He lives in Magnolia
and loves writing, animals, gaming, sports, and cooking. He hopes you enjoy his poems.
Asia Solomon Scott is a creative writer and a student at Lone Star College-Tomball.
Bailey Stringfellow is a creative writer and a student at Lone Star College-Tomball.
Amara Thomas is an aspiring author who enjoys creating art in all of its forms (writing, singing, drawing, and
so on).
Wells Westmoreland is a student at Lone Star College-Tomball who enjoys writing in his spare time.
Chelsea Wilkerson is a sophomore psychology major who is passionate about service, activism, and the deep-
er meaning.
Mia Williams is a student at Lone Star College. She is an English major who aspires to be an inspirational
writer.
Rosalind Williamson lives in Houston, Texas on occupied Sana and Tonkawa land. In addition to having
formerly served as an editor at Inkling, they have edited for UH’s undergraduate magazine, Glass Mountain, and
they are an editor and co-founder of Space City Underground. Their work has appeared in Defunkt Magazine
and is forthcoming from Poetry City.
Raquel Wood is a sophomore with a passion for writing, baking, and any activity that expresses creativity.
Joanna Wright is an aspiring sonographer, as well as author, with a love of all things relating to books, stories,
and writing.

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