The Stone CircleVolume 6, Number 2 Spring 2007

McLennan Community CollegeStudent Literary and Art Magazine

________________________________Poetry, Short Fiction, and Visual Arts

Welcome!We are thrilled to announce that the LambdaBeta Chapter of Sigma Kappa Delta, theEnglish Honor Society chapter at MCC, throughthe generosity of an anonymous donor, hasestablished a prize for the best poetry in thisissue. If you would like to contribute to thisprize, please contact Harry Harelik at the MCCFoundation.As we close our sixth year of publication, we continue to grow. I am gratified by the supportof the student body of McLennan CommunityCollege, and particularly the members of SigmaKappa Delta. Remember: The Stone Circle isfor all the students of MCC!

Thanks again! --Jim McKeown, Editor

Published by McLennan Community College, Waco, TXJim McKeown, Editor

Londa Carriveau, Assistant EditorRamona McKeown, Editorial Assistant

Printed by Waco Printing Company

COVER PHOTO COURTESYPaola Arosio/Diego Meozzi

Stone Pages -- http://www.stonepages.com“Cullerlie”

Gordon, Grampien, near Aberdeen, Scotland

The Stone Circle hasbeen registered with the

US Copyright OfficeISSN 1931-3381

Volume 6,Number 2

Spring 2007

Janis Jack Cyanotype 76

Elisa James A Thousand Prayers

1

A special thanks for financial support and encouragement to…

The Board of Trustees, Dr. Dennis Michaelis & Dr. Jack SchneiderDr. Donnie Balmos, Dr. Buddy Powell, & Dr. Bill Matta

…and to all our colleagues who assisted with the judging...

Dr. Cheryl Bohde, Dr. Carol Lowe, Dr. Linda Cook, Dr. Kent Hoeffner, James CornishDr. Lisa Hoeffner, Dr. Charlotte Laughlin, Dr. Bill Matta, Llonda Carriveau & Kim McAllister,

and Glenn Downing for handling the art entries

...and to these members of Sigma Kappa Delta and my creative writing classes...

Lynne McMahen, Amanda Newhouse, Kasia Redden, Cynthia Wheeler

The Stone Circle would not be possible without all their help.—Jim McKeown, Spring 2007

Janis Jack Beyond the Backyard

Alycia Hall A Firm Foundation

2

A Day in the Swamp

eg walks and her shoes cling and stick like warm, wetflesh. They press against her actual skin, molding to her with unpleasant, squelching sensations. Bog

sounds, that’s what she hears, and the shoes move beneathher toes like swampy, bubbly mud. Oozing, that’s what it is,solid but still seeming to lick at her heels. As she walks, itrains, harsh water pounding down onto the bruised earth,blanketing the pavement in growing puddles that are com-pletely dissimilar to pools of blood. Her brown flip-flops,swamp-mud sandals now, they crash into the water, each andevery puddle sent splashing against her ankles. That’s not likeanything at all, just itself and cold. The woman pointedly does-n’t think of snow falling in forgotten places. Water falls, theground gets wet, and that’s it.

Sighing, she shrugs her shoulders, trying to ease some ofthe weight she carries with the slight movement. Her purse’sstrap cuts into her shoulder, a cut-out piece of leather, tannedskin pressing into her skin, but the baby’s weight is worse, hisheavy little body cradled against the damp cotton of her shirt.The t-shirt’s design, clever little words with cutesy little ani-mals, it sticks to the baby’s arm, tattooing his skin withthoughts he couldn’t understand.

Beside Meg, her daughter, Macy, walks, slow and carefulas her mother, but her blonde hair almost seems to disappearwhen the rain hits it, the water’s weight slicking it down until itsticks to her skull. The woman’s eyes twitch, catching sight ofone dangling lock of her own thick, brown hair. She tries tokeep herself from comparing it to an animal’s dangling, drip-ping tail still limp with water, but the thought exists before shecan.

“We going to your school, Mama?” the little girl asks.Ahead of them, the red brick building rises into sight, small

clusters of similar edifices visible in the distance. From theparking lot’s dingy, oil-slicked sidewalk, it seems unusually pic-turesque, a fairy-tale college bordered by typical urban grungi-ness.

“Actually, I was thinking we’d just stand right in the door-way and stare at the classes,” she snaps irritably.

The girl frowns, lips turning into a shape like an upside-down slice of orange. Her lips seem like a part of some mono-chromatic color scheme, their too pale pink matching the dark-er red of her oversized hoodie and both her lips and the cloth-ing together looking strangely perfect next to the deep red ofthe school’s buildings.

“That’s mean. Jason doesn’t like you when you’re mean,”she complains.

Meg lets the words pass her by without thinking of herboyfriend who’s still waiting in the car, and instead speeds up,covering the final distance to the door in a few, large steps.Beside her, Macy has to struggle to keep up, but that wasmore of the point than the woman wants to admit. Withoutpausing, she steps into the building, moving into the largecommons area. No one’s waiting for classes today, not thislate in the afternoon, but the emptiness seems a fitting coun-terpart to the rainy misery of the day. Even in the dry warmthof the school, the woman still feels the damp’s grasping fin-gers. She shivers, trying to throw off the wet and the cold; heryoung daughter mimics her, tiny body convulsing in the throwsof theatrical freezing.

She turns, glaring at the girl, and finds herself staring at the pale, freckled canvas of flesh and blood, her flesh and

blood. Against her own will, her eyes blink rapidly, squintingshut as the harshly fluorescent light hits them. She forcesthem to open and stares at Macy again, trying to see some-thing familiar besides the basic features of all people, but thechild is too pale, too thin, too foreign to everything she knows.There’s nothing to really compare her to in Meg’s own face,and the lack of a convenient metaphor or simile is suddenlyunpleasant. She looks away, preferring to concentrate on thebarren room rather than her own child’s equally empty face.Under the unflattering light bulbs’ brilliance, the room twistsand turns in ugly, washed-out colors, shadows reaching outfrom the corners and the dark, lurking edges.

Coughing, she steps forward, moving into the room and itsalmost painted ugliness. Her hand tugs at the little girl, cal-lused and cracking skin moving like sandpaper against thesoft, youthful fingers. In her arms, the baby doesn’t stir fromhis slumber. He’s as still as a toy, unmoving, just like theancient porcelain dolls her grandmother had always hoardedso jealously. Looking down for a moment, she sees the babyand remembers those beautifully crafted delicacies, each withits own personal cover of soft, fluffy dust wrapped around itlike a blanket of neglect.

“Stay still, you fake little thing,” Meg whispers when thebaby stirs, his pink mouth opening in a wide, stretching yawn.

He makes a mewling noise that grates against her ears,but it also sends little maternal shivers down her spine, eachtremble ricocheting against her vertebrae. Without thinking,she shoves him away from her, into Macy’s spindly arms. Thetwo children’s matching squawks of protest barely reach herears.

She sucks in a deep breath, shakily pulling the air inside ofher and holding it there before glancing around at the unforgiv-ing emptiness of the room. The lone table in its hooded, shad-owy corner presses against the walls with a strange sort ofstrength, unrelenting and immobile; the woman looks awayfrom it with shifting eyes.

As she looks away, the air escapes from her lungs with asoft, sibilant hiss that echoes uncomfortably in the vacantroom. In her mind, she sees her own breath whisperingthrough the room, flitting past the heavy cardboard box thatstands so stolidly in its unremarkable spot beside the door’sshadow. Imagining, Meg sees the molecules of air pressingagainst the words, touching the dark, bold “Books for Africa”slogan that seems to be imprinted on her mind instead of theplain cardboard. Her mind does its tick-tock, clockwork routine,but she forces down the literary allusions, the extendedmetaphors, the hated purple prose, the part of her self that justwon’t shut up.

Her feet step forward, body following along in predictableacquiescence, a falsely unified movement that somehowreflects her clamoring thoughts. On the floor, the brown tileswith their clay-like texture connect together in little lines, forcedinto a pattern by the little gray lines of mortar between them.Meg sees past them, caught in her own thoughts.

She tugs on Macy’s hand and pushes her toward the card-board box, knowing that she’s being unnecessarily rough butstill telling herself that she couldn’t possibly care about theway her daughter’s bones feel like fragile, snapping twigs.Against the child’s skin, her hand trembles. It feels like a drag-onfly’s trapped beneath her skin, fluttering desperately, waitingto die while still trying to escape, but Meg just stares straightahead.

“Take your brother and get in.” Her voice is a mummy’svoice, dry and desiccated, crumbling to dust as it touches herears. She tries to wait longer, but her gaze runs toward the lit-

M

tle girl, latching onto her uninspiring form.Macy opens her eyes more, forcing them to widen, and

stares up at her mother, meeting her gaze with waveringstrength. Blue glints between the frames of her lashes, weaklike watercolors, but the dreamy sort of shade is almost pretty.The woman thinks about looking away again.

“Aren’t you gonna tell us that we’re playing hide-and-seekand gotta keep quiet?” the child asks, petulance tainting thefading sweetness of her voice.

The words are knives in her chest, and even their dullblades can cut her. Still, she doesn’t wince or react in anynoticeable way. A slight twisting of her eyes is the only move-ment she allows, but even that feels too free. As they move,her eyes spot a crinkled piece of paper lying abandoned underthe table’s legs; stray pencil marks seem to be painted acrossit, little hangman figures dancing in the strange, crumplededges. The word “tranquility” leaps out at her, frightening andbold.

“No,” she finally replies, letting her eyes return to the twochildren. The baby whimpers, cat-like mewls escaping his lipslike little pieces of his soul until the little girl moves, soft handturning rough as she pushes it over his mouth, effectively muf-fling the noise. The movement is like a mirror to the woman,familiar and twisted.

Her hand raises then falls back to her side, a weak littlebird with fluttering finger-wings. In its corner, the box seems togrow larger, expanding into something monstrous, easily over-shadowing the room and its paltry decorations. A lone, uncer-tainly alive plant almost seems to disappear, eaten into noth-ingness, and the world becomes impossibly small. Meg feelsfractured pieces of something moving away in their differentorbits, but the earth’s actually stopping around her. That’s allthe sense she can find; all the rest is running away so veryfast, swift like little rabbit feet in the early morning dew thatalways shines so saccharinely sweet beneath the still weaksun.

She thinks she forgets to breathe, but the act of remember-ing can’t possibly spell forgetfulness, so she tests the air withinher lungs, holding it there just like earlier before letting it gowith the sweet ease of release. Mindless repetition, that’s whatit is, but she relaxes as the air escapes, releasing her with itsdeparture.

At the sound of Meg’s breath, soft like a sigh never reallyis, Macy frowns and moves her hand off the baby’s mouth. Alittle croaking chirp, an impossibility in itself with its mix of fly-ing highs and floating lows, manages to run out of his mouth,a speeding sound.

“Mama?” the little girl asks tentatively, like she’s afraid ofthe word.

Meg just pulls her purse from her shoulder and steps for-ward until she’s right beside the table. Her feet hide under itscool shadows, lost to the world, and, even with moisture stilllingering between her toes, she’s feeling something that whis-pers of envy. Blinking, she squishes it all away like a nest ofclambering beetles, returning everything to that blank slatesort of comfort she needs. She barely even notices the wayshe’s been thinking again, the way she’s been trying to shapeher thoughts into an artist’s words.

Moving, she places the purse on the table’s lined top, eyesunconsciously tracing the maze inscribed on its surface as shebegins to dig through the depths of the massive bag. Objectsstab at her fingers: pretty pink bottles of liquid lipstick thatshine just right in the room’s ugly light, drained black pens thatare always so uncomfortably familiar, a bag full of crushedpotato chips with their ridges broken into a thousand wander-

ing crumbs, the thick bristles of a brush dirtied and tangledwith hair. Yet, it’s the soft, weary pages of a book that makeher pause. Nodding to herself, she pulls it free, dusting off littlebits of powdered eyeshadow that had spilled out long ago,staining everything it touched with mauve bruises. Under herfingers, the title is obscured, only the word “masterpieces”remaining visible.

Before doubt can touch her, she hands the book to the littlegirl, letting it slip out of her hands without a struggle. As itmoves out of reach, her fingers twitch, pressing against thefading cover with one last, covetous touch, and she has toblink the dust out of her eyes before she can really see again.

“What’s this for?” Macy asks curiously. Her voice edgesinto a soft whine, but the woman blinks that away, too.

“You can read the sign.”“Books for Africa, right?” The words come out slowly, halt-

ingly. They grate against the woman’s ears, another failure tochain around her ankles.

“And you’re not a book,” Meg replies, nodding before shepoints to the book. “That’s like your passport.”

The girl blinks, eyes shuttering shut and fluttering openafter a tiny lapse of time. In her arms, clutched beside thebook with a fairly equal amount of care, the baby is almostcompletely quiet, only a few hiccuping coughs punctuating thesilence.

“What do I do with it?” the little girl questions. Far from the room, a door slams shut, a resounding sound

that’s just firm and strong, everything this moment isn’t. Megfades in comparison, and little aches hit her again, remindersof an age she really isn’t.

“Just...let people read it. Make sure they understand,” shefinally murmurs, sounding weary even in her own ears.

“But I don’t understand!” Macy protests. Her face scrunch-es into something wicked-looking and fierce, a little goblinchild standing on such a normal-looking floor.

“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” the woman says, slowlyshaking her head. “In the box. Now.”

She turns and walks toward the door before the little girlcan even move, but she hears the sounds behind her, littlestumbling, struggling scrapes of skin and cardboard, and nodsto herself, faking satisfaction. When she reaches the door,hand pressed against the cold metal handle, she pauses.

“Get out of there, hon. We’re going home,” she orders with-out turning around.

* * *When she returns to the car, daughter, son, and book all

with her, Jason is still there, sitting in the driver’s seat and sim-ply waiting, just like he’d said he’d be. Somehow, she hadn’texpected that, not after what she’d almost done. She stares athim through the tinted glass, liking the way it darkens hisstrawberry-blonde hair into something deeper,something....She’d been thinking of color, but now she thinksthe tint adds something deeper in a different way, profunditymaybe.

Her hand pauses on the door handle. Beside her, Macyopens the door to the backseat, slipping in and quickly fasten-ing her brother into his baby carrier, but Meg just stares atJason’s tinted face. The door handle is cold and wet againsther fingers, and rain still drizzles onto her dark hair, but the cardoesn’t seem as comfortable as it should be. Still, she finallymoves when Jason looks at her curiously, beckoning for her tojoin him. Within moments, she manages to open the door andcollapse into the seat, water from her clothes quickly transfer-ring to the beige seat. Glancing back, she sees Macy pullingon her headphones and hitting the play button on her portable

3

dvd player. “I almost left her there,” Meg says as she turns back to Jason.The heavy lashes around his eyes meet building block rain

drops. It’s surprising to see so many variations, but every time, thewords are negative. Never “can,” always “can’t,” that’s what shesees.

“Well...well, yeah, I was,” she admitted again. “People’dremember me then.”

“And they’d hate you.”“That too.”The car is quiet except for the soft hum of Macy’s dvd player, a

slight whirring background to the awkward silence. Meg squirms inher seat, slumping against it until she’s practically reclining, legsstretched out straight in front of her.

“Okay. Let’s go home,” Jason says simply.“What? You’re not going to tell me I’m a horrible mom?”It’s his turn to sigh now, and he does it in a way that’s nothing

like her own. Actually, he sounds tired, and Meg’s eyes narrow asshe glances at him. There are dark circles under his eyes, spread-ing outward like bruises, but it bothers her more that he lookssomething like her now, minus the concealing makeup.

“This isn’t like some TV show or one of your fancy books, Meg.It’s not scripted so I say just such a thing at just such a time. So,no, I’m not going to tell you anything. Nothing at all. You wannafeel bad about what you didn’t quite do, then go right on ahead. It’snot my job to make you feel better or worse. I’m thinking you man-age all that business just fine on your own,” he explains testily.

“Oh,”she murmurs, still staring at him.Another long pause fills the confined air in the car, and Jason

moves slightly, pulling the keys out of his pocket. He blinks for amoment, slightly perplexed, and looks down at his pocket beforeshrugging slightly. The keys are still clutched in his hand, and Megidly traces the familiar words etched on his dark silver key chain.

“You’re not a character in one of those stories,” Jason mutters,breaking the silence.

“I know.”“Then stop trying to live like it. You invent trouble and drama

whenever you can’t get some sentence to sound just right.”“Is that what you think I’m doing?” she asks harshly.“Yeah.”“Then aren’t you just trying to make me feel bad now? Like you

said you wouldn’t, huh, Jason?” Her voice sounds fierce even toher own ears.

Blinking slowly, hiding and revealing those beautiful green eyes,he stares at her before finally shrugging sheepishly. His lips turn upin a small grin, almost apologetic, and there’s something undeni-ably likeable about him right then. Meg sighs and reaches out herhand, letting it fall to rest on his arm.

“I am trying to stop,” she tells him softly.He nods and glances back at the children. They’re unusually

quiet back there, Macy caught in the world of her little Disneymovie and Jimmy just sleeping in that unique, baby way. The onlysound is the delicate fall of rain against the car’s roof. After amoment of comfortable silence, Jason puts the keys in the ignitionand turns on the car. Meg just leans back in her seat again andstares out the window. Among all the negative raindrop words, shenow sees “maybe.”

--K.M.F.

What I will leave behindThese limbs? They still functionThey worked well enough they filled my platesWith meat and bones my blood it needs themMeat and bones to feed my brain

So I worked I worked I ate to work to eat to workTo fill those plates againAnd my heart it pumped so I can thinkAnd sometimes I think clear

You focus now. It’s so basic why…These repetitions keep the processes…They let you find those warm spaces…To incubate, no?

And now this shell well it’s cracked it’s wornSo what! The earth grows cold so what! So what?The sun it shines in freedom’s nest—the skiesAnd I’ll leave these functions behind.

--Amanda Newhouse

Last Weekend

He walks in at the oddest times on the heels of a bookI’ve just thrown asidePerplexed at its power over meAt its ability to take me insideReshape my reasonsClear the cobwebsAnd force me front and centerTo relive it.

He dances past in the arms of AlexisAs she glides across their living room floor Oblivious to the beat of the music Happy in the moment that she exists Only to feel and move Little limbs lifting and swirling Little girl laughing and squealing Totally unaware a partner’s sharing her space.

He rides with me down the rural highwayThe road was dark and curvingThe ride… so quietly soothingDead radio blaringJarring me from my stuporAwakening my sensesSlipping back to remind me…...To live.

--Lynne McMahen

4

My Reason for Being LonelyAt night, I groan and call out your nameI toss turn and moan then wake up the sameI try to push onward not meaning to fallBut, each time I need someoneIt’s your name I callI’m a victim of circumstanceA Queen with no throneLost in a nightmare adrift all aloneThe children grow fast being scared by the pastOpen for love yet knowing it won’t lastWhen this rat race is finished and my name is hung highYou’ll have heard I was lonelyAnd this is my reason why.....

--Vickey Seaton Smith

TimeDoes time pass on?Are inspirations strong?On which side is wrong?Does life take long?Are we an illusion or Jehovah’s creation?Can this confusing world be for real?With thousands of questions that dance through our mindsWhile taking the pain, surviving the furyOutlasting endurance, forfeiting worryOur lives are not easy yet, sometimes we smileThrough tears as glee or the joyful charadesOf a passing harmonic paradeTime is of essenceSpace the horizonLove is our goalWe feel the weight within our soul and carry a burden of destiny

upon our heartsIf we but give a joyful noise to our overseer up highJesus will ride his mighty steed to our rescueTo avenge his Glorious throneTaking with him all who belong to Righteous and TruthLeaving behind Confusion, Hatred, and all of the unanswered

questions we Humans CONTEMPLATE…..

--Vickey Seaton Smith

The Irishman

I’d like to meet the Irishman who traveled far and wideHe married my dear Granny and settled by her sideHe must have been a mighty man; they say I should have seenThe way that blue-eyed, six- foot man was seen to do his thing

Now, Grandpa knew his own mind and dreamed of greener grassHe walked away from Ireland and put her in his pastI tell you Lads and Lassies, “I’m proud of what I singAbout the blue-eyed, six-foot man and how he did his thing.”

--Vickey Seaton Smith

My PromiseI will not fade into the BackdropI will not just be an insignificantI will face what is to be written with courageEyes openFists clenched,Ready to strike, when destined to fall.Change is not an enemy, But a friend A Companion

I will not dwell in the pastI will not dream of the futureI will remain in the presentEyes openWide awakeReady to move, when detained by regrets.Change is not an enemy,But a factA way of life

I will not forgetI will LoveI will Survive

--Daryl Bradford

Love is Not…Love is not blindNor is it deafOr deficient of any human senseIt had disappeared quite completelyFrom the scope of it all

Yet…

The smell of his unwashed hairOr his Nicholson grinThe sound of his chuckle,

When he doesn’t understandOr the taste of his neck

Baked in the sunWorst of all

The soft firmness of his chest—

Love is the memoryOf all these senses combinedAll memories eventually dissolveAs do broken hearts mendBut the thorn in my side,

That this object of loveReturns quite sporadicallyTo pull out the stitchesAnd cause it all to be undone

So love is a memoryOf all senses combinedBut love, you are, still!A constant thorn in my side.

--KEB5

Tiffany Witt Cable

In Disbelief I StandIt is the swelling of a pain filled heart that I feelAs my memory fades into those days gone by,

When moist was our skin and youth on our sideQuestions only come to mind

As the bell chime rings in the distanceReminding me of a time

When the sun shined, BRIGHTLYPlease stop! Don’t Go!

Why now? Why you? Why me?As darkness surrounds you,

Indescribable warmth comes over me,Cloaking my body with a grieved sadness,

Measured only by the trail of tears shed in loneliness,In a time misunderstood

By any who dared to look but not see?It is an overwhelming need to speak, to say something;

Yet it is in silence that I am heard.For the air that I breathe has become stale.My eyes burn as the swelling of pain growsIn disbelief I stand – into death we see life.

--Lidah Bridger

DreamersWhat dreamers we are…

Merely existing amongst the logic of this worldOnly to find ourselves caught between what is and could be.

The battles that are fought withinOften lose out to rising demands.

How is it that we find ourselves running in both directions?Only to find ourselves standing stillThere is a torment we feel inside

Of what is that has to beAnd that what we most desire to be…

--Lidah Bridger

Like a CigaretteI’ll burn you like a cigarette, breathe in deepAnd blow you out as fast as I canCough and gag till I’ve had enoughBut it’s too late, I’m addictedBlacken my lungs until all I breathe in is youFrom my lungs to my heart and my body goesA spark, a flame, and I drag you down with meAs you infect me deeper and deeperBut I’ll keep lighting until I collapseDizzy in the head because you take my breath away.

--Andrew Ye

SilverA silver coin lies among the possessions of my home,

A silver coin I alone can call my very own,A silver coin that sits atop the treasure in my horde,

With bits of string, balls and jacks, is my silver stored.

But with this trinket I shall make a journey more than myth,Out the door, around the corner, to the silver smith

Carefully he will listen to my very heart’s desire,Pulling out my coin into a double stranded wire.

With this wire now he makes a comb of silver fair,To be the crowning glory in my darling’s silken hair.

Out his door and down the street now quickly I progress,For down the street and by the river, I spot her cotton dress.

Timidly I approach, the comb of silver in my hand,Carelessly I nearly drop it, in the golden sand.

She looks at me, without a whisper seems to say my name,Takes the silver ribbon ‘twined about her gorgeous mane.

Around my arm she ties the ribbon, in a simple knot,I shyly slide the comb into her glossy raven locks.

A silver ribbon lies above the possessions of my home,A silver ribbon I alone can call my very own.

--Lee C. Kuhl

IntellectYou want to think that there are twenty hundred thousandthings in the world

but I have never been more certain that all there is is sunrise and rain.

Intellect is a miserly old man and his dirty mistress. It is joint and bone.

--Eleanor Lewis

Dew dropsPink and purple form the undersign of dawn’s melodic chaosThe delicate and perfect colors pale,

surrendering to the burden of the bountiful bluesThen yellow’s deliverance melts the new day’s pastels

into minute telltale puddles of the morning’s peaceful overture.

--Amanda Newhouse

6

Man of the House

et in here…Mr. Mac’s… been murdered!” Sylvia Dorne screamed as she jumped from foot to foot in front of the TV set, her arms flailing around her.

Cody Dorne stumbled as he hurried into the living room.“What? What’d you say?”

“Mr. Mac was found in his barn yesterday evening.He’s dead.”

“Damn, something good happened around here.”“Cody…Don’t say that. Show some respect! Mr. Mac’s

been good to us.Why…there’s been times I don’t know what we’d done

without him.” He winced, turned and walked towards the bedrooms to

wake his younger brother, Cal, for school.Cody, his mother, and brother lived in Pleasanton for fif-

teen of his nineteen years, ever since his Dad died. Cody wasthe man of the house. He hadn’t wanted the responsibility buthad reluctantly grown into it. Cal was twelve and didn’t know hisfather either.

He moved his taut, football and farm-produced frameaway from the sounds of his mother and the television. Heneeded a moment to breathe and think. “Old Mr. Mac.” Cody’sheart was pumping wildly; his fists were tightly curled by hissides. The only reason Cody stayed home after graduating wasCal with his freckled face and goofy grin. Cal would never reachsix feet like his brother. He’d always been small boned andasthmatic. Cody begged his Mom when they were younger tomove to Arizona because he’d heard Cal would feel better thereand they’d be far away from Mr. Mac.

The pain and guilt hit him like a solid punch to the stom-ach. Cody was ten when their neighbor decided to get to knowhis mother and her two fatherless boys. Mom worked two jobsand tended little Cal; there wasn’t much time for Cody. Mr. Macmade him feel special, a feeling Cody had not been use to. Theold pervert taught him how to ride and care for horses and thenthere were the camp-outs. Cody never told anyone about thecamping trips. Mr. Mac had her totally snowed; she’d neverbelieve him. He was ashamed. He buried his shame so deep;he’d planned never to let it surface except as a reminder to keepa close watch on Cal.

Cody opened the door to Cal’s bedroom. “Get up.” Tenminutes later, he yelled, “Cal, move it!” Cal ignored him. Codywas irritated. He was already late for work. “Cal, move yourass!” This time he went in. Cal’s slender body faced the win-dow. Cody yanked the blanket off his brother’s curled form andnoticed he was wearing jeans and his favorite jersey. “Cal?”Cody walked to the other side of the bed. His brother’s face wasred, his eyes tearing and swollen; he’d been crying for a longtime. “Cal?” he whispered softly. Cal’s helpless, frightened eyesfound Cody’s. It felt like sudden jolts of electricity shot throughCody’s nerves and he knew. He sank to the floor beside hisbrother and held him close as they cried.

--Lynne McMahen

Tiffany Witt Cow

Afraid To Lose The GirlI was afraid to lose the girl in me

Assert my will or be responsible

But when reluctance succumbed to need…

I found it fine to be a woman

--Amanda Newhouse

7

“G

Spring Poetry FestivalApril 19th, 6-8 PM

LTC RotundaThe Stone Circle

winners will read their poetry.All are welcome!

Discussionto follow

Susan Davis Uriah’s Wife

Lambda Beta Chapter of Sigma Kappa Delta

Awards for Excellence in Poetry

First Prize Brent Losak

A WAY With Words

If I were counted among those lofty ones who have a way with words,I would put my way and words to some use, I supposeAnd pen pretty letters to pretty girls, or something equally absurd.

I might compose sweet sonnets or formulate elegantly structured prose,Or scribble pithy notes to fat-cigar’d newspaper menTo counterpoint their pointed points and keep their readership on its toes.

I might speak with great conviction and inspire countless men and women,Or rebuke unjust oppressors with raised voice and fist and flared nostrilsLike King and X fearlessly counseling the waiting world-wide congregation.

I might chart the sparkling dance ‘tween two pairs of irises and pupils,Or recount the warm conversations between heads at rest and hearts at beat—Combine parallel lines on horizons and describe the indescribable.

But, of course, I have no way with words, although they have a way with me;Sometimes they feed me too much wine, burn incense,And light soft candles and play soft music and have their way with me.

So, for the time I’ll take my stand in the warm company of silence,Meditating and still, waiting, wordlessly, remaining undisturbed,‘Til Logos offers its hand in guidance and I mine in acceptance.

8

PrizeThe war begun to end again,

The Light recedes from dale, from glen,Sliding over western shore,

Silence lasting ends the war.

The Darkness takes unto the skies,Wayward wind deafly cries,

Blindly winging, no eyes to see-That in the east the front ranks flee.

Making use of time made waste,Dark gives Light a merry chase,

Breaking, crashing against the west,The dark goes down, to plot, to rest.

And so this prize so hotly tried,From darkest clutches, neatly pried,

Is still contested to no end,As soon as conquered lost again.

Honorable Mention Lee C. Kuhl

Third Prize Phebe J. McKinnerney

AngerRage and Pain and Anguish

Bitterness and Loathing and EvilHatred and Wrath and Fury

Envelope my heartThe Beast feeds

From the savage jawMy soul hangs, torn and shredded

With each piece the emptiness growsThe dark is nourished

The Hellion strengthens its hold

It is anchored to my beingA part of me, who I am

It has filled the emptinessReplaced me with nothingness

Skewed my life

Instantaneous death if it leavesLong slow consumption if it stays

But at least in its presenceI continue to live

I continue to struggle

The Devil fills the voidSlowly killing the spirit

Encompassing the mindThe Fiend feeds on my thoughts

It destroys me with acute precision

One day I will be no moreThe Creature will take the place of who I am

Until that Wretched Animal becomes meThe Brute will realize it needed me to live

As much as I needed it

Woolly Tar Pit (The Straw and Camel’s Back)

Gather ‘round, Velveteen friends.Let the skin horse rock you back and forth, With stories and warmth, and candid conversation.So beautiful, understand? (not most times, ‘til it’s over)

How long, it seemsThat we have all been sinkingLike the mammoth that zigged when it should have zagged,The pugilist who bobbed when he should have weaved.

How long, it seemsThat you have lost the light in your eye,That your lens has become darkened And imbued with the slow ache of fatigue.

All these pretty little girls, With their pretty little hurting hearts.Long since hung up their ballet slippers, But still dance alone in their rooms, when it’s dark.

She says she “don’t believe in love,”But behind her eyes and forced-smilesShe cries, “Prove me wrong,

Prove me wrong, Oh please,Oh please,Oh please.”

All these lonesome princes, Up on their mountain-tops. Unpolished crowns and scepters at their feet;Tarnished hearts still gold underneath,And sitting, And sitting, And watching passers-by.

All these paupers like pied-pipers, Tailed by au pairs in lines like fabled lemmings. What a backwards shame, But maybe after all for the best. Remember the diamond’s reply to the kitchen coal, Or, never you mind then, it’s becoming too obscure again, And these tired rocking feet, like their owner, too old.

--Brent Losak

9

Second Prize Kasia Redden

When His Guitar SpeaksIn front of the stageShe squints into the lightsShining down on the man of her dreamsIn the crowd full of peopleHe only sees herBarely hearing the rest of the screams

She loves watching the musicAs it runs through his bloodHe loves seeing her sing alongIt’s as though they’ve createdTheir own private languageWoven into the words of the song

He’d never been oneFor real talkingHe just wanted a song and a crowdAnd there was never a wallThat she couldn’t climbBut she’d never heard silence so loud

She looks back at those daysBefore she learned the truthAnd thanks God that she never let goIn silence, she learned,You can hear so much moreBecause the actions are really what show

And one day she watched himSitting on the front porchAnd playing his beloved guitarShe noticed he held her in the very same wayWrapped gently,But safe, in his arms

She heard his strong voiceAs he felt out his words,Recognizing the way That he spoke to herThe same tender tone and raw honestyIn every word that he’d say

And she knew right then,Although still unspoken,What was there for her in his heartThe silence was goneLove was all that remained,Brought to life by his old guitar

Now, when his guitar speaksIt plays to her soulAnd speaks all the words from his heartHe can’t say how he feelsHe’s never known howMaybe someday he’ll learn,But for right now...

She’s satisfiedTo stand, with stars in her eyesAs he plays for all the worldKnowing not one can hearWhat’s really thereWhen his guitar speaks

He looks down offstageAnd he sees her smileProudly singing the words to each songAnd he thanks God that she hearsAnd that it calms her fearsWhen his guitar speaks

DarknessMy road lies dark, and cold, and hardThreatening each instant that passes

To quicken deathTo draw the final breath

And exhale life in the embrace of angelsMy road lies dark, and cold, and threatening

My road leads to my endAllowing me to pass

Willing me to go further, not impedingMy path is my barrier, upon which a mighty torrent

Breaks, and shreds, and blindsMy path constricts, and flows, and teaches

And pains

My way changes, and growsAnd is lit by the falling rain

My way is scorched, and traveledLong, and short

My journey caresses the imaginationEncouraging the dream that feeds

The mass’s emptinessMy journey seems clear from a distance

But morphs, and blurs, and streaksAnd fades as the steps I take

Leave the parched moments bare

My course is barren, and lonelyAnd hateful to the lust of a heart

Starved for the smell of the springtimeRose wet with dew and sweet with

The thoughtlessness of contentment

My road lies dark, and cold, and desolateWith speed it becomes my purpose

The moments shorten, the mind racesIn the darkness

The realization that light surrounds us is awakened

My road lies dark, and cold, and hopefulFor nothingness only exists before this instant

The present brings light to the futureAnd draws the strength gained by moments passed

Each second brings rejuvenationAnd the optimistic expectancyThat the next will best the last

My road liesDark

And ColdAnd Welcome

--Phebe J. McKinnerney

10

Just a MemoryWhen this is just a memory That no one can eraseWe’ll look at all the things we’ve learnedAt this time and place

We’ll know that we are stronger Than anyone else aroundOur marriage built on loveAnd always strongly bound

Not one force can drive us awayNothing can ever keep us apartFrom every experience we will learnThe strength and love in our heart

We’ve built a relationshipThat cannot be broken All the love that’s in our hearts Never goes unspoken

You are my life And I am yours We’re together foreverWith God’s growing force

She tried to tear our family apartBut she will not succeedOur children are our lives And that’s how it will always be

--Angela Lackey

Ugly Made Beautiful?The paint shocks, bright like a duck’s speculum,a flash of color that marks this lifeless, poorly made effigy,forcing interest in the eye,placing thought in the mind.It marks the disproportionate arm like wings, feathery.

This imperfect statue of stone, this blank slate of empty,it’s like Talmi gold, like that beauty-coated brass so fake.Illation says one thing, that it will be art one day.Vision whispers, “Illusion.”

The brush falls again, hitting against the statue like leaves,tiny marks appearing like footprints -“That’s a mark of art,” it whispers,not Vision, not this time, just impressionistic Thoughtwarping the eye’s message.

The brush moves, searching for water.The clatter of a falling cup is a cacophony in the silence.Water drips, the paint brush flails,and the statue with its two stripes of paint watches.“This is not a portent,” whispers Thought.

--K.M.F.

11

Ringing!

“Hello?”“I can see you”Click. Swoosh, down came the blinds. Cathy moved away

from the window, and turned off the light. Ring!!She didn’t answer the phone this time.

It had started out so innocently. She had met him at a trans-fer mixer, and they had immediately hit it off. Soon they weredating. In three months he proposed. She had accepted.

As soon as she had the ring on her finger, he turned into adifferent person.

“I don’t really like it that you talk to that guy after class, I feellike he’s hitting on you.” She explained that she was doing aproject with the guy in her class. Keith growled a little bit, and itwas kinda cute that he cared so much about her. It was a littlefreaky, though, when she saw him watching her from the stackswhen she met with her partner in the library.

“You are so precious to me, I want to spend more time withyou. Do you think you could go inactive this semester in yoursorority?” That was a hard one. Keith had to ask her severaltimes before Cathy agreed, but after all, she was only going tolive with her sorority sisters while in college, and with Keith forthe rest of her life, right?

“I really like your hair that way, could you wear it that way allthe time?” What is hair anyways, and didn’t she want to lookgood to her fiancé?

“You are such a beautiful woman; you should wear moredresses, you will look more feminine.” Well, Cathy wanted to lookfeminine, what woman wouldn’t. She packed up her jeans, andbought a few more skirts.

“I don’t like red, could you please stop wearing it.”This might have seemed a small request, after avoiding men,

because they made Keith jealous, and avoiding her sorority sis-ters, because Keith preferred her to be with him, and not gettinga hair cut or wearing a pair of jeans for months, but all of a sud-den, it was a big deal. Cathy stood facing her closet, box inarms, and looked at her favorite red sweater hung right next toher favorite red blouse. She opened her drawers to look at redsocks, panties, and bras. Cathy threw the box down on her redthrow rug, sat on her red comforter, and cried until her faceturned red. Surely Keith should understand that red had alwaysbeen her favorite color. Surely she had already changed enoughto please him. Shouldn’t he love her the way she is? Why allthese changes! What was he changing?

The next day she told him she needed some time to think. Hepressed the issue, and within the week she decided to return hisring.

“Cathy, you can’t return my ring. When you put it on, you saidyou were mine. Nothing can change that.”

“I was foolish when I accepted. I’m not ready to get married. Ican’t wear your ring any more.”

Cathy felt like she’d dodged a bullet. Dang, he actuallythought he owned her, what a freak! What had she ever seen inhim.

At least that was over.Then the real trouble began.Every day there was a message waiting on her phone, or an

email from him, or a letter in her campus box. All the messageswere the same. Keith was upset at her for this “misunderstand-ing,” but if she apologized, he would gladly take her back, and

they could fulfill their destiny as a couple. She deleted theemails, erased the messages, and shredded the letters. Cathywanted nothing to do with him. The next day he came up in theunion, sat down next to her, and tried to force his ring back onher hand. The day after that he was outside of every classroomas she walked out of it, glaring at her, and holding the ring box.

Besides the ever-present shadow of Keith, Cathy’s life slowlywent back to normal. She was reinstated in her sorority. She gother jeans back out, and cut her hair. As much as possible, thingswere like they used to be. Slowly he stopped calling.

And then all of a sudden, this night he was back, just asannoying and freaky as a month ago, with no prompting.

Ring! The phone rang again.“GO AWAY” she screamed into the receiver, just to find a

friend from across campus on the other line.“...I’m having problems with my printer, could you come

over...if you’re alright?”“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be right over, room 312, right?”Cathy ran out the door.As she jogged through the shadows between two lecture

halls, a hand reached out of the bushes and grabbed her.Keith was drunk. She could tell that by one whiff of his

breath.“I’m so glad I found you, sweetheart. You know I’ve been

dreaming about you”“Keith! I’ve got to go help Sara with her computer!”“I heard she was having problems and fixed it myself... we

have all the time in the world to make up.”“No Keith NO! I don’t want this! Let go of me, you’re drunk!

HELP! SOMEONE HELP!”“Now, now, that’s no way to treat your future husband. You

know that we’re meant for each other, and I’m not going to letanything keep me from making you mine. Just to make sure youdon’t do anything stupid, I’m got this little knife which I mighthave to use if you make any more noise...”

Cathy gulped at the pressure against her throat, and dug herhands into the grass as he ripped her pants down. She closedher eyes, and prayed that it would be over soon.

The dean looked at her doubtfully.“I read your report that your former fiancé attacked you last

night. I’m afraid I can’t do anything though.”“But, why!?”“This sounds like just a misunderstanding; after all, you were

engaged. Sometimes a girl will feel bad that she lost her virginityearly, and cry rape, so unless he cut you, we won’t presscharges.”

Cathy felt her undamaged throat. Since she had held in herscreams, she had no cuts there. The dean didn’t even have thegrace to look apologetic. He seemed to blame her for the wholething.

“I’m sorry; I’m not a dating counselor. If you got pregnant byaccident, you can always abort or give it up for adoption”

She tried one more time to make her point. “But sir, I didn’twant this. I told him to stop. He held a knife to my throat. Surelythat isn’t normal in a relationship?”

“I’ve talked to him. He seems to be a fine young man. Sinceyou didn’t save any of the letters or emails you say you got fromhim, it’s only your word against his.”

“You mean there is nothing I can do to get him to leave mealone?”

“Short of moving, no.”

Cathy smiled as she stood in the breeze from the window.

R

Bone

Your work has sufferedthroughout this affairA crippled excuse and lameattempt here and thereonly prolong the…

The last time you weretruly prolific

was during those firstfew vain attempts

to catch his eyes, remember?Your suffering was great fodder

But then…That war was wonComplacency set in andyou put down your pen,save a few new clichés you throw us every now and then

We gnaw it to bits

--Amanda Newhouse

VesselThe soul cries electricAnd hums down the pageIt filters through the fibersThe sinews, the meatIt leaves me-

And then-I am at peace.

Empty, hollow, ready to fillI am a vessel for knowledge,I am the vassal of Athena,I am the scribe of Thoth,

I have offered myself up-To become greater

bettersmarter, faster

-Than my peersBut I have been found wantingAnd no divine intervention can cure

-My humanity.--KEB

NumbersIgnore arbitrary number systems.

Don’t let them catalogue youBe movement. Be life.

Dream big,Nay,huge.

But strive for lessNot more.

Always closer to lessAnd further from more.

Forget shoe sizesHat sizesRing sizesDress sizes

Forget IQ’s and SAT’s.They were made for somebody before

Somebody who wasn’t all of life,And made of movement.

Wear meaning as a backpackAnd let purpose be your rollerblades.Let yourself think in colors and water.

--Eleanor Lewis

Thanks to students of English 2307.01 (Creative Writing), who actively participate in the selection of works for

The Stone Circle.

Thanks to the members of Sigma Kappa Delta for their help

with advertising the call for submissions.

12

She had been through the fire, but she was on the other side now.It had been a hard decision to transfer, again, but she was gladshe did it. Here, at a new school, in a new state, she had a newlife, one without Keith.

Ring! The phone rang. “Hello?”“I can see you.”

--Anne Cresap

fire worksAmber sleptin ashen blanket digsthat wantingonce dugold, burningtimber flecks through.But she had proppedon/againsta wall and mantle piece—a remnant,which lit her pasttime too stillwarm after all.

--Amanda Newhouse

Death

I heard it yesterdayAmid the sounds of laughter and happiness

I heard the last breathThe death rattle as hope faded

I felt it yesterdayAmongst the ones I love the most

Surrounded by them, loved by themI felt the poison

Seep into my veinsBurning, searing my thoughts

Erasing loveI had seen everything that happened

Before it happenedI knew it was inevitable

I thought the sound of a heartFailing would be deafening

I was wrongIt simply stopped

No beatNo thump

Heartbreak was silentA soul stealer

No one heard but meNo one felt but me

So my heart is wastedNothing is left to give

No part of me is left to receiveI am lost

The pain in my chest blinds meLast night I heard it

Last night I felt itLast night my heart died

--Phebe J. McKinnerney

13

Gravity

I flydipping with the playful windsurfing currents of the edgeless sky

I climbdodging obstacles with practiced easereaching altitudes without air to breathe

I chokefooled by the brightness of the angry sunsinged by its boasting fire

I divetumbling into graying clouds of crepesifting through the shifting layers

I landinto the grass once so green

only to look upward…

I’m ready to fly again.

--Lynne McMahen

Three courses of interest for the Fall 2007 semester:

English 2307.01 -- Creative Writing. If you have a creative bent forany genre -- poetry, short fiction, film treatments, novels, or children’sliterature -- join our class to explore good writing, inside and out.Don’t only read The Stone Circle--participate in its production.

Englsih 2333.01 -- World Literature II. This class will study some ofthe classics of literature written over the last 400 years. The studentspick the reading list.

English 2341.02 -- Mythology -- This seminar style class will exam-ine the idea of mythology and its impact on 21st century culture.

Coming soon to abulletin board near

you!Call for poetry,

short fiction, andvisual arts

in all media.Join the fun,

submit your work toThe Stone Circle,

Volume 7,Number 1Fall 2007

Have a happy, safe, and productive summer!

The TreeHe stood tall.It was a rare occasion to stand there with him —- looking upthe hill towards the wall of towering hardwoods,hovering over the evergreens.Trees, big and small,all tightly packed together,borne from the soil, rich and dark.Dead leaves, dry and brittle,crunched beneath each stepwe took along the edgeof our ancient forest.

The trees were beautifuland he was handsome.Together,we quietly admiredand respected the landscape before us.He motioned towards the menagerie of the

time-honored trees;then gazed down at me and said,“You know you’ll never leave.The land gets in your bloodand you’ll never leave.”At that moment, I knewhow much he loved all of it,including me.

My father never left.I did, along with his young grandsons.It broke his heart.He was hopingthat I would not be able to go,that my roots would keep me planted, solidly there,that he could watch, and tend his grandchildrenas they grew as magically as his trees.Many years have passedand I now know with absolute certaintythat he was rightas he was with so many things.The land gets in your bloodand you can never really leave.

--Lynne McMahen

Three by Amanda NewhouseShe’s got age

She’s got ageher time it shows

She’s got agethough more than known

a man can die a thousand times

and people see beyond the linesbut give a girl a spot or two and

she ain’t no moreas good as new

She got ageand time will tell

what becamewhen heaven fell

Inside the nightly flights of teenage girls

In my world I am alone but not lonelyIn my head I entertain myself if onlyI think I am amusing that’s okay

In my bedroom the walls are transitoryThat’s why I litter them with faces and storiesI can pop in and out of their realms easily

If sorrow management is a skillFace it, erase it, forget it and letyour subconscious do its job

I wish my bed were a boat, anchors away…“All aboard,” he said, “3 minutes to pack”Alas, what to stockpile and what to chuck over the side?

I wish my bed’s whereabouts’ anger away All are bored, quick think of something else to sayWhat if walls could melt and boats floated in outer space?

The things we do for loveHe wanted meTo turn on The ceiling fanI said I preferred The room quiet and stillIt’s not stuffyOr stiflingIt’s warm like a wombI can’t standThe small motorElectric humThe blades slicing the airAnd nonstop motionThe cat purrsBut that’s naturalThe clock ticksBut that’s necessary(if not I won’t wake)

I said “No” to his requestBut you know I did it anyway

14

Elisa James Waiting to Ascend

Elisa James Sanctuary in Solitude

Susan Davis Breathe

Susan Davis and Elisa James

Susan Davis Diaphanous Susan Davis Jacob’s Ladder

15

The McCalmont Awards for Creative

Excellence inPhotogrpahy

were established by Melanie McCalmont, an

MCC graduate. The entire MCC familythanks Melanie for her

continued support of ourstudents and

The Stone Circle.

Tiffany Witt CowsMcCalmont Award -- First Place

Susan DavisCollective Unconscious

McCalmont AwardSecond Place

Lida Neuharth Old Rock Church

Congratulations to all students whose photography and writingwere accepted for inclusion in this issue of

The Stone Circle.This magazine is for students, and we thank everyone who

submitted poetry, short fiction, and visual arts.We regret we can not publish all entries --

please try again in Fall 2007.

16

The McCalmont Award,

third place photograph

is by Eri Iwasa,

“Retro West.” It is on the inside of the back cover

Eri Iwasa Retro WestMcCalmont Award --Third Place

Eri Iwasa Glimpse in Tokyo

Eri Iwasa Serendipity

Eri Iwasa Texas, Typical Lunch

Eri Iwasa Bull

The Stone Circle will be seeking poetry, short fiction, and visual arts

in all media for Volume 7, Number 1 this Fall. Please look for flyers and send us

your best work.

A Gallery of Work byEri Iwasa

Alycia Hall Shadow of a Forest

Alycia Hall Tunnel to the Other Side

A Collection by Alycia Hall

Alycia Hall Waiting

Alycia Hall Fountain