Sherwood Forest Art & Literary Review · Brujitas running around the clay colored floors of their...

The Sherwood Forest Art & Literary Review has been an important part of student culture at John Tyler for more than forty years. The annual competition

encourages student artists and writers to create their best work, and the Review showcases the winning

entries and presents them to the College community.

www.jtcc.edu/sherwoodforest

Sherwood ForestArt & Literary ReviewJohn Tyler Community College

2016

John Tyler Community College

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Sherwood Forest Art & Literary ReviewEach spring, a new edition of the Sherwood Forest Art & Literary Review explores the world of words and artistic expression. First published in 1968, this publication gives student writers and artists an outlet to share their talent with the John Tyler Community College community.

During these 40 years, the Review has found fresh voices in art and writing through an annual art and literary contest, and like the College, it has evolved over the years. What started as a black-and-white copy job has become a full-color, environmentally responsible print piece.

Today’s publication highlights the creativity and courage it takes to put pen to paper and create something new. This is an exciting challenge for students and the kind of learning experience John Tyler Community College works hard to cultivate every day.

Inside these pages are portraits of self-expression, powerful personal experiences and moments from daily life. Congratulations to those whose artistry and hard work are honored in this publication. The results were worth the risk.


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poetryThe Mist: My Father’s Hands by Elaine Moore ............... 5

Black Girl You Are by Grace Nelson .............................. 7

Still Yours by Dana Aderholdt ....................................... 8

Inuit Eyes by Naomi Carpenter ..................................... 9

The Pen: A Poem in the Style of Dickinson by Enoch Heath .......................................................... 10

nonfictionLas Brujas by Myranda Waits ...................................... 12

A Novel Idea by Laurel Reese ....................................... 14

(In)Sanity by Crystal Jensen ........................................ 17

fictionLine by Brandon Johnson ............................................ 19

Annie Can Fly by Marshall Jarrell ................................ 22

Jake by Melissa Calkins ............................................... 24

art¬Untitled by Anna-Maria Thomann ..............2, back cover

Peruvian Pup by Jack Goolsby ....................................... 4

My Gal One-Eyed Sal by Terry Lynn Smith ................. 11

Power by Christina Hanft ............................................ 18

Reflecting the Past by Juliana Hybner ........................... 30

Surf and Stones by Robert Wynne ................................ 32

about¬Sherwood Forest Art & Literary Review 2016 ............. 31

first place, art Untitled by Anna-Maria Thomann


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second place, art Peruvian Pup by Jack Goolsby

The morning mist of griefHungLike a blanketOver the holler, tuckedQuietly in a gorge,Masked by the ominous shadowsOf the ancient mountains.

Suspended,Full of mystery,The sins of the mountain folkDrifted upward and disappearedInto the warmth of the noonday sun.

The dark secrets lingered in the Generations,Tarried like dark coal dust On my daddy’s gnarled fingers.

I never really belonged to anyone,At least not for long,Not long enough to remember,Not even to my own momma—

My daddy’s first bullet made sureOf that.Clenched my lot foreverWhen it pierced her long beautiful neckWith one loud explosion—Leaving me screaming,Crying in the crib,Alone in the darkness.

first place, poetry The Mist: My Father’s Hands by Elaine Moore


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Sherwood Forest Art & Literary Review • 2016

She crawled,Fighting, gaspingDragging herself across the driveway,Trying to make it to the light,Leaving this earth,On the neighbor’s porchLike a wounded hound dogCome home to die.

Like the rising mistOver our holler,His second bullet took him away.Took his dirty coal-stained hands,Took him up to my beautiful mommaAnd away from me. Left his screaming baby Alone, and foreverLooking upwardsInto the warmth of the noonday sun.

second place, poetry Black Girl You Are by Grace Nelson

A poem dedicated to young black girls struggling with self-acceptance in a society that teaches them to be everything but themselves.

Your kinks, curls, and twists crowned uponYour brown sugar skinYour locks are far from dreadfulDon’t tame, don’t relax, don’t hate itYour hips, curves, and beautiful big lipsCould fill any empty room with soulWhether it’s light as snow orDark as asphaltThat sweet soft skin is filledWith melanin and life that even The Methuselah trees would envyBlack girl you areEmbrace your rootsDon’t let them blind you fromWhat makes you a queenLike the ones you came fromBlack girl you are


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third place, poetry Still Yours by Dana Aderholdt

Cue 25 words on the exact color of my eyes,Simile after simile.Like the rain, the ocean, the forest, the sky.Cue another 25 words on the exact way my voice sounds,Metaphor after metaphor.A flute, a song, a storm, a whisper.Cue another 20 on a few of my best qualities,Example after example.You’re kind, gentle, smart, pretty.Conclude with 10 words on how the poet feels,Empty promise after empty promise.Love, kisses, passion, forever.

But this poem is not for me.My eyes are not like the rain, the ocean, the forest, the sky.They are like my pool after weeks of neglect,Algae growing despite our best efforts.My voice is not a flute, a song, a storm, a whisper.It is a boisterous yell from the stage to the back of the theatre,The only place my parents could get seats.My best quality is not that I am kind, gentle, smart, pretty.I am brazen, crass, loud, refusing to blend in,Afraid that I will pass this world unnoticed.I do not want your empty promises of love, kisses, passion, forever.I do not want a standard poem,I do not want to be another line.

I want a novel.I want word after word of painful gut-wrenching truth.I want a list of everything I am, good and bad.And at the end, I want it signed,Still yours,Poet.

honorable mention, poetry Inuit Eyes by Naomi Carpenter

Sea-smoothed jasper…shining When Inuit eyes smile…happy creases play, strong grooves branching wide, true, on either side of a sun-browned face.Inuit eyesreflecting love, joy, sorrow, pain…Reflecting pain.Inuit eyes do not beg.

A square dance in a church, the people young and oldInuit eyes smiling all aroundInuit eyes lighting up a dance floor…

Papa surprising Mary with the gift of a Singer sewing machine,It shines ebony and gold.Inuit eyes smiling…Fathomless and vastInuit eyes smiling.

Panik smiles at warm treasuregoose eggs in the snow, dappled grey in sun and downInuit eyes smile, Rose Bay cheeks shine, fringed in parka, Inuit eyes smile.

With Inuit eyes smiling, and with empty platesMama and Papa watch their paniks eat…Inuit eyes shining love.Mama and Papa at the kitchen table…a stolen moment alone…Bannock and tea,the wood stove rumbles.Papa grumbles contentment.Inuit eyes smiling appreciation into Inuit eyes…quiet smiles unite.Beautiful Inuit eyes are smiling…Inuit eyes.

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honorable mention, poetry The Pen: A Poem in the Style of Dickinson by Enoch Heath

The Pen is stronger than the Sword—Though both can draw in Red—For while the sword can end a life—The Pen can raise the Dead

The Pen is swifter than the Foot—The Foot can set the pace—But while it hurries blindly off—The Pen has drawn the race

In Time before Creation—When God the World began—When there was only Darkness—He held his Pen in hand

The Pen is mightiest of these—For it has made them all—The gift of God to mortal man,Our world wherefore to draw

third place, art My Gal One-Eyed Sal by Terry Lynn Smith


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My grandmother was one of four, and she had four. My mother’s two, are too. We are the granddaughters of the witches your ancestors failed to burn. Brujitas running around the clay colored floors of their Abuela Bruja’s home, learning the witchcraft that is womanhood and finding strength in things that men find weakening. I was a girl, and I am a woman. I am a Bruja Del Norte; I am Arroyo.

The woman I call “Nana” raised my mama and her sisters. They are the strongest women I know, and it must be magic. She, too, was raised by magic; Arroyo is in her blood. Hard to say for sure that the woman never haunted any soul, but her magic was mostly used for good. She is elegance and fight and fear and grace, everything a proper witch must have in order to control the great responsibility that comes with such power.

My mother is a different tale. She is a witch who just learned how to fly her broom. Now she must decide where to fly. Curiosity has led her down roads she thought would be different, but they have all proven to be empty. It was only once she flew

back home that she found where she should have been casting spells from all along. Hers is the elegance that comes from wisdom, and her heart beats inside of me.

We crave the smell of a freshly lit cigarette. The smell before a flame can chase the sweet tobacco and consume it whole. It is a craving passed down from old women set aflame but never burnt, and beaten but never beaten down. It is the smell of a cooking cauldron and of toes tied to stakes. There are so many things that can kill our breed, but we only let it tickle our sides as it burns. I laugh at the cracking of my bones, like I laugh as I dance around a crackling fire pit with my mama, and her mama, and her mama before her, and I beg for more. We are the fight that comes from being fought. We always fight back.

I beg the Gods for more time, more chances with the brujas whom I have had to lose. I would give all of my magic, my milk thistle and my goat’s rue, and every last mermaid scale I have to have the magic that is laughter and advice, and to talk, because a brujita may not know when

first place, nonfiction Las Brujas By Myranda Waits

the last time will be that a true bruja will influence her, or what day or time she will no longer be little brujita. I had to grow up and that is the loneliest thing of all. Brujas are meant to stay together; I keep the souls of my brujas deep inside my soul where I will never lose them. They are Brujas Del Norte, they are Arroyo. There is fear that the world may truly lose these historical brujas and that they might wander in the land of the forgotten.

I grew a tiny brujita in my womb, and she is not of man, but of magic. She casts tiny spells of laughter and joy on everyone she meets. She is the kind of grace that comes without even trying. She is my daughter, and her grace will disguise itself to test her magic. I know I cannot warn her, and so I will use my favorite kind of magic. I will comfort my brujita’s tender heart, and I will hold her tight and whisper healing spells onto her wounds. The magic that is her grace will only present itself when it has many brujas holding her up above the flame.

I am Bruja del Norte. I am elegance and fight and fear and grace.

I have wisdom in my marrow, sent down the line from my ancestors. I can conquer any obstacle because I am truly loved. I know too many mortals who wish they had the magic that has been placed upon me as love and support. I would have broken a long time ago, were it not for the witches of the north. I would have been tied to a rock and drowned at the bottom of the sea, but the magic of my ancestors has kept me floating, and now I’m soaring. I am free.


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second place, nonfiction A Novel Idea by Laurel Reese

Looking back, I can decidedly say that I had a very gracious childhood. Growing up in the suburbs, riding the bus and attending school, little brother-sister games at home, delicious home-cooked food prepared by a wonderful mother, a hard-working pressman father, all made for a nice home life on most days. Each of my family members had a sense of knowing what they were supposed to do in life, what their talents were and how to pursue them. Everyone, that is, except me.

I was a bit of a tomboy as a youngster, climbing trees, playing football with my older brother and his friends on our wildflower-strewn front lawn and riding my yellow dirt bike as fast and as hard as I could over the tree roots in our backyard. Anything boyish, energetic and athletic appealed to me. Even during my early teens, one would find me heavily involved in sports of all types, but that all changed the day I discovered Heaven to Betsy. With its hardback blue cloth cover, stiff and yellowing pages and the aroma of old printed paper, the author, Maud Hart Lovelace, introduced me to the

world of the Victorian era. Complete with long, full skirts and lacey waists, fudge-making and thrilling high school football games, the main character, Betsy, enjoys her love of writing poetry and short stories and making lists. All of these stirred a desire in me to delve into the penmanship arena and develop a more feminine side to my persona. I connected with her list-making, her yearning to change herself from the girl she saw herself as into the woman she wanted to become. One particular chapter details Betsy’s first day of high school, and I was enamored with the phrasing of her carrying a new tablet and freshly sharpened pencil. At this point I became hooked on not only reading and writing, but office supplies as well!

From the beginning of the book, I empathized with Betsy’s character. She made me want to write as she did. Hiding away in her upstairs bedroom, she would look out her window, write feverishly, and then hide the scraps of the papers she wrote in an old steamer trunk she used for her desk. As I grew up, I would squirrel away my journals, poetry and small novel ideas in a desk

my father and I built together the summer I turned sixteen.

My mother had a big influence on my writing as well. On nights when neither of us could sleep, we would spend hours in my bedroom, laughing and talking, making up stories, writing them down as the night dragged on. With an ever-present case of the sillies from our exhaustion, we made those stories quite interesting and fun. Thankfully I still have some of those writings and can read them from time to time.

I soon finished the Betsy-Tacy series and began reading other fiction. My next loved book, A Girl of the Limberlost, a first edition published in 1909, is very old, well-worn and treasured. The book’s theme is of a young woman teaching herself the courses of school while she stays at home, and excels in all she attempts. Inspired once again, I continued with my writing.

At some time during high school, I purchased and began to use a beautiful sleek black second-hand typewriter. I imagined myself as a female version of John Boy Walton

and hoped to one day publish my manuscript. I spent hours on my screened-in back porch clicking away, typing schedules, lists, stories, homework and anything that related to writing, all with the hope that I would one day create a great novel.

After I graduated high school, I worked at an office job, my writing aspirations sidelined for a while. Someone (I’m fairly certain my mother) recommended a television series called Anne of Green Gables. My thirst for writing rekindled as I watched not only the first installment but the sequels as well. Anne’s love of writing and her pursuit of being published one day inspired me to pick up my pens, pencil and paper and seize my trusty old typewriter and get back to it.

In my late twenties I finally found my true love, and he and I began planning our wedding. Of course, just as I had always done, I grabbed my spiral notebook, pens and pencils and scribbled down all the details, the shopping lists and the never-ending to-do lists. He and my soon-to-be stepdaughter laughed


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and poked fun at me as I carried my trusty notebook into restaurants with us. But they still rewarded and supported my efforts to some level, even to the point of inundating me with a large amount of freshly sharpened pencils on my birthday.

Throughout the years my own personal library has grown. By trolling yard sales, second-hand bookstores, eBay and other little tucked away places, I’ve purchased copies of books, many out of print, with their dusty covers and yellowing pages. Just this past June, I inherited my precious mother’s library of more than 1200 books, mostly paperback. She loved each of them and read and reread them many times over the course of her eighty-three years. I’m certain it will take me a while before I am ready to read any of them without tears in my eyes, all the while thinking of our countless conversations and many trips together looking for a good read.

As I sit here in my own home at my white desk in front of my office window, I am looking out into our beautifully dressed-for-fall, burgundy-leaved plum tree. My

mind is browsing through my vast collection of memories, spending time reminiscing, remembering and realizing how influential reading books and writing have been to me over the course of my almost fifty years. My writings, whether simple lists, journal entries or juvenile fiction have comforted me and given me joy, especially so in my quietest hours. Somehow, there is always the hope that a publisher will find my writings fascinating and publish them. Books have always been a staple in my home, and while my own collection doesn’t rival my mother’s, I know that they will continue to have a place with me, wherever it is that I call home.

third place, nonfiction (In)Sanity by Crystal Jensen

Sanity, at least for me, is a fragile thing. Some days I have plenty to go around, like turkey on Thanksgiving Day. Other days, I struggle to remember that sanity ever existed, like the foggy memory of a sweet nothing whispered by a former lover in what seems like a lifetime ago.

At times, sanity wraps me as tightly as a blanket on a cold, rainy day. Other times, it escapes me like a feather in the wind. The fear of not knowing if I’ll be sane tomorrow is what drives me to the brink of insanity today.

Sanity, or lack thereof, reminds me the most of coffee. At times, my level of sanity is a frothy, steamy latte, soothing me to the core, full of flavored creamer and oh so sweet. But sometimes, it’s more like a giant mug of cold, sludgy, two-day-old black coffee. No amount of cream can alter the blackness just as no amount of hoping can make it warm again. The coffee pot is out of order, and the microwave is beyond repair.

I’ve struggled to maintain my sanity much longer than I’ve been addicted to coffee. Today, I take my sanity just like my coffee—any way I can get it.


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honorable mention, art Power by Christina Hanft

honorable mention, art Suspicion & Intrigue by Ingrid Quinones Velez

first place, fiction Line By Brandon Johnson

“I think you scratched it,” Brooke says as you back out.

You put your Mom’s ’92 pickup in park. “Let me look.” You check the doors on the double-parked black SUV beside you. There’s a long red line that goes along the side and ends near the back, which is covered with “I love my Shih Tzu” decals. “Yeah, I scratched the heck out of it.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Brooke says. She pulls down the mirror and slowly reapplies lipstick.

“I’ll get you back before ten.”“That’s not—”“I guess we can wait for the

owner to come out.”She sighs. “Not even that big

a scratch.”“Let me just go inside and see

if I can find the owner.”You ignore her protests and

walk across the parking lot, looking both ways before crossing. The front door handles are sticky and shaped like chicken wings. When you open them you’re hit with the smell of barbecue. Peanut shells crack beneath your boots as you walk over to the guy up front. He recognizes you and asks,

“Forget something?”“You know if anyone here owns a

black SUV?”“Owns a what?”“A black SUV. I scratched one,

by accident, backing out in the parking lot. I want to give the owner my information.”

“You want to give him your information?”

“Yes sir.”“We’re a little busy right now.”

He looks over your shoulder and starts talking to a group of businessmen behind you.

You step aside to think this through. The black SUV was there when you parked. (Brooke made some comment about gas guzzling.) They were seating everyone near the bar then. You walk over there and pass Ken from your Precal class. He sits down at a table as a cheerleader walks over to him. You give him a look and pull out the chair for her.

The cheerleader bumps her knee on it. “Dude, what are you doing?” she says. They both give you sour looks and you disappear into the bar area, mumbling apologies.


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“Hey man, you think you got it bad?” A man at the bar slides his stool back and you have to do a spin move to avoid him. “I had to sit through half of some stupid play my kid was in.”

“What about the other half, man?” another man slurs.

“I dunno. Snuck out during intermission.” Laughter, clinking glasses.

There, in the corner. The woman in the corner booth wears a white “I love my Shih Tzu” sweater. You can smell dog on it, even from here.

The woman whistles to get her waiter’s attention. “Excuse me, does it look like I have an iodine deficiency?”

“Pardon?” The waiter stops, balancing six plates and a half-empty margarita.

“This soup is nothing but salt with some water in it.”

“I’ll take it away. Can I get you something else?”

“The check.”“Right away.” He goes behind

the bar.The woman gets out two dollars

and leaves them in front of four empty margarita glasses as her tip. Then,

she makes a face and takes one of the dollars back. She notices you. “What are you gawking at?”

“Sorry.”Behind you, someone at the bar

drops a glass. Sounds like a gunshot. No one seems to notice.

“Why are you staring at me? Lost your tongue, kid?”

“Uh, you own a black SUV out there?” Your eyes dart back and forth, watching the waiter get the check, watching the bartender stir a Bloody Mary with his little finger.

“I do. What’s it to you?”“Uh, nothing, it’s just, I have a

friend whose Mom owns a black SUV and I was wondering if—”

“I have a son. Brian. But he doesn’t know you.” She scrunches her nose up as if the prospect of you knowing Brian makes her want to sneeze.

“Right. Have a nice night.”“I will.”On the way out, you pass Ken

getting hands-on with the cheerleader and tell the guy up front, “Someone dropped a glass over there.”

“You still here?”“Yeah, but I’m leaving. Someone

dropped a glass over there.”“Okay.”You leave and cross the street

without looking. Someone honks. You get behind the wheel.

“Well?” Brooke says.“She wasn’t there.” Brooke nods. Of course she wasn’t.You pull out, get back on Main.

At the first light, you pull up to the line, then inch over just a hair.

“My house is the other way,” Brooke says.

“I know.”


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second place, fiction Annie Can Fly by Marshall Jarrell

Annie can fly. I’ve seen her do it twice. The first time it happened we were shooting skeet in the field. I shot, then she shot, then I shot, then she stopped to watch the birds. I asked if she was okay and she didn’t answer. I asked again and she said “Yes,” instead of “Yeah,” so I could tell that she was lying—she was probably thinking about leaving. It’s all I thought about those days: her, thinking about leaving. But we never brought it up so instead we stayed here playing the role of each other’s anchor. As I watched her watch the birds I considered telling her she could leave, that I was done for anyway, destined to stay here; but I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone so I shot again.

I reloaded and she watched the birds. Her soft cheeks reddened in the winter wind. Her green eyes glimmered and she whispered, “I wish I could fly.”

As gently as she had said it, golden wings formed on her back. Realization flashed on her face and she soared into the sky. She circled the shooting field and laughed, her golden wings emitting light that cast

shadows at high noon. She became an angel before my eyes and I knew that she was free.

That’s why I shot her. The bird shot tore through her

right wing and clipped her side. She howled and tumbled through the air. I shot again and she crashed into the upper branches of a pine near the lake. I ran to the water’s edge and saw her on the other side, sunlight cutting through the holes in her wings. Blood dripped into the lake below and swirled in the windswept currents. I watched as it pulled apart from itself and disappeared into the frigid space surrounding it.

I ran away. I ran and I ran. I ran until it

hurt and then I kept running. I ran through the field and past my house. I ran past the river where we swam and off into the woods where things make more sense. I ran until my legs collapsed. I hit the fallen leaves and I screamed. I screamed and I cried and I begged the ground to swallow me but it refused. I screamed to God to kill me and it rained. So I laid there in the rain, begging myself to die.

But I never got to die. The clouds dissipated and light crashed down on me. I looked up and saw Annie there, flying, her light beating the clouds into submission, her broken wing resisting the earth. She was leaving this dreadful place and she was leaving me.


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1981: Melissa, age 6

When we got close, the road turned to gravel. The driveway was over two miles long, and it wound around grassy meadows, wire fencing, pastures for cattle grazing, a pond, a little barn, and a bigger barn up by the house. There was a huge deck off the kitchen where the dogs lay in the sun—Fancy, a beautiful golden retriever, and Washikee, a black and grey half-wolf. The gravel spinning under our tires perked them up and they barked at us, half warning and half welcoming.

We walked up the creaky wooden steps to find Grandma coming toward us from behind the sliding glass doors. I wondered if she remembered my name and which one of her twenty-five grandkids I was. Her hug was familiar though. We carried our bags into the addition off the garage, a screened-in room that Grandma used for sewing. My mom had already made up the beds and cots, but it smelled musty, and it felt wrong. I had a sense that I was being watched. I had a feeling in my gut that I should not be there.

My mom didn’t seem to feel it, and no one mentioned it. The view of the orchard out the back windows was no consolation. There was an old cemetery in a clearing past the trees, and we weren’t supposed to know about it. We had stumbled upon it last time we were here, and the gravestones looked old. I hated that room.

My brothers and I passed the time during the day in the basement. We went out the screen door into the garage and down the old creaky steps into the basement. It was huge, spanning the entire footprint of the house above it. At the base of the steps and off to the right was a large closet (a room, really) full of old kid stuff from the 50s and 60s—games, toys, books, and clothes—but we never dared to go inside. Toward the back was a pool table where we spent hours playing and pretending nothing was wrong. Off to the side were some old weights from when the uncles still lived there, now covered in cobwebs. There was a chin-up bar in the back corner of the basement that scared me, and I didn’t know why.

third place, fiction Jake By Melissa Calkins

1980: Grandpa McCain

I’ve seen lots of things, so Jake is nothing special. I used to see angels that look like nuns dancing above Karen’s crib, I’ve seen faces in windows when no one is home, and I’ve seen things move for no earthly reason. I am not afraid of him. He’ll be in the house, look right at me, mean-like, look me in the eye as he walks across my living room and through the back wall toward the orchard. Sometimes late at night I’d sit in the living room smokin’ my pipe just waitin’ for Jake to show up. And of course he would. I wasn’t the only one, but I could always see him. I’d stand up and yell, “Get out of my house! Leave us alone! You get back now, ya hear?” And he’d stay away for a while of a time. But Elline has no patience for talk of Jake, so I never talk about him in front of the grandkids or in front of her. It’s all stuff and nonsense to her. I know she can see him too, but that stubborn woman is too smart for her own good and will never admit it. I don’t want to scare the little ones, but Jake can be dangerous. I tell ‘em, “Stay away from

the little barn, I tell ya! Leprechauns live in there, ya know.” And I wink at ‘em and take out my teeth to make ‘em laugh. Then Elline says, “Larry, stop doing that right now! Put those teeth back in this minute!” But it’s a diversion for the sake of the kids.

1983: Melissa, age 8

This time we got to stay in one of the bedrooms upstairs. I liked going down the hall upstairs, but I knew that Grandma and Grandpa’s room was down the hall as it turned to the left, and it was across the hall from Aunt Janet’s old room. There was a hall bathroom next to our room. I think our room must have been Terry and Jerry’s old bedroom. I didn’t mind being by myself in there. It was so much better than the sewing room. I lay on the floor listening to my favorite tape, “The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin.” I knew it by heart. As usual the aunts and uncles were downstairs at two kitchen tables pushed together playing mostly-friendly games of poker and drinking whiskey after dinner.

I must have fallen asleep with


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my headphones on. When I woke up, I could barely hear the laughing from the kitchen. The light was still on and I saw a stranger standing in the room. It wasn’t one of my uncles. He was wearing church clothes and a hat and standing there across from me. The man and I stared at each other until he walked backward into the wall until I couldn’t see him anymore. I scrambled for the garbage can next to the nightstand and threw up.

I went downstairs to find my mom, but she wasn’t playing poker. I found my dad and tapped him on the arm. “Dad.”

“What are you doing up? Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

“It’s your turn, Norman,” someone called.

“Dad, I saw a man in my room and I threw up.”

“Ah, geez. You threw up? Really?” he said, groaning. “All right, well, go to the bathroom and get yourself cleaned up. I’ll get your mother,” he muttered, sliding his chair out from under the table. “Hang on a second, everybody,” he called. “Karen!” he yelled, making his way toward the porch where she

was sitting with Aunt Susan. He poked his head out from the sliding glass doors and as I made my way back up the stairs I could hear him telling her about the throwing up but not about the man.

1975: Terrence, age 17

I came home from wrestling practice, went into the kitchen to get some iced tea, and found a note on the kitchen counter:

Terry,We are out until 11. Please do

your homework.Mom

I was alone in the house, which didn’t happen much with my family. I was number ten out of thirteen, so most of the older kids had grown up and moved away, but I was almost never completely alone. I went upstairs to change out of my sweaty practice clothes. As I went to drop my clothes into the hamper in the corner, a shadow of an older man wearing a black hat, a white dress shirt, and an

old-fashioned black suit jumped out from behind me and slammed me down onto the bottom bunk, pinning me down and choking me. He was trying to kill me! I gasped for air and wrestled the presence off the bed and onto the ground, but the ghost-man flipped me over and was on top of me again. The man felt as real as any other wrestling partner, but he looked like a silhouette up close, defined on the edges with a cloud-like grey mist in between. I had heard some of the older brothers whisper about Jake, but I had never seen him before. I knew that if I didn’t fight back he would kill me, so I took all of my years of wrestling practices, meets, and tournaments and shoved that monster off of me. I ran out of the room and called in Washikee from outside. I dared him to come near me with Washikee by my side. Of course Jake was gone when Mom and Dad got home. I tried to tell them, but Mom said to me, “Terry, now stop telling stories and get to bed!” Dad winked at me and told me later that he knew exactly what I was talking about.

1971: Gary, age 19

It was a Saturday morning and I had just woken up to go back to work again. I was working all summer at that dingy restaurant in town, Carl’s, to pay for college. I was washing my face and as I looked up in the mirror, I saw something moving on the wall behind me. I turned around and saw a hand sticking out from the back wall. It would get closer, then disappear, then reappear. I didn’t see his face but I knew it was Jake.

1973: Gary, age 21

I brought Carmen home to meet Mom and Dad for the first time. We had met and married while I was in the Peace Corps in the Dominican Republic, and this was her first time in the United States. She spoke only Spanish, so I had to translate for her. Some of us guys had gone out to the ledge by the driveway, where it drops down into woods, to shoot some clay pigeons, and Mike wanted to go get some beer for later. So we all headed out while Carmen was taking a shower


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and getting ready. When we got back, we pulled into the driveway and saw Carmen standing there, two miles from the house, in her bare feet, shivering in a bath towel. I swung open the pickup truck door and ran out to her. She wouldn’t speak, not even to me. She just shook her head. After we got home, the house was full again, and she sat down with me outside on the porch. Something had happened in the bathroom. She heard someone calling her name in Spanish, saying, “Carmen, ven aqui, vena qui….” She wrapped a towel around herself, peeked her head out into the hallway, and went looking for me. Then she saw the car was gone and she was alone in the house. Who else could have been speaking to her in Spanish?

1975: Jonathan, age 20

I spent a summer during college at home in Joplin and thought it was high time someone did some research on the property. Mom would never admit it, but there was something strange about that house. I went to the Jasper County Courthouse and nothing

jumped out at me. I found nothing but boring, normal records of a home that was built in 1924 and passed from family to family until my parents bought it in 1970. I searched through miles of microfiche looking for stories about salacious crimes committed there or suspicious happenings nearby, but I found nothing.

The next day while I was out moving cattle, I saw Mrs. Conroy out in the field. Then I had my next idea: I needed to talk to the Conroys. They had lived at the farm next door for decades before we moved here. I waved at her and we met at the fence.

“Hi there, Jon. How are you today?” She caught her breath.

“Fine, thank you, Mrs. Conroy. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Say, I have a question for you…I’ve been trying to find some information about our property, some old history, and I haven’t been able to find anything. Do you happen to know anything about it, from the old days before we moved here?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I do recall, a ways back, the old folks would call it Haunted Holler. But I

wouldn’t pay any mind to that.”I tried hard to look neutral.“Oh, and people used to say that

a man hanged himself in the basement, but who knows?”

The next thing I did was to do some research at the university library. In the stacks I found a book about haunted houses and such, and it said that jake is a common term for a ghost in the Ozarks. Mom refused to believe any of it, but I never spent a summer there again.


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honorable mention, art Reflecting the Past by Juliana Hybner

This journal contains the winning student submissions in the 2016 Sherwood Forest Art & Literary Review contest. This annual competition is sponsored by the Office of Student Activities at John Tyler Community College.

For additional information, contact Helen McKann at 804-594-1523 or [email protected].

Administrative Sponsor: Bill FiegeEditor: Helen McKannGraphic Designer: L. Campbell MaxeyCoordinator of Student Activities: Pierce Williams

Judges:

ArtMr. Michael GettingsInstructional Specialist, Visual ArtsCurriculum and Instruction DepartmentChesterfield County Public Schools

FictionMs. Amanda CockrellDirector, Graduate Programs in Children’s LiteratureEditor, Children’s LiteratureHollins University

NonfictionMr. Chris JonesRetired English Teacher and Drama CoachMember of Nandua High School Hall of Fame

PoetryMr. Ian BodkinInterim Writing Center Coordinator John Tyler Community College

about Sherwood Forest Art & Literary Review 2016

honorable mention, art Surf and Stones by Robert Wynne

The Sherwood Forest Art & Literary Review has been an important part of student culture at John Tyler for more than forty years. The annual competition

encourages student artists and writers to create their best work, and the Review showcases the winning

entries and presents them to the College community.

www.jtcc.edu/sherwoodforest

Sherwood ForestArt & Literary ReviewJohn Tyler Community College

2016

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