The Stone CircleVolume 7, Number 2 Spring 2008

McLennan Community CollegeStudent Literary and Art Magazine

________________________________Poetry, Short Fiction, and Visual Arts

From the Editor’s PCThis was probably the most difficult issue of The Stone

Circle to put together. We received approximately 240poems, 15 short stories, and nealy 200 photographs. Atypical issue receives 90 to 120 poems, 3-5 short storiesand around 100 photos.

The Stone Circle has come of age. As we close ourseventh year of publication, many student writers and artistshave come and gone. Some published in this issue havebeen around for a while, others are new to us.

Despite all the hard work, we are gratified that studentsbelieve in the magazine and that we are able to provide anoutlet for their creative talents.

We hope you enjoy this issue.

--Jim McKeown

Cover photo by Hue Ta“A Chance for Hope”

Second PrizeMcCalmont Award for

Excellence in Photography

Carolyn OttRustic Weeds

Nikki Jupe Kitty Cats

The Stone Circle (ISSN 1931-3381) is published twice a year

in April and November

Jim McKeown, EditorLonda Carriveau, Assistant Editor

Ramona J. McKeown, Design AssistantPrinted by Waco Printing Co.

Copyright McLennan Community College1400 College Drive

Waco, TX 76708Volume 7, Number 2

1

The Pearson PublishingPrize for Fiction

Contents Under Pressureby John Fram

Contents Under Pressure

Time passed.The man with the scuffed loafers looked at his

slick-backed watch and smiled. A dark saltiness damp-ened the armpits of his third-hand Italian suit. Besidehim, the large woman with the three kids and the bit-to-the-quick nails was gulping deep, claustrophobicbreaths as if she was trying to steal the best air for her-self. Her children encircled her like a demur little halo,two small boys with crusty exoskeletons of gel in theirhair and a little girl in a powder blue dress with micro-scopic studs in her ears. In between gulps the womanwas releasing a constant stream of reprimands in bitingwhispers: “James, stop it James, dangit James Mommysaid STOP”; “Johnny, Johnny stop harassing your sister,leave her alone, stop it Johnny leave your sister alone,Johnny don’t TOUCH HER,” The two boys, of course,were doing nothing but looking around aimlessly. Onescratched his ear; the other itched the back of his head.“James don’t do that, don’t mess with your hair, mommyhad it perfect don’t…”

The newlyweds were growing nervous. Whenthe elevator had first jarred to a halt half-an-hour agothey had stayed in the back with their luggage at theirfeet and their bodies pressed as tightly together as pos-sible; it looked as if they had just gotten out of theirwedding clothes. Since then he had been whisperinginto her ear with a crooked, suggestive smile while shedid an intentionally poor job muffling her giggles behindher freshly-ringed hand. But in the last few minutes shehad stopped giggling and set her eyes forward towardthe obstinate double doors. He had grown almost franticwith his innuendo and pressed himself closer and closerto her, a look of evaporating opportunity in his eyes.

In the corner the woman with the tired leatherskin and the invisible cloud of cigarette smoke was bru-talizing a paper clip she had pulled from her rhinestone-studded jeans. Next to her the old man with the khakispulled half-way up over his stomach and the jacket ofworn-thin tweed was looking at the paper clip. He gavetwo loud sniffs and said, “Those things’ll kill you, y’know,ma’am, if I may be so presumptuous.” The woman shothim a searing glance and went back to her paperclip. “Istill carry a packet with me, d’ya know?” the old manwent on. “Helps remind myself what I won against.” Atthis the woman perked up; she turned to him with glis-tening round eyes and said, “You have a pack? With

you? Oh thank God, I forgot mine in my room; please,please, I need one, just one, please.” The old manbobbed back. “Here, in a public elevator? Dear Godwoman think about what you’re saying - You’ll kill us all!”

The man with the scuffed loafers was enjoyingthe fact that he was missing an opportunity. It was morea flaying, really; his wife, her lawyer and some dividedassets. He didn’t know much about law, or alimony, ormuch of anything really. He just knew that after today hewouldn’t be able to afford even third-hand Italian suits.He hadn’t considered what he would do after that, really;suicide was an option he supposed, though he didn’tmuch look forward to it. But he was already late; bestnot to think about it.

The newlywed wife snapped. She turned on herhusband and said in a stern half-yell, “Damien, I don’tthink this is going to work out.” The man’s face crumpledin upon itself. “Wha…?” He mumbled in horror. She con-tinued. “I just don’t think we’re right for each other,Damien, that’s all – nothing personal.” As she pulled hersuitcase away from his he burst into sobs. “But I LOVEyou, Jessica! I LOVE YOU!” He crumpled to the floor ina quivering little ball.

The old man turned from the woman with theleather skin and looked down at the quivering husband.“There there, old chap, there there. Don’t you worry,she’ll come round soon. La donna e mobile and all that,eh?” The man on the floor looked up with a red face.“You don’t understand! She’s the only woman I’ve everloved! I kept my virginity for her!”

The mother with the children grew frantic. “Don’tlook, it’s not polite to stare, look away, stop it, stop itNOW!” The boys did no more than glance at the strangecrying man before studying the carpet. Their sister, how-ever, took the opportunity to burst into tears. “Look whatyou’ve done now, you two. Why’d you do that why’d youhurt your sister what did you DO?!”

The woman with the leather skin took herchance and grabbed the old man from behind with onearm, using her other hand to dig through his pockets.“Where’s that pack you old fart - give it to me!”

The man with the scuffed loafers looked at hisslick-backed watch and smiled. Today wasn’t turning outtoo bad after all.

John will receive an anthology, American Short Stories,

courtesy of Pearson Publishing

2

I Can’t Hear You Anymore

I can’t hear your heartBeating synchronized with mine.I can’t hear your breathTaken in and out with mine.I can’t feel your bodySpooned and curved to fit with mine;And I can’t feel your tender lovingFingers touching mine.I don’t see a trinketLeft to show that you were here.I don’t see that sparkleIn your eyes when I am near.I don’t feel securedWhen you can see that I’m in fear;And I don’t feel that loveWhich once was evident and clear.Those were the days that we once knew,The times that we once cared;The minutes, hours, days and weeks;The years that we once shared.So, now quiet are the nights;And even quieter the days,For lost are all those feelings thatYou said would last always.

--Brenda Lee

A Special Thanks to…Dr. Dennis Michaelis & the Board of Trustees

Dr. Jack SchneiderDr. Donnie Balmos Dr. Buddy Powell Dr. William Matta

for financial support and encouragement!…and all our colleagues who assisted with the judging –

Dr. Cheryl Bohde Dr. Carol LoweDr. Linda Cook Dr. Kent HoeffnerDr. Lisa Hoeffner Renee Martinez

Dr. Charlotte Laughlin Dr. William MattaDavid Daniels Londa Carriveau

Heather Michael Melody FlowersLynne McMahen

…and to Glenn Downing for handling the art entries

—Jim McKeownSpring 2008

Honest Waters

Quivering ripples distort reality.Images appear uncertain, confused.Reflections seen on water’s surface,merely represent the truth.

--Erin Greener

Time to Time

This is my right of passage.An oath to who I am.It is the abstract reasoning behind these bones.The markings amongst my skin.

Sooner now than later,This puzzle I must solve.However, the past is damp and gloomyI wish to erase it all.

Luckily, something gave and replaced this face,Once bruised with sorrow and childish hate.It now shines with tones of life.And from time to time, I feel all right

--Kari Mattlage

The Storm

She sat stiffly, unmoving on the front porch rock-er with its peeling white paint and uneven runs. Hermuscles tightened with each sharp crack of lightning asif it were lashing against her, cutting into the flesh of hersmall but strong body. She was too tired to move, tootired to talk, too tired to think about any of it except forwhat she felt. Pain. It was almost as if she didn’t knowanything else except how she felt, how he made herfeel. When was the last time I felt good, really good?She hated him when he was like this. In the past, therewere times she thought she could actually pack up andleave but not since the kids. Hateful, accusing wordsechoed through her head making her cringe and tightenas she held back the tears that begged to flow. Itwouldn’t do to cry. She didn’t want to start what shecouldn’t stop.

Just an hour earlier he’d left, throwing the fadedred door open just as the wind picked up in speed andintensity. The sound of the wind roared through theopening nearly as loud as the souped-up motor of hiscar as he raced down the dirt drive, slinging little bits ofgravel from his path. She remembered thinking howdark the clouds were getting as she followed the dogrunning and his dull shadow stomping out the front door.It seemed to storm often these days.

The happy pill was working now. The thunder

and lightning had stopped, leaving behind the soft,calming patter of rain beating gently against the tin roof.She sighed. Girl, you are so screwed up was the lastcognizant thought she had before dozing off.

Wet nudges to her lower leg startled her. Thechildren’s black lab, now dirty and wet, stood by herchair rhythmically nosing her into wakefulness. He wasterrified of all degrees of thunder. If he found himselfoutdoors during the storm, he’d dash under the houseand remain hidden until those dreaded sounds ended.

The storm was over. The air had that fresh,new smell to it. Everything looked so bright and green.She caught sight of a half rainbow in the distant skycausing her to think wistfully of gold. Half a rainbow,does that mean only half a pot of gold? Sure as hellneed it. She stood unsteadily at first, wincing from thepain down her left side. There will be another bruise nodoubt. Turning slowly towards the faded red door, shefelt some loose change repositioning themselves withinher sweater’s deep pockets. Making a mental note todrop the coins with the others into her old teapot, sheshuffled sluggishly through the door. There was no timeleft to waste. The kids will be coming home soon.Supper needed to be started. Beans needed to besnapped. He’d be home late tonight in a better mood.God help me, I love him.

--Lynne McMahen

Vanessa Cowart Hastings 4

3

A Collection of Poems by Lynne McMahen

Fire and Water

You are fireGrowing in intensityHot and uncontrollableBright and burningAll in your pathIncluding me.

You are waterThe currents of your emotionsRun strangely uphill Even in times of droughtIf you spared me a sipI might drown.

Love Song

Sing a song of loveSing it slowlyAnd lowSing of angels with tarnished halosWings brokenBut whole.

Sing a song of loveSing it loudBut full of graceSing of sinners with conscienceAnd forgivenessAnd faith.

Sing a song of loveSing the emptyIn me fullSing light into the darknessSoothe the heartOf bleeding fool.

Perfection

Enormous roseAs wide as the hand Holding itSalmon pinkPetals of layered silkLoosely unraveling From the tightnessOf its budded cocoonSo brief is perfectionFor the moment it becomesIs the moment it descends Down the sloped path towards its natural end.

Blindsided

He left our homeIt could have been a while backMaybe my head was turnedOr the baby was crying Or when my thighs thickenedI didn’t hear him open the doorOr tell me his reasonsAs I cooked the mealsFor the children squirming by the barAnd placed his to warmInto the oven, waiting his returnBut he left our houseI didn’t see him leave.

Jason Elmore Flowers

4

Lambda Beta Chapterof Sigma Kappa Delta

Awards for Outstanding Poetry

First PrizeBoxes

U-haul left them in our care,Bustling and cardboard,

Cubed live-castles,Scooting and transforming on the hardwood

Fantasy armed fortresses,Stoutly crumbling and endingWhen over-weighed, then lain for a minute of lifelessness, folded.Makeshift houses, motorized boats-What pure company we forget to boast

Replacing real toys!Jungle gyms, curious cavesAnd these renovatingParallelograms of boxed dreams, closed, open,Inviting

The small hands like prizes or sweetStriped candy Sticky mouths with a White Cheshire grin.Your tall

Sister is creatingHer box stand like a dragon.Inviting her eyes toA four legged minion and a brave knight defending her honor,She attacks,

Then stepsAway, drooping featuresAdmitting a cardboard reality still as the dead.A brown Scale in her loose grip.

--Cassandra Mills

5

Second PrizeEyes of Brown

He said if only his eyes were blueHe’d be the kingand live high up on the mountainin a house with a long drivethat wound around like curlsall the way up to its highest peak. He’d climb the trees to tease the clouds and lasso the wind into submission.Limber branches would dance triumphantlyto spite the wails of the whispering winddrifting through the upturned leaves green, sweet, and strong.I smiled and knelt beside my sonwith eyes of brown.My lips pressed lightly against his cheekand I royally proclaimedfor the whole universe to hearYou are my king.

--Lynne McMahen

Elizabeth Blackwell Ruins

An extra special thanks to an anonymous friend of

The Stone Circlefor funding the prizes for poetry.

6

Third PrizeFor the Next Lonely Night

Watch the moon In all its glory

A single light Embedded withinAn ink-stained canvas To portray one last hopeOne final dream

Casting shadows upon The irrelevantSimply revealing Necessary frames

Easing mindsEnlightening soulsAccompanying Those enduringSleepless nights

Our forgotten heroCaught in a webSpun with secretsLeft only to observe

Protecting our childrenFrom overbearingDarknessThe liesGuiding uncertain deceit

Watch the moon In all its glory

--Erin Greener

Honorable MentionFirst Snowfall in Texas

Sitting on the edge of a river boatWatching raindrops make their ringThinking of you in the winter timeAnd humming “We Three Kings”

The air is getting warmer nowMy tune is out of placeBut it’s Christmas again in JulyWhen I think of your face

It was the first snowfall in TexasThe frost was in your hairIt was the first snowfall in TexasAnd you’ll always be there

My mind drifts away againI’m lost inside my thoughtsAs fragile and scattered as a spider’s webI’m just as likely to be caught

A scent is blowing through the airOne that I can’t recognizeIt must tell a secret to my heartBecause it takes me back in time

To the first snowfall in TexasYour cheeks were red with coldIt was the first snowfall in TexasI had someone to hold

And the seasons come and seasons changeSnow will always return to rainNothing good ever stays the sameBut in mind you will remain

In the first snowfall in TexasSinging to my guitarIn the first snowfallLike a thousand falling stars

In the first snowfall in TexasThe frost was in your hairIt was the first snowfall in TexasAnd you’ll always be thereLike the whisper of a prayerAs transparent as the air

--Tyler Hall

Chris Cogswell Untitled

Maid MarianBased on

The Adventures Of Robin Hoodby Paul Creswick.

Part 1:

“Such an overcast and doubtful morning for a Tourney,”thought Marian as she gazed out her window that morning. Littledid she know that her life was about to become entwined withanother.

As she prepared for the day’s festivities, she wonderedat the joy emanating through the air in the otherwise dark anddreary castle. Her lady-in-waiting, as she was formally called,came in to coif her hair and lace her into the elegant dress herfather had purchased for her. Nanny, as Marian affectionatelycalled her, was like a mother to her; she had raised her to be thelady of the estate while her father, Master Fitzwalter, was away.He was the warden of the city gates, and was already gone forthe day attending to his duties during the Faire. Marian had noreal mother to watch and learn from – her poor mother had diedgiving Marian life. Nanny was a fine mother figure, however.“What does it mean? How do I do this? Why is that?” Thesewere the questions that Nanny knew well, and though she wasalways careful to maintain her distance as a servant, Marian stillthought of her more as a mother.

The dress her father had bought was beautiful indeed!Marian had picked out the fabric and painstakingly selected thetrimmings. The hue of the dress perfectly matched her laughingblue eyes! Twirling down the halls, Marian greeted each servantby name on her way to the stables. Nanny huffed and puffedtrying to keep up.

“Child, what would your father say if he saw you galli-vanting down the halls?” she puffed.

Marian answered in a perfect impression of her father’sgrave voice, “My dear, you will never attract a proper suitor if youact like a naïve child.”

The Tourney was her favourite part of the Faire, espe-cially the archery. She could barely contain her joy! The horseswere saddled and ready to ride when Marian and Nanny arrivedat the stable. Children adored Marian, and as she rode intotown to find her father’s box, one of her particular favorites cameand gave her a lovely circlet of heather and lavender.

“We know Mistress Monceux is going to get all the hon-ors today, since she is the Sheriff’s daughter, so we thought we’dmake a special honor for you!” said the little girl with a sly grin.

Fanfare announced the end of the jousting. They camejust in time to see the champion jouster bestow the Circlet ofBays upon Mistress Monceux, just as the children had predicted,naming her the Queen of the Faire and Tourney. The Sheriff andher father had attempted to encourage friendship on numerousoccasions; however, all that resulted was an ever growing disliketowards each other.

“Good morrow to you, Father.” “Ah, Marian! You missed the joust! What delayed you?”“I do not fancy the jousts; you know that.”“Let us take a turn about the grounds before the

archery; I grow weary just sitting here.”“Nay, Father, you know how I adore the archery! I would

not miss the beginning.”Master Fitzwalter was no match for the pleading eyes

which looked so much like her mother’s. “Very well,” he consented, “we shall sit and wait.”

7

A few minutes later, the fanfare again sounded the timewhen the archery should commence. Twenty-three men in allhad registered. As the announcer stated the rules of the compe-tition, a certain young man caught Marian’s attention. “He hasthe look of a forester,” thought she.

Leaning over, she pointed him out and whispered intoNanny’s ear, “Who is this young man?”

“That, milady, is Robin, the son of Master Fitzooth, theKing’s Ranger at Locksley. He must be in his twentieth year bynow.”

“Praise the Lord! Nanny’s gossip is good for some-thing!” Marian thought. Aloud she said, “He looks to be a strongyoung lad,” and silently added, “my, but he is a pleasant sight tobehold!”

She watched his muscles as he bent the bow back toshoot. “Please make his aim true!” she prayed. What a funnylittle hood he wore, but he was indeed pleasant to watch, andhis reaction to his perfect bull’s eye was commendable. He didnot gloat and parade as the Sheriff did. Rather, he simplybowed his head slightly as if nodding his head in appreciation forGod’s favor upon his arrow.

When all 23 contestants had drawn and loosed twiceeach, only 19 remained to move to the next round. The aidsmoved the targets to a distance of 40 ells, and the men drewand loosed their arrows as before. This time, however, Robinglanced up just after loosing his second arrow, and his eyesfound hers. He nodded, acknowledging her presence. Marianfelt a chill run down her spine. His eyes. They said more in thatsudden glance than she had ever heard spoken by any knight,or nobleman. At hearing her sigh, Nanny looked over, startled.

“Marian, milady! What ails you? Are you unwell?”“Nay,” replied Marian with another sigh, “I’ve just

noticed a trivial thing. It is nothing; do not dwell on it anylonger.”

“Move the targets!” cried the announcer, and the targetswere moved to a further distance of 55 ells from the contestants.Only 5 rivals remained. The crowds watched breathlessly as,one by one, the men were eliminated, leaving only the Sheriffand the young man known as “Robin of Locksley.” The sheriffscored a perfect bull. The crowd seemed to shrink in disappoint-ment – they hated the Sheriff, and any opportunity to see himdefeated brought happiness. How could this Robin of Locksleybeat the Sheriff now?

Marian held her breath as Robin knocked his finalarrow, pulled the bow taut, and loosed the arrow. Time stoodstill, it seemed, as that arrow flew straight and true, slicing theSheriff’s arrow neatly into two pieces. The crowd jumped to theirfeet shouting joyfully, “Locksley! A Locksley!” How Marianwished she could cheer with them! Alas, it would not be theproper thing to do, as her father and the Sheriff were colleagues.She feared her heart would stop when again, her gaze met hisand he nodded recognition, as if to say, “For you, M’lady, t’wasfor you.”

Mistress Monceux gently lifted the prize, a pretty littlegolden arrow, from its pillow.

“Step forward, O Champion!” boomed the voice of theannouncer.

Robin did, and Mistress Monceux awarded the arrow tohim, saying, “Champion, here is your prize! Do with it what is fit-ting.” It was plain that she expected him to give it to her, theQueen of the Faire, just as the Champion Jouster had done.

Robin smiled and answered, “Aye, Queen, ‘tis what Iintended to do.” Mistress Monceux smiled in expectation, butRobin turned and walked away toward the Fitzwalter box.

Marian felt her cheeks heat. Bowing his head, Robin stepped gingerly toward

Marian.“Lady, do you please accept this little arrow which I

have won. It is a pretty thing; but of small use to me. Maybeyou could make some ornament with it….” His voice trailed offnervously.

“Thanks to you, Robin o’ th’ Hood. I’ll take the arrowand wear it in memory of Locksley and this day.” Marian saidaloud, then thought, “Why did I say ‘ o’ th’ hood’?” She openedher mouth to speak again, but it was too late – he’d alreadywalked away.

At the end of the day, Marian decided that the nextTourney, in Sherwood, she would wear the golden arrow. “Thiswill surely not promote affection between Mistress Monceux andme” she thought as she fell asleep.

A few days later, Nanny burst into Marian’s chamberwhere she sat sewing.

“You’ll never believe what I am about to tell you!” shecried.

“Tell me quickly!” laughed Marian.“Your Robin of Locksley is an outlaw! They have been

scouring the countryside and forests looking for him ever sincethey discovered the arrow!”

“The arrow?” Marian asked, fingering the little goldenarrow which she wore to fasten her cloak.

“Nay my dear, not that arrow – the one that he shot towin the Tourney! It had a peacock feather – the very same asthat of the outlaw band in Sherwood!” This nearly drove Marianout of her mind with excitement; she could not wait until theSherwood Tourney!

The morning of the Sherwood Tourney finally dawned.Marian rose with the sun, barely able to contain her joyful antici-pation in her hope of seeing Robin again. She was alone in herbox that day, as her father had business to attend to elsewherethat afternoon. The soldiers at the gate were under strict ordersto find and capture Robin of Locksley.

The Tourney of Sherwood was much the same as thatof the previous Faire. She was anxiously surveying the crowdwhen a young man came up to her box between rounds. He’djust beaten Lord Hubert, the Prince’s best archer, and had surelycome to gloat.

“Give you good morrow, lady.” His eyes were fixed tothe golden arrow fastening her cloak.

She looked at him doubtfully, then recognizing himthrough his disguise asked softly and playfully, “Is it indeed myyoung champion? Is it you who have beaten the Prince’s bestarcher, Robin o’ th’ Hood?” She hoped her eyes would speakthe admiration she felt for him even though she did not speak it.

“It is your servant, madame,” was all he said.She noticed how nervous he was and was determined

to ease his nerves.“You see then, that I wear your gift, Robin,” she began,

careful not to sound haughty, “I have not forgotten –”“Nor I – I shall never forget!” He interrupted, making

Marian’s cheeks again flush. “Your eyes are always in my mem-ory: they are beautiful as stars!”

She could not resist giving him the ribbon from her hair,“Oh, a gallant Locksley! But there, take my colors, since you willbe my knight.” She wanted him to stay, but did not want him cap-tured as the warrant for his arrest mentioned a hefty sum, so shesaid,

“And now, farewell; take the Prince’s prize and spendthe pennies worthily.” She wanted to know if he had a lady, “Buy

your sweetheart some ribbons, but keep that which I have givenyou.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but another man inter-rupted, saying that Robin had been disqualified.

“How can this be?” Marian asked, indignantly. As the man was explaining, one of the Sheriff’s men

came over and informed Robin that the Prince desired an audi-ence with him. Robin made a smart reply which caused the manto leave, followed closely by Robin’s friend. Marian knew whatgoing to the Prince meant and could not let that happen!

“Jump over the ledge of my box, Robin! Go make yourway through the door at the back of it. Hurry!”

Robin reached for her hand and kissed her fingers,thanking her.

“Go! Stay not until you reach Locksley! We may meetagain – to talk of thanks.”

Kissing her fingers again, he asked her “Give me atleast your name – not that I shall ever forget you!”

Closing the door on him, anxious for him to escape, shereplied, “I am called Marian, Marian Fitzwalter. Go! May goodfortune be with you always!”

That evening, as Marian thought of what had transpiredthat day, knowing that Robin had escaped brought her muchhappiness. She knew that she would not see him again atanother Tourney, and began hatching a plan to see him again.

—Arielle Ainsworth

Ila Vaughan Serenity

8

Unruly YouUnruly strands of jet black hairfall unevenly across your sun-kissed facethat grin that mischievous man-boy, half-smilethat I findinfinitely irresistibleshines down at me and I meltfrom the heat of your intentionslow, sweet, yet suddenlyaware, againof you, of youof thank God I’m aliveYou.

--Lynne McMahen

Gypsy GirlHer dress spins around her body like the planets around the sunBeads of sweat drop with regret with all the things she’s doneThe tambourine becomes obscene, it flutters as she twirlsIt’s just another story of another gypsy girl

She chose the path to follow that she thought would serve her bestAll her dreams, so it would seem, would be fulfilled out westShe met a man, his house on sand, who promised her the worldIt’s just another lie to another gypsy girl

She looks out of the window of his castle on the beachThough the stars, they seem so far, they’re never out of reachThe moon smiles down over the town, shining like a pearlBut the moon is not enough for another gypsy girl

She will have her fortune told when she lays down in bedShe’ll be seen up on the screen projected in her headIn her ears she can hear a-thousand cameras whirlFollows in the footsteps does another gypsy girl

She will dine with emperors and she will dine with kingsBut happiness and her success are two much different thingsOnce undaunted all she wanted to see her name unfurledJust a simple wish, for a simple gypsy girl

Each one has a story hers is written in her eyesShe hides her face behind the lace that’s wrapped around her thighsInnocence is ignorance tonight her hair’s in curlsWhile preparing for another dance another gypsy girl

--Tyler Hall

9

Jacob Garcia Piano

The Two of MeI am one person yet I am twoBoth as alike as can possibly beYet one is evil and the other is trueThey are the two of me.

One is angry, shortsighted and unkindThe other as friendly as can beBoth exist as one mindThey are the two of me.

They wage an endless warWhere should exist harmonyHow shall peace ever restoreBetween the two of me?

The more they feed, the more they growHim becoming stronger than heIt is whomever I choose to showOut of the two of me!

I must control my heart and mindAlthough this is far from easySo, someday, opposed to two of a kindThere may be one of me.

--Brandon Srubar

10

Megan Radke Eclipse

Another Misery

She sits back in admirationStill of course given me aggravationAbout how my wind should blowAnd how my air should breatheStill I will not be deceivedFor I know what she’s asking of meI know what she’s getting to I know what she’s admitting to And just can’t be me I shouldn’t even be asked of such thingsI shouldn’t be expected to bringInto this world another misery.

--Ashley Stramler

A Lose, Lose SituationHis eyes revealed a secret.She knew, she tried to forget.Ignorance working to her advantage,She smiles blissfully, Full of hidden disgrace,Slightly feeling content.He whispers meaningless lies,Each word swells her heart with hope.Steady beats emphasize,Don’t lose him.Don’t let go.Surely loneliness, Damages more than regret.

--Erin Greener

Reflecting Only Desires

Mirrors reveal truth,Exposing minor flaws,Embarrassment, discontent,So hopelessly withdrawn.

Water distorts reflections,Blurring existing forms,Imagination takes control,How suddenly beautiful!

Most prefer the latter,Existence is enough,Insignificant details,Make beauty seem unjust.

--Erin Greener

My American VoidWhat do you know aboutMy American VoidWhat can you say that is righteous enough to fill that space?What can you do to reshapeTo rejuvenateTo reinvigorateMy American VoidI doubt that you can find the answersBetter off becoming a ballet dancerOr a movie starFor that will surely cure your caseBut what about my disgraceWhat about my ballet shoesWhat about my Betty Davis eyesWhat about my American Void

--Ashley Stramler

11

Waking upMusic abruptly cuts into the peaceful calm of dawn. Like a knife, the sweetness of the melodySlices into the innocent perceptionWrapped around me like a blanket.The icy coldness permeating the space beside me Sweeps across the room, the house,Freezing my heart. While the silence, so deafening,Shakes me, as the sun continues To rise in the eastern sky. Time to open my eyes.

--Lynne McMahen

Vanessa Cowart London

Shining Son

Unanswered questions. Monster in your eyesMind clouded with untruthful lies.Enduring pain, heart felt remorseYour crying eyes my driving force.

Sick of it all, too much to endureInnocent eyes tainted demure.Is there enough love to forgive all the wrong?Can we start over and try to get along?Or have I hardened your heart to hate me so?I can’t stop trying, I can’t let go.

The touch of your skin, the smile on your face,Shining son its hard to eraseTears in your eyes as you drove awayWaving in the back windshield wishing someday

First thought when I awake, and when I close my eyes,River of tears till beds run dry.Hoping someday you’ll understandWhy I had to grow up and be a man

Guilt scars run deep, unhealing pain,Tears of my memories fall down like rain.Can’t stop trying till your heart is won,Even if I am unworthy of my shining son.

--Manuel “Oso” Arsiaga

Merciless NightAs both eyes reveal their glistening state,each cheek accepts trails of tears.This disturbance appeared so vividly,I’ve surfaced my greatest fears.

Perspiration soaks protective fabric,draped upon my fevered skin.Shadows envelop my trembling figure,silence arouses dormant imagination once again.

Fingers clutch for comfort,grasping useless barriers of cloth.My pounding heart yearns for escape,from this unkindly state of distraught.

This game of tug-of-war with sleep,must surely come to an end.I’ll pray that my upsetting visions,won’t return before I mend.

--Erin Greener

12

Who are you?Who are you when the smoke clears?When the clouds disappear?After the celebrations and the cheersWhen the dust settlesWhen the pedals fall off the flowerBetween the smilesBetween the tearsBetween the frownsOur life how long can it lastThe future and the pastEternal lifeEternal GloryEternal happinessEternal loveWho are you without friends and family?Mentally, Physically, and SpirituallyWho are you in the darkness or in the lightWithout your shiny jewelry and luxuryWithout your beauty because it does not last foreverAfter the music stops playing?After you stand from praying?Who are you without your regulated media television?Without your cell phone with nobody to listen?Without your boyfriend or girlfriend? Marriage is sacredWho are you without your corporate pensions?When you are struggling for a living?Are you humble or hateful? or Grateful for what you have?Who are you when nobody is staring?After the sun stops glaringWhen the sunsetsWho are you?Do you know who you are?

--Eugene Alexander

You are Love

You are love . . .Whittling words,Regretful reframes.Wonderful recollections,Such is your name.You are love . . .I see it in everything;Sweetness’ reservoir.Escaping oncoming reality,Such is who you are.You are love . . .You are my weakness’ strengthAnd my overflowed chalice.You’re my surrendered captor,Always contradicting yourself.You are love . . .Your are when confusion remains at peace.You are when chaos is suddenly serene.Withholding while content with sacrifice.God given desires appear obscene.You are love . . .

--Kristen Williams

Courtney Kirchhofer A Carport Called Home

13

Remember the Alamo

One hundred and twenty-five lonely men,Huddled together in a white stucco den,Waiting for the cry of their deadly foe,

Running toward them as swiftly as a doe.

The help they called for never arrived,Despite the persuasive pleas they’d derived.

Each man fought on his own accord,To free the land they mutually adored.

With fewer guns than men to fight, They prayed to God to give them might, And begged of Him to pour down grace,

So their souls would resist the devil’s embrace.

At last the cry of “They’re coming!” arose.And for an instant, all men froze.

A moment later guns began to fire,Beginning the slaughter of such dire.

Completely surrounded, no hope could be found.Sadly, the gunfire was the only sound

To comfort those fighting for life, Amid the bloody, noisy strife.

The sun rose slowly in the sky.It’s bright rays shone on those about to die.

One after another, the brave men fell,Cursing as though experiencing hell.

Battle sounds echoed in the hot, dry land,As men evaded the foe’s fierce hand.

Surrender never entered into a single mind,And no one even thought to look behind.

The brutal struggle lasted all day long,Until the pale moon came along.

Angry diablos broke through the wall,And grabbed the few who refused to fall.

“Kill them all!” the order was yelled,And four men, like trees, were felled.

Not one man remained to tell the grim story Of the one twenty-five who died without glory.

The battle brought the end in sightAnd gave others the courage to fight. “Remember the Alamo!” they cried,“Remember all of those who died.”

The war eventually did end,And the mission, men began to rebuild.

In honor of all of those who died, “Remember the Alamo!” is cried.

Because of love they fought to freeThe state in which live my family and me.We take for granted what they had doneBut the memory of those men isn’t gone.

There stands a monument to them,In the center of a city like a gem.

Reminding the Texans of why they’re freeAnd it is something all should see.

--Reagan Artz

Micah Cunningham Forgotten Faces

In Their Eyes

I sit across the table from them,Just a conversation, nothing in particular.Try the grouper with the macadamia topping.The singer will be here Tuesday night.She completes me, he says.He’s staring at her.His light blue eyes mirror the blue of her own.

His smile’s as big as the one softeningher face. Their laughter punctuates our last remarks. They nod in unison.Just a conversation, nothing in particular.It’ll be hot again tomorrow.Better be sure to pack some sunscreen.He completes me, she says.

--Lynne McMahen

14

Midnight Winter’s Kiss

Moonlight dance over sea of green,Life. Given earth can be seen.Midnight falls across the land,Midnight winter’s kiss close at handBlanket of frost begins to seep in,Midnight winter’s kiss about to beginTemperatures fall an ocean of white,Giving gardening life a great big fright

Slowly they begin to waltz down from the skyGreen gardening grow begin to dieHurry! Keep your children warm,Keep them safe from the winter swarmShield them from the winter nightsafely from the winter’s biteMidnight winter’s kiss now in full swayParental love saves the daycovered up away from the icy chillno worries now safe from the kill

The hours pass the wind grows strongerYour efforts can hold up no longer!BEHOLD! On the horizon true,The suns life giving beams come shining thru!The snow’s last dance ice fades awayFrost but a memory it’s a brand new dayGreen friends cheer and stretch into the sun’s raysA new promise of hope and brighter better days“You have not heard the last of me!” Winter screams with a hiss.“Beware my revenge I come for you soon!”Midnight winter’s kiss…

--Manuel “Oso” Arsiaga

Unmarked GravesI have traveled through the realms of goldMy friends aren’t dead but they’ve all been soldAlong with a story that’s long been toldAnd the stories are all the same

History doesn’t change too muchThey do their best but it’s not enoughAnd the people that it’s failed to touchAre buried in unmarked graves

One for all and all for oneIn the heavens above every star’s a sunLost in translation or having funTheir souls or money they save

They built the tower that pierced the skyThe thing that’ll kill them they need to surviveTo every last one it comes as surpriseTo be buried in unmarked graves

You only live once if you live foreverTake your shot it’s now or neverThe bridges are burned and the cables severedAnd the water crashes in waves

And the only thing that’ll wash ashoreIs not the thing you were looking forSearch the horizon for something moreWhat you’ll find is an unmarked grave

Once the truths have all been testedAll that’s left is washed awayMy bones’re already restedIn another unmarked grave

--Tyler Hall

Vanessa Cowart Hastings 2

15

Sarka VavrovaBrooklyn Bridge, New York

Have a safe and relaxing summer!

If I WereIf I were on death row

And someone asked me what I’d like for my last few hoursI’d ask for a trip outside

Unshackled, just at gunpointI wouldn’t run, but I would walk

Oh so slowly on the grassI’d pull off my shoes and let the grass

Scrape between my toes

And if I were let free for just a short timeI would go home during the hot summer

And run my hand over the hard yellow grassI would look at it

A crackling, harsh sheetAnd I would try my best to forget for just a second

And be back when I was twelveAnd looking out my window with air-conditioning on my neck

And if I were left alone for a few minutesWith no one watching me

I would let the nausea bubble up And come out in hard, burning gasps

I would curl into a ballAnd hold my tired blue bear

And think of what things were likeIf I were

--John Fram

Dents

It is my knowledge that has failed me.Here I sit.Lonely, lost, confused and sick.This urge inside of me, I must somehow repent.Temptations devalue my qualifications.Time has been spent.I need a pure conscious to bargain for...maybe rent.This conscious is rusted and full of dents.

--Kari Mattlage

Honesty

Dreamt hopes are but dreams,Lived loves are but lost,Eye’s sights are but lies,

Truth dawns in the heart,Fears grow in the dark,

So dream on in the light,Hope on in the heart,Love on and lose fear,And see not but live true.

—Luis Aran

16

Tyrell McSpadden Eyeballin’ a Parasite

Coming soon to a bulletin board on campus!Call for entries to

The Stone Circle -- Volume 8, Number 1Fall 2008

—-For entry rules (poetry & short fiction), please e-mail:

jmckeown@mclennan.eduor call Jim McKeown at 299-8952LIMIT TEN POEMS PER STUDENT

For art, in all media, please e-mail:gdowning@mclennan.edu

or call Glenn Downing at 299-8782LIMIT FIVE PHOTOGRAPHS PER STUDENT

You may also visit our website for further information:http://www.mclennan.edu/students/publications/stone_circle/

PLEASE CHECK THE SUBMISSION GUIDELINES CAREFULLYAS WE HAVE MADE SOME CHANGES BEGINNING WITH THE

FALL 2008 ISSUE

McCalmont Award for Creative Excellence in Photography

Melanie McCalmont, a graduate of McLennan Community College, has generously funded these awards through the MCC Foundation.

The college gratefully acknowledges her support of The Stone Circle, which encourages student photographers.

Hue TaA Chance for Hope

Second Prize -- McCalmont Awardfor Excellence in Photography

Tyrell McSpaddenTroubled Hands

First Prize -- McCalmont Award for Excellence in Photography

Jacob Garcia Meeting PlaceThird Prize -- McCalmont Award for Excellence in Photography

Laken Jordan Untitled

Eri Iwasa Old But Still A Kid

Chris Cogswell Untitled

Christine BartlettRed Hat

Look for The Stone Circle

Volume 8, Number 1 Fall 2008

Jennifer BancaleGame 3