Princess Betty by Jade Vickery

            For weeks I dreaded the sight of her. Throughout my training as a bakery clerk, my learning was constantly being interrupted by phrases like “No, it’s like this, don’t do it like that, or you should be taught properly.” It didn’t matter that I was new; if I was doing something wrong I was going to be corrected. It seemed like every day she was coming up to me, accusing me of something: working in her space, walking in front of her, or taking cake orders the wrong way. To her, it would’ve been perfectly fine if World War 3 broke out, but if the wrong Dora the Explorer image was put on a cake all hell would break loose.

            And if Betty was mad you’d know. Betty was a professional. She had mastered the art of anger charades. She scoffed and snorted. She threw her hands up in frustration. Bags of icing were slammed down on the counter. Cake containers were thrown. Betty made it so that she couldn’t be ignored, but God help you if you asked her what was wrong. She complained that the icing was too soft, that the icing was too hard, when someone looked at her wrong, when someone looked at her too right, when things fell, when things got up, or if someone yawned, blinked, or breathed in her general direction.

And There It Was By Amarachi Wachuku

Overheard: Someone working

And there it was. It cascaded its shade upon their wistful brows and concluded that it was daylight still. Even so, they stayed inside. And without stopping, in a never ending cycle of hopeless figuring and work piled up to their knees, they continued clicking, writing, slamming, conversing, debating, yelling waiting for it all to end. Everyone seemed to do this never ending cycle of work. Even when their tired eyes begged for sleep. Even when their hands were tense and shaking from clicking away, or writing away. Even when their hearts ached for something more, something better outside.  Even so, there they sat still flapping their tongues, tensing their bodies over lit screens, and rubbing their eyes, that just kept staring on.  For their day was just too long. But it really wasn’t. The day was at its’ end, and the sunshine seemed to dim with every moment.  And no one seemed to mind, to care, or to stop and dream for even a moment as the sunlight began to vanish behind thick clouds.

But what was wrong with just sitting still and listening for the quiet hum of activity that filled the place? Couldn’t they feel the energy, the vibrancy, that overtook the passion of work?  So much so, that all one could do was sit still and try to think, breathe, and feel the art work of warmth that came from the window. Glass shimmering like never before, cascading shadows like it was almost done reaching its peak below the horizon, saying: “The day is done.”  It kept saying, “Go home all you work, go home all you wish and dream.  Life is more than work. Play and seek your future when the day is young.”

But no one heard this message. None at all. None, except for him. In the middle of the chaos, there he sat on the ground, leaning his head back on the wall; arms crossed and dignified staring out into the glass picture of the world. And there I joined him. Sitting on the other side of the world it seemed, for he and I were in different places. Far from work, from play we sat staring, watching the sun dip behind more shadows. And there we sat waiting and dreaming. Waiting and dreaming. Waiting for our life to start. 

Words and Pictures by Susanna Taylor

Drawing is writing without words. To take a single frozen image and ask it to declare a lifetime, a memory, a moment—whoever said a picture is worth a thousand words was insane. Pictures are not meant to convey words—that’s what words are for. Pictures, drawings, sculptures are meant to reflect emotions, thoughts, that which is wordless and yet still beautiful. Art is that which stirs the soul and conquers the heart. Can words do this? Absolutely. But there is something that an image gives that words cannot, how the tilt of the head, the curve of the lips, the grace of a stance can twist an image so easily from that of a pair of lovers to would-be killers. A scene, a smile, how a leaf falls from a tree…words can try to reflect these images, but a picture takes that challenge in stride and instead strives to find depth in what many call mere whimsy.

What words can accomplish alone pales when words and images create a beautiful cohesion that they could not hope to accomplish alone. What would a book be like with just pictures? What would a gallery be like with just words? We seek always to find answers—the challenge is to find the story behind an unlabeled drawing, to draw the art of a glorious phrase.

“The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her to the flies.”

Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury

Fall 2012 Writing Marathon!

This fall's Writing Marathon will be held Thursday, September 27 at 5:00pm.

Meet on campus at the Fireside Lounge (located in the OC), for some writing, creativity and fun!

Hope to see you there!

Lauren & Tina

Family by Kalsoom Hussain

Why can’t we go back to the days when we were little and had no care in the world? 

When families were close and everyone talked with one another. Nothing is like it used to be; 

we don’t have any family gatherings anymore and there’s so much drama in the family, 

you would think everyone was still in high school. I don’t understand why the family fights 

as much as they do. Brothers and sisters turned into enemies while they have no realization 

of the consequences of their hatred. The cousins I grew up with and trusted with my life, 

was no longer people I could even talk to. That same hatred and selfishness of the family 

was the cause to my grandfather’s death. Why couldn’t they get along even after their father 

passed away? Swallow your pride, and get over yourself. At least show up to the celebration 

of your father’s life. Is that too much to ask? You’re an adult, in your 40s now, even I understand 

that what you’re doing is wrong. Your actions are completely shameful and I feel sorry for you. 

If only we could go back to the days when the family got along. The family I once knew is no 

longer a family I know.

Can You Feel the Zombiance Tonight? by Lauren Rinke

My arms are thrashing around me—side to side and in circles—like a helicopter. For a brief moment, I’m back at the house where I grew up –I’m spinning madly around the lawn my face pointed to the sky, the sun blinding my eyes. My foot catches what I assume to be a rock and I tumble forward into the darkness. My chin slams to the hard, cold ground and my teeth puncture my lower lip. The heat of my blood stings my cold chin as if a thousand tiny, hot needles are piercing my chin.

It’s dark and I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me. I give myself a moment to regain my footing and just when I feel calm for a moment, I can feel their hands at my back—broken fingers, bones jutting out, scraping my torn jacket, desperately seeking flesh.

A frantic shriek makes its way from my throat, and I’m running again, unsure of where to go. I feel like I’m becoming one of them—maddening thoughts, complete chaos, sure of nothing. All I can do is run, seeking something, anything to stifle my desire to remain one of the living.

Maybe I’m it. Maybe I should stop running. I watched the others have their necks clawed at and jaws snapped and eyeballs plucked like ripe grapes from the vine. Those images keep me running. They invade my memory like the pictures from my childhood books. These images keep me running, fumbling over my own feet, which feel like they are not my own.

I reach side to side, up and down, in front on my face—I just keep running. I’m forced to stop as one steps directly in my path. I bump into it and for a moment, it seems we’re doing that awkward dance of two strangers who meet face-to-face and don’t know which way to step. I feel a smirk come over my face, assigning it a humanness it does not deserve.

Its head it permanently cocked to the right—yellow eyes glazed over with a milky white, unable to see, yet able to focus on my heart pumping and veins pulsing. This is the closest I’ve seen one face to face and I’m sure it cannot “see” me.

I freeze and glance in the other directions, not sure where I will end up if I try to run away. I think I may be able to quietly pass it, but then my plan is derailed when it cocks its head to the other side and up to the starless sky, taking in my scent with its skeletal nose.

Its body shudders with pleasure and I’m so disgusted, my arms instinctively jut into its chest, and I’m jumping over its body in a desperate attempt to keep moving. It manages to clutch at my left shoe, which falls off and sends me tumbling again. The air is forced from my lungs and before I can catch my breath, it’s on my back, gnawing on my hair and grabbing at my ears with its putrid fingertips.

I hear its jaw pop open and feel the wetness from its mouth drip onto the back of my neck—and just as it’s about to bite my neck, my husband wakes me up and tells me to come to bed. My hands are clutching the post-apocalyptic novel I’ve just finished reading. I’m curled in the fetal position on the couch. If there were ever a real zombie war, I know I’d never survive.

The Graying Golden Grizzly by Don Drife

Why on God’s good earth did I return to school? What do I want to be when I grow up? Who needs a degree and what will I truly gain from it? I’m the old man on campus, the “Graying Golden Grizzly.” At the age of 54, I’m older than most of my fellow student’s parents. I met with my adviser last week and discovered that I have college credits older than she is. We talked about the First Gulf War in class last night and no one else remembered it. I need to hang with a crowd that doesn’t think Fleetwood Mac is a Cadillac dealer. “If I could I would give you my world”, these students do not want my world.

Now I’m aimlessly roaming the campus participating in a Writer’s Marathon. It’s cold out here! At least I’m not forced to sit on a yellow line in the middle of an asphalt road and write. However, in my first year at OU I have met some outstanding young men and women. I am impressed by their character and moral fiber. These are the people that will need to clean up the messes and face the problems my generation has left behind. My generation will be the first that is known more for what it did not destroy than for what it built.

Their generation will be forced to repair the planet. They must make the hard choices that the majority in my generation refused to face. These students have the compassion and the caring to move forward. I observe them placing friendships above possessions. They know that “the best things in life aren’t things.” It is a privilege to study with them and I am blessed when they call me a friend (or just the old guy).