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From the Editor It is with tremendous joy and pride that I present to you the third issue of From the Well House. The past year has seen a great deal of changes for the publication, including a new editor and a new set of officers, but the original mission stands strong. We have taken many steps this year to cultivate an environment that celebrates the arts both on and off the campus of Indiana University Kokomo:

We launched a redesigned website, www.fromthewellhouse.org, that has allowed us to develop a dynamic online presence. Not only is it a place where people can learn about the publication, but it also allows us to expand upon the types of art we can publish. The new website also allows a greater level of interaction with our readers. We feature the story of the month, an open-ended story which we invite our visitors to finish. The new website really helps us reach a lot of our goals. The fall of 2010 will be the debut of our online issue (submissions deadline: August 31st 2010) which will allow us to feature not only great original writing and visual art but also audio/visual work such as music and animation! We are extremely excited about the online issue as we are always looking for ways to broaden the variety of our content.

The fall of 2009 saw yet another successful Live Issue in which students, faculty, and members of the community came to see and hear artists and authors present their work. We are also working to improve our Writing Workshops for those who wish to grow in their writing abilites.

This issue is a testament to the impact From the Well House has made upon the campus and community as the torch is passed on to a new group of students who want to share and spread a love of the arts and sciences. If you have any questions or comments, please feel free to e-mail me at editor@fromthewellhouse.org. Enjoy, and thanks for following us!

-Cameron Huffman

Writing

Teenage Mother’s Reality Check 4Elaine Bye

The Writer’s Room 6 Amy Thorne

Now Be 12Elaine Bye Encounter on the Cliffs of Moher 14Julie Lynn Slentz Waters

Forever White 17Elaine Bye

Alien Ordinary 19 Elaine Bye

Echoes of November 21Don Sedberry

Soldier Boys 24Matt Russell

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents

ArtConfliction 5Theresa Stewart

Flushed Out 11Jon Walters

Chicago Union Station 13Aletha McDorman

Golden Gate in Black and White 18Aletha McDorman

Give and Take 20Jon Walters

San Felipe 23Matt Russell

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4

Serene he sleeps.

Innocence speaks

from every cherub limb

and curl of him.

Tempest in repose!

How could I suppose

that I could cope

with ruined hope

and dream?

Just yesterday

I had time to play,

had time to be

truly me.

-Elaine Bye

Teenage Mother’s Reality Check

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ConflictionTheresa Stewart

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The Writer’s Room

She said “come in” like it was a punishment. Her desk was clean and

scratched with a thousand pen marks, where the quill had pressed deep into

the paper, where the words had been too heavy for the page. She wrote with

passion, ignoring the world. The quiet room defied the dirty street, loud

and livid and four stories below. Under was full of life. Above was full of

literature.

And she said “come in.”

The door barely breathed open, but no shadow darkened the threshold.

She swore. “Fine then,” she muttered, “Don’t come in. Leave me be.”

The only thing heard in the patterned green room for the next hour

was the hysterical scrape of her quill pen. That ridiculous old quill pen that

her students mocked her for, that pen that she had treasured all these years,

that pen given her by Hugh. All her best work had been first written with

it. The Maze of Niyt, A Heaven Beyond, Seaward, To Stall a Unicorn, Many

Dark Clouds, and this, her most deep, most beautiful, most human work, An

Hourglass of Ivory.

A wind chime whistled softly outside. She looked up with a scowl

on her face, angry at the interruption. Stepping up and drawing close to

the window, she caught a reflection of her face by accident. Instinctively,

she turned away. She knew that she was no longer pretty. The lonely years

had not been kind to her. All those years, all those late nights up writing

feverishly, all those friends finding no answer when they knocked on her door.

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As if to call up the ghost of yesteryear, another knock came across the

room to her.

She pushed back her chair. The scrape of it was harsh as a caged

scream. She rushed across the dusty floor and threw open the rusty door.

“COME IN!” She roared.

And there was Hugh. He smiled at her from just beyond the door.

“Thank you, my dear.” What a silly soft voice he had, with those pretty little

white teeth under that old man mustache. He had grown old waiting for her.

She stepped back and returned to her seat without a word. Hugh

smiled forlornly. She did not notice.

“How is everything, my sweet?” Hugh peered intensely at her,

expectancy in his eye.

She answered him nothing.

“When is the last time that Millie has been in to clean, dear? Looking

a bit shabby today.”

She snorted.

“Hmmm, I see you have been very busy,” Hugh tried again. “I don’t

think you have room for any more writings in the place! We may have to get

you a new apartment! Would you like that? Some new scenery could do you

some good, you know, freshen your mind, give you new material…” He bent

as he spoke, picking up a stray page covered in that ridiculous handwritten

scrawl.

The smile ebbed from his thin lips as he read. His eyes narrowed.

Still she did not look up at him.

“Darling,” what an impractical, spongy, polite voice! The angrier he

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was, the milder it grew. “What a tragic piece of work you have here! You can

do better than this. Why do you lately give yourself to ‘Yahadilia, handmaid

of the faerie Queen, whose beauty was her bitter curse, whose bitter downfall

was the praise of her mistress’? Such dark words! You used to be part of this

world, sweetheart! You used to write about things you have seen, beautiful

things, terrible things, but all of them poignant.” He looked up at her keenly.

“Are you sad again, S-...”

“Say not my name, man!” Her nails bit into the desk and she closed

her eyes so tightly that she seemed to want to shut out light forever. “And

what do you know of me? ‘Lately,’ you say, as if you have come to see me once

these three months! As if you ... care for me, the witch! the crazy old hag!

“Am I sad?” She spat, “How do you think I feel, locked up here in my

brittle old tower, nothing to do but explore the life I have missed out on, no

one to talk to but senseless little Mille – and she doesn’t even talk back to me!

I lean on my characters for that! Oh, they talk to me alright. They constantly

remind me that I am old, that I am alone, that I have failed myself, that I have

failed you…” Her voice fell short.

“Darling,” Hugh’s voice was sterner now, if such a word could be used

for so gentle a voice. “Don’t mock me. You swore in April that you wanted

never to see me again, unless I was brought to you cremated. Remember?”

He waited until she nodded, her head still down, shivering in what he could

not tell for rage or shame.

“And don’t say that I don’t care about you. You know that I stayed

away from you as long as I could. And you know that I stayed away because

that’s what you asked me to do. What you told me to do. Not what I chose

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for myself. I know how your heart can be. It’s what makes you, you.

“I thought perhaps that I could keep myself away for longer if you truly

wished it, but finally I knew I had to see you again. I tried to change, to get

my mind to the place where you wanted it. I threw myself into distractions;

I gambled; I drank; I visited Greece; I…I gave myself to everyone is hopes of

forgetting you.

“And although you are absorbed in worlds that no one but yourself

can see, although you hardly keep up with this world -- for it has been seven

months since I’ve seen you last, not three -- I couldn’t keep myself away any

longer. I miss you terribly. I can’t get you out of my head. I keep on dreaming

about seeing you, even seeing this dingy, terrible house that we could have

shared had ... had the past been different.”

Hugh glanced up for a moment, but her head was still down, her hand

still on that beloved pen – the only thing of his that she had ever allowed to

come into her heart. Then he too lowered his head, exhausted by his speech.

She only laughed. A laugh with hardly enough volume to be malicious,

but malicious it certainly was. Hugh knew it well. She looked at his tender

eyes for the first time in seven months and laughed. “But the past was

different, Hugh.”

He sighed and straightened. “Right you are.” His voice was business-

like once more, like at the beginning. “You want your groceries, then?”

She nodded.

“Indeed. I’ll have Millie bring them up. You don’t mind if she stays

and tidies, do you, dear?”

She shook her head.

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“Very well. Let’s get some of these windows opened, too. You know

the doctor would like that. A little sunlight wouldn’t hurt you. Not that

you’re going to get any more today, but tomorrow should be lovely. I know

the sun would love to see you.” He walked to the open door, putting his

hands upon the frame on either side and leaned heavily out. “Millie! All’s

well! You can come up now!

“I’ll leave you two to it, then.” Hugh turned softly to her. He hesitated

for a moment, and then smiled, his eyes twinkling. And then he walked up

to her, put his hands upon her shoulders, and kissed her very quietly on the

forehead. He backed away at once. He knew she could only take so much

tenderness at once. It had been a deep hurt, and although it looked like the

healing was beginning to take place, the recovery would be long.

At the door, he turned once more. Millie’s footsteps were clambering

up. He smiled. “Shall I come tomorrow then, dear one?”

She almost looked at him. But not quite. “Yes.” She whispered, and

then straightened a little bit. “You shall.”

-Amy Thorne

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Flushed out Jon Walters

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Now BeWhen change comes

all is said and done and weptwhat’s left is dry good-byingtrying to picture tomorrow,

today,this new way

Casting aside reasonsone after the other

Wondering what I did or said or didn’t do

what I could or should have done

or said or thought

Firmly turningto face forward

Realizing no reason will suffice

or all of them

It doesn’t matterbecause

whoever I was yesterdayI must choose

who I’ll be now

-Elaine Bye

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Chicago Union StationAletha McDorman

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Encounter on the Cliffs of Moher

Far above the breaking surf, I stood. I was surrounded by people

and yet solitary in my contemplations. Fatigue from the windy climb was

replaced by a sense of awe at the beautiful expanse before me. Endless

shades of green, gold and gray combined before my eyes to present a

glimpse of ethereal and ageless beauty where time stood motionless. Past,

present and future merged into a new realm of reality. The historical and

contemporary, artistic and scientific, theological and mythological were

all encompassed in this eternal panorama. The almost tangible essence

of hopes and dreams, desired and pursued throughout generations, came

alive to me in this moment of wonder at the beauty of God’s creative

combinations.

The breeze, filled with ageless stories of past and present, caressed

my face and captured my hair in its fleeting grasp. It had come, and gone,

and come again throughout the ages, through times of joy and times of

trial. Through generations, it had carried the perfume of wildflowers and

the stench of battle. It had spirited ships away and had brought them back

again. It kept the welcoming home fires glowing and blew funeral pyres into

full blaze. These wafting gusts that buffeted my being were like the exhaled

breaths of explorer and storyteller, merchant and fisherman who had long

since expired. This ancient wind was fragrant with the aroma of knowledge,

which awaited the wisdom of God to be understood. That same air filled my

lungs and breathed on my soul, enriching my life and becoming part of me

from this moment onward. The wind’s impact was not felt by me alone. Its

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force stirred the ocean into mighty waves, which crashed against the shore.

The fervent pounding of the surf seemed to echo my heart’s own beating.

The breakers affected the shore in the same way that the pressures brought

to bear on my soul affected my life. As the shoreline is reshaped by the

force of the breakers, if I allowed it, these abrasive forces could result in a

beneficial reshaping of the shoreline that my life presents to others. With

more rough edges rounded off and barriers broken down, I could be a more

welcome harbor for people in need of a safe haven. I well knew the need for

that security.

High on the cliffs and far above the tempestuous waves that could

sweep me out to sea, I felt that sense of safety and security. The waves

could not reach me or challenge my right to exist. When standing close

to the shoreline, the breaking surf can have a fearsome roar and the gulls

can sound shrill, yet from a distance, they combined in the atmosphere

to create an ancient melody that flowed with longing, excitement, and

adventure. In the same way, far from the daily stressors and hassles, which

continually pounded against the foundations of my life, demands and

expectations were no longer a cacophony of shrill discordant notes. They

too became more melodic and exciting as I heard them combined through

the inspiration of God. I was gaining new insight into their intended

objective of refining my character.

These rugged, ragged cliffs offered me a different perspective and

allowed me to see much farther into the ocean than I could on the level of

the shore. The concrete substance of their existence, which had remained

stoic and resolute in the face of onslaughts too numerous for reckoning,

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gave my heart a connection to this land through the absolute realization

that some things remain. I do not need to fear destruction or be intimidated

by the tests, trials, storms, and stressors that may persist in my life. The

foundation of my life was carefully laid many years ago. It is substantial.

It has been built upon solidly through the years; non-essential elements

have been eroded away. My foundation would not be shaken. From this new

vantage point, I looked past the immediate circumstances to the ongoing

alterations that refinement of character, increasing compassion, growing

objectivity and resolute determination would manifest in my life.

A hazy horizon stretched out into the distance as far as my eyes

could see, and my mind could imagine. The possibilities that were yet to

become realities were endless. Though I did not know what was beyond

the scope of my vision, I could be certain that whatever the currents of life

brought to my shores, I would stand resolute and calm knowing destruction

would not overcome me.

On the Cliffs of Moher, I gained much more than the experience of

visiting a new place and observing natures wonders. I had found a renewed

sense of connection with God and a clearer understanding of His purpose

for the life I was meant to live. Though my time on the Cliffs was nearly

over, and my stay in Ireland would be ending soon, I rejoiced knowing

that the future holds opportunities for more wisdom and understanding. I

would take this transcendent peace home with me along with the memories

of this encounter with myself on the Cliffs of Moher.

-Julie Lynn Slentz Waters

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Don’t laugh when I bring you

Queen Anne’s lace in shy hands and

Adoration in shy eyes.

You’ve seen flowers whither

Grow dry and brown.

I believe Queen Anne’s lace

Stays white forever.

I love you.

Don’t laugh.

-Elaine Bye

Forever White

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Golden Gate in Black and WhiteAletha McDorman

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Alien OrdinaryScratch the facade of this middle-aged lady

find an unexpected alloy

alien-weird

masquerading as an ordinary person

in your ordinary day.

Dip into this mind and encounter

rumination on the probability of the top quark being discovered this year.

(It was.)

Delve into this mind and confront

reflection on the inescapable decline in nurtured intelligence in the

succeeding generation.

Delve

Dare

I’d love to discover another.

-Elaine Bye

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Give and TakeJon Walters

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Echoes of NovemberWhen the dark night falls ashen on the curtails of our dreams,

It is with simplified understanding of the haste in which we live.

What is this furious passion, quick and object-oriented,

Where do we draw the line between the needs of self and obligation to give?

In these sighing nights and the moments before we sleep,

We cannot relax, no way to drink in the day and seek reprieve.

You’re never too old, and it’s never too late,

No matter what you say or in your mind, silently deceive.

The dreams you have, these words you speak, these thoughts in your mind,

The sweet abandon of a summer lost, and the wayward souls of the dearly departed.

During what restless un-slumber do we saunter through this life unfulfilled,

Sleep walking, dreaming, toiling, and never taking the time, life never started.

You choose these paths among the rows of books and cobwebs in your mind,

You choose whether or not to believe that you can find room in your planetary stay.

It’s never that you’re too old, and it’s never too late,

There’s fear in your heart and dreams in your face, passed over for just one more day.

The world begs and beckons us onward, further, frightened for loss of status quo,

We build and burn, collect and squander, develop and undo, dream and lack of changing will.

The path to wealth is paved in almost certain disappointment, gleaned free of dreams,

As life winds forward into a career and dream, did you follow those reasons or ignore them still?

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Your life, and your sons and daughters now, wavering still on the brink of repetition,

Failing to acknowledge the mistakes of a life lived with supposed impunity to your dreams.

You heart tells you that it’s getting old, and you mind tells you as yet... it’s not too late,

You keep life busy, full of soccer games and laborious work, all while your inner child screams.

The dawning morning of a later life, the weakness of brittle bone and sullen thought,

The children of yours, children no longer, they continue the toiling cycle and so it goes.

The world has become smaller now, able to travel less day by day, muscles weak and harsh,

The short glimmers of the hope of childhood dreams forgotten amidst the aging echoes.

Your dusk is coming soon and darkness sweeps across the landscape of your life,

Your body weakened and unable, both laboriously and indignant, falls silently to bed,

It’s absolutely now, that you’re too old, you now know, that it’s too late.

Your heart is no longer crying, no there’s no energy for that, the futile loss of the dead.

The silence of the night stirs the sullen ash of lives gone by burned brightly,

Brightly in haste and toil, demanded and strongly used, without regard to self.

These are the passions of the world, the objectivity or lack thereof, of our nature,

Where truly all our hopes and dreams, life ambitions, only abide on the dark empty shelf.

-Don Sedberry

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San Felipe Matt Russell

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Soldier Boys

Through tin binoculars Billy surveyed the landscape before him. The

path appeared be safe, yet in his stomach he still didn’t trust that he was

home free.

“What does it look like?” Ricky asked from beside him.

“Well,” the first soldier said, taking a long pause. “It looks like we are

about twenty clicks from base camp and there isn’t an enemy in sight. We

should be able to make it back before nightfall.”

Billy climbed down the side of the hill, watching to make sure he

didn’t slide any further than he wanted. The soldiers exchanged glances

before Ricky reached into his pack and pulled out a canteen. He took a long

drink before passing it to his friend.

“I’m happy I’m not out here in the mud by myself,” Ricky said as Billy

took a drink. “It would have been heck to try and do this mission on my

own.”

“Of course I’d be out here with you, Ricky. How long have we been

friends, anyway?” He paused, trying to figure it out in his head, then

finished with “Besides, I didn’t have anything better to do.”

“True. Now let’s get back and let the general know what those dang

Nazis are up to.”

Treading over the hill, they began crossing the distance that

separated them from their platoon. Remains of defenses that were no longer

necessary surrounded them, and from the looks of the scenery, it was

evident a battle had recently taken place there. It was a mess, with no way

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to tell who might have won the engagement. In the distance was the whistle

of a mortar shell, and a rattle of bullet fire told them some skirmish was

going on even now as they tried to return to safety.

“You don’t think our friends are over there, do you?” Ricky asked,

pointing vaguely in the direction of the gun fire.

“Naw, that’s probably Bravo Company. You know how they are always

trying to steal all the action.” Ricky nodded and the two continued walking

in silence.

Although the battlefront sounded like it was some distance away,

both soldiers knew they were still in a hot zone. It was something they had

tried to grow comfortable with since they had been asked by their CO to

scout the enemy position, but now that the mission had been accomplished,

they were eager to return to friendly territory.

“Hey Billy, what is the first thing you are going to eat when we get to

go home?”

Kicking a stone, the soldier thought for a moment, answering

“Spaghetti. My mom makes the best spaghetti in the world, and I can’t wait

for a large plate of it.”

“Oh yeah! I remember her spaghetti. It really is awesome.”

“What about you, Ricky? What are you looking forward to when we

go home?”

Hesitating, Ricky thought before answering, “I can’t wait to go

swimming in my uncle’s pond. We always have fun doing that.”

As the pair made their way back to camp, Billy tried to focus on

thoughts of home as he nervously led the way. His friend was in a far

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different mood. Gripping the Army issued rifle, Ricky kept swinging it

across the horizon, waiting for the chance to snag some glory and take out

an enemy soldier or two. After a mile of this, it began to wear on Billy’s

nerves.

“Ricky, cut it out! The bad guys could be hiding right over that hill

and here you are dancing around like an idiot. Do you want to get….”

The rest of Billy’s words were drowned out as a mortar blast struck

the ground nearby. Both soldiers were suddenly knocked off their feet,

finding themselves sprawled out in the mud before they could process what

had just happened. Billy struggled to pick himself up as his ears rang and

drowned out the world. He was too shell-shocked to piece together what

exactly had happened, but he knew enough that he began to frantically

search for his companion. Five feet away was a figure in the mud. Rushing

over, Billy knelt to pull the soldier up from the ground.

“They got me Billy. I….don’t think I’m….going to make it.” This

declaration caused the standing soldier to search his companion for any

sign of a wound, but there was none. “You’re… going to…have to leave me.”

“No… I won’t do it, Ricky” Billy replied, looking frantically for any

sign of where his friend might be hurt as he tried to hold back his emotions.

From what he could see there wasn’t anything to suggest that his friend had

been injured, but the look on Ricky’s face made it clear the soldier felt as

though he was a goner.

“Ricky, we’ve been friends longer than I can remember,” he said over

artillery fire that was coming steadily nearer. “I am NOT going to abandon

you.”

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“Do you remember that afternoon that we thought this would be a

good idea? That” cough “this would be fun?”

“Sh, Ricky, I’m going to drag you back to camp if I have to, but I’m

not leaving you alone here in the mud.”

“It’s…okay…”

As Billy focused on tending to his injured friend, a group of enemy

soldiers snuck up on the pair. While Billy didn’t see the Nazis approach, he

became aware of them as he felt the cold steel end of a rifle press into his

back. Startled, Billy turned around to face his enemy, who was screaming

something undecipherable to him. Without knowing it a tear came to his

eye as he saw the soldier’s finger pull on the trigger, and he knew that this

would be his last moment on earth. And in that moment, all he could think

about was of spending one more afternoon carefree in his own backyard.

“Billy!” he heard a woman cry out in the distance over the chaos of

battle. “Billy Connell!” The shrillness of the voice caused him to squeeze his

eyes closed, and when he opened them again the tall figure of his mother

stood before him. “Billy, it’s supper time.”

“Okay okay mom. Gee whiz.” Brushing the dirt from his pants Billy

took his stick ‘rifle’ and set it next to the back door. “Can Ricky stay for

dinner?”

“I suppose so. We’re having spaghetti.”

Suddenly Ricky jumped from where he had been lying on the ground nearly ‘dead.’ “Thanks, Mrs. C!” he said as he rushed in from the backyard to join his friend.

-Matt Russell

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From the Well HouseMast Head

Officers:Chief Editor: Cameron HuffmanGraphic Designer: Megan McKinneyIntern: Jamie Huntsman Coulter (Communication Officer)Web Masters: Johnathan Grant, Megan McKinneyPublic Relations: Paige Smith

Advisory Board:Dr. Eva Roa White (Faculty Advisor)Prof. Gregory Steel (Art Board)Dr. Joe Keener (Writing Board)

Writing Review Board:Suzanne Jones, Katherine Washburn, Andrew Turley, Stephen Conger

Art Review Board:Corey Gascho, Cynthia Partlow

Co-Sponsors:School of Arts and Sciences, Academic Affairs, Humanities Department, Student Activities, Student Government Association, and the Center for Research and Creative Activity

Special Thanks:Matt Russell, Don Sedberry, Kasey High, Marjorie Schaeffner, Minda Douglas, The Correspondent, Shearer Printing

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Stay Connected with From the Well HouseFollow us on twitter: @thewellhouse

Become a fan on Facebook: facebook.com/fromthewellhouseContribute to the Story of the Month : www.fromthewellhouse.org

Get ready for our first online issue in Fall 2010! See our online guidelines at www.fromthewellhouse.com

Come and meet the writers and artists at our “Live issue” on September 8th in the campus art gallery!

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From the Wellhouse Submission GuidelinesFor deadlines visit www.fromthewellhouse.org

Submissions Deadline: November 30th 2010

Written Work

Authors may submit any combination of the following: one (1) work of fiction, one (1) scholarly essay, or up to five (5) poems.

Submit via e-mail by sending work to: submit.thewellhouse@gmail.com. Place full name of the author in the subject line along with “Written”Attach the work; do not paste it into the body of the e-mail.

Specifications:

-Must be original work-Must be titled-Microsoft Word compatible format-Must be paginated-Maximum 3,000 words-Remove all references to writer’s identity (last names in headers, etc.) unless necessary to story. If you feel it is necessary, explain why in body of submission e-mail-Scholarly papers must be in MLA or APA format-No simultaneous submissions

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From the Wellhouse Submission GuidelinesFor deadlines visit www.fromthewellhouse.org

Submissions Deadline: November 30th 2010

Art Work

Artists may submit up to three (3) pieces. We accept paintings, photographs, prints, sculptures, and more.

Submit via e-mail by sending work to:submit.thewellhouse@gmail.comPlace full name of the artist in the subject line along with “Art”Attach the work; do not paste it into the body of the e-mail.

Specifications:

-For physical art, send in a high-quality, well-lit, level photograph-Photographs must be in jpeg format of 300 dpi-Must be titled-No simultaneous submissions

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