1

It is with great pride and honor that I present to you this fifth print issue of From

the Well House. It marks a mile-stone for our publication: our five-year anniversary and the

last issue of Volume One.

Through the issues in Volume One, From the Well House has expanded its reach

to not only members of our community and region, but to authors, artists and readers

from across the world. The scope of our journal has also grown through our online issues,

which have featured more diverse art, dynamic forms of prose and poetry, and rich

experiences in music and multimedia.

In the coming years, I am confident that From the Well House will continue to

build its momentum and include ever-evolving expressions of art, as it embarks on the

exciting next step of its journey with Volume Two. We dedicate this 5th Anniversary

Issue to all who have stood by us and helped to make us the success we are today.

We particularly want to recognize the efforts and contributions of a tireless staff and a

generous collective of artists and authors.

Thank you for your unfailing support!

From the Editor

-Andrew C. Turley

2

From the Well HouseMasthead

Staff:Chief Editor: Andrew TurleyGraphic Designer: Korey WestSubmissions Coordinator: Marjorie SchaeffnerPublic Relations: Pam TinaStaff Writers: Megan Weaver, Syra ShariffWebmaster: Jason ShonkWeb Designers: Angel Hernandez, Korey West

Advisory Board:Faculty Advisor: Dr. Eva Roa WhiteArt Board: Prof. Gregory SteelWriting Board: Dr. Joe KeenerGraphic Design: Prof. Erik Austin Deerly

Writing Review Board:Suzanne Jones, Megan Weaver, Andrew Jones, James Cesare

Art Review Board:Marc Vester, Rachel Brantley

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:Johnathan Grant, Annie Gundrum, Minda Douglas, Karla Stouse, Susan Skoczen, The Correspondent, Shearer Printing, IU Kokomo Art Gallery and Radio Free Kokomo

3

Contents

Grandma’s Colors 4 Amanda Smith

Roza 7 Jamie Keefer

I See You 8Mellanee Neeley

The Apple 10Alexis Nash

Window 12Shannon Name

Who I Am 13 Andrea Gerig

Thank God for That Dot 14 Dylan Scott

We All Remember 16Mellanee Neeley

On the First Snowy 18 Morning of the Year Gabriel Doucette

Temporal 19Dylan Scott

Monsters 20Katherine Woessner

Cthulhu Summoned 22Mike Dukes

Beauty 23Andrea Gerig

4

Grandma’s Colors

The heavy glass door slammed behind me as I punched in the code on the

keypad. The next door buzzed and the locks clicked open granting me access to the

building. Smells of cabbage and cleaning solvent filled my nose as I walked past the

huge, oak bird enclosure and toward the dining room. Near the corner of the dining

room, she was sitting around a half moon shaped table with a nurse’s aide sitting

across from her, spooning food-like mush into her mouth, handing her a glass of

cloudy, thick fluid. I sat down next to her.

“Hi, Grandma, how are you?” I smiled as she warily took another bite of the

mush on the plate in front of her. She looked at me through the cloudy, glazed eyes

that used to be a sharp, clear blue and smiled a fake, cheesy smile; nothing like the

smile I remember from when I was a little girl sitting on her lap. Her right arm lie

limp in her lap and her right leg sat motionless. To the naked eye, her face appeared

normal but, to me, it was not the same. Her right eye sagged a bit, as did the right

side of her mouth. Her right hand was puffy, cold, and stiff, not warm and flexible

like the other. “I think she is finished if you’d like to go to the lounge to visit,” the

nurse’s aide said to me. I could tell she was tired, so instead, I wheeled her back to

her room. After walking the long hallway to her room, I opened the curtains to

brighten things up a little.

“Would you like to lie down for a while?” I asked my grandmother; she

nodded silently. “Ok, I’ll be right back.” I walked out to the nurses’ station. Today my

5

grandmother’s favorite nurse, Jason, was behind the counter. “Gramma seems tired

today. I think she might want to lie down for a while,” I said to him. He nodded and

followed me down the hall to her room. Once in bed, she quickly nodded off to sleep.

Sitting next to her bed, I watched as she slept and I eventually began to doze off, too.

“Color! Color!” My grandmother yelled. Startled, I jumped, nearly tipping

over the chair where I had been sleeping. “Color! Color!” She pointed to the window.

I walked over to it. “The window? What is wrong?” she nodded, an agitated look

covering her face.

“Color!” She yelled, again, “Color!”

“Do you want me to close the curtains?” I asked.

“Color!” She howled again. Finally, I closed the curtains. She looked at

me, relieved.

I returned to my chair, and by then she was already nodding back off to

sleep. This was how things always went. It was as if she had her own secret language.

Today the code word for curtain was “color.” Tomorrow, who knew what the word

would be for curtain, or anything else for that matter.

I sat back down, now wide awake from the curtain ordeal. Within minutes

of getting out a book, my grandmother woke up again. This time, she didn’t say a

word. She only peered up at me suspiciously, and then slowly tried to get out of bed.

“Stop, Gramma. Let me get Jason to come help you. You can’t get up by yourself !

You’ll get hurt,” I begged, but she ignored me. I stood in front of her, blocking her

path. “You need to wait for help,” I said. I searched for the call light, but of course,

it was out of my reach. My grandmother looked up at me again, through the same

6

cloudy, glazed over, confused eyes and continued to push her way out of bed.

“Help!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. At that instant, my grandmother’s

“good” arm swung toward me full force, hitting my face. I hadn’t seen that coming.

Fear and shock rushed through me, leaving me nearly paralyzed. “Help!” I shouted

again, louder this time. Still, there was no response. Giving in, I walked out into the

hallway and again, yelled, “Help!”

Finally, Jason meandered down the hall, “What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Gramma is trying to get out of bed; she won’t listen to me.” Jason went

into my grandmother’s room to find her lying on the floor. She looked up at me,

wild-eyed, angry, and confused. Jason called for help, and before she knew it, my

grandmother was sitting in her wheelchair still glaring at me.

Across the hall from the room was a small lounge. The chair in the back

corner seemed like the perfect place for me, a twelve-year-old girl, to hide. I sat in

that corner seat as hot tears rolled down my face, dropping onto my shirt. It didn’t

seem fair. Why didn’t my grandmother listen? Why did she want to get up even

though she couldn’t? Why had she tried to hit me? Although I was only twelve, I

knew the answer to all of these questions.

-Amanda Smith

7

Jamie KeeferRoza

8

I know you don’t think I see you

Sitting in the corner in your chair

But I do

I see all your potential and the disease you have

But I know that you are more than your illness

I know you don’t think I see you

When your family doesn’t come

But I do

I see the lonely look in your eyes and the tears that haven’t run

But I want to see you smile as you talk of the life you’ve lived

I know you don’t think I see you

Because you’re trying to eat but can’t

But I do

I see your frustration and shame of being dependent

But I softly utter encouraging words while helping hold your spoon

I know you don’t think I see you

Uttering apologies at being wet

I See You

9

I see the embarrassment of time taking its toll

But I tell you don’t apologize because I’m happy to take care

I know you don’t think I see you

When you start to get confused

But I do

I see the aging process working on your mind

But I do my best to explain, trying to remind you of the past

I know you don’t think I see you

In bed taking your last sweet breaths

But I do

I see your pain and suffering finally coming to an end

But I sit by your side, holding your hand, comforting how I can

I know you don’t think I see you

Past illness and age, for who you truly are

But I promise I do

-Mellanee Neeley

10

The Apple

Monday morning, the Jersey Mac apple proudly sits atop the teacher’s desk

Sheathed in a glossy red peel, perfectly ripened and pregnant with many seeds

Prattling students file into the classroom, as the apple sits in sweet, anticipating silence

Waiting to discover the direction of its great enterprise through life

Suddenly, one of the freckle-faced children snatches the apple up, and tears a bite

out of its flesh

A bit of frothy juice running down the little boy’s chin, he tosses a very confused

apple into the trashcan before it even got its chance to shine, buried in dregs and

crumpled paper

Night falls, and the apple lies in an unfamiliar place, heartbroken and lost

Its wound is turning brown, as it weeps a sour juice

All it can see across the landfill are mucky puddles of toxic waste and

garbage mountains

Was this the destination of its crusade? Rotting in a pile of filth?

Suddenly, the apple feels hazy, as if falling into an altered state of consciousness

It can feel ethylene oxide bloating its warm, browning body, and the faster the apple

respires, the faster the odorless, colorless gas is produced

Though foggy-brained and befuddled, the apple is afraid. “What is happening to

me?” it wonders.

11

A metamorphosis is taking place. The apple’s insides melt into a chunky soup, as its

wrinkled skin folds and collapses in on itself

Overnight, the apple gradually sinks into the rich, black, loamy soil, becoming one

with the earth, circling around the biosphere with spirits of every colorful organism

The apple’s chubby, hearty black seeds are left behind, cradled in a terrestrial nursery

Two seasons later, new life bursts forth, as a green bud pokes through the icy soil

Day after day, the sprout grows taller and wider with authority and purpose

A proud descendant of the apple, the tiny tree anchors itself firmly into the ground,

declaring its place amongst the kingdom of Gaia

When harvesting season arrives, each gnarled, stalwart branch spurts out clusters of

pubescent green apples

The pomaceous little infants have each been granted life, a million exciting journeys

to be traveled

The apple thought its life had been wasted, and unjustly stolen away

Yet in the end, the apple’s destiny was paramount to all others, and bigger than it

could have ever imagined.

-Alexis Nash

12

Shannon NameWindow

To see the full color original, go to: http://fromthewellhouse.org/?ax6kKKxQ

13

There are days when I know who I am,

when I am solid in my bones,

and my feet take root in the earth.

I am walking in sunshine

with the green of the leaves

and the wind in my hair.

Overwhelming scents of gladness,

strong and beautiful,

the Goddess shouts within me

and I stride through the soil

content to be worthy.

Who I Am

-Andrea Gerig

To see the full color original, go to: http://fromthewellhouse.org/?ax6kKKxQ

14

Thank God for That Dot

She got off the couch,

and put down her phone.

The bathroom door

in the hallway closed.

Sunday morning advertisers crowded

the channels. Something is always

a deal this time of the week.

I finished her coffee.

Her magazines were spread out,

showing the things that she

would talk about.

She would want

to go somewhere.

We would.

I’d buy a used book

or new sandwich

she could try

15

and dislike for herself.

I usually enjoyed the coda

of these things, but not now.

Not this waiting. How long

can you stare down the end?

With a cigarette, but no blindfold,

I washed dishes. It took a moment

for me to notice her standing

by the table. Her eyes were red.

There was something else

I should have said,

but thank God for that dot.

Our lives were too unkind

to join and share.

-Dylan Scott

16

I sit and watch the TV

They fall over and over on every channel

People jumping, running, crying

Horror captured on each passing face

The smoke and dust sweep in like a tornado

Twisted metal, paper, bodies falling from the sky

People tell their stories

Grown men cry

We all remember

Each floor collapses one after another

Screams pierce the deafening silence

Fires rage with no water to douse them

Some are trapped under rubble

Mothers, Fathers, Brothers, Sons

Daughters, Friends

Where is Hope

We all remember

Searching for survivors

We All Remember

17

Our flag flying defiantly above the debris

Hand in hand crawling from the wreckage

Confused, afraid, scarred

Blood and tears like a river

Heroes dying for strangers

Thousands lost

We all remember

The towers fell

Our world stopped turning

Images burned into memories

Holding our breath

Praying it was all a dream

Yet we stood stronger

Clutching our loved ones

We all remember

-Mellanee Neeley

18

My breath hangs with the iciclesDripping condensationWhile I trudge through snow driftsAnkle deepAnd giant mounds concealing carsLine what I presume is the road

On the First Snowy Morning of the Year

-Gabriel Doucette

The snow crunches beneath my feetAs I stroll along down the streetTaking a daily walkOn the first snowy morningOf the year

Small animal prints are all aroundSquirrels, cats, and dogsScurrying off to find warm shelterAnd I wonder if they findThe cold air as bracing as I do

But, that is enoughI am coldIt is time to go find my own warm shelterOn the first snowy morningOf the year

19

The rain does not tremble

from the sky, no one

is strolling towards

the seventh green,

and there’s no railroad yard.

The birds are just birds.

I no longer dream

of moving to the Azores,

and buying pineapples

from a cart by my stone

cottage. I’ve forgotten

most of the Portuguese I learned.

If there are more

than 39 pineapples,

I can’t count them.

A ceramic knife is at work

in a lobe of my mind.

This is how to escape.

Temporal

-Dylan Scott

20

I hate the monsters in my closet

and yet

I go on feeding them

I am scared of their shadows in the dark

and yet

I open the closet door some nights

and I let the monsters out for a while

their faces reflect my past

and I know each one

by name

I realize that I need the monsters

and their shadows

and that is why I care for them

despite my own fear

and hatred

they are as children

and do not comprehend enough

Monsters

-Katherine Woessner

to take responsibility for their exis-

tence

hiding in the shadows

of my closet at night

until the time when I no longer need

them

they will be there

haunting my dreams

both invited and uninvited

they exist

and I sometimes join them

in my closet at night

21

Mike DukesCthulhu Summoned

22

Beauty is found in a glistening mouse embryo

Left at the top of the stairs.

Beauty is found in the slip and shine of viscera.

Beauty is found in the blood and feathers

Scattered across the snow.

Beauty is found in the rich black soil

Made by the decaying bodies of loved ones.

Someday, I will be killed by Beauty.

Rejoice in the art, for even at the end, there is

Beauty.

Beauty

-Andrea Gerig

23

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 second online issue in Fall 2012! See our online submissions guidelines at www.fromthewellhouse.org

Come meet the writers and artists at our “Live Issue” in September at the IU Kokomo Art Gallery!

24