VOICES - Black Hawk College

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Of
BHC
Spring 2009

Table of Contents
12:00 AM by Seth Carlson ..........................................................................................3
Wine by Anneliese Amaya..........................................................................................4
Blue by Barb Myers.....................................................................................................7
Heroes by Chris Henshaw...........................................................................................7
Old Dogs by Clarence Wiser.....................................................................................11
Writer’s Block Recipe by Rachel Gorenz................................................................12
Last Dance by Clarence Wiser..................................................................................13
In The Fridge by Mitch Folcik.................................................................................14
Haiku by Kayla Behrens ...........................................................................................14
The Red Dress by Lacey Skorepa.............................................................................15
Bus Stop by Seth Carlson..........................................................................................18
The Snow Dancer by Ashley Lee.............................................................................19
A Warm October Monday by Caressa Clearman ...................................................19
When Writer’s Block Cramps Your Style by Mitch Folcik..................................20
Middle Aged Neighbor Lady Has Caught Me Sunbathing by Maria Fischer .....24
26 Syllables by Maria Fischer ...................................................................................24
Untitled by Brad Henshaw........................................................................................25
Acrostic by Rachel Gorenz .......................................................................................25
Untitled by Jesse Cross .............................................................................................26
Dog Days by Maria Fischer.......................................................................................27
Spontaneously by Chris Henshaw ............................................................................27
The Fishing Trip by Rachel Varner .........................................................................28
Football by Ryan Rivers ...........................................................................................32
My Black Hawk College by Kokou Agbodo ...........................................................33
How My Community College Has Changed My Life by Tonnie Farwell............34
Velvet Lounge by Kayla Behrens .............................................................................35
The Cool Thing About Life by Barb Myers............................................................36
Untitled by Chris Henshaw.......................................................................................37
Not Here by Chris Henshaw .....................................................................................37
The Death Of Uncle Tim by by John Ahern............................................................38
I Am The Girl In The Black Raincoat by Caressa Clearman ................................42
Deviled Eggs by Jenna Bounds .................................................................................43
Andy by Sabrina Gellerstedt .....................................................................................45
Princess Destiny by Jamie Sharp ..............................................................................46
Stepsister by Rachel Gorenz.....................................................................................48
2

12:00 AM
His eyes snap open to the sight
Of light and shadows dancing on his wall
His clock display flashing into eternity
12:00 AM
12:00 AM
12:00 AM
His ears perk up to the sounds
A distant roar like a jet passing overhead
The growing wail of sirens
A barking dog
His dog
What time is it?
His nose twitches to the smell
His eyes begin to water
It’s wood, burning wood
Burning wood
Burning
He runs to his window
Is greeted by orange and yellow light
Illuminating the surrounding night
A roar, now almost deafening
A smell, almost suffocating
Fire
As big as any he’d ever seen
And he thinks to himself
It would be almost beautiful
Were it not his barn.
-Seth Carlson
3

WINE
She pours me another glass of wine. Fills it to the brim and sets
the bottle between us. These nights are rare, as she’s usually absent
from our house. I want to tell her that I miss her, ask her why she’s
never here. Yell at her for putting her “most important” people behind
her career. I want to cry and show her how much I love her.
Yet, nothing comes out at first, like my voice has completely
vacated my body…so I sip my wine. Then, I gulp my wine, hoping that
she’d be the first to speak if I drink improperly. I grab the bottle again,
and pour myself another, look her in the eye and offer another glass.
She mutters a yes and slides her glass in front of mine. We empty that
bottle, and she stumbles to the cupboard to get another.
“When do you leave?” I ask her, while twirling my now empty
glass with my fingers.
“I’m not sure” she replies, tipping her glass upward as to finish the
last drop of wine in her glass.
The house in dark, there’s only a dim light in the living room. She
stares at her glass, as if looking for a conversation topic with me. It’s so
quiet in this kitchen. I can hear the clock ticking the seconds away.
She’s avoiding my stare…and every minute of silence is digging into
me. It’s already eleven o’clock and school starts at eight tomorrow
morning. Senior year is almost over and I can’t wait to graduate. It’d be
more exciting if I knew my mom would be there… I want to show her I
made it through high school, without her. Then, come August I’ll be
driving away from the hell-hole to Florida. I’ll have everything I need,
Nicky in the seat next to me and all our belongings in the back seat.
Waving good-bye to a woman who’ll never accept reality.
“Mmm…”
Shit!
I look over, realizing she’s stumbled into the counter and ripped
her designer dress on the corner. She brings over another bottle and
pours us another glass, my fifth one tonight. I hope she realizes that
this doesn’t exactly qualify as cozy mother-daughter time. An eighteen
year old should not be getting drunk with her mother. That’s not normal,
I think to myself, but I don’t even know what normal is.
“Mom…do you miss us when you’re gone?” It must be the wine
talking, I think, because I never open up this discussion willingly.
“Mm Schweetie, of coursh. I’m a business woman, and I always
mish you.” She slurs between sips.
4

I know my mom as two different people. One, as the shadow of a
mother figure who’s been mostly absent my whole childhood. The
other, that Vogue model who has no family and looks eternally young.
You would never guess this woman is twice as old as her co-models.
Never. This model projects young, and single. But I have a dad. His
name is Tim, and he’s married to my ghost-mom. Yes, my mom, the
model who lives a double life… a double life that only the three of us
know. My dad is a wonderful, strong and intelligent man. Except when
it came to marrying a woman who wanted to keep him a secret for her
career…he’s not the smartest man when it comes to Love. I don’t
exactly know why my Dad hasn’t divorced my mother, but he tells me
that their love is strong and that her career is going to end soon and the
money will let them send me off to college and retire happily together. I
told him when I was fourteen and fell in love with Nicky, that whatever
he and my mother had wasn’t and couldn’t be love.
“You’re going to be at the ceremony right, Mom?”
“Of coursh sweetie, I wouldn’t mish it for the world.”
“I’m gonna try and squeeze it in.” She says, with no emotion, as if
hinting that it’s possible she’ll be a no-show.
I smile and finish my glass. She said that when I got my license,
and it’s what she said when I had my Senior Prom. She wasn’t there for
either of those; she called the day after the dance to wish me a happy
prom. I was hung over, and angry, and I never told her she missed the
actual date.
“Is it worth it?”
“Ish what worth it baby?”
“Not ever being here? Missing my childhood?” I can hear the
twinge of anger in my voice, I should stop and avoid this discussion but
I just can’t keep it in any longer.
“Schweetie, baby, Kristen, I do thish because it was my dream.
The money I earn is wonderful. It’ll send you to college and help me
and your daddy.”
“Honestly, Mom, why do we have to be a secret though? What’s
the big deal? Are you ashamed of us?”
“Nooooooo!” She booms. She gets up and take the wine bottle
and drinks it straight from the bottle itself.
“Yeah, OK. I get it Mother. I hope you think it’s worth it when I
leave, and when I come back I come to see DAD! AND NOT YOU!”
“You better take that back young lady!” She raises the bottle in
the air.
5

“I’ve always been the mommy! I never did anything’ bad!” She
drinks another sip.
I laugh, then I realize how this famous model has been such a
terrible role model for her only daughter. She’s right, she never DID
anything bad…
“Of course not Mom, you’ve never done anything at all!”
“Right. I never did anything’ at alls!” She looks pleased, as if she’s
won this argument again.
I shake my head, and she looks confused. I’ve basically told this
woman that she’s done nothing for me and she’s pleased with this.
After three bottles of wine, she just doesn’t understand what’s exactly
happened here.
“I’m going to bed now,” I announce, as I finish up the last little bit
of my glass. I set in on the table and can feel the rush of wine through
my body, making me dizzy. I stumble up and push my chair in, and can
feel my body stumble up the stairs.
“Drunk ash!” She spits out.
“No Mom, that’s you.” I take a few steps toward my room and look
back down to see what she’s doing; she’s passed out in folded arms on
the table.
“Love you Mom.” I say, as a tear rolls down my cheek.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I can hear the Canon song playing in the auditorium, the
ceremony has officially started. This is the most exciting day of my life
and I’m terrified the lack of my mother’s presence in the room is going
to ruin it for me. My dad said they’d be seated in Section F43 bleachers
on the left hand side. My heart is pounding as my heels click the
floor…and I take the first step through the doors.
There’s clapping, cheering and a few fog horns in the
background. My eyes dart up to section F45, then F44 and finally F43. I
can’t spot a familiar face. I panic and look around in F42 in hopes
maybe they moved closer. Nothing, no familiarity there either.
We take our seats, as I accept the idea that my mother has
missed yet another teenage milestone and it probably won’t even
phase her. Honestly, I doubt that she’ll even remember that I’ve
graduated now. This day, on the 3 rd day of June.
My principal says a few words and then announces our
motivational speaker.
“I’m so very proud of all you students, for making it so far in your
lives thus far. I want to introduce someone who’s extremely successful
6

in her career, who’s here to remind you all how important it is to keep in
touch with loved ones while away at school.”
“Hello students, Good afternoon family and friends…”
The voice is familiar. I’m still focused on F43 staring hard to find
my Dad, at least. My eyes dart up to the podium. My mouth drops.
“My name is Christine Marshall, as you all know, and I’m a model
for Vogue Line. You might think it’s weird to see me up here right now
but, I have a person very important to me graduating here today.
Kristen, honey, my only daughter, could you stand up please?”
My heart is racing, I don’t know whether to be happy and excited
or extremely shocked and embarrassed. I feel my ankles buckle as I try
and stand up.
Maybe it’s not too late for us. Maybe, just maybe, she’s realized
her mistakes in time. Missing childhood is terrible, but missing
someone’s entire life is, well, just sad. Maybe tonight Dad will come
and share a glass of wine with us, and maybe tonight… we’ll all talk.
--Anneliese Amaya
BLUE
HEROES
Have you ever seen the color blue,
Really see it in all its hues?
Feel its coolness in the winter frost
A blue jay’s squawk on a spring day’s walk
Taste its sorrow in a Blues harmony
See its depth in the deep blue sky
Smell its warmth in a fresh blueberry pie
Have you ever seen the color blue,
Watch as it is diffused
Into all its blue hues?
-Barb Myers
I’ve been on those buses, the ones with the tinted windows. They
take ordinary people to planes, and the planes take them to war, and if
they live, they come back as heroes. Changed forever. Stronger.
Purged.
I stood there under the black morning sky and counted our squad
as they loaded up, slapping each shoulder as it passed. My wife
7

waited nearby with the crowd of families that had come to see their
boys off to war. They milled about and sipped coffee out of Styrofoam
cups and tried to look proud.
I thought that this was what heroes did, left their families behind to
cope, while glory was won in the sand, or the narrow stone streets of
ancient towns full of smoke and death, with blood running down cement
stairs. I thought that someday my boy would be proud of me, even if
now, he stood tired and confused, leaning up against his mother’s thigh
in the chilly dark when he should have been in bed. I swallowed my
pain, and tried not to see the blank look on his face, or the way my wife
chewed her lip, and swayed from side to side with our baby in her
arms. I counted my squad, and adjusted my pack.
“Fill it in from the rear!” I yelled like a good NCO, showing off for
my wife. Marines learn to fill buses up from the rear in boot camp, and
they never forget it. They cram in like lemmings looking for a cliff inside
the back of a bottle. They don’t need to be told. They just do it
automatically.
This going away thing was not new to us. My wife and older boy
had stood outside of those buses before and watched me disappear
inside. They had said goodbye as I went away for three months to
Marine Corps Boot Camp, and then three more months of combat
training and field artillery school. Even after all of this, when we were
back together again, there were the countless field exercises. Not to
mention my seven month deployment to Okinawa, Japan. I had been
absent for a good third of my son’s short life.
My wife could already see the small empty condo over in Base
Housing, and how it would look when she opened the door with her
clutching children in the early dawn. She could see the empty chair at
the supper table that evening. She could feel the vacant space beside
her in the bed.
My boy knew that Mommy would cry at night when she thought he
was asleep, and he knew that his Daddy would be gone forever.
Seven months is forever to a four year old with a baby brother and a
Mom who is always sad, but tries to act not sad.
But it was all for a purpose. It was all worth it. This was war.
This was Iraq. Freedom wasn’t free, and I was paying the price, and so
was my family, and some day they would thank me. I was perfectly
willing to leave them behind for the opportunity to kill another human
being in the service of my country.
Government sanctioned murder, I could hardly wait.
8

I found my seat on the bus, and put my M16 muzzle down on the
floor beside me. We counted heads, took roll, gave First Sergeant the
thumbs up as he poked his head in the door, and put our knees on the
seat in front of us.
I pulled out my ipod, and inserted the ear buds, looking out the
opaque window at my wife as the brakes hissed and the bus lurched
into gear. She was smiling, crying, and waving the baby’s arm. My
four year old put his hand up, palm out, in a forlorn gesture.
I put my hand against the glass like all the heroes do. My family
couldn’t see a thing. I leaned back into my seat, and went into my
warrior mode. Four years later bits and pieces of it still cling to me like
leeches.
The only thing I killed over there were a few disease ridden dogs.
We got into one firefight, but the insurgents broke and ran,
seeking shelter in a stone farm house. A supporting tank rolled up and
put a heat round through the wall. End of story. The tankers got the
kill; we got a pat on the back, and a combat action ribbon.
I lived through a few mortar barrages and had some close calls.
Our squad had a mortar round land slap in the middle of us on a patrol.
It didn’t explode. We marked the spot on our GPS and came back the
next day to take pictures. It had blown up in the night, leaving a
shallow indentation in the dirt with a handful of shrapnel in its cusp.
I lived through quite a bit of 120mm Soviet rocket attacks, the kind
that shake your hardened bunker and make the dust and grit sift down
from the ceiling. We crouched up against the wall and laughed. We
laughed when we were scared. We were always laughing. But we
were not heroes. Nor were we becoming heroes.
I took to sleeping outdoors on the roof. I slept through a couple of
mortar attacks, but my buddies let me sleep because the rounds were
impacting 50 meters short. Besides, I usually woke up fighting, and
they didn’t feel like dodging my boots or elbows.
We were all a little crazy by the end of our deployment. We were
like a pack of deranged wolves. How can you sleep with a rifle for
seven months, never know when you are going to drive over a bomb,
or when one is going to come screaming out of the sky like a tortured
horse, and be normal at the end of it all?
We finally got on the planes. We were all still alive, at least
outwardly. We hadn’t lost anybody. We were coming home. And I
hadn’t gotten my kill. I hadn’t saved a buddy’s life. I hadn’t carried
anyone to safety under fire. I had either slept through it, or laughed
through it, or just been plain lucky.
9

The buses pulled up beside the crowd of people as they cheered.
They gave us a heroes’ welcome. We knew better.
I got off the bus a different person than I had been seven months
before.
Traffic made me want to ram other cars off the road.
I punched holes in the wall.
I could sleep through a thunder storm, but a slammed door or a
dropped toilet lid would send me over the edge, and leave me
trembling with rage, cursing into my teeth, and leaning up against the
shower wall weak with the blood that pounded in my ears.
One day, while driving to the store in my personally owned
vehicle, I reached over to feel for my M16. It should have been there. I
didn’t feel right without it.
My baby hated me for six months. He would kick me if I
came too near, so I stopped coming near. My wife worried silently as
the demons drug their chains across the floor of my mind.
My oldest boy clung to me like a ghost. I remember his gut
wrenching alarm when he saw me getting into my “cammies” to go
back to work, the first day after leave. He thought that I was going
away again. He looked as if he had been stabbed in the stomach. I
remember kneeling down, and hugging him as he sobbed into my neck,
and promising him that I would never leave again. That was when I
decided to get out of the Marine Corps. It was full of emptiness and
fear; broken families and shattered children.
At that moment I realized that it was too late. I had become the
perfect Marine. I hated myself. I hated my job. I hated my life, and I
hated other Marines. I had become what I had always said I would
never be: a mean, vengeful, bitter Sergeant, ripe for promotion, where I
could then cause the misery of all those beneath me, just as my senior
staff NCOs had done to me. I was losing the ability to love and cherish.
I was a good Marine, and I am proud of that, but I am not, nor
have I ever been, a hero.
I am recovering still, after three years of civilian life. I’ve only
punched one hole in the wall of our “new” home. I don’t yell much
anymore. I don’t shoo my family through doors in anger because they
are moving too slowly. I did walk into the sliding doors at Wal-Mart
once, though. The sensor was not quick enough. Doors are a
dangerous place to hang around in when you are clearing a room.
The squeak of the big spring on the inside of a porta-john door at
the air show instantly puts me back in Iraq. What is it about doors with
me?
10

I have a phobia about flies. That will never go away. One zipped
into my mouth and down my airway while standing guard at a water
supply point. I tried to retch until my spittle was bloody. My fellow
Marine got a kick out of it, and happily told me that there was no way I
could vomit a fly out of my lungs. It was just protein, he said. Protein
with poop all over it.
Up until this summer, 2008, I did not go anywhere without wearing
a knife. I quit my knife cold turkey, on purpose. I felt helpless, and
weak without it. Vulnerable. I still miss it sometimes. In fact, while my
wife and kids were on vacation in Colorado, a few months ago, there
were some nights when I slept with a fixed blade fighting knife tied to
my wrist by a lanyard. I liked its company.
I am learning to deal with traffic.
My baby, now five years old, is my best buddy, and demands
bedtime stories almost every night with the confidence of a small king.
My other best buddy, now seven, shyly asks me to pray with him
before bedtime every night. I am so proud that he trusts me, and feels
comfortable enough to come to me with such an intimate father-son
thing like praying together. I am teaching him to play chess. He
worships me in such an open way, it hurts.
My wife is genuinely happy. She is not afraid of me, or for me.
We are still in love.
I know that I have much to learn, and that I have not yet arrived.
But I do know one thing: serving your country, and living through a few
close scrapes does not make a hero out of you. And, if you go looking
for glory, all you will find is the bottom of your soul; and it will be a
horrible well full of dead men’s bones.
True heroes are those who are always there for their family. They
have come to know that family is all that matters.
My family is everything to me. I will always be there for them. I
will raise my kids, be true to my wife, and work like a dog if that is what
it takes to meet their needs. But I will never leave them. And maybe
someday when I have completely healed, I will be worthy of being
called a hero. But until then, my only goal in life is to just be, Dad.
-Chris Henshaw
OLD DOGS
I sit in my room,
Looking.
Winters recent glory
Glistens under morning rays.
11

An old dog appears
I had not seen him lately.
His scraggly black coat,
Graying chin whiskers impose
Upon the fallen whiteness.
He no longer jumps,
Frolics about, tumbling.
But noses his way down
Now cleaned sidewalks.
One foot then another and
another
Until all have experienced
The cold plowed surface.
Slowly he moves,
Sniffing about
As he goes. Soon a fire hydrant
A lifted leg.
While I,
With trembling hand,
Put pen to paper.
Still, I have hope
-Clarence Wiser
WRITER’S BLOCK RECIPE
Begin with a blank computer screen. Proceed to stare at it. Continue
staring until your frustration has clouded your vision - the screen should
turn reddish and hazy. Slam your hand on the keyboard. Delight in the
gibberish now on the screen - it’s not blank anymore! Reluctantly push
“delete.” Repeat process.
-Rachel Gorenz
12

LAST DANCE
Ghost dancers
move about the edge
of fallen day
their shadows telling
the coming darkness
Drum beats talk the victory
of crazy Horse,
Little Big Horn,
about the dying fire.
Dancers dance to the drums
speaking the words,
the words carried on the wind.
Hope, ritual, collide
in primal prayer to the
ancestors,
to the Sacred Buffalo.
I was there.
did you hear
me beating the drum,
calling the ancestors
and the buffalo
from cracks in the earth?
Ghost dancers , dancing the
return of the Fathers
and the Sacred Buffalo.
Drums beating the victory song,
telling the great stand
of the Arapaho, the Sioux
and the mighty Cheyenne
at Little Big Horn
where blue coats
turned to red.
And soldiers scattered about
rotting under mid-day sun.
I was there.
Did you see
me fall
to your glory
when the winds did not blow?
The fire stilled,
pride, hope burned out,
nations muted,
a nation smutted
in the blemished snow
at Wounded Knee.
Did you know me?
I was there.
-Clarence Wiser
13

IN THE FRIDGE
The milk nudged forward, towards the door. “Well,” he said. “It’s been a
pleasure, guys.”
The rest of them could hear, and knew it was true. It was morning,
breakfast time -- a glance at the gallon who had made their lives so
healthy for the past thirty hours told the story. He had one more bowl of
cereal left in him, maybe a final swig after that.
“Oh, come on,” the soda said. “Maybe they’ll have omelets.”
The eggs murmured amongst each other.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean -- ”
The mayo shook her head. “It’s just so sad. They expire so fast.”
“I know,” the ketchup replied.
“Rhye, Rhilk!”
“Rheah, Rhye!”
“Rhice Rhoing Rhou!”
The apples were hard to understand -- they were kept in the
crisper.
Meanwhile, in the back of the refrigerator, the baking soda was
quiet. He had seen many a-gallon come and go, and knew it was the
way of the world. But he didn’t like it. It wasn’t right. And he had been
thinking. “Excuse me,” he said.
There was a collective hush.
“I think there may be another way.”
-Mitch Folcik
Here is a bit of story just begging for you to finish it. Does the
baking soda have a plan? Will the milk be saved?
HAIKU
The sun-filled fish swims
Living a lazy life
Never making a memory.
-Kayla Behrens
14

THE RED DRESS
She stepped out of the shower and into the bath of steam that
immediately surrounded her and lingered there. Wrapping herself in a
towel she breathed in the steamy air and let it out on a sigh. She
carefully stepped over to her mirror and placed her palm against the
cool moist glass moving her hand in a back and forth motion until she
could see her own reflection in the glass. She looked in the mirror and
saw him leaning against the doorway.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough," he replied
"Yeah, well you're late."
He walked over to her, wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled
her ear. "Never," he said. "Never late Lily, always early." She smiled
and let herself fall into him as he started to sway.
"Lily," he sang, "my beautiful Lily Rose, my beautiful Lily." He
kissed her along her neck.
"Stop it Jake," laughed Lily, "or we'll be late."
His eyebrow made a sharp point and he struggled to keep his
face straight. "I thought I was already late?"
"Ok, ok. Stop it or you will make me late. I'm not even dressed
yet."
"I know." He smiled and turned her toward the mirror. "But I think
the towel is sexy. It'll work."
"Ha, ha very funny," she stuck her bottom lip out and pouted.
He kissed that pouty lip. "You better tuck that in or a bird may
come along." He tugged on her arm and she followed him out of the
bathroom; she always followed him. She'd follow him anywhere, he
thought, and that made him frown momentarily. "Come on," he
wrapped his arm around her shoulder, "Let's get some clothes on you."
She followed him into their bedroom. She paused in front of his
closet and turned to look at him. He always looked so good in his black
suit. "You know, I love that suit on you." She ran her fingers down his
lapel and across his chest.
"I know you do, love, but we don't have time for what you're
thinking; we have to get you dressed, remember?"
"I know," she said on an exasperated sigh.
She went to her closet and slid back the doors. He sat down on
the bed to watch her. She's so beautiful, he thought, all he wanted to
15

do was touch her. She whipped around and held out a little black dress
that came to just above the knee. It had long tight sleeves and fanned
out a little at the hem.
"How about this one?" she asked.
He shook his head and went to the closet, and she stepped back
to let him rummage. He turned around holding a red satin dress,
sleeveless, and with black velvet trim. He wiggled his eyebrows, "How
about this one? You know it is my favorite."
"Oh, I don't know Jake. I'm not really sure it is appropriate."
"Come on, for me?"
She laughed and quickly went to him to kiss his cheek. "Ok," she
whispered into his ear, "You know I'd do anything for you."
He grimaced at this. He quickly kissed the top of her head. "I
know Lily," he closed his eyes, "I love you so much baby, so very, very
much." He held her tight for a moment just breathing in her scent. "Ok.
You get dressed and meet me on the patio. We’ll have a glass of wine
before it’s time to go. How does that sound?"
"Mmmm. It sounds perfect."
She dressed quickly, wanting to have as many precious minutes
with him alone as possible before Karen would show up. As she
walked through the house everything was silent. She paused by the
couch to slip into her heels. That was when she heard the music.
"Moon River" had always been their song. She hurried through the
sliding doors leading out and there stood Jake holding out for her a
glass of wine.
"You've never looked more beautiful than you do right now," he
said.
She stood their holding his hand and basking in his words.
"Dance with me."
"Of course," she replied.
He carried his and her glass of wine over to their stone patio table
and set them down. When he turned around she was waiting for him to
come back. She was always waiting for him, he thought; he wondered
if she always would. He put one arm around her waist and with his
other he clasped her hand. To their song, they twirled around and
around stopping her and there for a kiss.
She loved dancing with him. In fact she couldn't imagine dancing
with anyone else ever -- not that she would ever want to. As he whirled
her around and around their patio she realized she had to ask. They
16

were reaching the end of the song and he dipped her low and his lips
touched hers and they kissed. She kissed him with everything that was
in her.
When the song was over he went back to the table to retrieve the
wine glasses. When he turned around he knew it had come. In her
eyes he saw the hesitation, the fear. He straightened and crossed
quickly to her knowing the time had come. He handed her the glass of
wine.
"Jake?"
"Yes Lily?"
"Why did you have to leave to go on that last trip?"
"It was work, Lily; I had to go. I'll make it up to you someday, I
promise."
She started twisting the wine glass around in her hand; he could
tell she was getting angry. "You work too much Jake, always have.
Just once Jake. Just once I asked you not to go and look what
happened."
"It is what it is Lily, I can't change what happened."
Lily started to hyperventilate, then she started to cry, then she
started to scream.
"You left me, I told you not to go and look what happened!"
"I know Lily. I'm so very sorry. You know I love you."
She slapped him then, "No you don't! You don't love me! If you
loved me you wouldn't have left me!" She pounded on his chest with
her fists. He didn't try to stop her. When she had exhausted herself
she crumbled to the cement floor and cried. Every time he heard one
of those cries his heart broke for her a little more. He leaned down and
kissed her on her head, "I'm going to be late, Lily. You know that I love
you."
"Don't leave me Jake! I Love You! Don't Leave Me!"
Their front door opened and was slammed shut. "Lily?" A female
voice shouted. Lily vaguely recognized the voice as Karen's.
"Lily? Lily! Oh my God Lily what are you doing out here. Oh
Jesus," Karen cried. "Lily, what happened? Lily please talk to me!
Say something."
Lily mumbled through her tears, "Jake, Jake is here. He was right
here!"
Karen's own eyes filled with tears and she looked back at her
friend and stroked her hair. "Lily? Lily, listen to me. Look at me Lily,"
17

she tilted Lily's face up so she could look her in the eyes. She had to
make sure she understood. "Lily? Jake is dead." She watched as Lily
vehemently shook her head and she felt her own tears start to fall.
"Yes, Lily, he is. Your husband is dead. He died last week, in a plane
crash. He was on his way home from Sacramento, from a business
trip, and his plane went down. Do you understand?"
Lily sat motionless sobbing silently. She no longer seemed
capable of words.
"Come on honey," said Karen, "let's get you into that black dress I
bought for you the other day. Come on sweetie, we gotta hurry and get
you changed or we are going to be late."
As she helped Lily from the ground Lily pulled away from her. Lily
couldn't seem to look Karen in the eyes, she was seeing something no
one else could see, but strength had returned to her voice.
"I am ready to go Karen. This is what I am wearing."
Karen sighed, "Come on sweetie, that red thing is not appropriate.
What will people think?"
"I don't care what people will think Karen. This was Jake's
favorite dress. This is the one he wanted me to wear." She looked
Karen directly in the eye and Karen shuddered. "I am wearing this
dress, period. Now," she sighed and her eyes again focused, again, on
something only she could see, "let's go Karen or I will be late; and I
won't be late to bury my husband."
-Lacey Skorepa
BUS STOP
The moonlight reflects on the snow
Headlights wash by us in waves
Our breath in wisps floats away
Our cheeks glow red from the bitter cold
And the bus is late by an hour
But none of it matters to me at all
When I’m
With
You.
-Seth Carlson
18

THE SNOW DANCER
Her skin is pale; lightly blue
hair frozen in gentle waves:
Cascading beauty
down her back.
The moves that she makes say
she
will never hold back. Her grace
is present in all
that she does.
It is apparent most in
the snow that she brings. She
glides
quietly after
each snowflake.
Winter waltzing to the sound
only she can hear, she moves
and sways.
A full turn one last
time, allowing for
one small sigh.
It leaves her baby blue lips
when she sees her beautiful
partner slide away in
Silver Lake.
-Ashley Lee
A WARM OCTOBER MONDAY
There should be a warm October Monday
Celebrating me.
Children should not have school.
Government offices should be closed.
People could take the time to reflect
On history.
Recall who we are and how we got here.
The decisions that were made… let’s face it
Some were not so good. But--
What is the point of making mistakes
If we don’t learn from them?
I don’t blame you.
You had no idea they would use your name
To lie to the children,
to create some sense of National pride.
It angers me.
Given the choice, I still would’ve loved my country.
It’s my home.
So I propose a warm October Monday
Celebrating Me.
After all, we have the same initials
And I didn’t discover America either.
--Caressa Clearman
19

THIS IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN WRITER’S BLOCK CRAMPS YOUR
STYLE
or
Forget Writer’s Block, Plow Through It!
He was seated at his computer desk, hands on the keyboard. “I
hope this turns into a story.” he wrote. “Because I’ve tried like hell for
the past two weeks to write one, but I can’t––which puts a serious
damper on my hopes and dreams. I want to be a writer, see, or at least
that’s what I’ve been telling people for the past few years, and in order
to do that I need to be able to write on command. The problem is, I
can’t.”
He sat back, and breathed a heavy sigh.
Meet Mitch Folcik, a twenty-three year old bartender and junior
college student who has no idea his world is about to be turned upside
down. He is about to take an incredible journey of brevity and lunacy, a
strange combination, to be sure. But sometimes strange is normal,
especially when one finds oneself bartending one’s way through junior
college, in the Twilight Zone.
He paused. “The Twilight Zone?” he thought. “Can I do that? I
mean, do copyright infringement laws really apply to junior college
students?”
Probably not, he decided. Besides, there was another problem.
“And wait,” he thought. “Aren’t I operating from all three points of view?”
He looked over what he had written. And yes, he was. It was a
logistical nightmare.
He shrugged. “Well,” he wrote. “It’s a start.”
“Damn right,” a voice said.
He nodded. “But we need to control ourselves,” he wrote, “before
this gets confusing. After all, we don’t want our readers to be put off by
anything unorthodox.” His face went slack. “Wait,” he thought. “Who
are we?”
The room was silent. “That’s strange,” he wrote. “Anyway, if I want
my story to be good, I have to plan and execute. Stories are like
houses, they’re built from the ground up. You have to pour the
concrete, build the foundation, and wire it up before you move in and
start decorating the place (or using the bathroom).” He paused, the hint
of a smile hovering about his lips. “That’s good,” he thought. “But how
am I supposed to do that?”
He sat back, and pondered the question.
20

Ah, yes. The fledgling writer, struggling for ideas. Little does he
know, ideas are about to come––ideas that will lead to other ideas,
which will lead to other ideas still. For ideas are like questions, in the
Twilight Zone.
He paused. “Questions?” he thought. “Does that make any sense?
I mean, do questions really lead to other questions?”
Yes, he decided. They did; answers be damned.
“Wait,” a voice said. “Where are you going with this?”
“I don’t know,” he wrote. “It’s late. I’ve been drinking. Hell, I have
more in The Recycle Bin than I have in the actual story.”
“You can’t use that,” a voice said.
“Sure I can,” he wrote. “They know what it is. I fucked up last time,
forgot to delete it. Felt like an idiot, too.”
“Okay,” a voice said. “First, that’s not what I’m talking about.
Second, just calm down.”
“No,” he wrote. “I won’t calm down. I’ve had enough of this. This is
bullshit. I can’t do this. You know, I probably meant to leave that stupid
‘Recycle Bin’ in last time, show everybody what a great writer I was.
Ooh, look at me! I have a Recycle Bin! I take this seriously!”
“You’re making an ass out of yourself,” a voice said.
“Fuck you,” he wrote. “Look, I did it again, just now. Ooh, ‘I have
more in The Recycle Bin than I have in the actual story,’ such a
professional!”
“Nobody would have noticed that if you hadn’t pointed it out,” a
voice said. “And it doesn’t matter, anyway. This belongs in The
Recycle Bin. You should have a Recycle Bin.”
He paused.
“Delete it,” a voice said. “Go back and do it right.”
“No,” he thought. “Keep going. This is good.”
“Okay,” he wrote. “What the hell is going on here?”
“I don’t know,” he thought. “But it makes a certain amount of
sense.”
“No,” a voice said. “It doesn’t. It’s fucked. It can’t stand on its own–
–nobody but the people who have read your first story will have any
idea what you’re talking about.”
“Now they will,” he thought. “A general idea, at least.”
“Okay,” he wrote. “I’m confused.”
“Besides,” he thought. “There’s nothing logistically wrong with the
first two paragraphs.”
21

“Yes, there is,” a voice said.
“No there isn’t,” he wrote.
“You stay out of this,” a voice said. “Listen to me. This is no good.
This is nonsense. You can’t bring reality into fiction like this. There’s no
need for it. This isn’t about you.”
“Of course it’s about me,” he thought. “Everything I write is about
me.”
“I’ve noticed,” a voice said. “But if you want to have success as a
writer, you’re going to have to get over that hump. You’ve got to learn
to characterize, plot, structure––build the story from the ground up.
What kind of writer do you want to be?”
“A great one!” he thought.
He smiled. “Great,” a voice said. “And you can be, but this isn’t the
way to do it. You have to work at it. You can’t just sit down and type,
willy nilly, whatever thoughts come flying into your head.”
“Why not?” he thought.
“Because,” a voice said. “It just––it doesn’t work that way!”
“Why not?” he thought.
“Very funny,” a voice said. “But I’m serious. This isn’t going
anywhere.”
“Yes it is,” he thought.
“No, it isn’t,” a voice said. “And get control of your damn commaplacement,
would you?”
“What if I don’t?”
“I swear to God,” a voice said.
“What?” he thought.
“Okay,” he wrote. “Come on, guys.”
“Are you threatening me?” he thought. “Because I’ll kill you.”
“Bring it on,” a voice said.
“Okay,” he wrote. “This has got to stop.”
He stopped. “I need a fucking break.”
Too bad, kid. Truth be told, there are no breaks, in the Twilight
Zone.
“Whoa!” he thought. “That’s awesome!”
“No,” a voice said. “It’s not. It makes no sense.”
“Sure it does!” he thought. “Think of the implications!”
“I don’t want to,” a voice said. “They don’t matter. Look, just
because you somehow managed to turn this thing around and make it
into a story doesn’t mean anything. You still have no idea how you did
22

it.”
“So what?” he thought. “I did it! It’s a story! You can’t not admit that
it is!!”
“THAT’S A DOUBLE NEGATIVE, YOU DIMWIT!” a voice cried.
And that was when his thoughts became real. They jumped out of
his eyes, towards the desk. He tried to move his hands, but he couldn’t.
His thoughts landed atop his knuckles, rolling like ninjas over his
fingers, flowing out of him, towards the computer, where a voice was
waiting, a voice he had longed to shut the hell up, and the ninjathoughts
wielded their samurai swords and found the voice and in
tandem slit its throat.
And the voice gurgled, trying to speak, and fell back, away from the
computer, landing with a hollow thud. And one ninja-thought came
forth, above the rest, and sheathing its samurai sword looked down
upon the dying voice. “You deserved this,” was the ninja-thought. “You
knew damn-well there was nothing wrong with those first two
paragraphs.”
He stopped. “Whoa,” he wrote. “That was unexpected.”
And so it ends. Another mystery unsolved, another disappointing
story written, another assignment completed on time, in the Twilight
Zone.
-Mitch Folcik
23

THE MIDDLE AGED NEIGHBOR LADY HAS CAUGHT ME
SUNBATHING
She comes over here
to talk about double coupon days,
like she always does,
and the size of her spaniel's shit,
but her eyes, this time,
are on my thighs,
over my ass,
past the padding in the bikini bra,
back to the stomach for a second look,
never facing the face
she knows so well
from the window.
She has joked
with her bingo group
about the dyke next door,
complained about the people that come and go,
loud parties, loud politics, loud red dye
"all over her goddamn head, like
some kind of cardinal."
She pulls at the nasty elastic
in her polyester peddle pushers,
sets a belly jiggle free,
says, "Maybe I'll get some sun
today, too."
-Maria Fischer
26 SYLLABLES
I think I was waiting
for our friendship to end
from the very beginning.
The best of my poems are short.
-Maria Fischer
24

UNTITLED
the highest trees
in the mountains
are the little firs
that march alone
across the moss
gnarled
by tons of winter snow
fed
by the barest
of summer minerals
drenched in sunshine
blasted by frost
wrapped in clouds
and sprinkled
from a clear blue sky
-Brad Henshaw from manuscript
reformatted by Chris Henshaw, used by permission
ACROSTIC
A clustering of
Letters and numbers, creating only
Gibberish
Ensuring total confusion
Building frustration
Reducing patience
All in one math problem
-Rachel Gorenz
25

The next three pieces are the winning poetry entries in the Black Hawk
College Student Writers Event.
UNTITLED
Counting stars that will never move
I ask the setting sun to float at sea
it sinks like iron, or like a god’s voice
who sternly demands, 'Stay right where you are'
Though my fingers probe the overhang
I know I’m looking for more substance
you know if you look at us close enough
it ends up we’re all like swiss cheese
Oh, I can feel our lives ending
the worst part about the clock is
he tells you exactly when he died
jeering, ‘Someday, you’ll stop ticking’
But even a dead clock is right
twice a day
But I heard the earth is slowing down
and one day it’ll stop turning
everybody will know exactly when
when the earth finally died
When the sun dies too, it’ll float
It’ll grasp the edge of itself and pull
you know, it’s looking for more substance
by the end, we’ll all be like swiss cheese
-Jesse Cross
26

DOG DAYS
My daily rituals are a dog,
shitty smelling and gray.
They control every minute of the day:
now read, now eat, now feed my jaws
the friendships one gnaws
when lonely. Now throw stones.
Now criticize. Now diet until your bones
are my new playthings and my moans
are as much a part of me as my mighty paws.
And when a break in routine roars
through your log book like a great storm cloud,
then I, your dog, proceed with snuffs and sniffs
and twenty "if's," putting you on the cliffs
of indecision and barking out loud.
I'm proud to keep you leashed. It's late June
and you're no Anne Morrow Lindberg walking a dune.
You're my master singing my tune.
And I rest my watchful head on my mighty paws
and keep you from the free feeling shores,
so quiet, so quiet, with your dreams and my snores.
-Maria Fischer
SPONTANEOUSLY
he caught himself laughing
in the mirror
from across the room
at some secret joke
and noticed that his smile
was so wide
that it stretched his nose
out of shape
where it met his face.
he was surprised
by the small residues
27
of happiness
that had survived him
after all these years,
blooming suddenly
in candid sprouts
within the desert of his being
and then wilting
as quickly as they had appeared
under the heat of his own
censure.
-Chris Henshaw

THE FISHING TRIP
The windows were down and a balmy summer breeze whirled
about the dumpy old pick-up. Jack was busy loading her bed with
terribly neglected fishing gear. He had just packed two open-reels
tangled with yellowing string and rusty worm-coated hooks. He had
methodically inspected a large tackle box that smelled of finely aged
stink-bait. It contained all of the essential fishing supplies such as
bobbers, sinkers, hooks, and a pair of pliers to reclaim their riggings
from over-eager catfish. As Jack loaded the snack cooler his mind
fastidiously sketched the details of this day. None of these actions
were new to Jack. This trip had been planned and postponed
countless times and Jack was well aware that time was about to
swallow them up in its merciless jaws. Today there would be no cell
phones to make last minute calls to corporate about the meeting on
Monday. Jack told nobody where he was going. There would be no
distractions. There could be no excuses…not today.
Daniel watched Jack quietly through the torn screen door. His eyes
were filled with delight. He stepped onto the front porch and hollered
excitedly, “Is the truck packed? Are we ready to go fishin’?”
Jack could barely hold his composure, “Yah, the truck’s packed.
Let’s hit the road.”
“Yah, let’s hit the road,” Daniel agreed as he scuttled to the pickup.
He yanked the handle of the old Ford. The hinges pleaded for W-
D 40 as he pulled the door open. He plopped his rump on the dusty
seat cover and was distracted for a moment by the particles that
danced in the sunlight. Then he grinned with proclamation, “We’re
going fishin’ today and I’m gonna catch me a big‘n.”
Jack replied optimistically, “Absolutely! A ten-pounder at least.”
They started off down the long and pitted gravel driveway. The
old pick-up smelled of abandon. It reprimanded its passengers for
years of neglect with every bump in the road. This truck had towed
farm equipment, carried building materials, and hauled many seasons
of firewood…but it had been a long time since it had been put to any
good use. Daniel tapped his feet on the chunky black floor-mats,
“Where we goin’,?” he asked. “You got a good fishin’ hole picked out?”
Jack placed his hand on his face and pretended to mull over the
question. He had known where they would go since he was a boy.
After giving the matter the sufficient pause he responded, “I think we

should try a place that my Pop mentioned when I was just a boy. He
said that the fish bite good at Corbin’s Slough. Never even get a
chance to set your pole down.”
“That sounds perfect!” exclaimed Daniel.
During the rest of the drive they were silent. Daniel was fixed on
the thought of fish over-flowing a white five-gallon bucket and grinned
at the images his mind drew. Jack’s thoughts were in a different place.
His images were focused on a past that never quite came to fruition.
The closer they got to that old slough, the more powerfully Jack
contemplated what force had prevented him and his father from making
this trip. Life was busy…grown-up life is perpetually busy, but why
couldn’t they squeeze in a few hours just once? Why couldn’t they
have been busy fishing? No matter how Jack twisted his memory he
could find no rationalization for the time they let slip away. Today Jack
was determined to make amends for all of the “too busy” grown-up
time.
When they reached the slough Jack brought the pick-up to an
abrupt stop on the slippery gravel sending a cloud of yellow country dirt
billowing about the cab. The sound of tires skidding on loose rock
ripped them each from their ponderings. Daniel slipped out of the tall
truck as the door noisily reiterated its plea for oil. His gaze was set
upon the still, marshy waters of Corbin’s Slough. To the south, long
legged white birds waded amidst lofty marsh grass. To the north, a
cove of mature trees hung over the sloped banks making the water
appear as black as a pot of day old coffee. There were two large
boulders at the east end of the slough. They looked as if they had
been artificially positioned in that spot years ago strictly for the most
determined, weary fishermen to rest their stubborn bones. Jack and
Daniel ceremoniously unloaded the pick-up. They hauled their cargo to
the big boulders and began to ready their poles. Jack untangled the
aging lines. Daniel squinched his face at the smell as he dug through
the tattered old tackle box for just the right apparatus to catch his
“big’n”. When they were finished, Jack and Daniel peered into the
black water and considered what monster of a fish awaited their
offerings. Finally they cast their poles and waited patiently for the first
nibble.
Nearly fifteen minutes of restless silence was broken with a
question that Jack did not expect. “What was your Pop like?” Daniel
29

asked. Jack was not certain how he should answer it. This question
was not to be taken lightly. Not today.
“My father was a busy man.” Jack was a bit surprised by the
words he spoke. This was not the time for excuses. This was not the
time for half-truths. Jack needed to tell Daniel what he thought about
his father. His soul ached to say the words. “My father was…he spent
a lot of time working. Yes, he was a hard-working man. He took good
care of his family”. Jack spoke all of these things, but all he wanted
was to scream out. . . .
That son-of-a-bitch promised to take me fishing! I waited so
patiently for him to take me. I rigged the lines, I loaded the truck, I
prepared and packed snacks, and I undid all of it more times than
I can count. I always did my chores without prompting. I took
care of my little brothers and sisters when Mom left us. I did
everything he ever asked of me. I deserved one day, one
promise fulfilled. Why did he have to put things off until…it was
too late? I needed him…to take me…I needed…him.
Jack was cast back twenty-five years with one simple convoluted
question. So many nights Jack had sobbed for time lost. Too many
years his heart had been filled with discord. As he grew up he found
himself almost completely disconnecting from his father. But today he
knew that he must release those feelings that had so driven him. He
must use today to move past the past. “My pop was busy, just like
me.” Jack said, exhausted from his mental banter. He tried to keep a
strong face, but his eyes held the sting of his pain. It was evident even
to Daniel that there was much more to his story.
Just as silence began to take them again, Jack had a bite. Jack’s
line snapped tight. “You got one! Pull it in! Pull it in!” Daniel chanted.
As the fish tugged the line, Jack was grappled back into the moment.
Jack played the fish, tired him out, and reeled him in. It was a
wondrous battle. It was just as he’d imagined it would be. Jack burst
with exclamation, “I caught him! I finally caught him! Look Dad…”
Jack was uncertain whose face revealed more bother by those
words.
Daniel turned to look at Jack and said, “Oh son, you did it. You
finally caught the big’n.” Daniel’s eyes were awake to the truth. Jack
could see them searching the past and finally stopping with all the
necessary information to continue. Then Daniel spoke with a
somberness that Jack had never heard. “I can never prove to you the
30

anguish that I have endured for all those years of empty promises. I
am so very sorry that I made you feel insignificant. You were the best
son, and I was the worst father. I made many excuses, especially
when we lost your mom. In spite of it all, you’ve done it. You’ve
proven that even a busy man can make time for a father/son fishing
trip, even if the father first must become an old man, out of his mind
with age.”
Jack took his father into his arms and sobbed. They shared one
moment. Then Daniel’s eyes became glazed and again, he was lost to
their history.
Daniel never regained his memories after that day at Corbin’s
Slough. The doctors said was a miracle that he had recovered them at
all, given the progression of the disease. Jack took leave from work
and remained in his childhood home to care for his father until his last
breath. During their final days together they spent many evenings at
Corbin’s Slough perched upon those misplaced boulders. It became
their church. Jack reflected graciously upon the gift that he received
during their first fishing trip and Daniel finally got himself a big’n.
-Rachel Varner
31

FOOTBALL
move move now now
feel the wind run through my hair
feel my heart skip a beat
watch as people stand in their seats
stand in rows on the pitch
waiting for the whistle and the starting kick
move move now now
pounding away on the ground below
waiting for a pass to show
ball at my feet, can't skip a beat
can't let the moment get the better of me
move move now now
getting panic from watching eyes
can't make a fool or my world would die
making a break as I start to sweat
take a strike and hit the back of the net
move move now now
-Ryan Rivers
32

The following two essays are winners of the student essay contest
sponsored by the Black Hawk College Foundation and the Thomas
Batell Scholarship.
MY BLACK HAWK COLLEGE
My grandfather used to tell me that a dead person is one who has
everything except hope because he said, “Hope is life.” After I came to
US, considering the fact that I could not communicate in English and
could not find a good job, I lost hope. My dreams were dead. I thought
all the effort I had made in my country, Togo, to graduate from high
school was nil; however, Black Hawk College had given me back the
hope through changes it had made in my life.
One of the unbelievable things Black Hawk College did for me is
to have helped me communicate in English. Through the ESL Program,
I can understand words in English, say them, and write them. For
example, three years ago, I could understand nothing in English. I
could not fill out a job application myself, and I could not take any job
interview without an interpreter. In brief, I could not express myself in
any situation without an interpreter. The worse part of this problem was
that I could not keep secret my personal information. I always had to
share it with someone who in turn translated it to another. Now I can do
all these things myself and even further. How wonderful it is to do my
own things without sharing my personal information with an interpreter!
In addition to the communication, Black Hawk College has
provided me amazing counseling. As a stranger in this country, I lacked
dangerously useful information I needed to progress in a good
direction. Fortunately, this College has taken me not just as student but
also as a son. For instance, I can never forget Anne Bollati and the
departed Cristina Green who did the greatest part of counseling work
when I needed it the most in my life. They gave me every piece of
information I needed; furthermore, they consoled me too when I felt
depressed. Not only them, but also most teachers have been very nice
and caring. This atmosphere makes me feel as if I were at home,
surrounded by my family. Also, the way the library and the computer
lab are organized has helped me a lot in finding information. I could do
my research, borrow books and access the internet whenever I wanted
without hassle.
Beyond all these benefits, I am amazed by the financial aid the
College gave to me. For example, I was qualified for the Bridges
33

Program which paid for my first semester’s tuition. When I was in ESL
Program, I also received financial aid from the college some
semesters. That was very remarkable for me because I usually do not
qualify for federal aid, so I have to pay every penny for school if the
college doesn’t help me.
Now, I am pursuing a four-year-degree course, and I can say that
according to my grandfather, I am alive. I have my hope back and my
dreams can become a reality.
-Kokou Agbodo
HOW MY COMMUNITY COLLEGE HAS CHANGED MY LIFE
What am I getting myself into? Did I make the right decision? I
was a high school dropout returning to college at the age of thirty-three.
My first week of classes had blindsided me. The work load was
nothing like I expected. After the third week of classes, I got the
answers to my questions. The road in front of me would be
challenging. It was only by questioning my decision to attend college
that I realized how much my life had been affected in those few short
weeks. The choice to enroll in college was the correct one, and it has
made a positive impact on my life ever since.
Black Hawk College improved my life by giving me the opportunity
to correct one of my biggest mistakes. I am fortunate because most
people don’t get that chance. The label of high school dropout has
negative indicators which do not reflect what I am capable of
academically. What seemed like a good decision at the time has
limited my life in more ways than I ever imagined. As the parent of two
young children, my teachings are limited. The general education
diploma has led to many dead ends and low ceilings throughout years
of work. Not only will my degree open up career opportunities, but it
will also more accurately reflect who I am.
Attending Black Hawk has changed me by revitalizing my spirit
and altering my outlook on life. The beating I feel I've taken in this
world caused me to put up walls and settle for things. College life has
returned the youthful approach to life I had given up years ago. I am
hopeful for the future rather than wary of it. The limits people realize
when they become adults are now being challenged by my mind’s eye.
This change in mindset comes from the confidence I have gained
through my academic success at Black Hawk.
34

Courses in art and sociology have broadened my understanding
of society as a whole. My comparative religions course has given me a
better understanding of my faith. More importantly, it has given me a
better understanding of the religions of other societies. My computer
science course provided me with real world experience using
databases and presentation programs. The information I learned in my
nutrition class has improved both my health and my family’s. These
experiences at Black Hawk have made me a better father, husband
and member of society.
Through hard work, a strong support structure and focus on my
long term goals, my first year back in school has been very successful.
My grade point average was worthy of an invitation to join Phi Theta
Kappa after the fall semester. The academic success I experienced
first semester continues into my second semester courses as well. As
my education path unfolds, I am becoming even more confident in
myself and my abilities. Right now I feel like anything is possible if I
work hard and stay focused on my goals.
-Tonnie Farwell
VELVET LOUNGE
Top hats kept on,
with the brims worn low
(No one knows anyone)
Hide the looks of
Shame,
Anticipation,
And desire.
Slack mouths form
with jaws set.
Rosy lips whisper
Latest scandal of
Sex,
Corruption,
And power.
Cigar and cigarette smoke fill the
room,
with a hazy reminder of
Stagnant space.
Everyone feels anyone.
Tricks,
Intrigue,
And magic.
-Kayla Behrens
35

THE COOL THING ABOUT LIFE
Looking down a long, empty
road of never ending darkness.
Something happens.
You realize,
It’s not that long
or dark
or never ending.
You realize,
there’s a Thai restaurant,
a good coffee house,
and a decent bookstore
in the mini mall just ahead.
And you realize,
what happened yesterday
isn’t’ necessarily the same as
what’s happening tomorrow.
-Barb Myers
(Found in “Walking in circles before lying down” page 151, a novel by
Merrill Markee)
36

UNTITLED
the beater of drums
drags his chain
across my floor
and eats gravel
in my ear
and kicks the wall
of my mind
and sits on my hope
and locks the door
and wipes his bloody hands
behind my eyes
and keeps me there
-Chris Henshaw
NOT HERE
you do not belong here
in this city
on this street
with your clicking hooves
and your injured leg
hanging
like a broken rudder
there is no predator
as merciless
as the steel beast
that roams
groaning
to crush you
and smear the gore
of your being
into the salty pavement
as you lie kicking
and hold your head up
for death’s blessing
i do not belong here
in this city
on these streets
with my head down
and my torn memories
flapping above me
like a jessed vulture
there is no predator
as pitiless
as life
that drives us
groaning
into corners
of responsibility
and lashes us
with the whip of duty
only love
keeps me here
what has wounded you?
-Chris Henshaw
37

THE DEATH OF UNCLE TIM
The snow enveloped my boots. The Canadian force wind with
snow smacked my face freezing my beard. I snatched the handle of the
broken two piece accordion door of the plant’s only phone booth. My
forearm knocked the door open and with both hands I pulled the door
shut behind me. The top and bottom rollers popped off their slides.
The ten-watt bulb shed a dim light to the interior of the phone
booth which stank, predictably, of urine. I’d need my Zippo lighter to
read the phone book. Phone book?? Oh Hell! There was no phone
book. Someone had cut the cord and stolen it. I cussed and hit the
back wall with a gloved fist. I put the glove into my mouth and pulled
the glove off my hand spitting the glove to the floor of the phone booth.
I stared at the features of the phone. Twelve little raised blocks
faced me, arranged three across and four rows down. I could play tic
tack toe on the first three rows. What city and state would I get if I
started from the center (five, to the four corners, one, three, seven, and
nine, down the middle two and eight, across the center four and six)?
Stop it, you dumb jarhead; your Uncle was just killed when the furnace
blew. . . .
Uncle Tim O ’Malloy: the toughest man on the Southside of
Chicago, World War II veteran, hot cast molder, union steward,
Democrat precinct committeeman, Ancient Order of Hibernian
President, usher at six am for Sunday Mass at Little Flower Catholic
Church and greatest White Sox fan on the Southside. If you entered
the Church for Mass on Sunday morning without your wife, either Uncle
Tim or Knock Swift, his police Sergeant buddy, would ask, “Are you
fighting with Molly or whatever your wife’s name was?” so the whole
church could hear them. Their smoking cigars and pints of whiskey
stashed behind the statue of Saint Bridget in the vestibule of the church
indicated that Tim and Knocko held court during the early morning
Mass. The sermon was time for the two Irishmen bachelors to depart to
the outside and relight the cigars and take a big sip out of the bottle to
prepare for the big event of the mass, the taking up of the collection
with their long-handled baskets, baskets which they’d shake in front of
you if you didn’t put enough money in. Knock was famous for his little
public humiliations: “Just a quarter and you’re making thirty dollars a
day, O’Leary? ” The smart people knew better. A dollar bill would keep

Tim and Knocko silent as, the basket stretched out in front of them for
each pew, they walked down the three aisles of the church. When the
collecting was finished, Tim and Knocko would march down the main
aisle with the bag of money and bow, handing the cash bag off to
Monsignor Kelly. . . .
Just minutes ago, I had heard the whistle blaring the warning,
then the blast itself and the shock wave as the furnace exploded. Five
departments away from the huge furnace, the dust cloud rolled through
the buildings. Crawling on my hands and knees I arrived outside of the
building, coughing, spitting, throat sore, disoriented, and eyes burning
from dust and flecks of dirt and wood and smoke and throat. Tears
helped to clear my eyes; I found a hose and doused my head with
freezing water. The fire was blazing from the roofs. Joining a group of
workers pulling a fire hose from a shed, I rushed to a hydrant. The
hydrant wrench was welded with rust and frozen snow to the hydrant; I
kicked it three or four times and it broke loose. We opened up the
hydrant ear, coupled the hose to the ear; and placed the wrench on the
stem of the hydrant. The other guys raced to the side of the building
with the nozzle attached to the front link of hoses. With a rope
attached to a ring on the hose, two men climbed a ladder to the roof.
Reaching the top they pulled the hoses up behind them while the third
man scrambled up the ladder. I turned the tap with the wrench of the
hydrant and water started through the hose. I walked along the line of
water-filled hose, lifting it so that the hose was in a straight line to let
the water flow full force to the nozzle, just as we’d been taught by fire
drills,
Moments later Chicago’s finest arrived by the dozens with pumper
trucks, ladder trucks, huge aerial trucks, ambulances, and police cars.
Knocko Swift jumped out of one of them and grabbed me.
“Where is Tim?”
I said ,“I haven’t seen him. I can’t get into the building.”
“They’ll let me in,” Knocko said. “Follow me.”
The furnace room had fires still burning. Smoke filled the
building. The destruction was massive: beams twisted, huge benches
hurled in all directions, men crying for help, medics rushing from man to
man. Medics, fireman, police and workers bearing stretchers of injured
men, fireman hosing fires. Knocko’s huge flashlight led the way.
Knocko asked, “Where was Tim’s work area?”
39

I was choking with smoke and answered, “About three hundred
feet south of the furnace.” Knocko pulled out a compass and changed
direction, heading toward a spot where fireman were hosing a huge pile
of molten iron. Knocko fell to his knees and started to cry like a baby,
his hands to his face, sobbing and rocking. I picked up his flashlight
and pointed it to the huge pile of molten iron where a huge pair of
shoes were sticking out, size fourteens. Tim was the only man that
worked in the plant who wore a shoe of that size.
Two firemen came over to Knocko but he pushed them away,
screaming “We need Father Fitzgerald here right away.” He grabbed
a portable two way radio. “A Priest is needed in here right away in the
furnace room.”
I was in shock; Knocko knelt down, got his rosary out and started
praying at Tim’s feet. Workers arrived with picks and shovels to start
working on the pile of molten iron as Father Fitzgerald and Iron Mike
O’Brien, the police captain picked Knocko up and hugged him. A
medic wrapped a blanket around me as I just stood and stared at Uncle
Tim’s big feet. A small bulldozer picked up a corner of a pattern bench;
its driver yelled, “Come out! we found bodies.”
Tim and two others had tried to take cover under the huge bench.
Ripple Ass McCauley was Tim’s sand hauler, Toad Cutter was a
patternmaker and Tim himself. They all three were crushed under the
weight of the bench and the molten iron. Knocko and I gently removed
Tim’s body from under the thick steel bench. Father Fitzgerald anointed
the three bodies.
We wrapped Tim’s enormous body in canvas; he was too big for a
coroner’s body bag. Tim’s body was too large for the stretchers, too, so
Tim was placed on a nine foot pallet for a fork lift to remove him to a
hearse. The coroner and the medic tenderly placed Ripple and Toad in
body bags and then onto stretchers for transportation.
“I will handle all the arrangements for my Uncle,” I told the
coroner.
Iron Mike explained, “Red is Tim’s nephew; he will handle
arrangements with O’Neal’s on Thirty-eight and Shields.” Knocko gave
me a big bear hug and I walked back to my locker to change clothes
and get to a phone outside of Building Five. . . .
I placed my pool money on a little ledge and put a quarter into the
slot and hit four, one, one. “What city and state?” a recording asked.
40

Oddly and inappropriately, I was tempted to say “Function
Junction Illinois for Boris Morris.” But I replied, “Chicago, Illinois.” Hey
what do you know: ten of these little squares have numbers on them.
“What number do you want,” a live voice asked me.
“I don’t want, lady; I need O’Neal’s Funeral Home right now!”
Hey, they got the ABC’s on them, too: no letters on one, starting on two
down to nine, wait they have four on nine! A recording announced the
number and for another fifty cents would dial the number, so in went
another two quarters. The canned voice said, “Illinois Bell thanks you
and have a nice day.”
One ring. I think of Lily Tomlin the operator on Laugh In, “One
ring a ding ding. ” What is death on this key pad? 33284 If I had a
phone book, I could look up the area code. Second ring. Is a phone
booth like a coffin? Take the phone out and add a lining -- pretty close.
Diggers answered the phone and gave the canned speech his
squirrel father had taught him since high school. I started to hit
numbers to break him off the speech. “Digger! this is Red! Get the
body mobile and go to Inland Five and pickup Knocko. Oh, Molly will
be waiting for you.” What are the star and the arithmetic sign for?
I hit the star and Digger got hot. “Stop it, Red, are you drunk
again”?
I hit the other sign, “Just pick up the body. I will be waiting for
you.” What other use is that “one” for? I will have to ask around for that
one. Why are they semi-rectangles not circles? The educated
corporate kids with clipboards, stop watches, and red berry’s -- I will
have to ask them.
Digger got hard with me,” Go home to your mother right away. I
will put Neary and Fitzgerald at the house. If you don’t arrive home, I
will call Knocko and Iron Mike to pick you up”.
Neary and Fitzgerald -- two of the biggest freeloaders on the pad
of the ninth ward on the Southside; those two were going to take care
of me? “Will you make arrangements will Monsignor Kelly and the
Hibernian Hall?”
“Yes, Red, just get home to your mother before she hears it over
WGN.”
I hung the phone up. I turned and tried to pull the door to get out.
The door was frozen shut. I kicked the bottom of the door, I beat the
top of the door, I rocked the son of a bitch. All of a sudden the whole
booth tipped over and down we went. . . .
41

Patrick O’Neal drove his hearse up the through the frozen dirt
road, through the smoke and chaos of ambulances and sirens and men
streaming out of the plant. Iron Mike waved him to stop, mouthing
something he couldn’t hear. He rolled down his window.
“Digger! – get outta that damn hearse and help me out here or
you’ll have two bodies to cart away.” Together the two men flipped the
phone booth so the doors were facing up, and so was Red, nearly
frozen to death but filled with a grief that was just being born.
-John Ahern
I AM THE GIRL IN THE BLACK RAINCOAT
I am the girl in the black raincoat.
You think you see me,
but you really don’t.
Curtains of rain,
flap and whirl.
You think “was that a shadow…
Or was it a girl?”
If you could only hear,
Over the torrents of rain.
Your eyes can’t be trusted;
For me it’s a game.
I like that you don’t know me.
You can’t figure me out.
To confuse you some more,
I change up my route.
Your memory haunts you…
Was I a song?
Did you really feel something?
Something warm brush your thigh?
You’re still not too sure.
You can’t understand why.
You just don’t know
What you’re supposed to call it.
But you’ll figure it out,
When you reach for your wallet.
-Caressa Clearman
You think the shadow has moved.
Your eyes will deceive you.
But I, in my raincoat,
My eyes never leave you.
Seconds pass by,
Now I’ve come and gone.
42

The next three essays are the winning prose entries in the Black Hawk College
Student Writers Event.
Deviled Eggs
My grandma’s deviled eggs were possibly the best deviled eggs that have
ever graced this fine earth. She used to make them a lot, and I used to eat a lot
of them. She never did it by a recipe; she always could make them just fine from
memory. I remember one time my mom and I decided that we should try to make
some of these eggs,but they turned out a royal, deviled mess. One of the ways
that I was able to notice the passage of time in my life, and the winding down of
my grandma’s life was that, among other things, she could no longer remember
her recipe for my favorite eggs. They are gone for good.
But that’s not the point. Those eggs were just one of the hundreds of things
that I remember about my visits with Grandma, in her cramped little house, on a
quiet street in Moline. We would sit together in her living room, with her stupid
little cable-less tv on softly in the background, and we would just visit. When my
brother and I were really little, she would give us cans of apricot juice to drink.
Who else would have cans of apricot juice in their house to serve as a
refreshment, other than Grandma? But the eggs and the apricot juice were just
little things that I remember from my many visits to her house, spending time with
her that I can never have again.
It never occurred to me to go over to her house in the few months after she
passed away, but now that it’s been a little while, I can almost believe that we are
going to her house and she will be there, sitting on her usual end of the couch,
talking and laughing with us. But then I remember that she will not be there, nor
will she ever be. My grandma Charalene is in a different place now, and it will be
quite some time before we can sit down and talk again. I miss that. Now that I
really think about it, I want more than anything to just go to her house, and sit in
her tiny living room, and just talk; just hang out. I miss her firm hugs and the kiss,
right smack dab on the lips, she would always give me right before we would
leave. Her deteriorating memory and loss of hearing made our conversations a
little bit sad near the end of her life, but I would give a lot to have an afternoon
like that again.
43

The day after Valentine’s Day began the last hours of her life. After school,
in the late afternoon, my family and I got word that her breathing was very slow,
and she was unresponsive. Naturally, we thought this meant her death could be
soon, so we all sped across the river to the clean, new hospital that she was in.
The air outside was cold and bitter, and the sun was gone by the time we had
reached her room.
We all stayed in the hospital, not caring about the world outside or what we
had to do the next day, because we didn’t want to risk missing anything. In a
room far too little for a patient and nine anxious people. we were literally sitting
around, watching Grandma sleep, but we were utterly transfixed because we
were all standing on the edge of a life-changing moment, unsure when death
would sneak up on us. Every so often she would stir, but that was all. So many
times that night, we had all braced ourselves, grabbed one another’s hand, and
couldn’t stop the salty tears because we were sure that “this was it”. But it
wouldn’t be. God had better plans; more comforting, more peaceful plans.
Eventually, sleep got the better of us all. We each found a place; a little
waiting-room recliner that didn’t recline, or a little two person sofa next to a giant
fish tank. Grandma’s three sons, including my dad, snoozed as best as they
could in her room for what few hours of sleep we had that night. Pappy slept on
the floor. I can remember waking up from the cold air-conditioning, or the
uncomfortable position I was in, or realizing that I was drooling, and checking my
cell phone for the time. The hours crept by.
In the morning, I uncurled myself from my recliner and walked through the
halls by myself. One by one, we all woke up, and found some sustenance from
the hospitality kitchen at the hospital. And guess who was still sleeping, exactly
that same as we had left her a few hours earlier?
The sun had risen, signaling the beginning of a new day, but it seemed that
the painful night was still proceeding, just with light coming through the window
again. Gentle and caring nurses would come in and talk to us about the signs of
death, which gave me chills. At that point, all we were hoping for was a
resolution; peace, and no more suffering.
A cheerful parish nurse from Grandma’s church came in at about 8:30. She
gave us hugs, and tried to console our tired eyes and heavy hearts. She asked
us if she could read a Psalm out loud. She said that she knew Grandma would
have liked that. It’s true; my grandma was a kind, generous lady who had worked
hard her entire life and had tried to show Jesus to the people in her world. I know
that if she heard those words, she felt right at home. “Even if I climbed to the
highest heavens, You are there. If I make my bed in the depths of the ocean, You
are there….Still your hand will guide and protect me.” She read Psalm 139, her
gentle voice easily guiding us through the words which we knew as truth. What
happened next, I cannot convey with justice; but the moment was breathtaking
and heartbreaking. She said, “Amen.” And with a word symbolic of an ending in
this world, my grandma began her everlasting life in the next. She was gone.
44

No one could believe it; we all stood up out of our seats in astonishment,
waiting for the next labored breath to come. It never came. It was the only
possible way I could hope for my grandma to go. Tears flowed, out of sorrow,
and out of rejoicing, because she was gone from a world of misery and defeat.
She was in the throne room now. And I, with all of my wisdom and maturity,
asked, “Are deviled eggs allowed in heaven?”
-Jenna Bounds
ANDY
In the summer of 1999, my mother started dating a man named Andy. For
their first date, they came to the Cambridge Family Restaurant where I was
waitressing. They had dinner and left me a big tip, so he made a good firstimpression
on me. About six months later, my mother decided to move in with
Andy. To my dismay, this meant that my brother and I had to relocate too. I
hadn’t realized Andy was willing to spend up to $2000 redoing my room any way
I wanted. My mom convinced him to spend the money on a new car for me
instead, so he picked out a pretty nice car. I was annoyed that I didn’t get to
help.
They got married about a year after they started dating. It was a beautiful
day at Andover Park, and my mom and Andy were so happy to be getting
married in the place where many of our family events had been held before. I
was trying to be just as happy, but I wasn’t so sure about the commitment.
Andy and I had a gravelly relationship during the marriage. It seemed tome
that he spent a lot more time helping my brother fix-up his stock car than he ever
did with me. And he liked to tease me. Once, he hid the catsup bottle from me
and wouldn’t tell me where it was, even after I flipped out on him. Sometimes he
took my side, like convincing my mother to let me be homeschooled as I had
wanted for a long time. But somehow the extra time I spent at home with him
often seemed like a burden instead of a blessing. Once while my nephew Joey
was visiting our house there was a corny song playing called “Good Morning
Beautiful! How Was Your Night?” To make my nephew laugh I started singing
along. Joey liked it a lot, but Andy shouted at me that I was being too loud and
annoying.
Another time, I had a terrible headache and it hurt so badly that I started
crying from the pain. Instead of asking me what was wrong, Andy assumed I was
crying over a pair of shoes that I’d wanted to buy, and he gave me $60. No
matter what he did for me, it never seemed like much compared to the help he
gave my brother.
One day in February, 2001, Andy took my uncle, Leo, to the hospital
because Leo had been feeling very sick. We found out that Uncle Leo had
cancer; Andy was very supportive of our family when Leo died.
45

When my Aunt Dot died within six months of Leo’s funeral Andy told me it
was a blessing that she finally died. I knew that he meant she was finally out of
her misery, but his words still upset me. At my aunt’s visitation, I refused to speak
to him, though I did notice that he wasn’t looking very well. After the funeral, my
brother and I went home, and my mom went to the place where the after lunch
was going to be held.
When I got home I saw that the dishes needed to be done, but I went up to
my room to watch TV. Soon, I heard Andy pull up and pick up a snow shovel. I
heard the shovel hit the ground once, but then it stopped, and he came inside.
When I heard Andy come inside, I knew I would be in trouble because the dishes
were not done. All of a sudden I heard a loud boom and my brother yelling for
me. It was the worst sound I had ever heard! I ran down stairs to find my brother
calling 911, while Andy was on the floor shaking. The paramedics were there
within minutes.
When members of my family drove past on their way back from the
gravesite, they saw the ambulance at my house. Two of my uncles went to get
my mom, and the rest stayed with me and my brother. Then we went to the
hospital, where we found out that Andy had had a massive heart attack. The
doctor said there was nothing we could have done. Even if there was an open
heart surgeon there, Andy wouldn’t have survived. My brother was really upset,
and I felt bad that he died doing my job.
During his visitation, a lot of people said that Andy talked about me all the
time -- that he really loved me, and he always said he was proud of me. I caught
myself thinking, “Why didn’t he tell me that?” That’s when I realized that I was a
spoiled brat. Andy had done so much for me, and I rarely thanked him or told him
that I cared about him, or that I was glad that he made my mom so happy. Ever
since then I have tried to be a better person and to let people know how much
they mean to me.
-Sabrina Gellerstedt
PRINCESS DESTINY
There is a time in every girl’s life when she begs and pleads with her
parents to buy her a pet. Typically kids start off with sea monkeys. Then they
move up to goldfish, then a hamster or a guinea pig. The biggest step of all is
getting that first dog. We started out just like everybody else. We went out and
bought some sea monkeys. We couldn’t really tell whether the sea monkeys
were growing or not, because we couldn’t see them so we didn’t know if they
were eating. Soon the sea monkeys died. We don’t know if it was because we
over fed them or because we didn’t feed them enough. It’s also possible that they
ended up killing themselves by eating each other.
Then came the goldfish. My brother and I both got tanks for our goldfish.
We would feed them and change the water filter when it got clogged. We would
46

change their water about once a month if we remembered. Soon all of the gold
fish died, perhaps because we started to neglect them by not cleaning their
tanks, or maybe they were trying to eat one another.
The next pet was a hamster. My brother’s hamster was a notorious escape
artist. We loved that hamster but it was a pain to keep track of. We had the
hamster for about a year. He would somehow escape from his cage and start
wandering around my brother’s bedroom. We bought him a ball to run around in,
when we remembered to put him in there. All of a sudden one day he just
disappeared, and we never saw him again. We don’t know where the hamster
went.
Next was the guinea pig from school. I volunteered to bring Nibs home with
me for the weekend and I would take care of her. I thought that it would be easy
to look after a guinea pig, but I was wrong. I had to change her bedding and
make sure she had fresh water and food. Just listening to her drink her water
was a pain. She seemed to squeak all the time. I ended up putting her in the
bathroom at night so that way I would be able to sleep at night. Soon we put an
end to the guinea pig’s weekends at my house.
Before we got a dog of our own, our last test was Kujoe, a dog we looked
after for about two weeks. I love animals, but this dog had nothing cute about
him. He was a demon dog, the meanest dog I have ever seen. He would chase
after us and try to bite us in the ankles. None of my friends wanted to come over
while we were watching that dog, but eventually the two weeks were up.
Shortly after that we saw an article in the newspaper about a Doberman
who had been hit by a car. We went to go see her and heard her entire sad story
–neglectful owners, vicious neighbor dogs, and then the accident. We thought
that she would be very aggressive considering what had happened to her, but
she was so sweet – our own lovable princess. Soon we got another dog for Dest
to play with, a purebred long haired Chihuahua we named Bruiser. Dest and
Bruiser got along perfectly – eating our take-out chili, tipping things over to spill
on the carpet, nuzzling us when we felt bad. We spoiled them, but we learned a
lot from them, too. Destiny had twelve great years of her life, years that gave us
many happy memories.
-Jamie Sharp
47

STEPSISTER
She is perfection
A golden beauty
With voice as sweet
As a nightingale
Beloved by all
Even animals and mice
With birds to dress her
Each morning
I am no beauty
No songstress
No grace
No prince’s fantasy
No one knew
It was I who was trapped
Not by locked doors
But by a mother’s twisted love
So I am the villain
Reviled and hated
And she, a princess
Free as the birds who once dressed her
-Rachel Gorenz
48

VOICES LITERARY AWARDS
Fiction
Mitch Folcik
Lacey Skorepa
Rachel Varner
Poetry
Rachel Gorenz
Barb Myers
Clarence Wiser
Essay
Chris Henshaw
Prose
Jenna Bounds
Sabrina Gellerstedt
Jamie Sharp
Poetry
Jesse Cross
Maria Fischer
Chris Henshaw
Kokou Agbodo
Tonnie Farwell
BHC STUDENT WRITERS AWARDS
SCHOLARSHIP ESSAYS
VOICES of BHC is the literary magazine of Black Hawk College, produced
once a year by and for the students here. The stories and poems in this
issue were selected by the students in Fall Semester 2008 English 231 and
Spring Semester 2009 English 232 and through a contest process. The
layout was created by Sheryl Gragg. The faculty advisor is Dorothy Beck.
The ideas and opinions expressed in this magazine are those of the
contributors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Board of
Trustees, the Administration, or the Faculty of the College.
49