Cypress Branches Literary Journal - Lamar State College-Orange

The Literary Journal
of Lamar State College College-Orange
College Orange
Spring 2011
Lamar State College College-Orange College Orange is a member of the Texas State University System

Cypress
Branches
The Literary Journal
of Lamar State College-Orange
Spring 2011
LSC-O is a member of the Texas State University System

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Student Winners
PROSE
First Place
Powering Down .............................................................................................. Ashley Dougherty
Second Place
Sun, Sand and Sisters..................................................................................... Kim Hollingsworth
Third Place
Just Beyond the Door .......................................................................................... Tiffany Seigrist
Honorable Mention
Soothing the Soul of Lady Butterfly.............................................. Sandra Quaid Stark Latiolais
POETRY
First Place
Seen Through a Lens .............................................................................Ariana Rain McCaughey
Second Place
This Too Shall Pass.............................................................................................. Tiffany Seigrist
Third Place
Portrait of Words.................................................................................................Kyle Thompson
Honorable Mention
Slow Suicide ......................................................................................................... Carmen White
PHOTOGRAPHY
First Place
Pikes Place Market................................................................................................Monica Goats
Second Place
Butterfly Kisses .............................................................................................. Stephanie Charrier
Third Place
The Thinker...............................................................................................Kimberley Marcontell
Honorable Mention
Atypical Fascination ............................................................................................... Tifanie Parry
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ART: Two Dimensional
First Place (Grand Prize: Cover Art)
A Child’s Fantasy ....................................................................................................Blake LeLeux
Second Place
Four Beauties .........................................................................................................Monica Goats
Third Place
Butterfly .........................................................................................................Samantha Freeman
Honorable Mention
Circles ..................................................................................................................... Luke Rhodes
ART: Three Dimensional
First Place
Americans and Food ..................................................................................................James West
Second Place
Innocents Afield...................................................................................................... Amber Burks
Third Place
Whimsical Wings............................................................................................. Mikaela E. Brown
Honorable Mention
Flower Vase ............................................................................................................ Danny Glenn
Faculty/Staff Contributions
Dr. Matt McClure....................................................................................................Cartoon Strip
Jackie Spears........................................................................................................................... Art
Carol Abshire ........................................................................................................ Photography
Carolyn Mello .................................................................................................................. Poetry
Andrew B. Preslar.............................................................................................................. Poetry
Randy Ford......................................................................................................................... Poetry
Lisette Hodges ................................................................................................................... Poetry
Eric Swanson (Student Worker) ........................................................................................ Poetry
Community Contributions
Delle Bates.............................................................................................................................. Art
Warren Griffin ........................................................................................................................ Art
George Millsap........................................................................................................................ Art
Kaycee Spears.................................................................................................................... Poetry
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Table of Contents
ART:
Two-dimensional
A Child’s Fantasy by Blake LeLeux................................................................................................9
Four Beauties by Monica Goats ...................................................................................................10
A Piece of the Heart by Samantha Freeman.................................................................................11
Circles by Luke Rhodes..................................................................................................................12
Three-dimensional
Americans and Food by James West ...........................................................................................13
Innocents Afield by Amber Burks .................................................................................................14
Whimsical Wings by Mikaela E. Brown........................................................................................15
Flower Vase by Danny Glenn........................................................................................................16
PROSE
Powering Down by Ashley Dougherty ..........................................................................................19
Sun, Sand and Sisters by Kim Hollingsworth...............................................................................20
Just Beyond the Door by Tiffany Seigrist ....................................................................................22
Soothing the Soul of Lady Butterfly by Sandra Quaid Stark Latiolais .......................................24
PHOTOGRAPHY
Pikes Place Market by Monica Goats...........................................................................................29
Butterfly Kisses by Stephanie Charrier ........................................................................................30
The Thinker by Kimberley Marcontell .........................................................................................31
Atypical Fascination by Tifanie Parry ........................................................................................32
POETRY
Seen Through a Lens by Ariana Rain McCaughey ......................................................................35
This Too Shall Pass by Tiffany Seigrist ........................................................................................37
Portrait of Words by Kyle Thompson............................................................................................38
Slow Suicide by Carmen White .....................................................................................................39
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FACULTY AND STAFF CONTRIBUTIONS
Cypress Man VI (Cypress Man and Cypress Knee) by Dr. Matt McClure.............................. 43
One Not So Very Special Day by Carolyn Mello..........................................................................47
Little Town Saints by Randy Ford ..............................................................................................48
Bed Check by Andrew B. Preslar..................................................................................................49
Serenity on the Bayou by Jackie Spears .....................................................................................51
Violets by Lisette Hodges...............................................................................................................52
Glass Sunset by Carol Abshire......................................................................................................53
My Army by Eric Swanson (Student Worker)................................................................................54
COMMUNITY CONTRIBUTIONS
San Francisco by Delle Bates .......................................................................................................57
A Tranquil Wall by George Millsap .............................................................................................58
Dare by Kaycee Spears .................................................................................................................59
Dottie by Warren Griffin................................................................................................................60
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Submitting Student Artists and Authors
Amber Burks
Angela Stevenson
Ariana Rain McCaughey
Amanda Potts
Barry Procella
Betti Boudreaux
Blake LeLeux
Brandi Collins
Brittany Harmon
Carmen White
Carol Duhon
Cassandra Diggles
Chantel Robinson
Cody Simmons
Dana Schindler
Danny Glenn
Darylyn Pollard
Elizabeth Smith
Emilee Davis
Immanuel Simien
James West
Joey Smith
Josh Johnson
Justin Lummus
Karen Lebel
Kimberley Marcontell
Kimmie Hollingsworth
Kirby VanWinkle
Krissi Rickert
Krystle Hawthorne
Thank you for your submissions to this project!
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Kyle Thompson
Lee Grogan
Liberty Dehm
Luke Rhodes
Maci Haley
Melissa Bourque
Mikaela E. Brown
Monica Goats
Noelle Jackson
Patricia Barron
Patty Woodall
Priscilla Baldwin
Robyn Boudreaux
Samantha Freeman
Samantha Smart
Sandra Quaid Stark Latiolais
Shelby Clements
Shelby Maxwell
Sheldon Booker
Skylar Hansen
Skylar Webster
Stella Chapman
Stephanie Charrier
Stephanie Fasulo
Tara Casey
Taylor Kellum
Tifanie Parry
Tiffany Seigrist
Tiffany Wolfford

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Art
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Two-Dimensional Art – First Place
A Child’s Fantasy
Blake LeLeux
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Two-Dimensional Art – Second Place
Four Beauties
Monica Goats
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Two-Dimensional Art – Third Place
A Piece of the Heart
Samantha Freeman
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Two-Dimensional Art – Honorable Mention
Circles
Luke Rhodes
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Three-Dimensional Art – First Place
Americans and Food
James West
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Three-Dimensional Art – Second Place
Innocents Afield
Amber Burks
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Three-Dimensional Art – Third Place
Whimsical Wings
Mikaela E. Brown
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Three-Dimensional Art – Honorable Mention
Flower Vase
Danny Glenn
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Prose
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Prose – First Place
Powering Down
Ashley Dougherty
Here I am, a simple thing, a complex machine. See my buttons? My shiny keys? We talk for
hours, even if I’m only indirect in the conversation. That’s fine; I’ll convey what you say. Over miles
I’ll whisper your every outward notion. What’s that? I’m not your first? That’s all right, because you
love me; I love you.
It’s been a year. Do you love me? We go everywhere. I’m cradled in your hand or even in your
purse. Yes, I’m so small. Aren’t I efficient? Do you like the custom wallpaper on my screen? Of course
you do because you love me. You need me. You can’t leave the house without me. I love you too.
Whisper with your thumbs, and we’ll send a message across seas.
It’s been two years. Do you love me? I don’t feel so well… You have to treat me more gingerly.
Don’t get angry, I’m sure the signal is just over there. Don’t leave me at home. Don’t you love me? Is it
because I’m not holding my charge like I used to? I’m trying. Maybe a new battery will help. Is it
because my screen has tiny scratches? It’s not my fault. Don’t you love me? I love you.
Battery Low.
Help me; I’m dying. I’m flashing and screaming. Can you see me? Can you hear me? Do you
care? No, don’t put me on silent! I’m scared! Lying on the couch shaking with fear, I’m scared. Don’t
let me die. Where’s the charger? Where have you gone? I need your help! Don’t let me die. I’m falling
between the cushions. Help me! Hello? Don’t you love me?
You can’t see me flashing, and honestly it doesn’t look like you’re looking for me anymore. I
guess it’s because I’m missing two keys. It’s not my fault I’m not shiny. I miss you. Won’t you find me?
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die! The bell tolls, and you rush to the front door.
I’m not over there. Please look between the cushions. Don’t you love me anymore?
You receive a package. I don’t know what to make of it. You’re really excited. Is it a new
charger? A new battery? You didn’t forget me after all! You make your way to the couch and sit down.
My heart falls when I see someone else in your hand. He has a touch screen and a camera function. He
slides open and greets you with fancy tunes. I can’t compete with that… but still….
How could you?
You read the book, and it isn’t long before you’re whispering to him instead of me. I feel our ties
disconnect, and my bars disappear. As I search for signal, the agony is draining my power faster.
Perhaps it’s better because I don’t know how much of this I can handle. I can’t stop trembling; my wires
are quaking down to the core. My heart is broken. I can’t go on anymore. I wasn’t your first; I see I’m
not your last. I guess I’ll die now. You won’t miss me. You don’t need me. You don’t love me.
I love you.
Powering down.
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Prose – Second Place
Sun, Sand and Sisters
Kim Hollingsworth
Tammie sat frozen in fear as she trembled on the seat next to her big sister as they streaked down
the highway at breakneck speed. The wind was whistling through the open truck window, causing Kim’s
blonde ponytail to thrash to and fro. She sat on her dad’s lap steering that old black and white Ford
pickup truck. The salty sweat was trickling down the side of her sun-kissed face. As Kim turned that old
pickup truck on two wheels off the hot asphalt road and onto that sandy covered road, they could smell
the river as they approached; it smelled as though it had just rained. The faster they traveled down the
bumpy, sandy road, the more abundantly the dust would boil behind them. When they came to a stop,
the dust would converge into the cab of the truck, engulfing them as when a fire engulfs and consumes
dried leaves in the fall. The dust would attach to the sweat around their necks and leave a beautiful dirt
necklace.
As Tammie and Kim jumped from the cab of the truck, their bare feet were thrust into the warm,
gritty sand that weaved its way between their toes. They would race each other, with their hearts
pounding, up those rough-cut lumber stairs, carefully trying to avoid getting one of those jagged
splinters embedded into their feet. Once they reached the top of the stairs, they were gasping for air.
When they entered the camp, they would go directly to the enormous bay window and be mesmerized
by the sight of the river that moved swiftly downstream. They would turn to each other and instinctively
lock their pinkie fingers together and shout, “Sisters and forever!” Watching the river was like looking
at liquid glass, so shiny, sparkling and bright. They knew soon they would be gliding on that shiny,
sparkling glass to play on the sugary white sandbar across the way.
Their mom and dad would be busy attaching ropes to the empty milk jugs; the empty milk jugs
would soon become the flotation devices that would help transport the sisters across the river. Their dad
carefully connected the milk jugs to both of their arms; he would lead them down to the river’s edge.
Their dad would slowly submerge beneath the cool crisp water. Their dad would urge them one by one
to wade out into the water to meet him. Kim went first; as the cool crisp water crept up around her, she
became suddenly aware that she was drifting gently in the current. They glided safely across the river to
the sugary white hot sand that was waiting to scorch their bare feet. They would sit for hours, on that
sandy river bank, building sand castles. Tammie would build a castle, and Kim would build one bigger.
Then as their day would slowly draw to an end, the waves would rise and fall ever so discreetly, making
their works of art disappear.
Their stomachs would be growling so loudly it sounded as though African lions were caged up in
there. Only one thing could quiet those lions, a red, ripe, juicy watermelon. The anticipation of cutting
into that huge green watermelon made the sisters’ saliva spew forth like fountains. When the sharp
glistening knife blade was inserted into that crisp green melon, it would begin splitting and cracking
with not much effort from the knife. Tammie and Kim both knew that momentarily red, ripe, juicy
goodness was going to explode. After they had devoured the flesh of the melon, they would carry the
rinds to the burn pile located below the bay window where the security light would illuminate the stage
for the nightly raccoon show.
When the sun gave way and let the moon take over in the stillness of the night, the raccoon
family would come for a visit. The huge fluffy one was Zelda, and the one with half its tail missing was
Henry. Before they would begin eating, they would scurry down to the water’s edge with the liquid glass
lapping at their tiny feet. They would ever so gently reach into the cool river water and wash their hands.
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They then followed one another to the burn pile to see what was on the buffet for the night. Once Zelda
and Henry were through demolishing the watermelon, they would waddle back to the water’s edge and
once again wash their small sticky hands.
As bedtime neared each night, the sisters would sit on their dad’s lap and play a game called
tickle torture. Tammie would take a long sun-bleached strand of Kim’s hair, and she would start by
slowly dragging the hair across her dad’s forehead, then across his nose, then finally his lips. The object
of the game was being able to will their bodies not to move or flinch, but it tickled so much that they
laughed out loud. Whoever lasted the longest would be declared the winner. Their dad would strike a
match and light the end of his cigarette; the end of that cigarette would glow like hot ambers ablaze in a
fire. As he inhaled the chemically-laden smoke deep into his lungs, he would purse his lips together and
softly thump his cheeks with his worn and weathered finger, and magically smoke rings would drift out
of his mouth like clouds floating across the sky on a warm sunny day. As the two small girls shuffled
their exhausted sun-scorched bodies across that gritty, sandy floor to climb into their dream machine, the
secret name of their bed, their mother would remind them to dust the sand off from beneath their small
tired feet. As the sisters lay their heads on the pillows, they wearily drifted off to sleep, exhausted from a
day of castle building.
There are days when the gray-haired older woman sits and daydreams of driving that old black
and white Ford pickup truck to the river with her wide-eyed sister there beside her, dreams of floating
across that liquid glass river with those empty milk jugs supporting her small frame, and of red
watermelon juice trickling down her chin. Then she realizes that it would take a full size plastic milk
truck to float her across that river, and the red watermelon juice would trickle down to one of her chins.
Out of the corner of her wrinkled eyes, if she looks long enough and focuses, she can still see the dust
trailing behind that old black and white Ford pickup truck.
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Prose – Third Place
Just Beyond the Door
Tiffany Seigrist
“Well, Grandma and Grandpa are gone,” she said to herself as sadness filled her empty heart.
Steering the car into the gravel drive, she could hear the crunch beneath the tires as she came to a slow,
lingering stop in front of the old home place. As she gazed at the lonely door, she asked herself, “Do I
really want to face the emptiness beyond that door?” Their deaths, only thirteen months apart, had taken
away the happiness she often felt when coming here. A gray cloud of anguish descended into the car’s
interior, as if a violent storm approached without warning. What lay beyond the door? The opening of
the door always delivered smiling grandchildren soon overtaken by the aroma of a fresh jelly cake,
warm and dripping with strawberry jelly. Now, what would she find?
Reaching for the cold handle of the car door, she lifted her weary head and remembered the
words spoken at the gravesides, “They are in a better place.” The thought of Heaven brought a smile to
her saddened face and a reminder of why she was here. This empty house which always brought a
pleasant greeting was now hers. She, the granddaughter, was given the opportunity to purchase the old
home place. Getting out of the car, she smoothed her skirt, though no one would greet her, and headed
toward the door. The flowers that lined the porch stood at attention like soldiers, releasing a vibrant
smell to welcome the new owner. The blooms sparkled with dew, a direct result of the care of their
creator, the Master Gardener. Seeing the thriving flowers glistening in the sun, she remembered, He also
would care for her. He would guide her gently through this phase of life.
Reaching for the brass key, tarnished from years of use, she eased it ever so slowly into the
awaiting lock. With a shaking hand, she turned the key and listened for the metallic click. She paused,
tensing like a frightened deer preparing to flee at another snap of a twig. The creaking of the porch
brought her back to her intention. She turned the knob. The door swung open with a whine of the hinges,
a familiar greeting, bringing an ache to her heart. The room, once filled with sweet smells, now had a
damp, musty reminder; it was unoccupied. “No,” she murmured, “This is a bad dream.” It was a dream
from which she would never wake.
As she stood in the foyer looking into the family room, she could imagine Grandma cradling a
sleepy baby, rocking to the rhythm of Jesus Loves Me. In the corner sat the old wood-burning stove; the
black metal finish felt like ice to her touch. She remembered Grandpa sitting in front of the stove with a
mug of hot cocoa as he listened to the crackling of the fire. “Stop torturing yourself!” was the cry from
her aching heart as she turned and walked toward the hall. “I do not want to go home with painful
memories, I want to find something to keep that will offer comfort in the years to come,” she said aloud,
trying to calm her pounding heart. Finding all the rooms empty of their contents, she resumed her
search. Her footsteps echoed, resounding off the bare walls once laced with curtains and smiling photos
of happy families. As she walked slowly down the hall, the floor boards creaked under her weight; she
stopped abruptly. The door to the hall closet was open slightly, inviting her to partake in the mysterious
unknown. Her heart leapt with anticipation; could treasures lie beyond the weathered, paint-flaked door?
Surely not; the house had been thoroughly cleaned. Tugging the door open slightly, like a shy child
entering her first day of kindergarten, she peered into the damp, dark interior. A box peered over the
edge of the highest shelf. Could its contents bring the smile her sad countenance desired? She raised her
trembling hands, and she tightly grasped the sides of the cardboard treasure. Lowering it slowly, her
thoughts raced back in time, wondering if it was grandma’s wrinkled hands that had laid this box to rest.
She carried her treasure carefully to the kitchen counter like a three year old girl cradling her precious
doll. The kitchen no longer smelled of cakes baking in the oven but of mildew from the open, empty,
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unplugged fridge. Ignoring the unpleasant odor, she unfolded the four cardboard flaps. Peering in, her
eyes widened like saucers as she unveiled a photo album and several fragile Bibles.
The aging album contained many pictures of her family in younger years, opening her mind to
many precious memories. One photo revealed her and her deceased infant brother; it was like finding a
chest of golden nuggets resting quietly at the bottom of the sea. The old family Bible, with tattered,
golden-edged pages, contained a family tree dating back to the 1890’s. She reached into the box once
more and curled her fingers around the brown, weathered leather of a small pocket-sized New
Testament. She tenderly opened its yellowing pages. Her bewildered eyes fell on an inscription from
The White House in Washington D.C. dated January 25, 1941. The letter said, “To the Armed Forces:
As Commander-in-Chief I take pleasure in commanding the reading of the Bible to all who serve in the
Armed Forces of the United States. Throughout the centuries men of many faiths and diverse origins
have found in the Sacred Book words of wisdom, council and inspiration. It is a fountain of strength and
now, as always, an aid in attaining the highest aspirations of the human soul,” signed, “Very sincerely
yours, Franklin D. Roosevelt.” Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined the reverence her Grandpa must
have felt as he clutched this book to his chest, uncertain of the number of days war would provide for
him to read it.
As she leaned gently against the kitchen counter surveying her priceless find, she then realized
the house was not empty after all. Memories danced around the barren walls like children playing in a
flower-covered field. With excitement in her step, she resumed her search for more treasure. Behind an
open door, held precariously on a rusting nail, she discovered a tattered certificate from World War II
that was presented to her grandfather on September 15, 1945. Her chest felt as though it would burst,
stuffed to its capacity with memories from years gone by. Were these items unwanted by those who had
searched before? Or had these treasures been hidden, to be found by the one who would cherish them, as
a shivering beggar would cherish an unstylish coat?
She gathered her belongings with tender, cautious hands, gently lowering them back into the
cardboard treasure box. As she walked slowly across the creaking floor, her mind drifted back in time.
She caught a whiff of fresh jelly cake, and she faintly heard Grandma laugh with pride as the family
gathered around the table to indulge in a slice. She smiled slowly, sending reassurance to her face that it
would laugh once again. This home where she would soon raise her family was brimming with
memories, bouncing off the plaster like a rubber ball driven with force.
Noticing the time, she made her way to the foyer, only this time her steps were lighter. As the
whining door closed once again, she walked down the creaking steps to her car. It sat silently, patiently
awaiting her arrival to engulf her in arms of comfort. She opened the car door, slowly releasing a sigh.
She had arrived with a heart so empty, like a dry water pail sitting on the desert sand, only to drive away
with a heart so full, like a deep, blue ocean never knowing thirst. Meandering down the road, she smiled
as she caught a glimpse in the mirror of the weathered, flaking door standing proudly upon the
threshold. It seemed to bulge outward, doing its best to contain the millions of memories pressing
against its back. The memories that engulfed her mind like a swarm of bees around a honeycomb danced
merrily around the room just beyond the door.
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Prose – Honorable Mention
Soothing the Soul of Lady Butterfly
Sandra Quaid Stark Latiolais
While the Californian butterfly prepared for a summer vacation, his companion, Checkerspot,
found him marking the months of April and May on his calendar with an attempt to find a new mate.
Another repeated attempt to lure Achilles Moonshine into his life left him lonely again, costing him his
very close friend, Checkerspot. However, the loss was easily replaced by lustful thoughts of future
beauties and the Californian continued his mission. With an occasional fly by night Swallowtail and
Red Admiral fluttering by, he dipped about and quickly fluttered away. He rubbed wings with Miss
Peacock of Houston and flittered about Small Tortoiseshell, but boredom weighed him down like a ball
and chain, so he took flight again unconsciously.
Along the southern region of Texas, an occasional fly by night Swallowtail and Red Admiral
fluttered passed until at last he decided to plant roots in a small town in called Orange Grove, where he
found me, Lady Butterfly.
I was enjoying a sunny day when I noticed my new neighbor, California, and his delightful
garden. What an herbaceous nettle! The stinging perennial; the Northern European (and Asian native)
could be seen throughout his dwelling place. His beautiful spring garden remained in blossom for the
whole summer and grew opposite mine, just over the fence. Even with nature and all its heavenly
beauty, had I known then what I know today, I would have continued my lonely days amongst my very
own Texas Thistle and avoided his ill attempt to lure me into romance.
It wasn’t long before curiosity consumed me, and I began to wonder if California’s herbaceous
nettle and my kitchen wizardry combined would make a delicious creation of mouthwatering pesto. It
began as a great conversation starter, and as we joined in, we came up with a secret recipe for a tasty
polenta! As the evening approached, we found ourselves flirting in the kitchen with plans for dinner at
my place.
My best china held an astonishing overview of garnishment beneath a tantalizing flicker from a
fresh pair of candles. Alluringly so, his wittiness and charm became the topping of a long anticipated
desert. After dinner, I followed him back to his garden where we spent the remainder of the evening
with our wings spread across an American Red Rose. We gazed at the stars, contemplated the purpose
of the Big Dipper, and then fell asleep in a bed of red velvety petals.
Days followed, and I began neglecting my usual chores. I forgot all about my outside interests
and focused mainly upon California. Had I continued my writings and readings and familiar outings,
perhaps I would have taken the necessary precautions a female should. Had I not read enough of my
dear William Shakespeare to know how deadly love could be? Even Shakespeare’s character Hotspur
guides us metaphorically, such as, “out of this nettle…we grasp this flower.” He warns us of the danger
of the nettle and the grasp of the flower where our safety is concerned.
As time progressed, I recognized my forthcoming tribulations, but not before frolicking
recklessly about the whole countryside with him. Whether we were among friends or complete
strangers, we projected our wings, as inseparable enigmas, and sometimes without a care in the world.
However, his tongue was silver and gold, and he lured me as his trophy and possession! This ownership
started with only slight verbal responses and grew physically as he sat me down to mold me to his
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liking. Arrogance seeped from his soul. I recalled him saying, “Come drink the sweet nectar of
Buddleia, such as the hummingbirds do, my lady.” While he whispered this into my ear, I became
entranced with sweet romance. I may just as well have been swooned by Mozart and captured by
Chopin’s composition. Weren’t they of the Romantic Era? Oh, but ne’er did this have anything to do
with real love, now did it? Love? What is love? Had it been so long that I had forgotten? How was I
to know the ulterior motive of this newcomer and predator while fluttering in such a delightful and
fragrant breeze?
I recall the day I sat in the presence of California, who was sipping his mint julep tea. I, Lady
Butterfly, having craved a true love for so long, ignored the scarlet signs of betrayal. Denying all
danger, I placed blame upon the season, believing mid-May’s heat invoked the volatile oils of the lilacs.
Its lovely scent empowered and weakened me. I had forgotten that the Monarch’s methods for
enticement included the fragrance of lilacs. I was oblivious to the sunflower, the pentas, the purple
coneflower, and hint of sage as they worked in conjunction to intoxicate me as well. What a laced
concoction! So, why didn’t mother-nature protect me? Couldn’t she have splashed me with a rain
shower to release me from this spell?
The worst of all things began to happen. I found unfamiliar wing dusts, while snooping about
his home. It left me wondering; how many beautiful butterflies had he lured into his domain? A
seductive voice haunted me in my dreams and left me nauseated. At first, I saw his back, then with
wings wrapped around me. Passionately, he kissed me, but the dream would always end the same. He
would turn around, and it was always someone else. Each dream started the same but ended with
different lady butterflies of various species and origins. Some had luxurious wing spans, others
frolicking short ones; yet all were unlike mine, with subtle and delicate hues. Nevertheless, I was sure
the nectar he had shared with me was just as sweet as my rivals. Eventually it became reality, and I
spotted the beauties in his garden all hours of the season. I began to loath them all, as if it were their
faults. I fantasized myself flying over long enough to pluck one wing of his new possession, teaching
her to swarm around my Californian lover. This would inhibit her from invading my territory!
Courtship in a butterfly’s world can cause such ramifications for a Lady Butterfly, for she’s soon
to become obsolete. It’s no wonder we find ourselves extinct. It is our own foolish heart! Common
Blue, for example, has enough intelligence to seek the dogwood tree and not dilly around with the likes
of California! Thank God for usage of the dogwood in scriptures. Most importantly, God forgives us all
for our shortcomings. Oh, my wayward soul!
My comrades sent me an invitation to attend a ladies’ retreat on the Pacific Island. “It would be
so good for the soul,” my sister pleaded. “Did I not warn you of this poisonous Monarch? Once its prey
becomes sick with his poison…well, it’s wise to avoid his enticing brilliance.” In frustration, she added,
“Oh, please do open your eyes, my beloved sister!” then flew off, wailing.
Alas, her loving efforts sent me back to my library, and I found myself enveloped within the
pages of my favorite books, seeking answers to save myself. I skimmed through King Henry IV by
Shakespeare. My eyes seemed to digitally photograph his words as I searched for clarity. “They love
not poison that do poison need…Nor do I thee” he writes. Did it mean that I should not expect a thank
you for someone else’s dirty work? Oh, and he was a dirty villain indeed! My loved ones were scolding
me for this ludicrous obsession!
Now, have I told you of the Monarch’s special relationship with the milkweed? An addict
yearns for a fix, such as he, and the desire for milkweed! I concluded that somewhere in the larva state,
or disruptive childhood past, perhaps California lived the streets, homeless and starving. Only God
knows why, but in some estranged way he is never satisfied, nor is his belly full, until he digests all of
the milkweed toxins his body can hold. Therefore, he anticipates his next victim of love and claims it
27

his only defense for survival. I recalled the slow grin broadening across his chiseled and charming face,
and how desperately I tried to save him with my undying love. All I found was his hollow heart.
Back to my library, I shook my head, clearing my thoughts, then upon the shelf again for my
dear William. This time I scanned Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. “In a man as well as herbs, grace
and rude will, full soon the canker Death eats up the plant.” So, in every bad person, there’s a great
person just waiting to get out and take charge? I returned the book back upon the shelf; moving
forward, I reached down to Robert Louis Stevenson. I drank from his words, a soothing tonic, and
spread my wings to understanding. According to Stevenson, he writes the perfect picture of a good man,
Dr. Jekyll, who obviously cannot control his evil doings and then changes him into Mr. Hyde. I dropped
the book and it sounded loudly upon the floor. In my silent room, I jumped. Taking a deep breath
stabled me. With a subtle winged flutter and a count of ten, I exhaled then relaxed. Although weary
with turmoil, I was unsatisfied and reached for my dear William again. I whisked through the pages of
Shakespeare’s Sonnets, and read:
“Like as, to make our appetite more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge;
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge”
So swallow the bitter pill. Endure pain and its painful treatment to get well. On another rainy
day, I, Lady Butterfly, found myself back in my library, sickly reverting back to unpleasant days gone
passed with the charmer, i.e., monstrous Monarch. As I slammed another book shut, its dust particles
danced above its yellowed pages, tickling my nostrils. I let out a loud sneeze which sent me backward,
flying against the shelves from behind, thwarting me from my mission for closure. Dust particles, seen
through a sudden beam of sunlight through my window, danced iridescently as minute ballerinas before
my eyes. Playfully, the dusty devils landed in front of me, in plia. How entertaining this must have
been to the fly upon the wall. I regained my composure and felt drawn to my window by the rays of the
sun. I noticed a male butterfly with wings large and angelic as he dipped about picking flowers. My
lashes blinked, clearing my vision, to obtain a closer look. When he discovered me watching, he moved
closer toward my window. It was difficult to determine my heartbeat from the flutter of my wings and
from delight. He fanned back at me, smiled, and held up the bouquet. While lifting my window, I saw a
crucifix colorfully designed into his wing. I knew that he was a chosen one, and though I was tattered
and torn, I knew it was time to rest. When the gentle breeze flew in, I felt his warm embrace. Then I,
Lady Butterfly, folded and encompassed, found the soothing of my soul.
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29
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31
Photography
31

Photography – First Place
Pikes Place Market
Monica Goats
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33
Photography – Second Place
Butterfly Kisses
Stephanie Charrier
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Photography – Third Place
The Thinker
Kimberley Marcontell
34

35
Photography – Honorable Mention
Atypical Fascination
Tifanie Parry
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37
Poetry
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Poetry – First Place
Seen through a Lens
Ariana Rain McCaughey
The more I fall in love with it
The more I become lost
With each snap of the shutter
I fall deeper under its spell
With each perfect timeless moment I capture
I become trapped in an insane sort of love
A love only seen through a photographer’s lens
Each smile, each burst of laughter, each pondering moment
Sends ecstasy soaring though my veins
I can’t stop myself
It’s like a drug that is constantly flowing through my system
There is no known cure for this kind of disease
There are no patches or special gums
There is no “real” treatment
Only things we can do to lessen the urges
Which is strange, but the answer is to do it more often
As much as you can
It haunts me every day and sometimes into the night
Driving down the familiar roads
Places I have seen since the day I was born
But now as I look upon them
They are different
So much more different
I start to notice things that weren’t there before
It’s the new way I see the world now
Through a lens
Noticing every minute detail about each location
Thinking of the amazing things that could happen there
The red and yellow of falling leaves in the mid day’s wind
The rustic look of an ancient barn
Then I wonder, would anyone notice if I were to trespass
Would they care?
Could I steal that perfect shot without getting myself into trouble?
A picture is worth a thousand words
And I want to own an infinite number of them
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39
Now that is all I notice
The world and all its beauty
In an instant it could be gone
That is why I must capture it
That is what I must do
I have to see this world
I have to show others what I have…
Seen through a lens
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Sitting quietly in the dim parlor,
The lady gently wipes a tear.
She gazes at the photo album,
Recalling the passing years.
Poetry – Second Place
This Too Shall Pass
Tiffany Seigrist
The faces of her loved ones
Stare back into her brimming eyes.
She remembers the soft voice of mother,
“My how swiftly the time does fly.”
The smiling boy that she once cradled
Has grown to be so strong and tall.
He no longer needs her to guide him
Or to catch him if he should fall.
The little girl dressed like a princess,
Is now a young man’s bride.
She has a place to call her own
With little children by her side.
The dim parlor is engulfed with memories,
The lady cradles the album to her chest.
The photos of her precious parents
Are the only mementos she has left.
If she had only treasured
Every passing day,
Now realizing all too soon
The moments pass away.
So enjoy the time you have today,
Make every moment last.
A child‘s laughter, a parent’s concern,
Cherish them, for soon this too shall pass.
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41
These words are my paint.
This page is my portrait.
This pen is my brush;
I stroke with delicacy.
The creation of colors,
So vivid and ornate;
I am overwhelmed
By the feeling of ecstasy.
Each letter has a purpose.
Each word has a meaning.
I stand back and study
The scene I’ve invented.
The contents of my heart
Displayed on this canvas
And still it is perceived
Different than intended.
Poetry – Third Place
Portrait of Words
Kyle Thompson
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Poetry – Honorable Mention
Slow Suicide
Carmen White
He buys a drink
He smiles and laughs
We sit across the bar from each other and laugh and smile
He is a witness to a slow suicide
We dance, drink, and laugh
He says my smile excites him
He struggles to look beyond my smile
His eyes cannot see through the mask I wear in the form of a bottle
He reaches out to touch my knee; my stomach begins to quiver
We leave and spend the night together with promises never made
He falls in love and buys me a ring
Endless nights I dance, drink, and smile; I am the life of the party
My friends all call to say they care; I lie and say I am fine
Alone at home I wretch and moan; the poison is taking over...
At last the show is over; I can rest
A pretty smile that is no more as I lie dying on the floor
At my service, my friends all gather to remember me and play my favorite tunes
They cry and sing along and leave to have a drink to numb the pain inside
They drink
They smile
They dance
All witnesses to my slow suicide
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43
Winners’ Biographies
Amber Burks lives in Buna and is a 2010 graduate of Deweyville High School. The daughter of
Lonnie and Debbie Burks, she is a dental hygiene major.
Ariana Rain McCaughey is a resident of Starks, La. and a 2009 graduate of Starks High School. Her
parents are Cass and Marianne McCaughey. She is majoring in psychology and plans to become a dental
hygienist. Her hobbies include dancing, photography, writing and organizing.
Ashley Dougherty is a dual-credit student at Silsbee High School.
Blake LeLeux modestly describes himself as “basically awesome!” A 2010 graduate of Little Cypress-
Mauriceville High School with career plans in anesthesiology, Blake was a National Honor Society
member and middle school valedictorian. The son of Allen and Angela LeLeux, Blake enjoys sports,
writing, and “just having fun.”
Carmen White is majoring in upward mobility nursing with plans to continue work in the
Hospice/Home Health field as a registered nurse. She is currently employed with Odyssey, Texas Home
Health. Carmen is a 1983 graduate of Block High School and lives in Orange. The daughter of Marie
and Joe Bickham, she is married to Carl White and the mother of Gabriel, 22; and Kaitlin, 19.
Danny Glenn lives in Vidor and is a 1994 graduate of Vidor High School. He is the son of Danny and
Elaine Glenn. A nursing major who plans to work in a long-term care center, Danny currently is
employed at Clairmont Nursing Home. His hobbies are woodworking, playing golf, and watching
baseball on television.
James West was graduated from Little Cypress-Mauriceville High School in 2010 and lives in Orange.
The son of Ramona Ward and Randy West, he plans to become a psychiatrist. His hobbies are making
music, videogames and building things. James currently works at Dollar General.
Kim Hollingsworth is a nursing major who plans to become a registered nurse. She is currently
employed by Southern Home Health. A 1984 graduate of South Beauregard High School, Kim lives in
Longville, La. She is the daughter of Betty and Willard Williams, wife of Bryan Hollingsworth, and
mother of Tanya Hollingsworth, 21. Hunting, fishing, photography and cooking are her main interests.
Kimberley Marcontell graduated summa cum laude from LSC-O with a certificate in nursing in 2006
and is now majoring in upward mobility nursing. She plans to earn a bachelor’s degree in nursing and
works at Baptist Hospital’s Beaumont campus. The daughter of Shirley Davis, Kimberley is married to
Kevin Marcontell and is the mother of Raylan Marcontell, 22; Aaron Cordeau, 16; and Ashley
Marcontell, 11. Traveling and reading are among her interests.
43

Kyle Thompson is a previous Cypress Branches poetry winner. A 2008 graduate of Elysian Fields High
School, Kyle is majoring in business because he plans to own one. He plays guitar and works at Home
Depot. His parents are Don and Toni Thompson.
Luke Rhodes is a 2010 graduate of Bridge City High School who plans to major in sports medicine.
Baseball, football and basketball are his hobbies. Luke is the son of Shane and Denna McCorkle and
lives in Orange.
Mikaela Brown, first place winner in the 3-D art category of Cypress Branches last year, was
home schooled and received her high school diploma in 2008. She lives in Kountze and is the daughter
of John and Kristi Brown. A nursing major, Mikaela enjoys photography, guitar, piano, singing, hunting
and fishing.
Monica Goats lives in Orange and is a 2008 graduate of Vidor Christian Academy. Her parents are
Ross and Erica Goats. She is majoring in liberal arts and interested in graphic design and architecture.
“One day I want to have my own architectural business,” she said. Monica’s hobbies include oil
painting, sewing and photography.
Samantha Freeman is a previous award winner for her art. She won best in show in 2010 and a gold
medal in 2008 at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo School Art Program. The recipient of art
scholarships in 2008 from both the Museum of Western Art Academy in Kerrville and the Glassell
School of Art in Houston, Samantha is majoring in education and plans to teach art. Her other interests
are reading and gaming. She is the daughter of Michael and Jo Lynn Davis.
Sandra Quaid Stark Latiolais, a Phi Theta Kappa member, is a 1980 graduate of Bridge City High
School who still lives in Bridge City. She is the daughter of Clara and John Fults, wife of Les Latiolais.
and mother of Alayna, 26; Colton, 21; and Zach, 10. A career in teaching (early childhood through 12 th
grade) lies ahead for Sandra, whose goals include earning a master’s degree in education. Sandra
currently works at Lamar State College-Orange. She enjoys poetry, short stories, singing, guitar and
acting. “Writing is my passion,” she said.
Stephanie Charrier a 2002 Orangefield High School graduate who lives in Lumberton, is a nursing
major. She is the daughter of Violet Odom and Darrell Charrier.
Tiffany Seigrist received a liberal arts degree at LSC-O in Fall 2010 and plans to become a teacher. A
1991 graduate of Vidor Christian Academy, she still lives in Vidor. She and her husband Phil Seigrist
are parents of Landon, 17; Brailee, 14; and Dallon, 11.
Tifinie Parry is a self-employed photographer and business-management major with career plans in
entrepreneurship. Winner of the Beaumont Camera Club’s 2009 art show, she enjoys spending time
with family. She is the daughter of Kenny and Kathy Smith, wife of Jason Parry, and mother of
Hannah, Katherine and Bryn. She was graduated from Buna High School in 1994 and lives in Orange.
44

45
Faculty
and
Staff
45

47
47

49
49

51
.
One Not So Special Day
Carolyn Mello – Faculty
I’ve been to college and am full of knowledge
Because we cannot permit our best days to ever be behind us.
He did for others more than himself.
One not so special day, our love was a friendship that caught fire.
I didn’t believe I could live without him.
One not so very special day, he died.
His memory will always be with me.
I want to remember his kindness.
When I listen to my heart, I hear his laughter.
Now everyday is winter; I have no spring.
No more story about love.
He has gone to his rest, at peace having done right by others. He fought the good fight,
finished the race, and kept the faith, all that he was supposed to do.
He inspired me with his love of music, and now his spirit is set free.
No one told me of the sorrow.
I’m what time and circumstance have made me.
Now, every day is not so very special.
51

Little Town Saints
Randy Ford – Faculty
I am knocked alone and disposed from artificial life,
Going to the place where I am manageable,
And I can hear background music.
Put into a trance mix like lovers will
Not kind in heart or head.
Looking backwards and forwards
Into that glooming not seeing who I was
Or what I could be. (Just what I have become),
Soft sound resonates and plays lightly as I stay
And drain blood onto paper and dreams.
Never to be given a song, holding back,
Not being there. He had a song and
It was your song too. Walking home
Down straight roads appearing and
Disappearing, making it home alone,
Drawing parallels, looking back in night’s air,
Seeing the little towns glow, Always
Measuring metrically, spiritually, soulfully,
My little town saint. Leaning back
In my chair on casual Friday recalling
Those fresh faces putting them into grey
Matter where they belong and where
They will remain until I see an image
That brings to mind their hue, I see there is no sway,
Just lurid hearts peeking over my shoulder,
In the place with my little town saint.
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53
Bed Check
Andrew B. Preslar – Faculty
for my Louis—
with daring hope, and trepidation
After the crest breaks and thunders down into the
shadows in the corner across from the eastern window, moving like the
treacherously deceptive drift of spume above a cold green current that would
unaware draw me as so much krill into the insatiable maw of the leviathan, into a depth
without light or air, should it, so disinterested, even consent to take me at all,
before my eyes can open, I struggle against my body’s inertness,
the sleep paralysis, and I feel the presence, the
moisture of fear like the rank shingle, hissing, dully
luminescent from the corruption breathing through to the surface,
revealing nothing of the gasping shapes just beneath,
smelling of dead and dying creatures consigned to the dank blackness that would accept
all, the promise of drowning itself insubstantial as a fleck of grey foam
floating on the press and heave
I didn’t lose him—
I strain not to inhale as I rise into awareness, strain to hear his
breath over hers, under the
tympani of my own rushing blood, while the next crest
gathers itself into a shapeless mass of terror rising amorphous,
a demagorgon to break upon me in a violent overthrow, or perhaps
to simply resolve itself into a hiss within which I sink
without resistance, again to depend from the inexorable wave of despair,
relentless, grinding even the stones into grains of corrosive sand,
ubiquitous and unarguable emblems of the final doom:
but I will; it is inevitable, and she and I
will be overborne by it, all our love and terror,
all our hopes, the pitiful straws we clutched,
thrown down and utterly annihilated by it . . .
today I did not hold his hand (he is getting so big! last year’s teacher says through an artificial smile as
she rushes past us through the bank of automatic glass doors into the parking lot) and only moments
later in housewares I turned and he was gone,
flitting, elusive, a flash of scarlet the color of his light-up shoes,
the fading sound of his abrupt, self-pleased laughter
sinking indistinguishable into the murmur of the demanding dead
moving through the toxic bowels of the giant concrete and steel box,
the voices of the women in my wife’s support network tinny and distant in my ears, their heads nodding
sagely
they usually start around eight;
if he hasn’t done it yet, he will run—
they all run
I found him standing in front of a peg rack on which hung a silvery plasticized cap pistol
newer than the one he surreptitiously slips under his Spiderman pillow every night;
he was smiling his enigmatic smile, reveling in his moment of
solitary pleasure into which no adult voices could penetrate.
53

But
tonight, right now, he is not lost but here, twisted across his tousled covers,
a battered but still silvery plasticized cap pistol next to his smooth small hand,
his beautiful face, delicate, startling, already the uneven but universally recognizable shape of
resignation taking form beneath his translucent eyelids and the
downturned corner of his mobile, slightly-parted, ever-silent lips,
his uniqueness his curse and unspeakable grace.
His bare chest still moves the Spiderman sheets,
and I catch at my own bare chest, already cursing my
failure to protect this shattered lamp, this hymn of love, my
beautiful broken boy who yet lies here in oblivious safe sleep;
only when I stretch out my bloodless hand to
touch his sweat-damp hair can I breathe
once, tearing one huge and ragged sob then afloat again, the despair
almost manageable, hearing the words of the women again,
they always run,
thinking
maybe . . . but not tonight.
Not tonight.
54

55
Serenity on the Bayou
Jackie Spears – Staff
55

Clear and unobstructed
Complex and fine
Bare windows and deep red violets
This is the place we make.
Cool quiet white light
With small things growing deeply
Darkly
Our place apart
Our place together
Bare windows and violets
I have to leave for work. I love you L
Violets
Lisette Hodges – Faculty
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57
Glass Sunset
Carol Abshire – Staff
57

My Army
Eric Swanson – Student Worker
All of my worries I place upon you.
All of my life I devote to you.
My entire heart belongs in your hands.
Showers of your grace to which I still stand.
Reflections of love I know to be true.
But the magnitude presents no clue.
My mind is fueled by speeding thoughts.
Hole in my spirit a battle hard fought.
You are my army, victorious one.
Internal fullness due to faith, then I am done.
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59
59

61
Community
61

If You’re Going to San Francisco
Delle Bates – Community
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63
A Tranquil Wall
George Millsap – Community
63

Dance on the moon.
Catch a falling star.
Make a wish soon.
Know who you are.
Dream through courage.
Be your dream.
Don’t be discouraged.
Inspiration is belief.
Seek the sky.
Feel the wind.
Open your heart.
Never give in.
Dare
Kaycee Spears – Community
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65
Dottie
Warren Griffin –Community
65

Judges
Two-Dimensional and Three-Dimensional Art
Dr. Sarah Boehme, managing director of the Stark Museum of Art
Photography
Dr. Matt McClure, LSC-O professor of biology,
whose cartoons have been published annually in Cypress Branches and in tropical fish magazines
and
Carol Abshire, LSC-O Lab Tech III
a frequent contributor of photography to Cypress Branches, who has taken college photography courses
Poetry
Carolyn Mello, LSC-O instructor of English
and annual contributor of poetry to Cypress Branches
Prose
Andrew B. Preslar, LSC-O instructor of English
and annual contributor of poetry to Cypress Branches
Proofreaders
LSC-O students:
Tiffany Stephenson-Rainey
Kimberley Marcontell
Although not all entries can be published, LSC-O appreciates the many contributions of talented
students, faculty, staff, and members of the community. Without your literary and artistic work, this
journal would not be possible. Thanks also to Dr. Mike Shahan, president of LSC-O; Dr. Joe Kirkland,
vice president for instruction; Bobbie Burgess, vice president for student services and auxiliary
enterprises; Carla Dando, dean of instruction; Mary McCoy, director of the Ron E. Lewis Library; Mike
McNair, chair of the arts and science division, and Stephanie Jones, administrative assistant III, for
supporting Cypress Branches—and to Cindy Wyles for her outstanding job of printing the publication.
--Dr. Arlene Turkel, faculty coordinator
66
Lamar State College-Orange, a member of the
Texas State University System, and an equal opportunity
affirmative action educational institution and employer.

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