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From the Editor As From the Well House enters its fourth year, I just can’t help but be excited at how it continues to gain momentum. We now have more resources, volunteers, and interns than ever before. We have expanded our presence in many areas, but the core goal has remained the same: to celebrate and cultivate the arts and sciences both on the campus and within the larger community.

The online issue, which debuted in the fall of 2010, was a great success. It gives us the ability to showcase a broader range of content like music and anima-tion. Our “Story of the Month,” featured on our website, has also grown in popularity. We have continued to improve all of our online efforts and to make use of social media not only to engage the campus and community, but to market ourselves and solicit submissions from across the country and around the globe.

A close relationship with Radio Free Kokomo, IU Kokomo’s student-run internet radio, has allowed us to use yet another medium. We are currently in the process of developing podcasts and radio shows that would air on Radio Free Ko-komo. You can listen online at www.radiofreekokomo.org.

The future for From the Well House is bright. As we continue to grow online and off, we also keep looking for newer and better ways to celebrate and promote the arts and sciences both on campus and the larger community. I would like to thank everyone who has helped us by volunteering their time and their work, and encourage anyone who is interested to get involved. Even if you’re not an artist or a writer, if you have any interest in the publishing or promotion industries, From the Well House offers a unique opportunity to gain hands-on experience in your field.

I sincerely hope that you enjoy this issue and that you will look into our other online offerings and live events. Don’t forget to join us for our annual art exhibit and “Live Issue” in the fall so you can meet the artists and writers featured in this issue.

-Cameron Huffman

Writing

In my Dying Town 4Chad Kebrdle

Rain Against the Windowpane 6 Matthew Amayum

Losing Sanity 10 James Cesare Within Moments of Disorder 12Susan Jarrell

PRESSURE 15Megan Meyers

The Wind and the Rain 16Kelly Arnold

Spring 17 Kelly Arnold

Colonist #87 19Andrea Gerig

Why We Fight 20Matthew Amayum

I Killed my Dog Today 22Greg Fridholm

Touch 25James Cesare

Amends 26Robert Durham

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ArtVelvet Wreck 5Kelly Greer

A Walk in the Flowery Woods 9Sara Willis

Tools of my Trade 11Jon Walters

Watching You 21Joseph Whiteford

Charlie 24Joseph Whiteford

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In My Dying TownIn my dying townThe factory parking lots Once brimming with actionNow lack the cars and the empty bottlesAnd the lot lizards And the passion of a high rate of pay Locked in by union gumbas

In my dying town The people are starving As they stuff their faces

And swell their midsections With the evils of capitalism,

The sorrows of poverty,And the sufferings of ignorance

In my dying townThe state is pulling together

To build a highway To bypass our bypass

Now choked with the disgustinglyUnattractive architecture of food chains

And middle class name brandsIn my dying townThere is no art or cultureOnly a handful of people that know The place could be betterIf only enough would leave the safety Of the couch to inconvenience themselvesEnough to make a change

In my dying townOnly the weak survivePreserved by the chemical additives Of a dying towns diet- Twinkies and fear,KFC and self righteousness,And a side of spite for dessert -Chad Kebrdle

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Velvet WreckKelly Greer

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Rain Against the Windowpane12:49 amThe rain raps gently on the window pane. The gutters freely flow with the tears of heaven. Every now and then there’s a splish splash from a lone walker in the rainfall. The silence is punctuated periodically by the revs of engines straining to overcome the lack of friction. The night is kept in tempo by the tapping of the tree branch on my window. Then suddenly, the night is silent without sound, save the rain.

I lie awake in bed as I often do, staring at the ceiling. The long hours at work leave me with aches and pains and unusual hours to sleep, but the job pays well. I have benefits, paid vacations… I have everything. Yet here I am lying in bed awake…

1:03 amI look over at my lovely wife, sleeping contentedly next to me. Her breath is so faint, the sound of the rushing air so silent. She almost appears expired, with only the slight rhythmic rise and fall of her chest to indicate otherwise. Every once in a while she’ll turn, entering and exiting another plane of existence. She is so oblivious to my midnight vigilance that I have been awake for the past two months and she has not stirred nor said a word to me. She sleeps so soundly, so peacefully.

1:08 amI gently raise the covers, taking care not to disturb her heavy slumber, and I put my feet down on the cold wooden floor. I have walked this room so many times, over and over, that I know all the creaks and squeaks in the wooden boards that would betray my late night escape. I make my way with caution towards the bedroom door.

1:22 amThe hallway is dark. The path is so wide that I cannot feel the walls to guide me without pitfall. The clouds hide the moon and I’ve lost my

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guiding light, but I cannot bring myself to turn on the light and illuminate my path. Surreptitiously, I find my way to our children’s room. We have two boys: eight years and five years old. It is a bit unsettling to see them so still, when during the day they leap and yell and play with such energy. They lay sleeping, dreaming of faraway lands, conquering dragons, exploring new worlds, finding buried treasure… Their angelic faces are so tranquil, so confident, so sure of the ending of their dream adventures. I wish life were so certain.

1:39 amThe rain takes a turn for the worse. The wind picks up and I can hear the old house creaking and straining against the wind. Sometimes I wonder if our old house can make it through these stormy nights.

1:50 amI arrive at the end of the hallway and turn into living room. Here I risk the light and for a brief moment I’m blinded. I squint my eyes until they accommodate to the luminosity of the overhead lamp, but my eyes don’t rightly adjust. I make way further into the room. We have an old piano; I used to dance my fingers across the keys, before we had the boys. I play a few chords from a long forgotten song. The feel of each motion, the sound of each note resonates an aged memory of a different lifetime.

2:11 amAbove the piano there are several family portraits hanging on the walls. They tell a story I cannot rightly remember. I stare into my own bright and smiling face, looking at a stranger, wondering if he and I were ever the same person. His face beams happiness and joy in our wedding portrait all those years ago... I move over and examine this fellow in the parade of photos, studying intently each photo and trying to place them back in a meaningful order in my mind, straining to recall events to go with each.

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2:17 amWithout fear of waking my family, I now boldly make my way to the front door, but nobody is there. The doorbell did not ring; there was not a faint knocking of caller at this late an hour. Carefully I turn the lock and retract the bolt. It tends to make a resonating ring in our hallway when you unlock it.

2:20 amI close the door behind me and about face to the street. The concrete porch is wet and cold to the touch, so much colder than the floorboards in my bedroom. The wind howls in anguish, like some unseen specter is shrieking in agony.

2:22 amThe rain has not subsided and the wind is getting worse. I wonder if it’ll ever stop raining.

-Matthew Amayum

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A Walk in the Flowery Woods Sara Willis

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Losing Sanity

To be disturbed and unnerved. A combination of discriminations,

dangerous impulses upon repulses.Potentially violent responses.

Interspersed thoughts within a trap

No telling when it snaps.A look, a feeling, a tingle.

How unthinkable to mingle.To be among the crowd, in the loud,

Where the pain crosses the saneAnd frees the inane,

Cracking the brain,Releasing the strain!

My Love, You’re gone.Left me—

ALONE

-James Cesare

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Tools of my TradeJon Walters

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Within Moments of Disorder

Today I wake up to the sounding alarm clock. “BER! BER! BER!” It

sounds loudly into the eardrum. What an annoying repetitious sound it gives,

but sadly still... this is the only relief I will give within this day. Your mind is

not fully awake, but I am already taking hold of your very actions.

Your feet hit the floor and you hear me say little, but as you walk into

the bathroom, I will begin my ritual of taunting and control. How can that

be, you say? I am just a thought, but I have ways of manipulating what you

think. You want to get into the shower, but it becomes something more than

that. You stand there for thirty seconds adjusting, readjusting the rings on the

shower curtain until they are just perfect. They over-lap so awkwardly and that

just doesn’t seem ideal. Only when you feel me say they are “just right” will I

let you continue to get in and shower.

You made it through your shower, and I was over-powered a few times,

but you won’t win. I am stronger than you! How important is your family?

Remember your son, Jordan, who is going through all this stuff in his life... do

you want anything to happen to him? Brush your teeth just right, so precisely

in a pattern. Front teeth. Back teeth. Front teeth. Back teeth. Sides- upper,

lower, other side- upper, lower, backs, fronts, tongue. Now rinse- five swishing

rinses, four drinks, wash your mouth twice. This will be your routine from

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now on, maybe not for Jordan’s sake, but for fear of anything bad happening. I

make you feel like you are in control.

Did you save your paper again? That was me.

What to wear? What to wear? You can’t wear that shirt. It doesn’t

“feel right”. You know that everything will just happen wrong this day if you

wear that blue shirt or those shoes, that pair of bigger-sized pearl earrings or

you fix your hair in that certain way. I want to erase that last part, but you

won’t let me. That was a bad feeling the day you wore your hair that way and

your teacher died in that motorcycle accident. I tried to get you to focus on

what I want and not what should just come naturally. A hairstyle should be

something easy, not a factor of control, but I think to tell you that it makes a

difference. So flipping that light switch or re-reading that sentence over and

over again, will make things turn out differently.

You made it to school and you are trying to write this paper, but I

cannot let you do it alone. I am here for you. We work as a team. Backspace

the appropriate number of times: one, two, three, okay four, five, six... Did

you save again? You can never save your work enough, you know? Pause to

reflect, but I am not going to let you erase that word because it will be gone

FOREVER! Forever gone is not me controlling that word for you. So keep

it and decide to type something else. Maybe I will get you to save a different

version. That seems a little safer than deleting that one word altogether. You

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back-spaced an empty space and then took the cursor to the other line and then

back… seems good to me now.

I like a lot of repetition as long as you are doing the actions and not

thinking too much about them. You might stop and think and that would

mean something bigger than what I am. I cannot let you see who is really

in control. My goal is to keep you locked inside where you are ashamed and

unable to share these feelings for fear of what others might think. This routine

of “round and round” is not harming anyone... well, maybe it hurts you a little,

but you’ll get over it.

You saved your paper again, right?

-Susan Jarrell

To learn more about OCD, visist www.ocfoundation.org

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PRESSURE As her corset pulled tighter

She was as stiff and lifeless as a statuePressure—suffocated her

She was never much of a fighter“Obey!” she was told to doAs her corset pulled tighter

She desired to be brighter But support came from few

Pressure—suffocated her

She used to dream of an altar But had forgotten as she grew

As her corset pulled tighter

Her voice gradually grew quieterAs her breath soon did tooPressure—suffocated her

Eventually her face turned whiterNo one knew what would ensue

As her corset pulled tighterPressure—suffocated her

-Megan Meyers

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The Wind and the RainThe wind and the rain

Go through seasons that changeBut they don’t stop living

They feel the heat of summer sunthe chilling of fall, the seasons doneBut to the land they keep on givingThe death winter chills their hearts

But they fight strong together – dare not partYes -They show us a reason for living

-Kelly Arnold

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Spring

As the Rain falls to kiss the Wind--

storms will surely happen again--

so let us learn the steps of the Wind --

And await the stars at the dance’s end.

She was there in the roughest of times, when the land was being

torn apart by destruction sent from the gods. She would be dancing through

the leaves, rustling their ridges in routine tornadoes that hovered above the

grasses. Her hands usually brushed delicately against the hair of the meadow,

but tonight, the movement of the land was different. Her speed reigned

through the meadow and yanked on the grasses with fierce control. The beat

of her dance enraged itself as the time hurried hastily through the hours of

midnight.

You could see her presence on a swing. She possessed it, swinging

every which way. She spun in circles and up and down. Her invisible force

was detectable. An old grandfather oak hovered over her when she swung,

sheltering her slightly from her lover. He was like a father, learning to let go,

yet yearning to hold on. His branches shaded slightly over the top of her swing,

but he stood far enough away that she might think he was not watching. She

knew grandfather oak was watching. She enjoyed his presence in the land. She

would often soar to his leaves and take them in her hands. She would teach

grandfather how to dance again, how to dance in the storm. And when the

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flashing lights would shock the sky, their dance would intensify with the music.

The music was threatening and glorious. It came suddenly and vibrated the ears

of everyone, even those who were not listening. It concentrated itself in the sky,

but sent its ripple of music down to the earth.

Often her lover heard the music, and would come out to visit. He

would fall into dance along with his partner, the wind. He would visit the

trees and the ground, pelting them with hello’s and how-do-you-do’s. His

heart would fall heavily towards his lover, yearning to indulge in her being. He

would strive to feel every part of her yet, at the same time, harvesting the hero

in her spirit, encouraging her free soul to soar. That was his lover – a free soul

touching all the earth – thriving in the land.

Tonight, he watched her as she swung. He sent pieces of himself to

touch her contagious spirit as she played there. He thought she looked beautiful

dancing uncontrollably beneath her grandfather. He would join her there. He

would roll down the metal chains of her swing, sending shimmers to its rust.

He would puddle beneath her seat so her gentle toes could ripple his belly,

causing him to splash laughter around her ankles.

And in this freedom, they held phantom hands and possessed their

palace. Grandfather oak rejoiced at their wonder while he turned his vibrant

green leaves to face the midnight skies, waving the stars silently to come watch,

quiet enough so he and she would not hear, so their audience of stars crept up

on them so gently they only realized their presence after their dance was done.

-Kelly Arnold

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Colonist #87I have left the Earth behind.

Pale blue dot, fading into darkness:Home, all that I know, my Native Shore…

You still mean everything to me,But I turn my back And face the stars

While the vision of your sphereStill fills the window.

You will remain large in my memory,And I will not watch you fade

Into insignificance With tears on my face.

No, I go forth willingly,Boldly taking these first steps

As a child of Earth,Ready for a brave new world.

-Andrea Gerig

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Why We FightI know we go to certain defeat,

Yet there’s something that stays my feetSomething so much more than the fear of death

We fight for the man on our left

And though I may die in the coming night,Our enemies will know why we fight,

Not for a flag, idea, or nationBut for the man on our left, the man on our right

-Matthew Amayum

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Watching YouJoseph Whiteford

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I killed my dog todayShe wagged at me along the way.She circled and sniffed attentively

While I dug her grave.

We went back insideAnd I fixed her lunch.

A double bowl of crunchiesWith fresh pork drippings

And 2 minutes in the microwave.She got to lick the butter dish too.

Then we waited for the kids.

They ran upstairs and hid In bed and in a closet.

So we took down the gateAnd sent the dog up to root them out.

She could have stayed upstairs Forever if she wanted.

But soon we went back out.

Three inches from the head Should put you out.With a yelp she ranAnd sat by the door,Confused and sore, And wagged at me

As I arrived to give her more.

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.”

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So I said goodbye again.This time it sunk in.

Fear flashed across her eyes.She stooped to sniff the blood;

Never saw the next four.

Wind in the fur can look like breath.I tried to explain it to the goats,

You just can’t know if they know.Now I want to cry myself to sleep.

-Greg Fridholm

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CharlieJoseph Whiteford

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TouchThe wrinkle of friction,

of live flesh and emotion.The great sensation of pain taken away

and replaced with a sense of presence and warmth. The rhythm of a beating heart replaces the screams that disarrange the sanity of the mind.

Sound agitates, sight is meaningless, smell is nothing, taste is bland; only skin and breath and life revitalize my despairing mind.

-James Cesare

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AmendsHe had never been a very handsome fellow, but as Mark’s reflection stared back at him from the full length silver plated mirror on his wall, he stoically decided that he had never looked better. The dark suit, however old it was, had been freshly dry cleaned and pressed to wash away the stagnant must of age. Posture slightly off, he fidgeted nervously with the striped tie, trying to remember the way his father had taught him. Was it round and round, then through the hole? Or maybe it was just once. Damned thing. I knew I should have bought a clip-on.

Around him, pictures of his father stared down at him from the walls, mocking him. Mark stared back. He had only just realized how much they looked alike—same sandy blonde hair and wide brown eyes. It had been Jenna to point it out, damn her. Now, it was all he could see in the lines of that estranged face. He took a moment to examine it—to remember it. How long had it been? Five years? Eight? Time had made them both more distant. Life has a way of dragging people away with the current.

Since getting the job with Tandem House, Mark had all but thrown himself at his work. In spite of his father’s failing lungs, he had moved to New York. Mark had always wondered if his father somehow begrudged him for leaving with such little notice. But his father, despite his health, was still a virile, stubborn old man with a knack for meeting some of the worst women possible. Mark had seen him haul that blasted oxygen tank in and out to drive the streets of Indianapolis in search of his next lady friend. Nonetheless, his father was mobile and active, even at seventy—Mark was sure his going would leave the man unscathed.

Still, he wasn’t sure.

He opened one of the drawers in an intricately carved chest. Dust leaped into the shafts of sunlight pouring through the open window. The autumn wind felt cool against the warmth of his brow. Rifling through

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the contents, he came across a picture of his parents. They were hugging, his father’s bony arms around his mother’s meaty waist. They were smiling through the sepia-tone of the ink, a gesture Mark had rarely seen from either of them when they were together. The two had divorced when Mark was less than a year old, and whenever they talked it was usually during an argument and usually about child support. But this photo showed a different picture; it showed love.

Just another side of him I never knew existed.

Mark took a seat on the edge of the bed, the tie long forgotten. He cast a wary look at the red-glowing numbers on the clock. Thirty minutes, he thought. He remembered the last time he’d talked to his dad, last New Year’s Eve. The clock had just struck midnight when Mark’s phone rang. It was loud, but Mark still tried to talk over the noise of music and drunken ruckus. His father was talking about Peggy, a lady Mark had never met but whose name he’d heard on more than one occasion. When Mark’s cell phone battery died, he had told his father that he’d call back. Of course, that was a year ago and the two had not spoken since.

He gathered his things, cell phone and keys, and cast another passing glance at the picture staring down at him from the wall. “See you in a minute, Pop,” he said, and he locked the house up as he left, leaving a world of memories behind him.

Ten minutes later Mark pulled his truck up to the biggest church he’d ever seen. Saint Christopher’s was an immense cathedral of sloping rooftops, stained glass, and marble pillars. In spite of himself, Mark had to smile. The fact that they were meeting here was almost laughable. In all of his life, Mark had never once seen his father attend any type of church service, let alone a Catholic one. He took a glance at the empty parking lot and lone fountain in the front lawn trickling a steady stream of water into the basin at its base. With a deep breath, Mark stepped out of the car.

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A thick-necked priest in black robes met him at the vast double doors, and Mark doubted that he’d ever seen anyone who looked sadder than this man. “He’s waiting for you,” he said in a deep voice. “He’s been here for an hour—waiting.” Mark thanked him and made a nervous gesture of fixing his tie before he remembered he’d opted not to wear it. Instead, he raked his fingers through his mess of sandy hair, and then threw the doors of Saint Christopher open.

Soft music filled the empty sanctuary with a ghostly air. Rows of empty pews padded in red velvet lined either side of the aisles; he could feel the eyes of biblical martyrs staring down at him from the stained glass windows. His feet made an eerie sound as he made his way up the aisle.

To the lone casket positioned there.

His father looked different, not at all the same man Mark had left years earlier. His face was thin and pinched, his cheeks sunken, eyes closed. There was an unnatural blush to him—too much make up, Mark supposed. Arms crossed over his abdomen, he looked as if he could be sleeping. A lifetime of memories flooded Mark’s mind, and his heart quickened at the thought of all the time lost. He looked over his shoulder, at the empty sanctuary and pews. No one had showed. Nobody cared.

Except for Mark. And for him, it was too late.

He found a seat at the front of the church, in front of the simple pine box holding the estranged man who had been his father. Music filled his mind. Suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge, he bowed his head. His father’s face drifted to the surface of his mind. “Forgive me, dad,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.” And for the first time in years, Mark prayed.

-Robert Durham

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From the Well HouseMast Head

Officers:Chief Editor: Cameron HuffmanOnline Editor: Andrew TurleyGraphic Designer: Megan McKinneyInterns: Joe Milam, Stephen Conger, Julie DornemanWebmaster: Johnathan Grant

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

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

Art Review Board:Julie Dorneman, Joe Milam, Stephen Conger

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

Special Thanks:Minda Douglas, The Correspondent, Shearer Printing, Radio Free Kokomo

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

Rolling SubmissionsSpring 2012 issue Deadline: November 30th 2011

Written Work

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

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

Specifications:

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

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

Rolling SubmissionsSpring 2010 issue Deadline: November 30th 2011

Art Work

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

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

Specifications:

-Physical art and photographs, send in a high-quality, well-lit photograph of at least 6 megapixels at 300 dpi or greater-Digital art must be at least 2,000 x 2,000 pixels at 300 dpi or greater (max 25MB)-Must be titled-Must specify the medium (oil painting, photograph, etc...)-No simultaneous submissions-Artist name must be blurred out or removed from piece

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

Get ready for our second online issue in Fall 2011! See our online submissions guidelines at www.fromthewellhouse.com

Come meet the writers and artists at our “Live Issue” on September 7th at the IU Kokomo art gallery!