"The View from Here" 2026

VIEW HERE FROM

UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS—PULASKI

TECHNICAL

COLLEGE’S

THE VIEW FROM HERE

©2026 UA-PTC

Works appearing in The View from Here are printed with the permission of the authors and artists cited. Copyright reverts to authors and artists immediately following publication.

The University of Arkansas—Pulaski Technical College Center for Humanities and Arts 3000 West Scenic Drive North Little Rock, Arkansas 72118-3347

LOGAN M. OLIVER editor

ALLEN LOIBNER-WAITKUS design adviser

DR. HOLLY SHAW creative writing instructor

KIKI HEINTZ chair of communications & languages

DAVID CARPENTER chair of fine arts & humanities

KIM KWEE

associate teaching professor of visual art

CHASE TRAVAILLE

assistant teaching professor of visual art

LENNON PARKER

webmaster & public information specialist

FISHER CUNNINGHAM

LARK DUPINS

CHARLIE EARLES

LAMAIA ESCHBACHER

CODY HYLAND

LAUREN JOHNSON

SARA KOONS

REGINA MURPHY

SAM PYBURN

JACOB SORY

BRENDEN VAN HOOSER

DAWN VELA contributors

VOLUME XV 2006

“To live in the gap between the moment that is expiring and the one that is arising— luminous and empty. The real city falling through your mind in glittering pieces. And when you close your eyes, what do you see? Nothing. Now open them!”

—LAURIE

ANDERSON from Heart of a Dog

The Open Sky

The open sky

Trees surrounding a poppy covered meadow

Staring at some clouds gathered above

Then

Looking into the tree line

Propped up on your elbows

A shadow appears

The presence is warm

Welcoming

Loving

You get up

Move closer

Not even a flicker of fear

The shadow is of a figure

Or so it seemed

His hands are bony and as think as twigs

The aroma he gives off is of the Earth

Dirt, leaves decaying

The ground in which it had recently rained

He speaks

A low rumble of a word

“Come”

He puts his hand out for you to take

Without pause

Your hand clasps within his

A calmness you’ve never felt

Overtaking you

Taking one last glance towards the cloudy sky

Closing your eyes

Inhaling as if for the last time

Recentering yourself

And then together you walk further

Not even looking back

Permission

i don’t think i’ve ever been allowed to break not really not fully not in the way glass is allowed to shatter when it hits the floor no one tells glass to be strong no one tells it to hold itself together no one tells it to forgive the hand that threw it it just breaks loud honest unapologetic but me i was taught to soften the impact

to bend instead of shatter to survive instead of fall apart get over it move on be strong have thick skin as if strength meant never breaking as if pain was something to outgrow not something to feel so i learned how to disappear into distractions into dreams into anything that could carry me away from what hurt

i stretched time put distance between me and my wounds until they felt smaller or at least quieter and maybe that’s why i don’t know what it feels like to truly break to fall apart without catching myself to shatter without immediately trying to clean it up i wonder if i ever did what would happen would i be something that could be rebuilt or would i just

stay there in pieces sharp scattered untouched like my feelings have always been seen but never held and sometimes i think maybe breaking isn’t the end maybe it’s the first time something inside me finally tells the truth

Nasty Potato

“Dude, Madison, that is seriously the nastiest thing I’ve seen in so long. That cannot be okay we’ve gotta do something about that.”

Madison didn’t look up from his phone, although he did cover his nose with the collar of his shirt to block the smell. “Just use the tongs or something man. And Leslie, you gotta stop calling it ‘it’. You’re giving it some kind of personhood like it has feelings or something.”

“I’m pretty sure that if someone saw this potato without knowing what it was they would think it’s some kind of animals poop or something.” Leslie grabbed some metal tongs and hovered them over what was once a potato attempting to grab it in a way that would leave the least amount of mess. He reached deep into the wicker basket at the bottom of their pantry. It was an old Russet potato that had been abandoned and forgotten long ago. It was wrinkled, oozing some kind of dark, syrup like fluid, and giving off an aroma so pungent it could’ve suggested that something crawled into the basket and died.

“Man, we were totally supposed to make that au gratin three weeks ago. How did we even forget?”

Fisher Cunningham

Madison said in his muffled voice through his shirt. “It was your turn to cook, don’t you remember?”

“Oh whatever, you were too busy at that speed dating thing trying to convince any girl that would listen that ‘Madison’ is some kind of rugged manly name.”

Madison dropped his shirt, now seething. “Well at least I don’t share a name with a 65 year old lady you work with and constantly hits on guys that are half her age.”

Leslie stared blankly at Madison and dropped the tongs. As they clung on the ground he snapped back, “Dude you know how I feel about her and how uncomfortable she makes me. Whatever I can’t even be mad when it’s coming from the guy who’s named after that chick from Corey in the House.”

“It’s a president’s nam-- you know what I don’t even care anymore.”

“OK, whatever bro. Tell that to that girl that put a heart over the ‘i’ in your name.”

The two boys just scoffed and walked away to deal with the ever-acrid smelling potato that lie at the bottom of their pantry. The stench billowed upward throughout the apartment and almost acted

like a physical manifestation of their own complicated transition into adulthood.

JACOB SORY

My Beam of Light

Do you know what you’ve taught me?

It’s that as teachers, to be needed is to fill the part. But, I think, in me, God saw a vacancy, And sent you to fill my heart.

You were my blessing, a beam of light, So warm and outspoken in a package so small. I have to fight tears with all my might, For now that little girl has grown so tall.

I wish I could’ve saved you from that place, When, really, you should have never been there. The way she yelled I can’t erase, But I stayed in hopes it wouldn’t be all yours to bear.

Circumstance forced me to leave, please understand,

But I wanted to show you all you could do. If I succeeded, I’ll never know, But take the pens, take the stickers, take my hand. I’ll kiss your cheek and tie your shoe, Whatever, my little light, will keep you aglow.

Charlie Earles

When Sound Becomes Color

The first note blooms deep violet spreading across the air like dusk touching the tops of mountains. A bass line rolls beneath the floorboards, low thunder wandering through the earth, vibrations rooting themselves in the bones of everyone listening. Drums arrive like rain silver droplets striking the surface of silence, rippling outward in widening circles.

A trumpet bursts open in gold, sunlight spilling across a river so bright it makes the water sing. Voices rise like wind through tall grass, bending the green fields of the heart until something inside us sways. Someone closes their eyes suddenly the room is not a room anymore. It is a forest of rhythm, a storm of color, a sky full of sound.

Blue chords drift like evening tides, soft and endless.

Red notes burn through the air

Lark Dupins

like wildfire racing across dry hills. And somewhere between the heartbeat of the drums and the trembling strings of a guitar, people begin to feel things they did not know were waiting inside them. Music does this turns breath into color, turns silence into oceans, turns ordinary moments into something vast and alive. For a few minutes we are no longer bodies in a room we are waves, we are wind, we are light moving through sound.

REGINA MURPHY

The Black Writing

I stepped back to look at my half of the dorm. My bed was sharply fitted with spotless white sheets that practically glistened in the light. My dresser was dark wood with no blemishes. A few feet away was a bookshelf that I had put the required schoolbooks for my classes in. In the middle of the room was a desk with a paper welcoming me and someone named “the blue son.” I was a bit confused about what that meant, but I thought my roommate might know.

I let out a contented sigh and checked my phone, and saw it was 3:07.

Right then, the door opened, and a young man walked in. He wore a full suit complete with a tie. His hair was short and bright red, and his slight beard matched. His face was reserved partly because his sunglasses hid his eyes. On his right hand was a ring with a large blue sapphire.

He had a backpack on one shoulder and was pulling two suitcases behind him with one hand. In the other, he gripped a brown cane.

“Hello,” he said, putting his stuff down. “You’re my roommate?”

“Uh… oh, yes, I’m Scott Ransom.” I held out

Brenden Van Hooser

my hand, and he shook it. He was strong, stronger than I expected.

“Allen St. Augustine,” he smiled.

Bit of a weird name.

“What are you here for?” he asked.

“Honestly, I’ve heard Echo recruits out of here, and ever since the government’s been cleaning house, there’s a bunch of openings. Seems like an exciting life dealing with enhanced individuals, plus it gets me out of my hometown.”

“Echo, huh, that’s actually what I came for too.”

That took me back a bit; he didn’t strike me as the type. “You mean like for a desk job?”

“No, as an agent.”

I simply nodded, but I was still doubting. I decided to change the topic. “There’s a paper here welcoming me, and somebody called the “blue son,” would that be you by any chance?” I glanced down at his sapphire.

His eyebrow raised, and he went over to the paper and read it.

“I wonder,” he muttered. He flipped the paper over. He stopped and looked at me. Suddenly, some-

thing flashed, and I blacked out.

Then, in just another moment, I opened my eyes again.

I sat up and realized I was lying on my bed. It was dark outside, and I shook my head to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating.

I looked over and saw that Allen had set up his stuff: a bed, a large desk, and an office chair.

“Oh, hey,” Allen said, looking up from a book.

“What the heck happened?” I asked.

“What do you mean,” he asked, “you decided to get some rest.”

“What?” I said, more to myself than him.

I’m not going crazy, am I?

I didn’t know how to respond to what I figured was clear deception, so I simply checked the time and saw it was eight.

Out of nowhere, I heard a screech.

“Stay here,” Allen said, grabbing his cane.

“Hold up,” I said. Right then, I noticed the paper was turned over, and some sort of black writing was on it. It was styled in a flowing font.

“You thought you could run, you will never escape, we will always find you.”

What in the world?

I turned and ran out the door. I found Allen grappling with a man. The man was tall, but what really stuck out were his completely red eyes and long fingernails. I stepped forward and punched the man, causing him to fall. He hit the ground and began screeching.

Allen removed his glasses, and his eyes began to glow blue.

“You will end like your father,” The man screamed. His eyes returned to normal along with his fingernails.

“I’m sorry,” Allen said, turning to me.

“What, why?”

“I thought you might be the one who sent the letter, so I poked around in your mind.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll give you a summary. My father gave me this sapphire, and ever since then, things calling themselves Nelloes have been following me.”

“Well…” I began, “I guess it’s good that I know that, considering we’re roommates.”

Allen looked over at me and laughed, “maybe.”

So that’s how our friendship started, with simple paper and black writing.

Ode to the Lab Coat

White as unwritten mornings, stiff with starch, you hang beside the door in patient light. Your pockets yawn like questions in the dark, stitched deep enough to cradle wrong and right.

You are no cape, yet still you steady hands that tremble slightly over measured glass. You smell of paper charts and careful plans, of antiseptic futures yet to pass.

One day I’ll wear you, armor made of thread, buttoned against the fevered rush of doubt. Your sleeves will frame the words I’ve often read until they turn from theory into clout.

O coat, stand ready silent, bright, and plain to guard the pulse that whispers through each vein.

Lauren Johnson

SPECIAL THANKS

SHAYLEE BACKUS, Digital Media Specialist

CHRIS BLACKALL, Creative Services Manager

MINETTE BOULIER, Administrative Specialist III

DR. SUMMER DEPROW, Chancellor

FRANK GONZALES, Public Safety Officer

DR. ANA HUNT, Provost & Vice Chancellor of Academic Affairs

TIM JONES, Director of Public Relations & Marketing

DR. RICHARD MOSS, Dean of Fine Arts, Humanities & Social Sciences

SUBMISSION INFO

The View from Here is published every spring by the University of Arkansas—Pulaski Technical College’s Department of Fine Arts, Humanities and Social Sciences.

Any current student at UA-PTC is encouraged to submit entries (fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, visual art, etc.) to LOGAN M. OLIVER at loliver@ uaptc.edu.

COLOPHON

The 2026 edition of The View from Here, volume XV, was designed by Allen Loibner-Waitkus on a MacBook Pro using Adobe InDesign 2026 and Adobe Photoshop 2026. The artworks featured were photographed by Logan M. Oliver.

Three font families are featured in the publication:

• Lotus Eden

• Spectral

• Fountain Pen Frenzy

Ten colors were pulled from Pantone: The 20th Century in Color by Leatrice Eiseman and Keith Recker (Chronicle Books, 2011) from the “Kensington and Carnaby” color palette:

• BLUE YONDER

• BRIGHT VIOLET

• CORDOVAN

• JAFFA ORANGE

• JAVA

• MINERAL RED

• PALE GOLD

• SHEEPSKIN

• TRUE BLACK

All poetry, short stories, photographs, and other artworks were created by student currently attending the University of Arkansas—Pulaski Technical College.

Breath! You are alive.