A green light to greatness.®

ts2012


Professors

By Doni M. Wilson

 

I am a college professor.  When I was growing up, I did not think about professors very much, because I did not know any.  I grew up in a suburb of Houston, and there were teachers and engineers and stay at home moms and men in the energy business. But as far as I knew, no professors. 

The Great Outdoors

By Will Sheets

 

Thick patches of straw-colored grass flank both sides of the trail. They stretch out like the hands of beggars, pleading with the sun to rise and dispel the cold of the dark winter morning. I might have joined them had I not been trying to keep up with my father.

Winter Garden

By Brian Russell

 

On January 17, 1979, my adoptive father summoned Mom, my brother Scott, and me into the living room. He had an announcement.

“Get your coats,” he demanded. “We’re going out. I’d like to leave in about ten minutes, so don’t dawdle.” With that, he retreated into his study.

“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked Mom.

“I don’t know any more than you do, but you heard your Dad, get your things together.”

The Hundred-Dollar House

By Ellen Raff

 

In January of 2001, roughly six months after Ari Sullivan graduated from New York University, her mother died of pancreatic cancer.  Ari lived in New York City, working for a small marketing firm.  Nine months later, during her walk to work, she noticed one of the twin towers burning.  By the time she walked another block, a plane had crashed into the second tower. 

Into the Classroom

By Sarah Junek

 

They plod through ditches, instrument cases swinging in the mist, sometimes as early as 7 a.m., hours before school. Where not long ago Indians hunted buffalo and a young girl drowned in the creek that later took her name, they walk with their iPhones, past small houses where immigrants from Mexico or further south have settled.

Star-Crossed Soldier

By Vivian Morrow Jones

 

The beach is silent after the thousands of troops have trampled ashore and made their way inland. Waves cover the sand, recede, and wash away the memory of boots and khaki, helmets and guns.  Stories of valor and cowardice follow the troops awhile, but the stories are soon hidden away and eventually lost.

Families have secrets. Governments have secrets. History has the most secrets of all. I’m after the secret of a West Texas boy who was silenced during a war half a world away and half a century ago.

Just Keep Moving

By Christina Hughes-Babb

 

A hot pin pierces my frontal lobe and the pain ripples outward. My ears throb, my heart pounds and a wasps’ nest awakens in my gut.

Something deep down begs unconsciousness, but my merciful, chemically induced slumber has ended. I am on my side, skin and bones shivering on a concrete bunk in a place I have been before. Sounds of angry chatter and slamming doors — doors that lock from the outside — seep into this cruel consciousness.

You are a lousy piece of shit, the voice inside my head says.

Growing Up With Silvia

By Stella M. Chavez

 

My earliest memory is of my mother on the telephone, crying. As she sobbed, I walked into my parents’ bedroom, opened a drawer in the cherry walnut dresser and pulled out a handkerchief. My mom says I regularly took her handkerchiefs, sometimes heading straight for the dresser at the sound of the telephone ringing. I was only three or four years old. I don’t think I understood why Mom was always crying. I just knew she was hurting.

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