Louisiana Tech Digital Commons

Jenna Meadows studies history and English with a concentration in creative writing at Louisiana Tech

Meadows, Jenna

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The Quatrain
Flash Flood Warning
by Jenna Meadows
floating above the chaos, second-floor safety
Is it chaos or is the chaos in my soul
the serrated sound of the warnings remind me of home
my home is the sea, shmucks tell me it’s where I should go
maybe I’m the shmuck for not believing them, 
let ‘em search for the great white whale
I’ll stay on land and wait for him to come to me
soft steps down to the first floor, looking for something
anything to sate my salty soul
lights flicker off in the hallway as my feet slosh down
I can stand without fear of the water taking me away
Ahab’s hall, this hall, is the first to flood in a flash
It was inevitable, the sea could not be without its captain 
so instead of his search, the sea searched for him
breeeep, breeeep, breeep
The national weather service in New Orleans has issued a flood 
warning for this area
are we human or are we savages in a moment of crisis?
water brings out the true nature of every man, sailor
savor that the water came to us, bringing all its mysteries
up above, and cloudy-white, there’s a great white whale
From his blowhole he summons only the greatest of storms
are we human or are we savages in a moment of crisis
Water fills the streets, the entire Gulf of Mexico came to me
Crystal little drops of rainfall, the world becomes a watery white
I would get an umbrella, but the sky has me entranced, so 
beautiful
So white, so terrifying with the amount of power it holds
I hear a terrifying whale song, I forgot what the tornado sirens 
sound like
It brings me to my senses, and back inside I go
Floating above the chaos, second-floor safety
I open up my Norton’s copy of Moby Dick, that’s enough adventure 
for today
I Used to Call It Home 
by Annie Gremillion
 I grew up a child of the woods. I let the falling leaves raise 
me, the twisted brambles etch memories into my skinny legs as 
I wandered through the path and wove myself through the trees. 
This path I walked mindlessly, endlessly; the trail burned into the 
bottoms of my bare feet. A thick layer of pine straw poked uselessly 
at the soles, long toughened from years of claiming my territory. 
My mother always worried when I crossed the fence, warning 
me of snakes and West Nile Virus, but I feared nothing. After all, I 
emerged every time unscathed, albeit with some scrapes and a few 
mosquito bites. They were a comfort; every bump, every scratch 
proof that I had fought my way through the woods, day after day. 
And fight I did; the woods were my escape. I walked their long 
path, unveiling their mysteries.
 One warm summer morning my feet led me to a new 
place, and I discovered the creek that snaked through the flora 
and led to what seemed to be a tiny river. It was bigger and 
wider than the creek, full of sand and places to run and play, and 
I affectionately dubbed it “the lagoon.” It became my new hiding 
spot in the unpleasant game of hide-and-seek that would ensue 
from my parents’ oncoming divorce. The trees were a canopy for 
my thoughts as I whispered stories to myself, hands running across 
bark, feet steady on a path they knew better than any other. I often 
called it my second home, but when I was sitting on a throne of 
leaves, staring over a body of water that was so distinctly mine, I 
thought of it as my first.
 Until I had to leave it. My mom got remarried after 
the divorce, and I moved into a new house, with a new family, 
and a new life. I never stopped missing my creek, my lagoon; it 
appeared so often in my dreams, clear as day, just as I remembered 
it. I swore I would return, but I never thought I would have the 
opportunity to go back until a sudden visit changed my mind.
 It was last summer; I was grateful to have finished high 
school but not quite ready to start anew with college. I was 
spending my last hours of freedom doing what I do best, sitting  
on the floor and playing video games, until my mom called me 
from downstairs. 
 “Do you want to go to the old house?” she asked me as I 


English

Flash Flood Warning

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The Quatrain
Acknowledgments 
Without a host of wonderful people working on it, rooting for 
it, and believing in it, this fifth volume would not exist. First, 
monumental thank you to our administrative advocates who 
allowed this production process to become a course. Dr. Susan 
Roach, thank you for believing that dreams and goals can also 
pay the bills—or in this case earn credits. An eternal thank you is 
owed to Tom Futrell, who taught us what it means to compile a 
manuscript and then offered his time and expertise to make our 
vision a reality. To Dr. Donald Kaczvinsky, who first had the idea for 
a school literary journal and has continued to fund The Quatrain’s 
existence. To Dr. Ernest Rufleth, who laid the foundation on which 
we continue to build. Thank you both for having a vision, and for 
trusting us to make it our own.
To our bold and caring leader, Anna Kelley, who allowed this 
volume to be truly ours. Thank you for pushing us through tight 
deadlines and crammed schedules, tough decisions and friendly 
debates. You offered us a voice and a space to create something 
that is wholly our own. For this lifetime and a hundred after, thank 
you. And to this incredible staff: thank you for trusting me to lead 
you. Thank you for working tirelessly. Thank you for caring. To 
my Associate Editors, Cammie Ardoin, Hunter Jones, and Katelyn 
Swanson, thank you for holding onto our vision. Thank you for 
wanting the very best for this volume. To my Managing Editor, 
Katelyn Swanson, thank you for finding the details I couldn’t. 
Thank you for seeing the bigger picture, when I was so often 
focused on the day-to-day.
And finally, to our contributors: we quite literally would not be 
here without you. Thank you for being bold and creative. Thank 
you for sharing that with all of us, and thank you for trusting us 
to share it through this journal. So, here’s to you! May you always 
be bold. May you always be creative. And may you always find the 
faith to share these pieces of yourself with the world.
Kristyn Hardy, 
Editor-in-Chief
Several of our contributors were also on our staff this year, and as such, 
they are listed within our masthead and as contributors. Our staff wants to 
assure all of our readers that every submission, regardless of the contributor, 
underwent an extensive review and selection process. For those of us on 
staff whose pieces were up for consideration, this process was conducted 
anonymously and in an unbiased forum. Staff contributors were not involved 
in the selection of their own work. Our staff had lengthy conversations as to 
how the final selection of works could remain fair and we hope we were able 
to present this journal justly. 


Acknowledgments

Maryam El-Awadi is an oil painter and a student. She grew up in Ruston, Louisiana and is now studying studio art at Louisiana Tech. She loves creating content about daydreaming and the subconscious. She aspires to be someone who creates art and teaches about art for a living

El-Awadi, Maryam

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The Quatrain
Fallin
by Kristyn Hardy
“See, Fallin. Can you find them?” 
Her mother’s whispered words flitted through her head. Her 
mother held her hand, guided her eyes with the other. In the 
shade of the tall trees, with sunlight dappling through the highest 
branches, she searched. Her mother caressed the braid that fell 
down Fallin’s back. A breeze fluttered the leaves at her feet and the 
wisps of hair that had fallen from her braid. 
“You’re focused on too much, child. Take a breath, and look again.”
She closed her eyes. She inhaled the salt from the river, the sap 
from the trees. Her mother stroked her head. Fallin took another 
breath. She opened her eyes. 
Their wings glimmered in the morning’s light; every shade of 
winter reflected throughout the forest. Some looked like fresh 
snow while others glittered the blues of an icy sea. Some were 
darker than night, some the hues of a pale sunrise at winter’s first 
awakening. One had wings of polished silver and held the hand of 
a child with wings of solid granite, like the mountain at their back. 
Little ones chased each other through low branches, creating the 
breeze that rustled through the small clearing. Above her, in the 
higher branches sat others, creating the shade she had formerly 
assumed the trees themselves were responsible for. An older one, 
with wings of burnished brass, stood leaning against a tree, 
smiling faintly at her. Her shining hair, the color of polished silver, 
hung to her waist and her tan face was creased with laughter. 
She held her hand out, then turned away. Fallin, almost in a daze, 
followed. The others smiled as she passed. Warm smiles, as though 
they were welcoming her home. Fallin followed the older one to a 
small clearing. She sat on the ground beside her in the midst of tall 
grasses that swayed with their hair. Her mother lingered a small 
stretch away, her hand brushing the swollen bump of her belly.
“You are Fallin,” the older one said. 
She blinked. “I am.”
Cloud Watching
Maryam El-Awadi


Cloud Watching

Brennan Hilliard is a photographer from Shreveport, Louisiana. He currently attends Louisiana Tech University where he is pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in journalism. He formally studied photography at Bossier Parish Community College where he acquired two certifications

Hilliard, Brennan

70 71
The Quatrain
Silhouette
Brennan Hilliard 


Breton

Silhouette

Hunter Jones is majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing. In his free time, he enjoys practicing photography and videography

Jones, Hunter

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The Quatrain Volume 5 | 2021
The train starts to pull away, and she heads into the car.
Okay, it’s time. I should make a decision. Why not the 
Reincarnation train? I’m already here. No. No. I may not remember 
much of my life, but the last time I was on Earth it was pretty bad, 
it can only be worse now. What about the train to Nothing? That 
just feels like giving up. And there’s that ‘help wanted’ sign again. 
Wait.
I grab the sign and blow off the dust. Maybe I’m not ready to make 
a choice. Maybe I should stay right here and help others. I slowly 
open the office door and step inside.
Raining Colors
Hunter Jones


Raining Colors

https://digitalcommons.latech.edu/quatrain-gallery-volume-5/1021/thumbnail.jp

Nguyen, Linh

Dixie Theatre

https://digitalcommons.latech.edu/quatrain-gallery-volume-5/1013/thumbnail.jp

Blessing, Noah

Graphic #5

https://digitalcommons.latech.edu/quatrain-gallery-volume-5/1004/thumbnail.jp

Minded Figure

https://digitalcommons.latech.edu/quatrain-gallery-volume-5/1003/thumbnail.jp

Robbins, Callie

Epiphany

https://digitalcommons.latech.edu/quatrain-gallery-volume-5-cropped/1018/thumbnail.jp

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