Broken Ink vol. 51 by BrokenInkUSCA

Broken Ink Volume 51 | 2019 Issue Literary & Visual Arts Magazine

Staff Haley Dixon - Editor-in-Chief Roy Seeger - Faculty Advisor Bailey Mullins - Layout Editor Isabel Martinez - Visual Arts Editor Selin Wayne - Literary Arts Editor Jeremy Smith - Music Editor Bonnie Watson - Digital Manager Kallen Miles - Events Coordinator Lizzie Abshire - Staff Member

About Us Broken Ink is USC Aiken’s student-produced literary and visual arts magazine. Students’ poetry, paintings, short stories, photography, and art of all sorts have been published in Broken Ink since 1971.

Mission Statement Broken Ink endeavors to accurately and objectively feature the literary and artistic achievement of USC Aiken students and to raise awareness of the literary and visual arts throughout campus and the community.

Review Process All submissions are reviewed blindly and related on a scale of one to five (with five being the highest) by volunteers and staff. In order to supply an accurate and objective representation of USC Aiken’s artistic community, we ask all panelists to refrain from rating their own submissions, should they have any, and any works that they recognize. Accepted works are determined according to the highest average rating. Due to space constraints, the Broken Ink staff occasionally must determine between two or more equally deserving works, both by average rating and artistic merit. Ties are resolved on the current publication’s concept or “voice” and Broken Ink’s mission to represent a wide variety of student work.

Key Visual pieces are in red Literary pieces are in blue Audio/Video pieces are in gray

8 10 11 12 13 14 16 16 17 18 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 29 30 30

Redemption Kyah Osuwu

31 32 33 33 34 34 36 37 38 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 47 48 49 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 55 56 56 57 58 62 62 63 66

Little Sponges (Why Walking Around the Classroom is Important) Samantha Parker

(voice 1) Look at them all Rows innumerable Of precocious pupils Studiously scrivening Faces downturned Eagerly inscribing Information to be absorbed (voice 2) I Overslept pencil moving because all the coffee fingers jittery, feet pumping I really have to pee Face down so I can concentrate Think dry thoughts (voice 3) Homework for another class I have all A’s; it doesn’t matter “Consistency is key” a blemish on my perfect record Please, myself, hurry! (voice 4) I hate this class, so repetitive I’ve learned this all before Feed the beast, the hungry masses, ever wanting more “You’ll never be an author” If my parents only knew I’ve found my place despite your nagging Screw you and you too

“The poem in four voices is based on my high school experience. Deeper inspection reveals that the classroom is a metaphor for life. Walking around the classroom is important to make sure everyone is getting the lesson just as experiencing all aspects of life is important to understanding and empathizing with humankind.”

Retrospect

DK Turner

Except Death and Taxes Jeremy Smith

“I burned a piano and took this photo, that is all.”

I Can’t Afford To See A Doctor So Fuck Me I Guess

Hansel James

I find strange marks, weird pains, that weren’t always there And I tell myself it’s nothing to Keep Myself Calm Seeing a doctor costs an arm and a leg that I can’t afford to give Because I need the leg to get to work And I need the arm to do my job I can’t afford to have something wrong with me It costs money to live in this world Without it I would be dead And I watch as people around me are forced to choose between Making rent And making meals Because their jobs don’t pay enough for both And I watch as those same people Suffer Through sickness and pain Because they cant afford to have something wrong with them either And I watch as we kill ourselves from trying to live And I cry Because we can’t afford to live in this world Because if we get sick we are as good as dead Because when we’re useless we’re better off dead And who even really cares if we find the Cure for cancer When it will just be sold to the highest bidder While the rich get richer The sick get sicker And we’re left to rot in a world that never wanted us Because we can’t afford to see a doctor And we’re better off dead if we can’t afford to live

Church Grim Allie Pizzemento

Enzo pawed at the ground, pushing caked on dirt off a mostly hidden gravestone. He always did his best to keep the stones clear, but time always got ahead of him. It was a bright morning, just after the morning rush. Typically, he finds comfort in watching the cars pass, knowing that humans reside within them, but this morning he felt troubled. Anticipation caused his fur to lift. He was waiting for the new burial to rise. Sometimes it takes hours, others it can take days or even weeks. To calm himself, he tried pacing, digging, and prowling behind squirrels who had no idea he was there. But nothing seemed to help him shake the discomfort. Defeated, he made is way to to the far corner of the cemetery, under a sagging willow tree, and curled up in a sunny patch of grass. His owners stone had been covered up long ago, but he always returned to it, still seeking her comfort two hundred years later. Enzo woke to a pat on his head. People didn’t usually approach him first, he almost always had to go up to them. He lifted his eyes as gently as possible, afraid to startle the newly deceased. A frightened little girl looked back at him. She was crouched down in front of him, her thumb in her mouth. He lifted and lowered his tail softly, making a soft thudding sound on the grass. “Do you know where I am?” she asked, voice small. He twitched up an ear to show the he recognized her words and got to his feet. Enzo walked towards the entrance of the cemetery, where two angels stood on either side of the sign. She followed closely behind him. Rosendale Memorial Park. She stared at the words for a few moments, he wondered if she could read. “Who died?” she asked finally. Enzo turned and lead her towards her freshly filled grave, the stone still shiny and the flowers bright.

Cassidy Grace Baker 2004-2011 Daughter, friend, fairy princess A little soul got her wings Cassidy looked down on the stone in silence, absorbing her predicament. Enzo sat beside her, nudging his nose into her palm. He was there to comfort, after all. She absently stroked his head, his dark fur stark between her pale fingers. He relished in the touch. It wasn’t often that he felt affection. His ears perked at the sound of a car approaching, it’s tires rolling over century old gravel. They both turned to see a silver Camry crawling towards them, a tight lipped woman with blonde hair behind the wheel. “Mama,” Cassidy whispered before running towards the vehicle. “Mama!” It passed right through her and stopped beside her grave. Cassidy stood, stunned, as her mother got out of the car. “Why can’t she see me?” Cassidy asked Enzo, tears pressing against the barrier of her lower lashes. Enzo wished more than anything that he could speak. How many hearts could he have mended with just a few simple words? He’d tell her that she was dead, sure. But her memory was not and never would be. She will live on in the hearts of her loved ones and not a day will go by that they won’t think of her. He’d say that she will be loved for the rest of eternity and she has been immortalized here in Rosendale Memorial Park. Here with him. Because Enzo has never forgotten someone that has passed through his boneyard. Even after their last descendant has passed, Enzo remains, and Enzo remembers. Her mother fell to her knees at the headstone, bottomless sobs forcing themselves out of her exhausted lungs. Cassidy moved towards her in the hesitant way that children do and took her hand gingerly.

“Mama,” she said. “I’m alright now, I’m not sick anymore,” she struggled to find the words. “I’m safe. There’s a doggie here who’s gonna take care of me.” Her mother’s sobs quieted. Even though she couldn’t hear her child, Enzo knew that she could feel her. He watched over them until the sun dipped below the horizon and her mother rose to leave. She pressed a kiss to the lacquered stone, climbed into her car, and drove off. “What now?” Cassidy asked, remaining seated on the dirt. Enzo laid beside her and placed his head in her lap. She scratched behind his ears and in between his eyes, then smoothed his fur, then stopped. His head dropped towards the ground and he knew Cassidy was gone. He stood and walked back towards his master’s grave, settling down to prepare for his next guest.

Art Mark Pelfrey Hip-Hop

What I Like About Myself Samantha Palker My mind is good And yet… My whole life has been trying to fix it.

all things will be made new Bailey Mullins

“I took this photo while in Louisville, KY. The text ‘all things will be made new’ near the bottom is a reference to the Silent Planet song ‘The New Eternity’ (with the planet from that album cover being referenced at the top of the image) and the Bible verse Revelation 21:5.”

Fleeting

Naya Jackson Time is cruel, It changes memories, people, and hearts, Until we can no longer recognize each other. And the space between us is too wide to fill. We stare at each other, Both looking for the connection that we both know has fled, And I don’t love you anymore and I wonder if I ever did.

The Escape Jewel Brown

“I have had a love for photography for many years and enjoy many genres of photography. The genre I enjoy photographing the most is Landscape Photography, but often times do not have the availability to do so. This photography was taken in West Virginia during the fall break on my return to South Carolina.”

Train

Bonnie Watson Brisk, crisp 8:34 morning sun rising The tunnel of trees passes by my eyes like blurring into the background Soft, rhythmic, acoustic guitar strings strumming from the speakers The wind flapping through my wet hair, small strings poking out Everyone is so slow today Time for the next song So much to do this week, when will I get it all done? What if? What if I kept driving? Miss class, don’t go to class, just take that right turn Take the right onto the interstate, just keep driving Then what? Wait. I forgot my car could go this fast I wonder what would happen if I followed this whole way down I really need to fix this turning switch You know, I could come back the next few days and act like it never happened The feeling of freedom and fast, airy wind as my hairdryer Zipping down the interstate like I’m in an 80s movie Sunglasses shielding my eyes from looking back as I go forward That’s right, I’m always doing my duets with Cyndi and Elton I’m still standing, time after time Take on me, take me on, let’s go crazy They don’t care if I turned right? We’re always together Driving together as far as my car would let us No more classes, no work, no expectations Just Me and my music, and my car, and, and Oh wait, I have to stop and get gas.

“This title is a reference to the saying ‘train of thought.’ It is not supposed to consistently make sense, and it’s all over the place, it also contains ideas of grandeur and bad decisions. Mainly, it’s like a jumbled up version of what goes through my head as I go to work or early morning classes. I want that understanding that this is supposed to be a “snapshot” into the mind of an individual.”

fall 2017, university of south carolina, she’s a virgin Houston Keenan

on saturday mornings they shut down main street and people come and vend food and bring their dogs and ignore the homeless black people for a day and i got up one time and went there early and got her ecuadorian food.

we were just friends and i do stupid things for girls so i gave her the food and she smiled and i try to smile but girls make me stupid so i have a half seizure in my face trying to smile and mutter something incomprehensible,

i can tell by the way her eyes speak that she liked it.

later, weeks later, we are all friends going to a latin festival downtown and she can’t really dance latin but i have family in spain so i can fake it real good and she’s kind of impressed and i feel really cool and later when we got back, still with friends, she sits next to me and makes eye contact and smiles and i think that’s really cool,

and then later, not much later, we all go out to eat because we are all friends and then we go to drink in my friend’s room and she is a tiny little thing and we all watch a movie and we’re all drunk but i’m not so drunk like her and she cuddles me and i want to tell her just how gorgeous she looks in that dress and i’m debating it but i get so nervous i forget and the movie ends and she shouldn’t walk home alone,

and we pour liquor down our throats for the road, my head is spinning, we can go talk in your bed if you want and i can take off your clothes if you want and she’s a virgin but it’s fine because we don’t have to do that anyway but she’s naked like me under the sheets and we giggle like stupid drunks and i kiss her and hold her and pray, because angels don’t come around very often, especially not ones like her. we bask in golden, drunken, angel-sleep;

“I stood there, with you by my side, watching the birds fly over the ocean and thought about how great it would be to fly off into the sunset with you.”

Home is Here

Hollie Barton

Hair In Wind

Deja K. Savage

The Mysterious Owl Samantha Vigoya

Burden

Brett Fessler I’m fixing ornaments on the Christmas tree. The smell of the Douglas fir fills the air creating a joyous atmosphere. I reposition some green and red lights as I step around the tree. My wife sits on the ground surrounded by mountains of shiny wrapping paper. She holds a package up to me and says, “This is pretty heavy?” The lights fade and suddenly I am in a different place. “CHALK 101 ON YOUR FEET!” a booming voice pulls me from my uneasy rest. I am somehow lying facedown on a bench. A cocoon of gear awkwardly surrounds my body. Rising to my feet, the weight of the gear shifts back on me. Instantly my body starts to shake and strain, like an old machine restarting after a long time. “Dude, that looks heavy,” Johnson says in response to my effort. I look down at the gear hanging from me: my reserve parachute on my chest, a M240 machine gun hanging on my left side, and my rucksack hanging off my hips. The ruck is loaded down with hundreds of rounds of ammo. While I can’t see it, I can certainly feel my main parachute on my back. All of the things are attached to my harness, which right now is enveloping my body, cutting into my shoulders, and pulling my hips. “Yea, it’s fucking heavy,” I say in response as I look over the hanger full of camouflaged silhouettes. A mixture of excitement and boredom, fear and frustration percolate the air. For civilians, jumping out of an airplane is a once in a lifetime, adrenaline-filled fun experience. A big difference exists between civilian and military styles of parachuting. Civilian parachutes are designed to land as slow, safely, and comfortably as possible. Military parachutes have to take into account time in the air that a soldier is defenseless. Safety is speed, a calculated speed that won’t break bones but will normally knock the wind out of you upon landing. When a civilian jumps out of a plane, it is usually in a relaxed manner, as part of a small group with plenty of space in the sky. When the Army jumps, one person a second needs to exit the door, and the sky can be filled with hundreds of people competing for space. Injuries are common and vary from minor to debilitating. For the soldiers of the 82nd Airborne, it was part of the job, a burden necessary for the defense of our country. I take a step forward, aches and pain shoot from different parts of my body. At a torturously slow walk, I follow Bullard, my assistant gunner, who is weighed down with almost as much gear as I am. We leave the

relative comfort of the hanger, stepping out into the below freezing February night. While I feel the bite of the cold, it hardly registers. I can only focus on one step at a time. It feels as though the tops of my femurs are trying to pull out of my hips. It’s as though the muscles in my legs are preoccupied trying to hold my bones in place, rather than worry about a silly little thing like walking. Step, step, step, my group slowly makes its way to the C-17, the aircraft our group of 120 soldiers will be taking off in but not landing in. I can hear the high-pitched whine of the jet engines idling. Steam pushes out of my mouth with every gasping breath I take. As we make our way closer I can feel the heat from the jet engines envelope me. The noxious fumes are somewhat comforting in the frigid air. Approaching the back of the aircraft, the people in front of me stop, and the break is welcoming from the herculean effort to walk. I watch as our jumpmasters start talking to the flight crew. I can feel my body sag and bend as it reacts on its own, looking for a shred of relief. Standing here it feels like the discs in my spine that are normally full of liquid, have been squeezed dry, the bones now rubbing against each other, causing the sensations I now feel daily. Bullard turns to face me, “Dude, I’m fucking dying here. I don’t know how I am going to do this.” “Man I ‘am with you, this shit is fucking heavy.” The steam comes out with every word I speak. “You didn’t do this kind of work out when you played at Auburn?” I joke with him. “I have been hit so hard I couldn’t remember who I was, and this shit is way worse.” Our bitching session is interrupted as our group begins to move again. Walking on the airplane the noxious smell of jet exhaust is replaced by a mechanical humming. Dull fluorescent lights bathe the interior of the aircraft, giving everything an almost cold feel. I flop into my seat, my body relaxes, taking a sigh of relief, and I thank God for this gift. “Fessler, Bullard.” I hear the familiar voice of Lt. Tieng. I careen my head forward to look around Johnson. “What’s up, sir?” I yell over the mixture of buzz and high-pitched hum. “You guys doing all right? You look like you are sucking,” Lt. replies. “I am fucking dying, sir,” Bullard yells over my shoulder. “Yep, this blows pretty hard, sir,” I say.

“Well you two are rock stars in my book, keep it up.” Lt. Tieng says. I look at Bullard, and a thought of “what the fuck?” passes between us. I shuffle in my chair. While more tolerable, the weight is still cumbersome. I finally settle into a position where I can lay my head on my reserve parachute. The smell of nylon, sand, and stale sweat comfort me as I close my eyes and try to sleep. While deep sleep is impossible, I fall into a trance-like half sleep. I am mildly aware when the plane starts moving. I can hear the jet engines increase in pitch and intensity and the rumble under my feet as we take off. Time passes quickly as my thoughts flow freely between a dreamlike state and introspective analysis of my own life. “Hey man,” Johnson says as he taps my shoulder. I raise my head sluggishly. “What’s up?” I reply. “They are about to call 20 minutes.” he says, as I take the water bottle. Looking around the aircraft, a bluish-green light now fills the space. An eerie and comforting stillness presides over the aircraft as most people try to sleep with the high-pitched sound of the engines humming in the background. I take a sip of the cold stale water and pass the bottle along to Bullard who is also awake. I realize I really need to pee, and my legs are asleep from my ruck laying on them. I undo my seatbelt and start moving in my chair. I groan as nerve fibers that were once dormant now shoot back to life with pain. “UGH,” Johnson’s groan makes me turn my head with curiosity. His awkwardly positioned body is trying to push against his harness but has nowhere to go. “What did you do?” I say to him with a hint of a smile on my face. “I don’t think I sized my harness right; it’s too small,” he replies with a grimace on his face. I laugh to myself realizing I may not be the person in the most pain right now. “TWENTY MINUTES,” the jumpmasters yell. “TWENTY MINUTES,” My voice joins the chorus in response. I can feel the shift in the energy on the plane as people wake up, the realization that our task is close at hand. I can feel a knot in my stomach start to form as my own anxiety begins to build. I move my legs back and forth trying to pump blood and vital nutrients back into them. I watch as the jumpmasters and flight crew walk up and down the aisle several times, making last-minute preparations. The knot in my stomach grows as I know what is coming next. The lights in the cabin suddenly switch to red, bathing everything in a blood-like hue. I know it is tactical, but the light brings a hellish-like feel,

as every shadow now seems more foreboding. “TEN MINUTES,” the booming voice of the jumpmasters yell. “TEN MINUTES,” our collective echoes back. “OUTBOARD PERSONNEL STAND UP,” “OUTBOARD PERSONNEL STAND UP,” we all yell back. I force myself to stand, pushing off of the wall and throwing every ounce of strength I have into the movement. The weight shifts back onto my body again. I stutter and shake but stand. I turn to raise my seat and realize Bullard is still trying to stand. I brace myself against the wall, hold my hand out, and pull with all that I am worth. He rises easily, not from my help, but more because he found the right pivot point to balance on. “Thanks, dog,” he says as we both raise and secure our chairs, then turn to the back of the aircraft. “HOOK UP.” jumpmasters yell. “HOOK UP,” our chorus responds. I reach for my static line, unhooking it from my reserve. I raise my right hand overhead snapping the static line on the anchor line cable. “CHECK STATIC LINES.” “CHECK STATIC LINES,” our collective voice back. I readjust my grip and route the line so that it lies over my shoulder. Looking at Johnson’s parachute, my eyes trace his line into his parachute. I reach up and adjust it slightly and tap his helmet, so he knows he is good, just as Bullard taps my helmet letting me know that I am good to go. “CHECK EQUIPMENT.” “CHECK EQUIPMENT,” our chorus answers. My left hand reaches up to my face, double-checking and tightening my helmet. I reach down my left side to ensure my weapon is attached securely, and lastly, I check my harness straps on my legs. “SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK,” the jumpmaster yells. From the front of the aircraft, a series of “OK’s” comes closer. Bullard smacks me on my shoulder. “OK,” he yells, letting me know that his, and everyone’s behind him, equipment is okay. I smack Johnson on the shoulder yelling, “OK.” I hear the high-pitched engines power down. I know we are close. My back and legs shake as my body looks for a moment of respite. I turn to Bullard and say, “Have a good jump, dude.” “Thanks, you too, man,” He responds. “Have a good jump, Fessler,” Lt. Tieng yells back to me as I turn around.

“You too, Lt. Have a good jump, Johnson,” I reply. “Have a good jump, Fessler,” Johnson says back. The sound in the cabin suddenly becomes a roar as the aircrew opens the jump doors. The knot in my stomach grows significantly larger. I have never jumped with this much weight before. Doubtful thoughts enter my mind. “Clear the zone,” I think to myself, my airborne mantra. I shift again. My back is screaming, and my shoulders clench defiantly trying to resist the pressure. I hold my left hand up kissing my wedding ring, saying a silent prayer to myself. My eyes open from my trance. I have laser-like focus now. I am getting off of this plane. “ONE MINUTE,” the jumpmasters yell. “ONE MINUTE,” we echo back. I look around the cabin. The deafening roar of the air, mixed with the high-pitched whine of the engines, and long hellish shadows cast by the red lights, almost overwhelm my senses. My harness cuts into my shoulders, my femurs pulling out of place by my overweight ruck, and my spine compressing with every breath. The knot in my stomach continues to grow with every second, and my full bladder desperately needs to be drained. I see the hand sign for 30 seconds. I shift my weight from foot to foot counting down the seconds in my head. “GREEN LIGHT, GO!” The energy in the aircraft reaches its pinnacle as people start to exit. I watch people in front of me shifting and moving. I watch as Johnson takes a step. I know it’s go time. “Stay focused,” I say to myself. Step, step, step. I extend my arm. Step, step, step. The roar of the wind gets louder, and my body fights to move with weight. Step, step, step. I loosen my death grip on my static line. Step, step, step. I slow my pace down, so I won’t rush the door. Step, step, step. I can see the door. My legs burn from my effort. Step, step, step. I see Lt. Teing exit. Step, step. My body struggles to maintain composure. Step. Johnson exits the aircraft. Step. Keep going. Step. I hand my static line to the jumpmaster, I turn and face the blackness of the night and jump. Freedom. “Brett!” my wife’s voice brings me back to the present. I am standing in my living room, the smell of the Douglas fir welcomes me back from my memory. “You OK?” My wife asks. “Yea, fine. Just got lost thinking about something,” I reply as I step towards her. Taking the package out of her hands, I say objectively. “No honey, it doesn’t feel that heavy.” This was terrible to live but fun to write about.

Dear Dad

Emelie Alarcon Do not tell me that a man Will not want me because Of my intelligence Do not tell me that I must Learn to cook and clean For a husband to love me My usefulness is beyond A kitchen and My intelligence is beyond The lines you draw for me I will not live for him I will speak With a voice that Shakes the skies Without worry for a man I will carry A strength that Disrupts the Earth Without the thought of a man My life is not Dependent on a man’s Inability to function Without his mother

I have always been headstrong, even when others tried to afflict their personal beliefs onto me. Capturing this unconstrained mindset and depicting it through this poem was important to me. Through my poem “Dead Dad” I wanted to show the courage and self-will of a women, even to those closest to her.

The Tide Is Coming Kyah Osuwu

In the Eye of Man Joshua McLane Contemporary Classic

To The Side

Isabel Martinez

Train of thought Hansel James

I swear I’ll finish the dishes tomorrow I know they’ve been sitting there for weeks Taunting me with the stench of Molding potatoes and farts But I did wash the frying pan So the smell of rotten eggs will fade At Least until I wake up And make myself another batch of scrambled eggs for breakfast And put off doing the dishes for another week Because I hate doing them Why is being an adult so fucking hard? They don’t teach you this shit in school, man How do normal people manage this? The cleaning and work and bills and dread And still find time to sleep? Well I guess it isn’t normal to feel like the world Is slowly crumbling around you Under the weight of violence, homophobia and racism Because normal people don’t think about that Normal people don’t have to think about that But I guess that’s what my antidepressant is for To make me feel more “normal” I want to go back to when I was a kid And didn’t give a shit about anything You don’t have to worry when you’re a spoiled brat I could ask my grandpa for a ten-piece meal with a hot fudge sundae And he’d smile and drive me to McDonald’s without question But then I grew up And I can’t go to McDonald’s with my grandpa anymore Cause he’s dead And I have to buy my own large ten piece with a sweet tea and no sauce Which I know costs seven dollars and seventy-seven cents I have enough from my last paycheck to justify it And I can’t cook food at home cause I let the dishes pile up

And it’s midnight And I hate doing dishes God I swear I’ll finish the dishes tomorrow

Beneath the Lightning Mark Pelfrey Indie-Folk

Take Your Pick

Tierre Moyd

Mad Man of Manhattan or The King of the cul de sac Well Don Draper is not mad, in fact he’s fiendishly calculated Hank Hill doesn’t rule anything, he follows them Draper is a sight to see and Hill looks good on paper Don is who all the girls want, Hank is all yours to keep There isn’t much to say about Hank, Don is the talk of the town Don’s the gambling man, Hank is a safe bet It’s a sense of security in marrying a man like Hank But it’s a thrill to try and lock Don down That Hank is frigid but how cool is Don? Propane, football and Jesus Hank is all the things he loves Success, expensive-liquor and lies All Don cares about is himself One is a good man and the other is good at it Take your pick Either is better than Pete Cambell or a Dale Gribble

sunday morning Houston Keenan

and i walked down the aisle, excuse me maâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;am, past the racist old pastor screaming about locusts and premarital locomotion, and i went to the bathroom and laughed so hard i choked up a dead brown boy and a suicidal trans-angel and laughed so damn hard i spat out all the locusts; my big fat saliva drops hit the floor called poems and wildflowers and songs and lovers and naked, NAKED men, women, children in love; the tears from my jolly crinkled eyes cried out all the saints: peter, john, ginsberg, trayvon, and they all laughed too and we all got real hungry, because of all the laughing, and so we ate the tile floor and the flimsy stalls and the mirrors, especially the mirrors, and our clothes and the bibles and the sacraments and the doors and the crosses and the concrete street-crossings; we were so hungry we ate the walls and foundation and the roof and the pulpit and the organ and the racist little song books (but we left the piano) and we were

wheres1 Raushaun Campbell Hip-Hop

“Houston Keenan is an English major at USCA. He is a former pizza delivery man and goat herder. He once hitchhiked from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon in only nine days.”

a little protein deficient and so we saw this fat sack of meat that was so red with bigot-sauce that his face was glowing and damn he looked good and we just couldn’t help ourselves so we ate him too; we ate his shoes and his socks and his shirt and his service; his too-big-tie and his useless alibi, his wrinkle-spotted skin and his old-man taste of gin, and when we finished him we realized we had left all these little gray hairs and so for dessert we ate them too, and i’ll be damned if it wasn’t the sweetest sweet i ever tasted. and by the time we finished we realized we had been so caught up in hunger that we hadn’t realized that the congregation, oh those soulful souls, they had started eating too, and by the time they finished we were all standing naked in this field and we didn’t know what to do, so this old man with a beard and a halo and a funny accent came down from one of the pines and started playing the piano and we danced and sang and doorbells rang until the revolution ended.

Bukoro Ho

Deja K. Savage

Bent Realities

DK Turner

Blood Lines

Victoria Thomas Without hesitation, Morgana was banished, quietly in the night. As she was taken away, she took one final look back at Arthur and me, her eyes filled with hatred. Although I had not banished her myself, she knew I had not stopped Arthur from doing so. She rode off into the woods; and Arthur, in time, forgot about his love for her. For the next ten years I kept a watchful eye on Morgana. I would send eagles to spy on her, so as not to let her know of my presence. In time I found out that Morgana had the gift of magic. She practiced dark magic, and I worried for the child in her womb. I came to find out that the child was a boy that she named Mordred. I never told Arthur of this; he had too many things on his mind, he did not need another. As the years passed, Arthur found a new beloved, Guinevere. They quickly became lovers and she eventually became Arthur’s queen. However, her beauty did not go unnoticed to those around her. Lancelot, Arthur’s most trusted Knight of the Round Table, fell in love with her. She returned his affection. They tried keeping it a secret, but it wasn’t kept well enough. Arthur knew his wife was hiding something. His suspicions grew, and he sent a spy to follow Guinevere who caught them in the act and immediately reported them to Arthur. Arthur erupted into a fit of rage. I tried to console him, but nothing could calm him. He banished Lancelot and forbid Guinevere from leaving the castle. The turmoil in the kingdom rose as Camelot heard of the unfaithful queen. At this time I began to feel a darkness growing in the back of my mind. I had ignored it at first, trying to help Arthur with the unveiled affair; but as it grew, I could not disregard it any longer. I thought it best not to tell my King of this. One early spring morning I sent an eagle out to check on Morgana. It was not long before it returned to me, speaking of a darkness that had sickened the land. The trees had been drained of life and became discolored from the lack of sunlight. Dark clouds had begun to cover the whole village, the fresh water had become poisonous, the crops hardly grew. Men and women became ill and the children either died of sickness or turned nasty with hatred. I knew I must go to sort things out myself, so I left in the night. I left in secret, and I traveled for three days until I arrived at the darkened village in the north. I cloaked myself in a charm so Morgana would not recognize me. As I entered the town, the dank sickness weighed on my shoulders. It oozed out of every crack and splinter. The men looked tired, half dead, and the women looked as if they had been stoned. The children were covered in bruises and cuts. The look in their eyes was of murder and pain. I continued my search for Morgana and her son, keeping close watch of the shifting eyes in the dark alleys. The closer I drew to Morgana’s dwelling, the heavier the weight grew. I knew something was wrong. Morgana wasn’t powerful enough for this kind of magic, yet this

felt like magic in the darkest manifestation possible. Hiding among the trees I found her home, a rundown wooden shack made for two. Some time passed before anyone stirred in or around the house. I had not moved for several minutes until I saw a young girl hobble to the house. She looked dazed and frightened, but as soon as the thought crossed my mind to help her, it vanished. The group of children I had seen earlier came running from the tree line with switches. She turned and ran closer to the house. The gang of children came close, but stopped when they heard the door creak open. They scattered like roaches, darting behind trees. A shaggy brown-haired boy appeared, his face so much like Arthur’s. All but his eyes. His eyes matched those of his mothers. Emeralds gleaming in the little sunlight that was shining through the clouds. He was large for ten years of age, and a dark aura seemed to cloud around him. The little girl froze in place facing him. Not a hair on her head moved, nor a muscle in her body. The boy, who I could only assume was Mordred, circled her like a vulture. She let out a small squeak. He moved in on her, grabbing her shoulders, his fingers like talons sinking into her flesh. From my vantage point I could not make out what he was doing to her, all I could see was that she was not moving. A few minutes went past and the boy finally dropped the child to the ground. I was shocked at what had occurred before me. Mordred had done something dark, something that wizards deemed as the most evil of acts. The small girl’s eyes stared straight at my hiding place, but they were caved in and her cheek bones protruded from her face. Mordred did not show any sign of remorse, nor a change of expression. Then Morgana appeared in the doorway, smiling at her son. She moved to him with her hand outstretched to him. “Playtime is over Mordred, come inside and eat.” I left that town, not waiting for daylight to show its face. A thousand thoughts of war and fire ran through my mind and, I must warn Arthur. I traveled through the night, keeping a fast, steady pace. What should have taken me three days took a day and a night. As I approached Camelot I could see the flames of war rising above the guard towers. I hurriedly found Arthur and questioned him on the situation. He was going to war with Lancelot. The affair had driven him mad with rage. However, it wasn’t in Lancelot’s nature to raise his sword against Arthur’s, I knew something dark was happening here as well. I knew Arthur would not be able to handle the news I had acquired from my travels, so I kept it to myself. If I kept this a secret, he would only have to handle one war at a time. † † †

I awoke with a start. I had never had one of those dreams before. I couldn’t remember anything from it, but I could feel fear running through my veins. What had I just dreamed about? How could it have scared me that badly? I pushed my sheets off my legs and stood up. Oh well, I thought as I stretched out. It won’t help to dwell on it. I heard a shuffle from behind my closed door and, my eyes darted to it. Tip-toeing I went to the door and slowly opened it just a bit, then swung it open. “Happy twenty-first birthday, Melody!” My Aunt and Uncle stood in front of my door with a plate filled with pancakes that had fruit in the shape of a smiley face on them. Who cares what my dream was about? Today was my birthday, and it was going to be a great one.

TQAIACOAHWITAQTM Jeremy Smith Contemporary Classic

Castle in the Sky Kallen A. Miles

Cranberry Sunset Logan Bryant

Crushed in the warm glow Anonymous

as clear as delirium Horses galloping backwards through a ravine— Beneath a celestine daydream— Out of the indexed meadow, The wild grass bureau, Into the natural machinery From the hotel balcony Her and I saw (not in any particular order): The creek bed memorial, A bridge without a purpose, And the high diver’s shadow mid-rotation. In the midst of the lobby, pre-calamity, While she attends to odds and ends, I am making small talk with the upholstery Because the guy near the only Window seat turned out to be a republican. We almost made it all the way home. But she was lulled to sleep by The continuous din of radio static, a catalogue of unincorporated trees hewn by the night, high-beam constellations, and the pall of reminiscence. (I am not sure what exactly did her in)

The Madwoman Tequila Hightower

It’d had been nice if I was a volcano; if I was two tectonic plates grinding to some marvelous end; or a vengeful sky stirred with the wind; or a black avalanche; or if I was a mudslide; or rough seas raging against the hearts of heroes; maybe a gun—or a tank! If I was an unfeeling force with purposes my own; if I’d been

madwoman.

I could join in destroying the world in which I live until none is but ruin and defecation; and eat it up until my insides rage against my own body; until I coil up into a dying mass; then I’ll hold my nose and gnaw my mandible and my sternum and my ischium and my femur, fibula, phalanges, each until I have consumed my own self, my loved ones and our galaxies, and am satisfied.

Gray

Kaelen Hetzler

Shades of Blue Kyah Osuwu

Sundays in my own house

Samantha Palker

I am a mythic beast A unicorn body With owls for feet Standing against the scenery Scrawled on the chalkboard walls Meant to capture happiness Or if I have nothing to wear Closets full of refuse and ghosts I’ll stay nude With no one to complain that what I’m doing is inappropriate What I do is what gets done Curtains closed because my perfection is my business I’d buy a book of famous paintings Some paint brushes Some non-toxic paint Spend my day making myself a masterpiece My skin a canvas Each freckle nonexistent All of this is possible All of this is palpable All of this is on the verge of being tangible This is why I Hope

Not Too Good Raushaun Campbell Hip-Hop

Disillusion

Jordan Fraser Lead me through the desert that is your personality. You are hot, but dry and empty With an oasis always on the horizon. I thirst for a reaction like water But your response is as literal As the sand chafing my cheeks. Life squandered by the sun Prays for a rain The sky wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t release. Forgiveness for the barren earth which, Despite all the beatings, Manages to support life. Leave me to drown in sedimentary waves Where buzzards beg to quench their thirst And I can only offer them blood. They tear away my skin looking for more But this well has run dry. The water in my bones has since left me. Canyons carved in my chest Proof water once existed here, Now an abandoned crevice. Leave me a blank slate To write my new name, To forget yours. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a house of headstones Built in an old western town No one ever knew.

BACKROADS Mark Pelfrey Indie-Folk

City Lights Kyah Osuwu

Samanthaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Galaxy Samantha Vigoya

a wall of difficult dreams

Houston Keenan

For Her

Hansel James I’m tired of watching you Hate yourself Stop listening to the people that Don’t want you to Exist You don’t have to explain yourself To the bastards that seek to End you Abnormal does not equal evil But hatred and bigotry do Don’t buy the bull shit excuses Of discomfort at the thought of “Men” in dresses and “women” in tuxedos I don’t They can fuck off with that backwards thinking Because I don’t care if I offend them You don’t need them to love you I love you So wash your sadness down the drain With the stubble Then go and Fuck someone’s day up by Loving yourself

The Liberated One DK Turner

vida botĂĄnica Houston Keenan

iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not the flower that my parents so carefully cultivated. not at all. instead i am the weed they spent their whole lives picking from the bed, i am the dust they clean off of the furniture and the collard greens they slap onto their ceramic. i am a flower. i am not the one they wanted. when i first grew green out the georgia red clay they celebrated new life, new sameness, new hope of a technicolor dream carried on like influenza. they saw television, tunnel vision pictures of broad-shouldered begonias sculpted into varsity vases. rose-tinted screens hid frothing fear, wroth screams and abuse. my father left when i was young; i grew crooked and strong and, for a while, they worried, but high school captain of two varsity teams and a girlfriend and decent g.p.a eased the fertilizer showers for a short time. and so i grew further, grew vines, grew old college-prestige vines and they nearly won a botanical award before i got caught drinking twice, before a call for marijuana-induced-psychosis and striated stripes grew ugly in virgin pink. lucky horticulturists nearly won an award before, i tried to jump off a building and dropped out and tried to hang myself (and potted plants arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t meant for those things.)

i am still a flower. i thought girls taught growth before. i am still trying to grow into the uncomfortable soil, to grow up straight lines. some bees don’t pollinate but they still buzz the same, but that doesn’t mean anything to the faggot hiding underneath the leaves.

Danny Phantom D’yante Jones Rap

Once You Learn

Jordan Fraser

Living is learning to ride your bike except your dad never taught you how because the roads you have to ride on are sandy and the training wheels are broken. It’s constantly falling down into a prickly bush because the concept of balance is too much to think about when you’re trying to move forward, because once you got going you forgot how to brake. It’s getting up from the bush covered in tiny red lines that itch for days and you’re out of Band-Aids. It’s trying again tomorrow because “Once you learn, you never forget.”

Perspective

Allie Pizzemento Time is like two tin cans Attached by a thread Words faintly vibrate Back and forth Forth and back But there is so much In between Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s impossible to know If what the future heard Is the truth of the past

Lounging Pups

Samantha Vigoya

Man on the Moon Logan Bryant

Weightless

Allie Pizzemento 3:30 a.m. Calorie intake: 0 It’s a guaranteed bad day when you wake up before the birds. There’s something strange about being the only moving soul in a household, the quiet stillness settles into your body like a held breath. My dog didn’t even stir from the floor when I sat up in bed, his legs still twitching from his dream. I stretched out my arms and relished in the harsh crack my bones made, the thin layer of flesh covering them doing little to hush the sound. The shirt I wore to bed hung off my shoulders like a sack, the hem pooling around my waist on the mattress. It had fit me a year ago. I hadn’t bothered to wear shorts or pants to bed, they were all too loose to stay up. Gently, I rubbed the ribs pushing against my skin, counting them, but I couldn’t keep track of the number. All I could think about was how soft the flesh there felt, even though there was barely anything separating the pads of my fingers from my skeleton. I willed myself to slide out of bed, to face the cold, and tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen. I retrieved a glass from the cabinet and filled it to the top with ice then filled the empty space with nearly frozen water. The frosty glass burned my fingers, but I brought it to my lips and gulped down all of the water. I refilled it one, two, three times before taking the full glass back up to my bedroom. Shivers danced over my skin and I smiled. Shivering burns calories. Once back in my room, I set the glass down and sunk to floor. I fell into my workout routine easily, ten minutes of stretching, two hundred jumping jacks, one hundred and fifty sit ups, one hundred squats, fifty lunges, twenty-five push-ups, fifteen burpees, and ten minutes of yoga to cool down. I knocked back the rest of my water and collapsed into bed. 5:30 a.m. Calorie Intake: 0 Calories burned: 300 I was jostled back to consciousness when my alarm went off. I took a few minutes to loiter in bed this time, scrolling through some of my social media feeds before I got ready for the day. Soon enough, my mom knocked on my door, the cue to get myself up. Reluctantly, I slid out of bed and pulled on the clothes I had picked out the night before; a pair of size zero blue jeans, a Ramones t-shirt, and

an old red flannel. I practically disappeared in the clothing, but when I looked in the mirror all I could see was my fat stretching out the fabric. I looked away. Thirty minutes later, my makeup was applied and my hair was straightened, yet somehow, I looked even more tired than before. All the concealer in the world couldn’t cover the dark circles under my eyes. I made my way into the kitchen, sipping on the melted ice in my glass from earlier. I started boiling water on the stove and looked around for something safe to eat. Eventually I settled on an apple, a mere 95 calories. Once the pot started whistling, I poured the boiling water over a green tea bag and moved to the living room. I nestled into my couch and waited patiently for the bus to come down my street, bouncing my knee to keep my heart rate up. 9:00 a.m. Calorie Intake: 100 Calories Burned: 350 My math teacher had brought in Dunkin Donuts that morning. Classmates sat around me, happily chowing down on fluffy, sugar filled donuts. The smell made my mouth water, but my stomach turn. A plain donut has around 226 calories, let alone one covered in frosting or filled with cream. That’s over half of my daily calorie limit. I just sipped on the water bottle I brought to school and tired to focus on the algebra, but the sweet smell stuck to me like sap. After about fifteen minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore and excused myself. When I stood up, my head spun, but I continued forward, the sensation reminding me of my goal. Five minutes later, I signed myself into the bathroom and locked myself into a stall. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through Tumblr, looking at image after image of too skinny girls. Blogs posted tips and tricks and motivation to stay on track, to stick to our goals, to remain prisoners. “72 hours into my fast! Every like I get, I’ll add another hour!” read a post with one-hundred and twelve likes. Another said “Do you hear your stomach grumbling? Good. That’s progress. Does your stomach feel so empty it hurts? Good. That’s progress. Can you see your bones yet? Good. That’s progress.” And another read “You did it again! Why don’t you learn, you greedy fat whale?! You’re so stupid, let me put it simply for you: STOP CRAMMING SO MUCH SHITTY FOOD INTO YOUR BLOATED FACE HOLE. Ok? You’re so disgusting right now. You SHOULD feel ashamed.”

I felt safe with them, like I was surrounded by people who understand what I was going through, who didn’t judge my destructive behavior, but encouraged it. They made me feel like I was doing the right thing, like my choices were healthy and safe. They made me feel beautiful. But they also made me feel ugly and pathetic. I saw how thin some of them were, saw how elegant and fragile they looked. I wanted to look like that. I saw how strict their diets were, how easily they fasted for days on end. I couldn’t even fast for 96 hours. The bell rung from the speakers. I had to run to retrieve my stuff from the quickly emptying classroom. But that’s okay, just some more calories burned. 12:00 p.m. Calorie Intake: 100 Calories burned: 500 I hid in the library during my lunch break, avoiding my friends to avoid eating. My social life was dying just as quickly as my body was. I flipped lazily through The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, the words simply floating past my eyes. “Allie?’ a soft voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked up to see one of my ninth-grade teachers hovering in front of me. “Mrs. Mooney? Hey!” I said, smiling as brightly as I could. “What brings you here?” “I had a conference,” she hesitated, her uncertain eyes flicking towards my boney frame. “You look…different. I almost didn’t recognize you.” “Yeah, I-uh, I lost a lot of weight,” I stammered. “I see that,” she forced herself to look back at my face. “Just make sure you take care of yourself, sweetie. And tell your mom I said hi,” she smiled weakly at me. “I will,” a smiled back at her, both of us avoided each other’s eyes. She nodded and walked off, her shoulder pads disappearing behind the shelves. I sat quietly, contemplating the interaction. I didn’t think I looked any different, but maybe I actually am making progress. What did people I spent time with think about me? The bell sounded to end the period. I stood up and the room twisted violently around me, the floor very quickly coming up to meet my head. 1:00 p.m. Calorie intake: 100 Calories burned: 550

I woke up on the ground, the smell of ammonia burning my nostrils. The nurse hovered over me, along with two librarians and a couple of students. “Allie, can you hear me?” she asked, her voice far away. I nodded and tried to sit up. “Ah, ah,” she clicked her tongue at me and lowered me back down. “Don’t move too much. Have you eaten lunch today?” I shook my head. She’s confronted me about my eating habits before, having noticed my weight quickly declining and my regular visits with “headaches”. “Did you eat anything?” “An apple,” I managed to say, the effort nearly exhausting me. “That’s what I thought, try and eat this,” she handed me a granola bar, 140 calories. I complied and took a few small bites, the shock of what happened settling in. The Tumblr blogs talked about episodes like this, blackouts they called them, but I had been so careful, I had been drinking so much water. That wasn’t supposed to happen, now they would know something was wrong with me. My brain stuttered. Was something wrong with me? All this time I had convinced myself that this was healthy, that I was taking care of myself. All this time I thought I was okay, that I was doing what was best for me. I was only trying to be beautiful. The nurse guided me into a wheelchair. I tried to hide my face behind the sleeve of my flannel, but I knew it was useless. Everyone knew it was me, the anorexic girl. I had heard them mumbling behind me in the halls for weeks, saying that I looked ill, that I was too skinny, that I was like a skeleton. Before, I had taken them as compliments, but now their words felt like ants crawling along my skin. Was something wrong with me? I looked down at my hands and saw them for the first time for what they were. They were almost like witch’s hands, boney and webbed with bright veins. My nails were bitten to bloodied stumps and the skin around them was flakey and raw. They were disgusting. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop the tears from overflowing onto my cheeks. I was overwhelmed with shame and disgust, absolutely horrified with myself for what I had done. I thought it couldn’t be impossible, but I hated myself even more. The journey to the nurse’s office stretched on for a lifetime, but I arrived eventually. The dizziness had subsided, so I moved myself from the wheelchair to the bed. I slowly nibbled on the bar and once it was gone, I curled up on the rubber cot and stared at the wall.

I recovered eventually, but it was the hardest journey I had ever embarked upon, and probably ever will. It was ugly and it was frightening and it was lonely. No one wanted to help me, people could barely stand to look at me. I’m not asking for sympathy, I’m asking for honesty when discussing mental illness. Anorexia is not beautiful, it’s not romantic, and it’s not the answer.

Stress Fracture .2 Raushaun Campbell Video Submission

Seagull

Haley Dixon

Ink Splat Award

Bent Realities

DK Turner p. 37

Samanthaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Galaxy

Samantha Vigoya p. 50

Hair In Wind

Deja K. Savage p. 22

Awards

The USC Aiken Art Department generously sponsors the Ink Splat Visual Art Award for the recognition of superior student artwork. Artists and visual arts experts from the community choose the winners of this award through blind review by Dr. Jeremy Culler. This year, the awards go to:

Awards

Washington Group Award In 2004, Washington Group International established an endowment fund to be managed by the USC Aiken English Department for the purpose of recognizing exemplary student work in creative writing. To that end, all submissions accepted by the student staff each year for publication in Broken Ink are reviewed anonymously by a special committee to see if any meet the qualifications for this additional recognition. It is the intention of the committee to award prizes each spring in poetry and/or fiction; each prize is acknowledges in the magazine and accompanied by a cash award.

Weightless

Allie Pizzemento

Prose

p. 58

Burden

Brett Fessler

Church Grim

p. 14

p. 24

Allie Pizzemento

Sundays in My Own House

p. 47

Samantha Palker

Sunday Morning

p. 34

Houston Keenan

The Madwoman

p. 44

Tequila Hightower

Poetry

Roll Over Beethoven Award

In the Eye of Man Joshua McLane Contemporary Classic

Awards

The USC Aiken Music Department generously sponsors the Roll Over Beethoven Award, which is awarded to an original student audio piece that displays meritorious quality. It is sponsored by an anonymous donor in tribute to the Joseph T. and Mary H. Usher Music Program Endowment. The winner was selected through a blind review by Professor Steve Sloan. This yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s award goes to:

A Note from the Editor First and foremost, I want to thank you for picking up this magazine. You prove that people still love discovering new art, literature, and music. Between the readers and the contributing artists, you give us a reason to print this magazine every year. This is the fourth year that I’ve been on the Broken Ink staff and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. I love being able to share the work of students, many of whom didn’t have confidence in their amazing creations. This year is no exception with many wonderful pieces by talented students, some of which challenged our categories, expanded our understanding of art, and even inspired our editors in their own creative endeavors. I hope you enjoy these pieces as much as our staff does. It has been my pleasure to serve as editor-in-chief this year and I look forward to seeing all the ways the magazine will move forward in the years to come. - Haley Dixon

The 2019 issue of Broken Ink was created in Adobe InDesign CC 2015, Adobe Illustrator CC 2015, and Adobe Photoshop CC 2015. Fonts include Arial and Roboto. We would also like to thank the creators of the following fonts and textures for letting us use them free of charge: Robin Nicholas, Patricia Sauders, and Christian Robertson.

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