Broken Ink, Vol 53 by BrokenInkUSCA

Broken Ink visual & literary arts magazine Vol 53 | 2021 Issue Celebrating 50 Years

Sta ff

Isabel Martinez

Editor-in-Chief

Samantha Vigoya

Visual Arts Editor

Paige Singer

Literary Editor

Abbey Vincent

Music Editor

Amber Bryant

Layout Editor

Kayley Ayer

Public Relations

Hunter Daniels

Staff Member

Samantha Taylor

Staff Member

WHO WE ARE Broken Ink is a student-produced visual and literary arts magazine that has showcased the creativity of University of South Carolina Aiken students since 1971.

We endeavor 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 the 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.

table of contents Electricity | Isabel Martinez

Prism | Noelle Kriegel

Bioluminescence | Danielle Verwers

Edisto Silk | Michelle Pate

Impressions of a Wave | Erin Weeks

Change of Perspective | Nick Wiznitzer

Masculinity | Michelle Pate

Stuck | Adwin Finley

Raspberry Beret | Abbey Vincent

SG | Hunter Daniels

Love Bomb | Paige Randall Singer

Maleficent | Keely Tindell

Heavenly Ascent | Kaylee Brown

Divine Breath | Hunter Daniels

Mom | Michelle Pate

Abandoned Textile Mill | Nick Wiznitzer

Gone Wandering | Madeline Riggins

Green Glass Jar | Amber Bryant

Electricity Isabel Martinez

The Apothecary | Danielle Verwers

I Am | Jeremiah Brazzell

Retrograde Gatorade | Madeline Riggins

Sailor Callisto | Samantha Vigoya

Donut Dragon | Deja Savage

Oliver | Paige Randall Singer

M I L O | Keely Tindell

Something is Watching | Madeline Riggins

Damnation | Kimberley Gomillion

I Only Know the October Night Sky | Danielle Verwers

Lake Michigan Chicago | Kaelen Hetzler

The Tired | Kaylee Ayer

Violet | Skylier Grooms

Untitled | Madeline Riggins

Precedence | Tyler Green

Modern History | Antauwn Wade

Piece of Time | Nick Wiznitzer

An Ode to the Somme | Hunter Daniels

Keeper of the Future | Kaylee Ayer

Award Winners

Editor’s Note

A Look Back

Key Literature Visual Art Music

Prism Noel Kriegel

Bioluminescence Danielle Verwers

I wait for night to fall again and the sea to flash neon blue, red tide algae bloom. Laser light shows offer tickets, paid admission. Though nature is generous she offers no refunds, no money back guarantees. She prays on my hope for phytoplankton to arrive before I fly east and is paid in small gasps of wonder. One bloom won’t be enough to illuminate the waves. It takes a fortune, more than a million. It’s not cheap for the glow to form then unravel into white foam on the sand. And if Mother Nature is too tired tonight for another encore, perhaps it is for the best. Her display could be toxic and after I lick salt spray from my lips, the temptation to plunge my body into liquid sapphire light may be too strong to resist.

Edisto Silk Michelle Pate

Impressions of a Wave Erin Weeks when we were first born not showing our teeth yet we felt the first embers while getting our feet wet our world was a rock on which waves rolling swiftly went thundering over while you stood there with me

When I was first born to the tide in July in a foaming green curl under peppermint skies the cool air was a fire on my skin and insides and I breathed in the heat of the breezy seaside

The glittering tips of the tops of the waves left soapy impressions on the lips of the cave and with eyes like magenta we smoldered and burned and we went down in history to never return

Change of Perspective Nick Wiznitzer

Masculinity Michelle Pate

Stuck Adwin Finley

He sits alone on a park bench, staring over the emerald and amber treetops towards the city. A grey suit and navy-blue tie complement his dark features. His phone buzzes in his pocket; he knows it’s her. Calling to yell, belittle him, to make sure he knows he’s a failure in her eyes. His heart starts to race, his palms turn clammy. He pulls the phone from his pocket and looks at the thirteen missed calls leering back at him. He’s stuck, always looking for a way out. Too scared to take the chance, he has never been good at being alone. A pretzel cart rolls by, pushed by a woman in baggy jean shorts and an oversized t-shirt. “One please!” he calls out, waving her down. As she approaches, the man notices that her shoes are worn down, her clothes torn and tattered. “Nice day isn’t it?” she smiles up at him. The man smiles and nods in return. He goes back to the bench, sits, and stares off into the salt crystals hoping to find the answer. He sits a while longer, taking in the sounds of the birds and the rustling leaves. “Nice day, isn’t it?” he whispers to himself while walking over to a green metal trash can. The phone in one hand and a cold half-eaten pretzel in the other. Walking away, he takes another bite.

Raspberry Beret Abbey Vincent

SG Hunter Daniels

Cherry red guitar Sits on the stand, black gloss guard Covering the paint

Horns of the devil Reach from atop the body Toward the heavens

Twenty frets along An ebony neck Keeping strings subdued

On the stage, the pick Strums cause a humbucking roar Deafening the crowd

Feedback from the Sweat soaked pickups screeches from The distorted amps

In my lap, it sits The harbinger of hard rock Singing its sweet song

My fingers feel the Buzz of the rough strings along The rosewood fretboard

My palm stings as it Slides up the neck to get my Fingers to the notes

The crimson wooden Body marred by the shadows of Past perspiration

The lacquer stinks of Stale sweat and aged maple an Old and cherished friend

The beautiful child Of some unknown luthier Now my greatest friend

Love Bomb Paige Randall Singer

It started with a love bomb.

“I think you’re my soulmate,” he told her after their first kiss through a grin

she did not yet see as sinister. They had met just two weeks prior in a psychiatric unit that they were both placed in for suicide attempts, and it was shortly after he was discharged that he hopped on a bus, with a ticket that she had paid for, to live with her a few states away.

Completely on her own for the first time in her life after a nasty fallout

with her family, she latched onto his words and allowed them to fill her being completely. She needed someone to fill the empty holes in her heart, because she did not feel as if she was capable of doing so by herself. There was no belief or trust in herself. Even her own family didn’t want her around, so what worth did she really have?

She felt worthy when she was with him though. He told her everything

she didn’t even know she needed to hear. “I’m going to take care of you.” “I’m so in love with you.” “I can’t wait to marry you one day.” All of her love for herself stemmed from his love for her. She had never felt more beautiful, more loved, or more wanted. It was the two of them against the world, and she believed in the depths of her soul that he would protect her from any danger. However, what would she do when she realized the only danger in her life was him?

First, he made her doubt her friends, the only people she felt she had left

after cutting ties with her family. “Why don’t your friends ever come over? They must not really care about you.” “When is the last time you even saw her? She’s not your friend.” Sly little sentences he used to chip away at years of friendship, to get her all to himself. This was just the first part of the manipulator’s master plan.

When she was reunited with her family, he reminded her daily that they

could (and would) drop her in a second. “They don’t love you,” he would tell her. “They aren’t your family. I am.” He wanted dominance over her heart.

Every time they argued he would remind her that she was impossible

to love. Her worst fears and beliefs thrown at her by the person who she thought she could trust. And when she began to make friends through her job, he felt like he was losing his hold on her. He would accuse her of cheating on him every time closing took longer at the restaurant. She had to forget hanging out with friends, because every time she would he would send her harassing text messages and phone calls. Worthless slut or whore were his go to nicknames in his accusations.

However, he was allowed to hang out with his friends, and she was

never allowed to come. She wasn’t allowed to know them. And when she called him out on this, she was crazy. She became a prisoner in her own life – stuck in an apartment with her abuser, not allowed to leave without being harassed and degraded by her jail-keeper.

He had no more love bombs to drop. He had her captured and there was

no need to build her up anymore, to lie about who he was at his core. He lived and thrived off of tearing her down. When he got her pregnant, he had her exactly where he wanted her. Stuck. He didn’t know her strength though. He didn’t know she would do anything to crawl out of the jail he built around her.

The abortion pill was her ticket out, and she took it. There was no guilt or

hard decisions to make. There was only a choice – her life or this prison, and she chose to build a life all on her own. Free from him.

And that freedom felt better than any love bomb he ever dropped.

Maleficent Keely Tindell

Heavenly Ascent Kaylee Brown

I welcome the cool breeze as it caresses my skin, Droplets trickle down my forehead and my forearm quickly brush them aside. A dull ache spreads throughout my legs as the incline steepens, I urge myself onward. Each wooden sign fuels my excitement, Each step closer to witnessing God’s work, Openings in the brush give me hints of the view ahead Little glimpses of His masterpiece. My heart pounds within my chest while an unwavering smile plays upon my lips. Each step is careful and tedious upon the path, Over the tendrils of roots, Over the fallen trunks, Over nature’s rocky stairwell. The pathway narrows like a tightrope, Placing one foot ahead of the other as though I’m an aerialist. My body hugs the rugged moss-covered wall, Each obstacle challenging my abilities, The path begins to level out, revealing the last wooden post, 0.7 miles left. I trudge forward across the sandy ground, The sunlight illuminates the way,

My chest rises and falls in short breaths as exhilaration courses through my veins, The trees part as if to welcome me in, Sunlight pours down upon me as I walk out onto the ledge. Before me lay outstretched land for as long as the eye can see, I am where the sky meets the earth with a gentle kiss, Eyes capturing the breathtaking view. I have finally reached my reward, I can feel Him beside me, His grace fills my being, I inhale his glory as my eyes slowly close, As I exhale, my eyes open once more, His presence wraps around me like a warm embrace, His words float upon the breeze, Made up of the harmonious chirps of the birds, The rustle of the leaves, The hum of the insects. Behold my creation he seems to say, For it is through My hand that all of this was made.

Divine Breath Hunter Daniels

Lord, Lord it takes so much for the wind to sway the trunks of the great, big oaks

The invisible force running through the rose petals and grass blades at all hours of the day no rest, no time off it wishes to reach its destination just so it could rest a while

But it never does never will It has been tasked to whisk the long blonde hair of my sister and her children and their children, until the sun grows cold and the rivers run dry

Then it slows

trunks cease to sway

the grass stops whispering

The petals descend to Earth’s loamy skin

the much-needed divine rest

Lord A’ mighty may it never fully stop, but please grant it rest how great is the tireless wind?

Mom Michelle Pate

Abandoned Textile Mill Nick Wiznitzer

Gone Wandering Madeline Riggins

You’re in a museum. The ceiling stretches highhighhigh above your head,

and the skylight is glittering with stars. You can just barely see the statues around you, some small as mice, some tall as giants. Your shoes echo on the marble floor.

You ask a statue, one of the women covered in ivy and intestines, if she

knows a way out. She does not respond. You ask if she remembers her life before all of this. Nothing. You ask if she knows where the bathroom is, and her stony hand slowly... slowly... points to the left. You thank her.

In the bathroom, you wash your hands. They’re covered in white, almost

chalky, dust. Your shoes are still heavy with rubble, so you peel them off and wiggle your toes. You haven’t been able to do that in a while.

The mirror above the sink does not show the bathroom stalls, or even

yourself. It shows a cluttered mess of a wooden study, books strewn about an old desk and a fire crackling and windows tinged with moonlight. A bright blue globe of the constellations is vibrating in the corner.

You tap on the glass. You call out. One of the messes on the desk moves.

A person who is mostly grey hair grunts and groans and spits out profanities. “Go back to where you were,” they say, barely giving you a glance. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

You thank them and go back to your pedestal. There wasn’t much to do

here, anyway.

Green Glass Jar Amber Bryant

The Apothecary Danielle Verwers

Within dim walls, cool to the touch, her country home is lined with dry roots bundled in string noose like a heretic. the backwoods apothecary pinches leaves, places them in her mortar

She must see the animal fears I wear like furs in the first autumn frost covered in harsh minutia, crystal cold for she cracks a smile and turns her face into a deep line map.

Pay no mind she says for our kind have always pressed the pestle with hard hands to grind stone upon unyielding stone, to bruise and break the leaf. Sounds knock, the rock on bowl a tap, a taste, all alchemist. She leans in as greens sublimate under pressure to surrender, until poison turns to medicine.

I Am Jeremiah Brazzell

From the artist:

“This song revolves around black empowerment and pays homage to Billie Holiday’s song ‘Strange Fruit.’ Hope you enjoy it!”

Please scan the above QR code on your phone’s camera to listen to this music submission.

Retrograde Gatorade Madeline Riggins

You’re meeting a very tall man named Elk in the shower curtain aisle of

the local Wal-Mart with your witch friend who think everything is an omen. She’s telling Elk, who is currently draping a particularly flowered shower curtain over his head like a veil, that the roadkill she saw on the highway this morning foretold an accident in her near future, and that a certain planet was in retrograde, so it would be a massive inconvenience.

You have never been able to wrap your head around stars and planetary

Gatorade, so you don’t contribute to the conversation. You think about the lizard you saw in the parking lot. You wonder if it has been hit by a car yet, and if you could save it later. Your witch friend is nearly in tears, clutching her iced coffee so tightly that her knuckles pale. Elk is wrapping the shower curtain around his face like he’s going to rob a bank. You wonder if the stars could predict abnormally tall men and shower curtains. Probably.

Elk begins to tell your friend that he had a dream last night in which he

swallowed a mole rat and birthed a gecko from his nose, which was covered in peanut butter. Your friend explains the symbology of noses and peanut-related goods. It’s an omen, too, she says, and he needs to be cautious.

You are still thinking about the lizard.

A woman awkwardly hobbles by with her cart. One of the wheels is

loose and wobbly and makes the steering difficult. You back out of the way. Your

friend does not. The cart catches on your friend’s ankle and she jumps. Her iced coffee grows wings. It soars, like an angel, up into the air, just a silhouette against the cheap fluorescents. Then it crashes down onto Elk’s head, which is mostly protected by the shower curtain, and spills onto your friend.

You blink. The woman driving the cart is picking her jaw up from the floor

and dusting it off.

“I beg your pardon,” your witchy friend says to the woman. Coffee drips

from her brow. “Would you happen to be an Aquarius, by any chance?”

The woman is silent for a moment. “I’m from Canada,” she says.

Elk nods wisely.

Your friend sighs.

You think about the lizard.

Sailor Callisto Samantha Vigoya

Donut Dragon Deja Savage

Oliver Paige Randall Singer

MILO Keely Tindell

Four short legs, Two pointy ears, And one curious nose. His black, sparse fur And a body that grows.

Give him a treat. See him sit and shake, He never misses a beat. With Milo, Every day is bright. He and I are pretty tight.

Something is Watching Madeline Riggins 44

Damnation Kimberely Gomillion Enough of the fluffed pink dresses, The unbearable kitten heels that made Myself stand an inch taller than my true height, Most Sundays now do not mimic the ones of a younger me.

We all stand when told, bowing our dreadful heads, Eyes sealed shut as a man spoke empty words to an audience Of people who believed the prayer. People are ugly.

Deliver me from evil, I can see it in humans. Smell it on my father’s breath On that very Sunday, but if I could be blind And senseless, into the state of just getting a little older.

When the singing stops, and the people leave, One by one they say: Let your kingdom come, Let your will take place, on Earth as it is in Heaven.

They fail to tell some that growing up means growing Out of a false hope of miracles and dreams of sun beams. No one can save the people who may not believe in What you believe. Once you laid with evil and lived through death, It gets hard to surrender yourself to hell or see a light to heaven again.

I Only Know the October Night Sky Danielle Verwers

After yellow on the western horizon deepens to navy, Mars rises red, a war path in the east. And I finally find Orion’s belt on a satin sky. Turns out it’s been here all along, hanging on the outskirts of incessant city lights with Saturn and Jupiter somewhere in the mix. My tent is damp with rain, under a blanket stitched by insect song, but if I can camp through autumn night, if I wait and wake on a feather pillow stuffed with bird warble, Venus will greet me at dawn near the smile of a crescent moon. And she will forgive my perpetual blunders, how my structures always collapse under low pressure systems, and how, for the life of me, I cannot keep the firewood dry.

Lake Michigan Chicago Kaelen Hetzler

The Tired Kayley Ayer

My heart and soul are stepping stones For those without their own I should tell them that it hurts me But then I would be alone

My heart and soul work overtime Unpaid and overworked For those who won’t do the same for me I’m tired of the hurt

My heart and soul are tired now From all the work we’ve done I’d tell them that it’s over now But they might cease to run

Violet Skylier Grooms

Untitled Madeline Riggins

Precedence Tyler Green Precedence is a pre-tense, “What’s more important than ME?”-tense; “Sure, okay, they got it bad,” “but what about the problems I’ve had??” This sort of thinking, A thoughtless sinking; Keeps you drinking from another’s cup o’ struggles.

One weak stone means a wall’s collapse, A weak gear in a clock means its time will lapse; Society is one in the same, A weak ‘stone’ or ‘gear’ is disfunction’s blame; This point is the pre-tense, “It’s not about me!”-tense; It is ‘WE’ who can fix the problems we have.

“Fix the problem before maintenance” is the concept of precedence, This is not to take from your own problem’s relevance; Simply to say “Hey, those things suck too,” “but let’s start with the big stuff, and come back to you.”

Modern History Antauwn Wade

Piece of Time Nick Wiznitzer

An Ode to the Somme Hunter Daniels

“One minute now, lads!” the lieutenant called from underneath John—

Private Edwards to the men gathered around him (His Majesty’s army had little use for first names). The detonations of German shells nearly drowned out the officer’s warning. The trenches overwhelmed his senses. The wails of the wounded and firing from the Lewis guns deafened him, the constant haze of smokey dust kept him congested, the persistent shaking of the ground thanks to those damnable new metal monstrosities numbed him, the sudden, bright flashes of the explosions blinded him, and the gas had taken away his taste.

In sixty seconds, he would be first up the ladder and over the top, and

would face down Jerry and all his wrath. He would march through the hail of lead and fire, crawl through the barbed wire barricades, and choke on noxious fumes as he had too many times before over the past two months. And it filled him with such sweet relief; it felt reminiscent of a familiar childlike fervor he had not experienced in some time. He swore it was like going home after school, that rush, running with Tom back to the waiting embrace of their mother. He found himself smiling like a madman at the thought, even as shells landed just a few meters ahead of him. He knew that today it would all be over. He would rise out of the comforting embrace of the trench’s dirt walls and simply walk. He would throw his rifle down, remove his helmet and just wait for the inevitable.

“Forty-five seconds!” the lieutenant cried again.

He took such respite in this fact. He shook at what would happen in less

than a minute. He would be free, and how that would happen no longer bothered him, not since Tom and Arthur died. Tom was his brother and Arthur his best friend, and now they were gone, hopefully absorbed into some distant, bright eternity, and not consigned to wander some bleak, ethereal oblivion.

Tom, Arthur, and John had been ecstatic when they heard the news that

General Haig was getting ready to mobilize them. They were even all in the same division, and in John and Arthur’s case, the same platoon. They were thrilled to finally be done with training and give it to Jerry; they had no idea what that would mean though. For John, it meant having to live with the fact that his last words to his brother were “cheeky bastard.” At the time they were having drinks, laughing. Now, he found no humor in it at all. He had not been there when it happened. Harold Shelby, one of Tom’s squad mates, had told him that evening. John just walked away, maybe mumbling a thanks, but he could not even remember. All he hoped for now was that it was quick for his brother.

John tried to remember fondly those times on Sunday mornings spent

in the church pews with Tom. He could see the inside even now, rays of light refracted by the stained-glass windows depicting such scenes as the baptism of Christ and his subsequent crucifixion, the golden chandeliers, and the old wooden altar before the pulpit. He never paid much attention to these details when he was younger, he was too busy horsing around with Tom. He would pinch him, and Tom would slap back at him before their mother gave them a backhand each, a preview of the hiding to come later. He had learned to cherish those memories, and to yearn to see his mother again.

“Thirty seconds!”

John had been there when Arthur passed. Right after a sudden German

barrage on their forward trenches they were ordered to charge. Howitzers to the front of them, to the left and right of them; their volleys passed them by as their

thunderous reports cracked over the heads of the charging English soldiers. John was right next to Arthur when it happened. A shell blew his leg off and John held him while he died. They say you never hear the shot that kills you, but John sure as hell heard the one that killed Arthur.

Arthur was a very religious man, always going on about how the flashes

of dogfights above the clouds were the unseen forces of Belial and the Almighty fighting for the fate of the world. John and Arthur passed through the town of Albert at the start of the campaign and saw the Tower of the Golden Virgin outside the opulent basilica there. It was leaning when they found it, and Arthur said whichever side knocked it over would lose the war; John wanted to ask Arthur that if God could not be bothered to care about the mother of His child, how could he care about the heathens below killing themselves in droves every day. Arthur died praying for John and the other heathens, even the Jerries. John had no illusions about a god anymore, and Hell had lost its fury because he knew it could not be worse than this.

“Fifteen seconds!”

John Edwards steeled himself and prepared to meet his fate. He had lost

the two people who understood him most, and now stood at the top of the ladder with a bright, beaming smile. It would end today, and he could not wait.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

The whistle blew, and John did not move. His legs were fixed in place,

his white knuckles clung to the ladder, his pale face slicked with sweat. The men below him were urging him to get on, screaming for him to climb but he could not. He began to sob and scream and pray. He prayed for forgiveness, for mercy, to be home again with his mother. Then there was a different whistle, one that began to get louder and louder before the black took him.

Keeper of the Future Kayley Ayer

Ten little fingers Ten little toes Two big eyes One little nose Destined for greatness In a world that no one knows

Ten little fingers Ten little toes Two big eyes One little nose To him we give our future And with him our future goes

ink splat awards The USC Aiken Art Department generously sponsors the Ink Splat Visual Art Awards for the recognition of superior student artwork. Each year, a professor of arts or visual arts expert from the community chooses the winners of this award through blind review.

We would like to give special thanks to Etherredge Center Gallery Director Katie Kameen for judging our 2021 winners.

Prism Noelle Kriegle p. 10

Modern History Antauwn Wade p. 52

Something is Watching Madeline Riggins p . 44

washington group Awards 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 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.

Special thanks to Dr. Andrew Geyer, Dr. Julie Wise, and Dr, Eric Carlson for selecting our 2021 Washington Group Award Winners.

Poetry The Apothecary Danielle Verwers p. 35

Impressions of a Wave Erin Weeks p. 14

Precedence Tyler Green p. 5

Prose I Only Know the October Night Sky Danielle Verwers p. 46

Gone Wandering Madeline Riggins p. 33

An Ode to the Somme Hunter Daniels p. 55

Bioluminescence Danielle Verwers p. 11

from

the editor

Thank you for being a part of the reason we enjoy sharing the work of talented students. Without your support and interest this magazine wouldn’t be possible. This is my second year being Editor-in-Chief and it has been great. I joined Broken Ink my freshman year of college as a shy artist. Now, I’ve met so many wonderful people and am able to help others share their work in a safe space. This magazine is brought to you by an amazing staff and editors. I hope you like it as much as we enjoyed putting it together. Broken Ink will do nothing but flourish in the upcoming years, I can’t wait to see where it goes. It has been a great four years for me being a part of this organization. Thank you,

Isabel Martinez

Isabel Martinez, Editor-in-Chief

Front cover and interior of Broken Ink’s first issue, Spring 1971. Mr. Virgo has donated his original copy to the Aiken County Historical Museum, where it is now preserved in the archives alongside other historic Aiken documents.

Images courtesy of ACHM

Special thanks to the Virgo family and the Aiken Museum for their participation in this issue of Broken Ink, and for their continued support of the arts in Aiken.

a look

back

Fifty years ago I was a freshman at USCA wearing a beanie cap and enjoying my first experiences of college. It was a very turbulent time of war and revolutions. Dr. Ashley was my professor of American Literature. He inspired a group of us in his class to create a way to provide a platform for all students to express themselves through words and not violence. We were given complete freedom to devise the media and the content. Broken Ink was the result.

I can guarantee that none of us ever thought that it would survive for 50 years!

Congratulations to Broken Ink and I am very proud to have played a small part in its inception!

Sincerely, R. Steven Virgo Broken Ink Co-Founder and Vol. 1 Layout Editor

P.S. - My favorite poem I placed on the last page of the first edition...

“ Just for the record Think if you can Of a rose-covered joker Playing out his last hand ”

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