Broken Ink Vol 48 by BrokenInkUSCA

broken ink LITERARY & VISUAL ARTS MAGAZINE

vol. USC AIKEN 2016

CONTENTS

03 Four Eyes//Valery Wacker 04 Chilling// Brent Blackmon

WG3rd

05 The Grandest of Canyons//Ashley Noel Conklin

3rd

07 Glurb// Brittany Burgess 08 Trapped in Ivy//Aubry Melvin

PROSE

MUSIC

VIDEO

09 For You// Caitlin Butler 10 Body//Ashley Ellefson

11 3AM, in the Foster-Nolan Guest Bedroom// Brent Blackmon 13 Grene Man// Jude Jackson 14 The Weight of my Grief, the Forest Bears//Anniebelle Quattlebaum 15 At The Barre (Ballet)// Sarah Michelle Smith

VISUAL

POETRY

16 Ebony Inferno//Marlayne Smith IS3rd

17 Ballad of the Ankou//Jack Burch

WG2nd

19 Rocky Waves// Kelley McElyea 20 Cleansing// Kyndall Cooper IS2nd

21 Confusion and Contradiction in Shanghai, China// James Paisley

1st

Swing In South America// Michael St. John 23

Grave// Kyndall Cooper 45

Mood Lighting//Michael St. John 24

Steps// Brooke Clark 46

Cosmogony// Brent Blackmon 25

IS1st

Fruit Fire// Michael St. John 47

Stare// Brittany Burgess 27

The Arsonist’s Wife// Caitlin Butler 48

Hello Cranium//Jessie Hardy 28

Ganesh// Connor Turner 49

#BlackGirlMagic.//Tyisha Henderson 29

Regret// David B. Corder 50

Milk// Kyndall Cooper 30 No Tea No Shade// Chelsea Youell 31

Make a Wish// Robert Washington 53 Solar collectors// James Paisley 54

Zombie Valentine// James Paisley 32

The Understudy//Elayna Hatchell 55

Wilmington: Traveling Alone//Caitlin Butler 33

From The Heart//Derek Corder 57

His Winter Coat// Sarah Marie Williamson 35

All I Got// Derek Corder 57

Vivid Beauty//Jennifer Dirks 36

RB After 2AM//Raushaun Michael 57

Love, Tame Me// David B. Corder 37 Soundline Challenge//John Green 57 Held// Brooke Clark 38 Sunday Morning//Cameron Hoormann 57 WG2nd

Mema’s House//Caitlin Butler 39

Lichen Blue//Jessie Hardy 41

AWARDS 58 MISSION STATEMENT 59 REVIEW PROCESS 59

WG1st

Wolfsbane// Brent Blackmon 42 War-Dog//Thomas Gardiner 43

COLOPHON 59

Four Eyes//Valery Wacker

Chilling//Brent Blackmon WG3rd The wall of wafer-thin priests catechize, green and blue eschewed for red-cheek choir gusto: “Netflix.” We’ve stopped to pray on the cushioned altar. Me, cross-legged. You, prostrate, broadcast glow abreast your worktight back. These are the same lights our grandparents gathered beneath, though they’ve traveled across different skies. Waves in vacuums glory with the same glow of MP4. These nights, we gather in the warm worship of one another: a million cathode rays twinkling in the eye.

“Though we often make fun of our own societal obsession with TV, I think it can be a very positive thing. The past few generations have spent a lot of time huddled around televisions, making movies and weekly programs something of a communal, intimate experience. Sure we can abuse it, but “Chilling” posits that using television to grow closer to one another can’t be an entirely bad thing.”

The Grandest of Canyons//Ashley Noel Conklin

WG3rd

There are two types of people who visit the Grand Canyon: those who look from the top and those who make the trip to the bottom. These two groups can easily represent what it’s like for those experiencing depression. For those at the top of the Grand Canyon, they can easily take one step in and step right back out, saying they experienced it without actually making the journey down. This is like their sadness; it may come, but they still have a quick and easy escape. The experience is still there. But the adventure was not. For those of us who made the trek to the bottom, we can tell you it’s a totally different experience. There is no easy escape. Not one exact path that works for everyone. And it’s definitely too late to simply follow our footsteps back to the beginning. The look up at the top is daunting to say the least. We know that’s what we want; it’s what we strive toward and aim for. Who wouldn’t want that? Being at the top of the Grand Canyon probably feels like standing on top of the world. And even if it isn’t, they are still leagues above us. And why shouldn’t they be? Everyone deserves to feel like they’re on top. My path to the top has yet to be found. With my tour guide and group having disappeared, I’m stranded without any knowledge of what to do next. I know people would care enough to try and help, but everyone is too caught up in finding their own path back to worry too much about anyone else. Where’s the point of that anyway?

Our own escape is far more important to us. While I’ve never actually been to the Grand Canyon, I’ve heard it can be overwhelming. It is 277 miles long, up to 18 miles wide, and over a mile deep. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to look at something over a mile above or below me, making it impossible to fathom what it would be like to stare from one side to the other nearly 300 miles away. It’s an overwhelming thought, one becoming increasingly more difficult to escape. 05

I can understand why some people have these overwhelming feelings of depressing self-harm. While the two are not mutually exclusive (trust me), I know the need to find an escape. Writing helps me immensely. But that isn’t helping the pain escape, just the thoughts, feelings, and emotions behind the pain. I have, on the other hand, found another path that gets rid of the pain as well: tattoos. I’ve gotten two tattoos so far. The first is the Deathly Hallows from the Harry Potter series with the words “it’s real for us” written underneath. The second is a cross on my left forearm. For my next trip, I will be adding to the Deathly Hallows. The trip after that? A semicolon. For those of you who don’t know the meaning behind the semicolon, it’s not just punctuation. Any English major or professor can tell you the use of a semicolon; they combine two sentences so the train of thought isn’t interrupted, just paused. And that’s what it represents when talking about life. When you feel as though you can’t go on anymore, just take a break and come back. There’s no need to end the thought that is your life any sooner than necessary. I saw a picture that a friend posted on Facebook while writing this. It was a screenshot of a Whisper comment that read, “Always remember that you are not worthless, organs are extremely expensive on the black market.” It actually made me laugh a little. While it may not be the most conventional way to convince people their lives are worth it, it proves that everyone is needed in one way or another. That’s probably why we’re told suicide is a selfish way to go; while the suffering may end for us, our death will only bring about stronger sadness and depression from those who we influenced. Not many people realize the impact they have on the lives around us. That is one of the most important things for me to remember on a daily basis. There are far too many friends, family members, and possibly complete strangers who have been positively influenced by my presence in some way or another. The last thing I want to do is be the reason someone else feels as bad, if not worse, than I do. Because I know that would only make me feel worse if alive. And it’s currently my saving grace.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;A simple guy who just throws up rainbows.â&#x20AC;?

Glurb// Brittany Burgess

Trapped in Ivy//Aubry Melvin

For You//Caitlin Butler Sometimes I think of you when I’m shaving—when you appear first in all my thoughts and I with bowed head and stainless ribbons coax stubborn skin into silk; I can’t help wonder if you’ll touch.

Body//Ashley Ellefson

3AM, in the Foster-Nolan Guest Bedroom// Brent Blackmon A darkness this crisp is enough to break a man used to cicadas croaking till the light poles shut off at 4am, but I could grow fond of flyovers from BOS. My first flight taught me that airplane engines don’t hum—Impatient fathers and aunts do. Air doesn’t flow into the cabin faster than innocence and echoes flow out. You’ll get rumbles when the wheels lower, but else, airplanes only shake as much as the steps taken down from the cabin. But you’ll only ever leave one cabin. I’ve been breaking apart strolls through North End with texts to girls 1200 miles away, combined. I’ve got thoughts just as distant and as speckled and specular as the cobblestone alleys. “Spectacular” would have fit here, too, if I didn’t trip at least thrice on the uneven grooves of the road. I want to apologize to Will for how fickle he’s never had to see me be before. I’m convinced love comes ashore every 15 minutes and I can board at least 16 of its ferries at once before piercing the hull of any of them. But, oh, don’t let me sink. I am buoyant and I deserve the greatest of waves to tear me apart where I float.

Never have I been to Boston before today. Never have I wanted to allegorize public transit and tell you all how my heart pumps in 7 different paths like the railways. Even from below, I want to lick the curves of the street and call them mine, but the conductor of the train Green6 tells me it doesn’t work that way. For Kaila, I captured pictures of pictures of which I never even read the titles. For Ashley, I sold my tongue through my fingertips and vowed to not trip over the flat bricking of Newbury Ave. Will keeps calling me in different directions I know I should go, but I would have grounded a plane to reach the smell of the city had it reached out to me first. So here I sleep in Will’s old bed and continue missing locked plane cabins and indetermination. I wish I could defer all questions to the pilot, but he won’t put his phone down either. It’s not the darkness that breaks the man— It’s silence.

“I flew to Boston to visit one of my best friends for the first time this past summer. This was a month and a half after a break-up of mine, and I couldn’t break myself away from Tinder and OKCupid. This piece was penned as self-acknowledgement of my own loneliness and the inconsideration I showed toward one of my greatest friends, whom I had just traveled 700 miles to see.”

oil on wood

Grene Man//Jude Jackson

The Weight of my Grief, the Forest Bears//Anniebelle Quattlebaum

The weight of my grief, the forest bears, Cowering in coats of rain— How strange it is for night to fall, And mourning still remain! Yet I turn my face to the sky, As the droplets drench my face— Outstretch my arms out to the wind, And return her chilly embrace. My Lucia walked no cobbled streets, But sat amongst the trees— She whistled with the wind, Her eyes ventured far and free. But I carried her through thorny woods, ‘Twas untamed beauty she admired— Though to run wildly and unchained, Is what her young heart desired. “The time is drawing near,” said she. “But it is not so grave, you see— When I return to the Earth, And the Earth returns to me. For I shall become the pouring rain, And dance upon the rocks— Awaken the weary world, It shall be I to drench your locks. Or perhaps I shall be the whirling wind, And dance amongst leaves of autumn— Embrace the entire world, And you, from top to bottom.” Lucia, the world had broken thee, Though anguish is miserly and wrong— I could offer both arms and legs, But with the birds is where you belong. Now my Lucia has shattered time, And dove into eternity— The world was sorry to hold her so, And thus it set her free.

“For my British Literature II class, I was required to write a poem in the style of William Wordsworth. In this poem, written from the perspective of a male speaker, I emphasized Wordsworth’s usual theme of a oneness with nature.”

At The Barre (Ballet)//Sarah Michelle Smith I stand erect, arms outstretched, solid yet elegant; Energy curving through my veins, and shooting From the tips of my fingers and toes, propelling My body off of the floor and into the air. Music resonates through the souls of my feet, inspiring each step. The entire world forgotten, my heart leads the way. Plié and straighten, plié and straighten, plié and straighten. Entranced by the monotonous tone, I’m no longer a part of this cold, dark place, I’ve entered a new Dimension. A separate world, all my own. No responsibilities, or worries, And I can forget my past sorrow; Lose myself in the pain that relieves My stress. Battement and hold, battement and hold, battement and hold. The pain sears through me, trying to pull me back down, Yet I will not give in. Sous-sus, soutenu, plié and again! I stand erect, arms outstretched, solid yet elegant; Energy curving through my veins, and shooting From the tips of my fingers and toes. Sous-sus, soutenu, plié and finish! 15

IS3rd

cutout on paper board

Ebony Inferno// Marlayne Smith

Ballad of the Ankou//Jack Burch

WG2nd

In lonely wandering one night beneath the paper moon I stumbled on a frightening sight: the ghostly old Ankou. He stood beneath a Cypress tree and cast a baleful eye— A skeleton in threadbare rags beneath a tombstone sky. So dignified he seemed to me, appearing so at home, and yet, at once unsatisfied— a king denied his throne. Well in the gloom I could not see more than his dim outline So I addressed him jovially and offered him my time. “Good friend,” said I, “you should not be alone so late at night. I’ll gladly keep you company beneath this pale moonlight.” A banshee wind did issue then that shook the moss-choked trees, and made the fabric of his coat whip wildly in the breeze. He did not deign to make a sound, but kept his gaze on me to offer up a deathly smile from his propriety. “Good sir,” said I, “you should not be out in this dreadful chill. You’ll find no warmth beneath that tree, it’s cold enough to kill.” 17

Well bones did crack in graveyard earth and bats perchanced to fly and witches howled in witchy mirth and clouds conquered the sky. Yet still my curiosity sufficed to still my feet, though when, at length, I spoke again I spoke in timbre meek: “Good friend,” said I, “we should not be out in the coming storm! If you will but come back with me, I’ll take you somewhere warm!” “I’m quite contented with the night,” I heard the strange man groan, “but I will join you in the light so you are not alone.” Well then he stepped out from the tree and gave a frightful shock, for now I could so clearly see his bones all interlocked. This ghastly man, a skeleton gestured with a wave. “Now that you have beheld my face, I’ll guide you to your grave.” My heart did pound inside my chest, my blood had turned to ice— I asked if some other bargain would possibly suffice. He shook his head and beckoned on my head began to wheel— but I held quickly to my wit and thought to strike a deal. “Good sir,” said I, “you must agree this is a lovely Weald. I have but one final request: To sleep beneath this field.”

Rocky Waves//Kelley McElyea

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Honestly I love water photos. I love the contrast you find in them as well as how it speaks to the viewer. Nothing is better than having a picture affect the viewer.â&#x20AC;?

IS2nd 20

Cleansing//Kyndall Cooper

WG1st

Confusion and Contradiction in Shanghai, China//

Shanghai August shimmers on the pavement. “No Fishing” reads the sign in English and Chinese characters next to the man with the pole in the water, “No Gambling” on a pillar of the waterside pavilion beside the mahjong players, “No Steppin’” with a frisky, toedown boot within the fence behind the sleeper on the bench in a city park. I imagine it means “do not ‘step to,’ that is ‘confront,’ the man sleeping on this bench. He is very tired and under these trees is a nice place to nap.” This is the only sign I do not see being openly flouted as the man sits folded, managing by his furrowed brow to look fierce even in unconsciousness. Tall buildings try the depths of every pool of water. I can hardly hear from my unpopped ears when I get off the plane after fitful sleep with an inflatable pillow around my neck and knowledge of the length of my own legs keeping me from reclining my seat back. I say nothing below the volume of a shout to Jena, my friend who has been here teaching English for a month and a half before my arrival. Something is very different, which I automatically perceive as wrongness, during the taxi ride to the Jinjiang Inn, the hotel where Disney English, Disney’s language program for kids, has put her up. Traffic’s still on the right, but I cannot fathom why the driver is crossing the intersections when he does. Later, reading a travel guide to China, I learn that traffic laws are understood like the signs in the public park, and only one in five drivers in the country has a license. I do not cross any big roads for a while. Walking down the sidewalk to the nearest subway stop with Jena, I feel I should have brought a fanny pack to complete my worn-t-shirt-and-cargo-shorts-shabbiness in comparison to these cosmopolitans and their clothes that fit. I wonder if the tiny boutiques along the walls of the subway station (that I feel too large, unlearned in Mandarin, and untutored in fashion to enter) are responsible for Shanghainese fashionability. I will never go in one for the three weeks I am here, which is just as well, since the prices of clothes in American stores usually set me to wide-eyed scoffing. These are boutiques and likely have boutique prices, and haggling, expected in China, has never been part of my skillset.

James Paisley I cried at a yard sale when a man offered me a dollar for my VHS tape of The Three Caballeros, clearly marked at three dollars. I cried a lot as a child. The air-conditioned subway car is shiny and crowded, and I hover my hand over my wallet in my front pocket, no doubt showing all potential pickpockets where the gold is. The smell of body odor and food breath is very different from what I’m used to. I’m surprised, half-gratified and half-disappointed, that I’m not the tallest person standing up. A little woman squeezed to three-quarter size following a little girl on the plane had made me think that I would stand out. A few young Chinese men have a head or two on me—malnutrition is less common now, and folks’ growth doesn’t get stunted as much. Old folks and people from the countryside are still littler. Height is an immediate marker of social class. I still catch eyes that don’t waver when met. There’s no category in Confucian philosophy, which is still part of the Chinese social fabric, for relationships with strangers. There are expectations of behavior and understood dynamics in Confucianism between colleagues, parents and children, family members, and friends. I wonder where the Other fits. Maybe behind the eyes, they’re wondering too. Off the subway in gathering dark, Jena and I search for a restaurant on Nanjing Road, a neon walking street closed to cars. I end up eating frog legs I have to hunt for in a bowl of bright red chilies. The meat-to-bone ratio is low, and Jena tells me about the dexterous tongues of the Chinese people who wiggle their mouths for much too short a time and spit a pile of bones into their hands.

Swing In South America//Michael St. John

“In Ecuador there is a swing that swings out over a canyon looking out at a volcano. To the right of the swinger are clouds as well as smoke from the volcano.”

Mood Lighting// Michael St. John “Here acetone is burned inside of a whiskey glass to emit a unique fill lighting unlike most other sources in photography.”

Cosmogony//Brent Blackmon A million miles from where they wished they could be, the tiny beings of a small blue and green rock spent their evenings looking up at the stars. They loved drawing the stars onto charts, shaping the giant orbs into flat five-pronged figures that mirrored their own tiny forms. Even more, these beings loved naming the stars, not realizing that the stars name themselves. One evening, two of these tiny two-legged creatures came out of their towering gray box to gaze at the littler creature’s favorite star, a brilliant, yellow-plumed sphere in the eastern corner of the sky. The larger one toted out a long tube, propping it up and pointing it toward the star. “Can we give her a name?” the littler one asked, bobbing up and down on the spot. Without glancing away from the sky, the larger one answered with a chuckle, “She probably already has one.” She called herself Samantha, and she and her friends came out one by one every night to twinkle and blink and play just as the stars do. For eons they danced at the break of twilight, popping out on the violet backdrop of the sky which extended all the way into forever, they thought, just like their loves for one another. But on this evening, Samantha started coughing and sputtering dust. The glitter of her breath was beautiful, and all her friends ogled it in awe until they realized something was deeply, deeply wrong. The fringes of her once rose-tinted cheeks fizzled to a fearsome orange until finally her usual singing was enveloped by a booming noise. Right where Samantha danced each night was a massive marsh of stardust. Pale particles bumbled around that spot of the sky like lecherous little sparks, but at the center of it all was a tiny white star. All the other stars buzzed up to the spot. “S-Samantha?” stammered one of her old best friends, the red wick who fancied the name Lydon. “Is that you?” “My name is Sami,” she growled back. “I hate when you call me ‘Samantha.’” All the other stars eased backward to the edges of the sky, away from this angry, new Sami. They struggled to keep shining. “I’m cold. Why is it so cold?” she complained, her surface buzzing with agitation. 25

Confused, all her old friends replied, “Cold? We’ve never felt cold before.” “It’s terrible. I hate it. I hate this!” Sami mourned the loss of her stardust. The beautiful coat that had kept her so warm for so long was gone, apparently along with so many more parts of the oncesunny Samantha. The edges of the sky were pushed farther back as her old companions continued to float backward in fear of the dim glow of their new, old friend. Until Lydon stopped his backpedaling. He watched Sami flicker in her anger and her discomfort. He could see her confusion, but he could feel the pain radiating off of her paling plumage. Mile by mile, Lydon began to hover over toward the lonely little shaken Sami, and before he could even readjust the sheen of his surface, he found himself right before her. She looked up at him, and he looked right back. continue reading...

“I kept this story buzzing around in my head for a few years before finally actually writing it out in its current form. It’s a simple allegory about growing up and surviving the changes that adolescence poses—about how, in the end, despite our inevitably ample explosions and dispersions, we’re all destined to be beautiful stars.”

oil and sawdust mixed in acrylic

Stare//Brittany Burgess

Hello Cranium//Jessie Hardy

#BlackGirlMagic.// Tyisha Jhana Henderson I am black girl magic. Strong, innocent, powerful, vulnerable and unpredictable. I take in and exude the struggle and passion of my people for generations. I am all of them in new shades of black. It is more than 50. I’m limitless. Just know each blow you bring to me it’ll be double back to you. Put those Celie hands on you for you to know. Don’t touch me and mine because I’ll create a monsoon so violent that when it’s done peace will take over. Leaving you dumbfounded. That’s right, I’m that black girl magic. The vibes of a new season coming that’s me. How the sun can hit you just right to energize you, that’s me. How the wind whispers softly in your ears, that’s me. Seeing the leaves create their own tie-dye in October, that’s me. The chill. Forcing you to get closer to others, that’s me. I’m all around you giving and restoring life.

Milk// Kyndall Cooper

No Tea No Shade//Chelsea Youell

Zombie Valentine// James Paisley Returning the undead to repose has been hell, but now we’re pros. I know you’ve found some joie de vivre, eastern forehand grip on a meat cleaver. City’s full of Zed! Headphones full of Orchid! Heft your driver’s head! Knock eyeballs into orbit! Old world’s over, that’s a fact. Ain’t suggesting no pseudo-suicide pact, but imagine! A million years to spend! Why not be bitten and death transcend? But I know when I’m flagging we can get on your hog and like the pipe I’ll be dragging, we’ll scrape along.

Wilmington: Traveling Alone//Caitlin Butler “I have to drive four hours away by myself, and spend a whole weekend in this town where literally the only person I’ll know is Dr. Mack, who I won’t even see except for the conference, where I have to present in front of a bunch of smart people and tell them all about this poet whose poetry I don’t even like! Alone! Are you sure you can’t go with me?” I made certain that everyone knew. When I learned I’d have to present the results of my undergrad research project out of town, I asked my three best girlfriends, one by one, if they could come with me. Nope. One couldn’t take off work, one couldn’t miss class, and one had to help with a wedding. The time of the trip drew closer, and I asked a couple of girls I barely knew. They had exams. Two weeks out, I asked my boyfriend. He had an exam, too. I asked another boy. He had a girlfriend. C’est la college. So, I resigned myself to a solo trip and my friends to a guilt trip. Barreling down I-20 in my green Buick Sedan, I literally hoped to God it wouldn’t fall apart on this trip. I had given it a good going-over before I left: checked the oil (dark, but not low), checked the coolant (something was in the reservoir, so… I guessed that was good), topped off the air in the tires (42psi, and I love those machines that tell you the pressure while you’re pumping), and even washed the windshield. That’s the extent of my automotive ability. Something about the ritual felt like a safeguard, but I didn’t have much faith. However, aside from the usual bucking and shuddering coming from the transmission every so often, the old car ran great, so I turned up the radio and settled in for the nearly four-hour straight shot to Wilmington, North Carolina. Alone. I left my poetry class at USC Aiken on Thursday at 6 p.m. I took a wary-faced selfie at a red light just before the sun went down and posted it online. It was important for the Internet (and the friends who’d abandoned me to my fate) to understand my trepidation.

Sometime down the road, shout-singing with songs I would’ve made fun of if I’d been accompanied, I decided this alone thing might not be too bad. Sure, I had never been anywhere far from home on my own before—every other time I had either been with someone, or going to see someone—but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be fun. So, by the time I slung my car haphazardly between two white lines and flicked my windshield wipers off at the Best Western Plus University Inn at 10 o’clock, I had realized that this was a grand opportunity to do absolutely whatever I wanted all weekend. Except for presenting, which wasn’t optional. My excitement flagged at the reception desk. The bleachypermed woman smiled at me sadly, pointing her concerned penciled brows first at me, then at her computer screen. “Janice Butler?” “Yes, that’s me. But it might say Caitlin. I go by Caitlin.” “Well, I have Janice. Did you book for the fifth through the seventh?” “Yes. Tonight and tomorrow night.” “Oh dear. Well, it looks like this booking was for the fifth through seventh last month, and it says you didn’t show up!”

His Winter Coat// Sarah Marie Williamson 35

Vivid Beauty//Jennifer Dirks

â&#x20AC;&#x153;While trying out new methods I drew this, focusing on how to incorporate the lines into the piece itself. I wanted to draw something that absolutely popped off the page.â&#x20AC;?

Love, Tame Me// David B. Corder Love, tame me if you dare. Even if I beg you with my head in your snow-soft lap. Can beauty save this licentiousness of man? Without hope, Love, misery is all I have. Mother Mirror and Father Pride birth Arrogant Tongues. Faulty love and a cursed womb have borne me, a wicked son. A jackal sneers in twilight’s shadow as I wander foreboding trees. What a ghastly thing. What a majestic beast. My God, forgive me for the dreams of sinners; my blood red wine and kingly feast. Despite Heaven’s words on my lips; despite the mask I wear among unsuspecting sheep. Claws are her fear and excitement; they generate sparks down her spine. It is forbidden to touch a monster’s fur. It is blasphemous to love a beast.

“This poem was heavily inspired by the song “Beauty of the Beast” by the symphonicmetal band Nightwish. The music and lyrics of that song, as well as my own personal experiences, helped me to shape and create this poem.”

Held//Brooke Clark

Mema’s House//Caitlin Butler WG 2nd The story goes it didn’t matter what my mother’s mom wanted to be called as a new grandmother. I was the first grandchild, so when “mimmaw” came out of my mouth, it was decided. My Mema was still a young woman then, or else barely middle-aged. Her hair, which she had worn in a glossy brown beehive before Mama was born, was now sandy blonde and fluffed with strong hairspray. She was my sing-along partner and sandwich maker. My Pepa, whose pink complexion and curls I inherited without his silence, was the Easter egg prize-money supplier and fixer of everything. These, my earliest memories, are from the summer of 1994, the summer I turned five, and The Lion King replaced The Little Mermaid as my favorite movie. Mema and Pepa lived together in the yellow house with the white front door, but I always called it Mema’s house. Mema’s house had a number of mysterious doors. For instance, the closet door by the front door shocked me, possessing instead of a wall at the back, another door leading to Mema’s room. Or the door at the top of the stairs, which emanated quietly ominous sounds. But the front door mystified me most. Did it work? Why did we never use it? I thought maybe it was for decoration, that it was a requirement for houses to have front doors whether or not you want them. But one day it snowed on Christmas, and Pepa yanked that door open so we could go out from the living room into the front yard, and scoop snow into small plastic bowls. Then my little sister and I ate the snow with spoons, sitting by the fire. Every other time, we used the side door. The side door held no air of mystery, and was worthy of no special attention. It opened simply into the dark back den, which sat lower than the rest of the house. Mama would park Daddy’s blue station wagon left of the big magnolia whose red seeds looked so much like candy. 39

Three concrete steps, their round-molded edges beginning to crumble, sat to the left, and to climb them was to have your right arm tickled by thriving Four o’clock bushes. There was a tiny half bathroom immediately right, a kitchenette filled with potted plants after that, and against the far wall on the left, an out-of-tune piano stood over its bench, dignified and mostly unused. One of my greatest delights was to play thunderstorms, pounding madly with both hands at the left side of the piano for thunder and tinkling excitedly at the high end for rain, sometimes banging a handful of black keys for a jarring jolt of lightning. And then there was the puppy room. To get to the rest of the house from the den required walking through what probably once was a breezeway turned room, where Mema conducted the practical aspects of her toy poodle business. The puppy room air hung thick with clipper oil, dog perfume, and sanitizer. I didn’t like it. The entire left wall comprised modular kennels, and housed between eight to ten dogs. I liked them outside, or roaming the house, but not in their cages in the puppy room, where they ceased to be sweet little curly dogs and turned into a wall of rattling sound. They yapped and yelped whenever someone passed through, clanging the doors of their cages. I developed a strategy: I took a deep breath as I came through the den, and held it and stopped up my ears, then charged through. The running made them bark even more. continue reading...

Lyrics written by Tim Rice for the song, “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” (music written by Elton John) appear in the story.

Lichen Blue//Jessie Hardy

Wolfsbane//Brent Blackmon WG1st Wolves toss their runts cold into rotted trees; my mother raised hers, fastened frost-blue gums to rose tits and bloomed. Even misery outgrows winter some moons, but this year it chills me till I can’t nuzzle the snow off my paws. I am tired of watching intentions gallop rabbit-happy into traps of collateral overgrowth and “It is what it is” teeth clenched like chromed deadbolts into reddened fur. The steely clinks and whines of backyard swing sets perk my ears like the gnarled yaw of 40 ft. spike-and-chain. The metals that bubble up from the earth to cradle-rock children pin me to the limp grass. I am clasping for bones, split-nose gnawing toward the tissues that tether me together, as my muscles kink in chain lengths, demarcating the territories of my tail, gerrymandered into the dead-wound forest’s edge, deveined. This year I’ve grown too old to tell whether the snow falling pad-footed onto brown leaves echoes wolves or wolfsbane in the winter wind.

“Relapsing into depression in the deadest cold of winter is about as fun as getting your foot caught in a bear trap. This was written to try to capture the isolated desperation that such an experience will more than simply acquaint you with.”

War-Dog//Thomas Gardiner Poised for a fight, The Eagle sits with eyes affixed like a war-dog with a blood tear below his eye and mad. Mad with Capital bloodlust; the silver-back gorilla. The Eagle spreads its wings with shock and awe, it’s time to face the hydra’s multiplicity without regard to the roots of this mess. Led on by lies. That dog sold us weapons of mass destruction in silos, hidden away in sets ready to be driven and shoved in the face of the West. Saddam, that bitch, that junkyard dog. The Eagle is truth, liberty, and justice unlike his Guerilla Politics and his phallic war-toys that drive good men mad. Propaganda juice the ice in my veins; we’re mad as Hell and we’re not gonna take it anymore. Your mess is my cleaning pleasure for profit, capitalists the gorilla in the room who command us to sit; to sit even when we could win. Even he obeys, the war-dog, the Master of Munitions, when waiting for the noose to silence that face. Men kick over stones and leaves, looking for the face of the bearded tyrant whose gas bombs and dog pit punishments tattoo the iron fists that strike fear in the masses. Counterintelligence and counterattack; the soldier is a pawn in a set of numbers up against a desert beast they call The Guerilla.

The heartbeat of ideology keeps time for the marching Gorilla whose fits of rage leave willing appendages in rivers of innocence lost. He is the face of a cause whose blood feeds the flowerbeds of martyrdom where his head sits eternally still. The painted desert, a war that drives them mad, and a profiteering puppeteer that keeps young souls steeping in this mess. The madness of the machine is the illness of the war-dog. In a Guise of National Security we came like a dog with an up-hiked leg to mark our territory on the feet of The Guerilla. Lips at the end of the mastermind’s strings squawked lies about weapons of mass destruction that even he seemed himself to believe. But lines in his face can’t tell a lie about the Mad Hatter mentality at the Security Table where his Big Dogs sit. The war-dog wears a mask of scars, a gift from The Guerilla; a Guise for the mad-mess of blood and tears on his face. He still follows orders. Sit, war-dog, sit.

“This piece is a sestina, a form with repeating words at the ends of lines, 6 stanzas of 6 lines with a final stanza of 3. I played with the end words using gorilla/guerilla and other homonyms in alternating stanzas. The form allowed me to explore some of the more obsessive facets of my experiences as I grew up and went on to serve in the Iraq War.”

Grave// Kyndall Cooper

Steps// Brooke Clark

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Water and fruit combine to create an interesting display of light and color.â&#x20AC;?

IS1st

Fruit Fire// Michael St. John

The Arsonistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Wife//Caitlin Butler She filled her suitcase with empty threats again but never left her home full of smoke where the fire alarm cried so often the repetitive ringing faded to tinnitus, then relaxed into nothing at all, till memories of burnt beams and bones seemed soil, black soil, with earthworms, and ripe for growing false hopes so she slept with the arsonist on a mattress of straw (each straw supposedly the last), and cried when she smelled gasoline and choked on her heart in her throat when she felt hotel matches burning a hole through his pocket, because she believed that dying in flames is a better death than freezing.

ceramic and acrylic on canvas

Ganesh//Connor Turner 49

Regret//David B. Corder The stone hall was cold and dim, with a sputtering torch only every few yards or so. Footsteps echoed through the shadows as a woman passed through the hall, her walk strong and confident. Her eyes were keen and looked straight ahead, as if they saw something that they wanted and she strode towards it. She came to a heavy wooden door, and with a quick wave of her hand, it swung open. She walked through, and with another flicker of her fingers shut it behind her. The room was circular and bore a basin in the center that sat on a small pillar. Aside from that, the room was empty except for a large window that looked out into the night. She left the window, walked over to the basin and stared into it. To the untrained eye, there was nothing special about the water. But she could see a face beneath its surface; one that was not her own. It stared at her for an instant then faded into green meadows that stretched for miles and miles. She could see two people running across the grass, circling each other as if they were playing a game of tag. Slowly, the image faded, and all she saw was a patch of dirt with a single post protruding from it. There was a quick stab of pain in her heart, and she shut her eyes. She buried it quickly. There was no room for weakness. When she opened her eyes, there was nothing in the water but the reflection of her own face. Taking a knife from her belt, she sliced her palm, her face empty of reaction. A thin line of red appeared in the middle of her hand and she squeezed. Tiny droplets splashed into the basin, dyeing it a pale red. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Aedus. I summon you.â&#x20AC;? For a moment there was no movement save for the swirling of her blood in the water. Then the water blackened and burst into yellow flame. The woman stepped back, clutching the knife as the flame rose to the ceiling. Within the fire she could see the silhouette of a shadow. 50

The voice that echoed through the room sent chills down her spine, though she did her best to not let it show. “Who summons me?” said the voice. The woman spoke. “I, Tarja.” The fire flickered and danced. “Tarja….yes. Your magic has been trying to take something from me. Trying.” “Then you know what it is I am after,” she said. “Your meager spells won’t be enough to take it.” She glared at the pillar of fire. “Then what will?” The flame dissipated and all was quiet. She approached the basin and looked in, only to find it calm and even clear of her blood. Feeling anger rising inside her, she almost tossed the basin across the room until she saw the water start to change. There was a house surrounded by trees. The image changed and she saw amber eyes that stared at her coldly. They were like the eyes of a wolf. “The Eyes of Nasandar,” she breathed. “You know of them,” spoke Aedus. Tarja gripped the edges of the basin until her knuckles turned white. “My master told me of them once. They are an old magic, older than most of the Earth’s forests and mountains. They grant immense strength to whoever possesses them. But I thought they disappeared over a century ago.” “Is that what your master told you, before you plunged a cursed dagger into his heart while he slumbered?” Tarja didn’t reply and her bones quaked as Aedus’s laugh echoed throughout the room. “I know what you have done in order to get where you are now, little sorceress.” She ignored him, still staring at the image of the eyes that seemed to pierce to her core. “What do you want?” “Find the owner of the eyes and take them from him. Give them to me and you will receive what you wish.” 51

Tarja felt anger rise in her again. “You would use me as a pawn for your own dirty work?” The eyes faded and Tarja jerked back just in time. The pillar of fire roared to life again and Aedus’s voice shook the room. “Watch your tone with me, whelp. I’ve shown you enough kindness by even considering a deal with you.” Tarja’s anger still growled inside her, but she restrained herself. She had to do this. “Then give me the power I need to obtain what you ask. Give me the shadow power.” “Are you sure?” the shadow flame said. “Magic this dark will cost you much.” “I know what it will cost me,” Tarja said. “And I’m willing to pay the price.” She stared at the shadow within the flames for a moment before Aedus answered. “Very well. Your wish is my command.” A shadowy hand wreathed in fire reached from the pillar and grasped her wrist. Tarja cried out in agony as the hell fire seared her skin. After an unbearable few seconds, both the hand and the pillar of flame vanished. On her wrist was branded a wicked symbol that resembled a skull engulfed in flame. The pain was intense, and Tarja took deep breaths through clenched teeth. “Whatever it takes,” she said.

Make a Wish//Robert Washington

“This is a lone dandelion that was in front of USCA Etherredge Center. I couldn’t help but capture a shot of a beautiful persistent little flower.”

Solar collectors//James Paisley Papier-mâché clouds, celestial slurry plowed in rows; the sun sown deep. Though the blue creeps closer from miles away, I feel constrained by windowed walls that block big sky and crack bird skulls. ten feet I dream of sleeping from the ground in a nest braced between trunk and limb, bugs c r o s s i n g our slumbering hills, brushed off without waking. Branches in

weav ter ing, in ven until all light’s found a level in the leaves except for our bath: a daily shrinking pool of sun. We wash our bodies in the warmth dripped from the shining hole in the jungle ceiling left by a fallen tree from whose limbs we made our laying-place. Here we ungainly children play, pile together, snore like tigers. Far-off trees sway in a breeze I soon feel, and I remember to bend and breathe, for while I dreamt, the sun appeared.

The Understudy// Elayna Hatchell “I would not get my hopes up too high, dear. I’m here to stay.” The words struck me like a perfectly aimed dart. I looked down at my iron-clad wrists, sighing. I was led to the back of a black car, not caring to read the lettering on the side, for I knew where this car was going. All of the past events that had gotten me to this point swarmed around in my mind. I never got what I wanted; not on the first try anyway. My entire life had been an endless world of struggle. Both of my parents were factory employees, working their fingers to the bone. They had suffered through the terrible Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. Although they survived, many of their friends did not. They had watched in horror as coworkers leapt to their deaths. After going to work at a new factory, they were not paid as much as before. I grew to learn that money was sacred. My parents spent money on necessities, not on dolls and toys. I was an ambitious child, and would do anything for the sake of our family. When I grew up, however, I desperately wanted to get out of the deadend life of my parents. I did not want to work day and night; I wanted to be someone important. I wanted to be seen in luscious fox furs and diamond earrings. The stock market crashed in 1929 and it was a devastating blow for New Yorkers, such as my parents. I decided to apply for a job, both to provide for my family and as a chance to escape the harsh realities of being poor. I had heard how much some theater companies in the city paid their actresses, so I tried to find more information. I knew I was a good singer. No, not good. Great. I would sing in the stairwells of our building to anyone who listened. I had a passion for it, it was in my blood, and I knew I could do it. 55

“Actresses do not make much money, dear,” I remember my frail mother stating, afraid I would not get paid at all. It was a start, however, and I was very determined. This was how I would achieve all my dreams. The snow and ice crunched under my feet as I headed towards the brick theater building. The building was covered in crumbling posters of previous shows and some of them had almost become a part of the brick façade itself. The vines twisted around the sides of the building as if to shelter it from the world outside. A car horn blared and startled me as I was staring at the theater. A black Model A Ford drove past me, the driver clearly upset that I was in his way. I made my way to the front door and walked inside, a gust of warm air enveloping me. It was a nice change from the chilly weather outside. I took off my tattered coat and looked around. The theater, though quite old, was decorated elegantly. I had never seen such finery before! The red-carpeted stairs poured down from the upper levels and evolved into a black and white marbled floor. I looked up and noticed a sparkling chandelier. Once I hung my coat on a nearby rack, I saw the sign I’d been searching for on the door that led into the auditorium: AUDITIONS TODAY. I smiled faintly and nervously walked into the auditorium. I suddenly felt small and meager in this theatre, and wondered if I really could pull it off.

MUSIC From The Heart// Derek James Corder This is an instrumental track written, performed, and recorded by yours truly. All the instruments in the song are played by myself.

All I Got// Derek James Corder This is an original blues-rock instrumental featuring myself on all instruments.

After 2am// Raushaun Michael

VIDEO Soundline Challenge// John Green This is an animated short of stick people fighting each other. I created this because I wanted to participate in an online community challenge, where new and experienced animators could display their skills to other animators and others throughout the internet. As a first attempt, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pretty good, but I know I can do better.

Sunday Morning// Cameron Hoormann Comprised of a few hundred photographs, two title cards, and a music track, Sunday is a motion picture. That is, a series of still images playing in succession at a rate so quick that the sequence creates the illusion of movement. As a life-long admirer of cinema, Sunday was created to finally add my own piece to the endless, worldwide collection of art that I so revere. A lifetimeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s aspiration, shot one frame at a time, Sunday is, I believe, the greatest achievement of all my artistic endeavors.

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 faculty 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 acknowledged in the magazine and accompanied by a cash award. This year’s winners are:

AWARDS

WASHINGTON GROUP AWARD WG

PROSE 1st Confusion and Contradiction in Shanghai, China//James Paisley 2nd Mema’s House// Caitlin Butler 3rd The Grandest of Canyons// Ashley Noel Conkiln

POETRY 1st Wolfsbane// Brent Blackmon 2nd Ballad of the Ankou//Jack Burch 3rd Chilling// Brent Blackmon

INK SPLAT AWARD

The USC Aiken Art Department generously sponsors the Ink Splat Visual Art Award for the recognition of a superior piece of student artwork. The winners of the award are chosen through a blind review by Dr. Jeremy Culler. The Ink Splat Awards for Volume 48 are: 1st Fruit Fire// Michael St. John 2nd Cleansing// Kyndall Cooper 3rd Ebony Inferno// Marlayne Smith

ROLL OVER BEETHOVEN AWARD

The USC Aiken Music Department proudly sponsors the Roll Over Beethoven Award, which is awarded to an original student audio piece that displays meritorious quality. The winner was selected through a blind review by Professor Steve Sloan. This year’s award goes to:

After 2am// Raushaun Michael

MISSION STATEMENT Broken Ink endeavors to accurately and objectively feature the literary and artistic achievements of USC Aiken students and to raise awareness of the literary and visual arts throughout campus and the community.

ABOUT US Broken Ink is produced yearly by a staff of USC Aiken students. The magazine accepts and reviews submissions of student-created works of visual and literary art and compiles the best pieces, based on our review process, into one magazine. All students are eligible to join the Broken Ink staff, regardless of year, major, or experience. We have weekly meetings in the Student Media Office located in the Student Activities Center. For more information, visit our website at www.brokeninkusca.wordpress.com or e-mail your questions to us at brokenink@usca.edu.

REVIEW PROCESS All submissions are reviewed blindly and rated on a scale of 1 to 5, (5 being the highest) by literary and visual art panels assembled from student volunteers. In order to supply an accurate and objective representation of USC Aiken’s artistic community, we ask all panelists to recuse themselves 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 occassionally must determine between two or more equally deserving works, both by average rating and artistic merit. Ties are resolved based on the current publication’s concept or “voice” and Broken Ink’s mission to represent a wide variety of student work.

COLOPHON The 2016 issue of Broken Ink was created using Indesign, Illustrator and Photohop. We would also like to thank the creators of the following fonts for letting us use them free of charge: Blackjack, Cavier Dreams, Walkway and Unna.

Visual Editor JUDE JACKSON

Layout Editor BROOKE CLARK

Editor in Chief SYDNEY HERRICK

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EDITORIAL STAFF

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Broken Ink strives to be an outlet for artists, writers, and musicians of the USC Aiken campus. This year, Broken Ink received the best selection of student talent yet. Although every submission could not be published, I would like to congratulate all of the students for their hard work. USC Aiken has the finest pool of student talent and Volume 48 of Broken Ink would have never been possible without their contributions. On behalf of the Broken Ink staff, I would like to personally thank every submitter who made this possible. I am also very grateful for the 20152016 Broken Ink staff. Never have I worked with a more dedicated, talented group. I appreciate all of your hard work this year, and I wish you nothing but success in your life endeavors. In particular, I owe a special thanks to our new faculty advisor, Roy Seeger. Words cannot explain how much your guidance has helped the staff this year. As a staff, we would also like to recognize Karl Fornes, Ahmed Samaha, David Bruzina, Vicki Collins, Jeremy Culler, Steve Sloan, Keith Pierce, Ginny Southworth, Julie Wise, Michael Fowler, Becky Crawford, and Ronnica Golson for all of their help and support throughout the academic year.

Literary Editor DAVID CORDER

Music Editor NICK MOORE

Public Relations AUBREY MELVIN

Faculty Advisor ROY SEEGER

Staff HALEY DIXON

Staff ELLIOT HUDSON

University of South Carolina Aiken 471 University Parkway Aiken, SC 29801 brokeninkusca.wordpress.com