Broken Ink Volume 52

Broken Ink Staff and Editors Editor-In-Chief Isabel Martinez

Layout Editor Bonnie Watson

Visual Arts Editor Samantha Vigoya

Literary Arts Editor Louis Keenan

Public Events Coordinator Paige Davis

Music Editor

Abbey Vincent

Faculty Advisor Roy Seeger

Staff Members

Amber Bryant Kayley Ann Ayer Alexis “Ally” Riggins

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A Word from the Editors Isabel Martinez Editor in Chief

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 was my first 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 amazing 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 remember that there is always something meant for you, and Broken Ink was meant for me. Broken Ink will do nothing but flourish over the years, can’t wait to see where it goes.

Bonnie Watson Layout Editor

I cannot thank our staff and support group enough for giving us such an amazing year with a great group of people to produce this magazine with. I’m happy to say I’m very proud of all who submitted and I hope that this magazine shows how incredible everyone who contributed is and will be. Thank you to our staff, our wonderful editors, and our lovely EIC!

Special Thank You! Broken Ink and the entirety of our staff would like to extend a special thank you to the James L and Mary W Oswald Endowment and the Oswald family for giving us the means, resources and support to publish the issue.

During our production time we were unfortunately part of the school closure due to COVID-19. Our editors and staff worked long and hard to communicate by phone and computers to finish putting together the magazine. We were able to complete our production and show off the work and dedication that the editors put in so that the submissions that were accepted could be viewed as they should be. We also received support from the staff in the USCA English Department, Writing Center, Student Life, Faculty at the Etherredge Center, and USCA Student Media.

The James L and Mary W Oswald Endowment and the Oswald family completed our production with the resources we needed to print the issue. We thank you for all the support and are proud to present Vol. 52 of Broken Ink.

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Who We Are Broken Ink is USCA’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.

Table of Contents Pg. 7 Pg. 8 Pg. 9 Pg. 10 Pg. 11 Pg. 15 Pg. 18 Pg. 20 Pg. 21 Pg. 22 Pg. 23 Pg. 24 Pg. 25 Pg. 26 Pg. 27 Pg. 28 Pg. 29 Pg. 30 Pg. 31 Pg. 32 Pg. 33

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A Nice Place to Be Stranded Silly Superstitions Series No. 7: Scorpio my bones, the hills Sleepy For Real Friends Nightlight Diner de Cheveux Reuel Goes Home Watch the Tapes Miami Nights Stars My Relationships Speak Mirrored Fire Dragon Awkward Horror Sarcophagus Appearing from the Darkness Envy Serenity Daydream: Tea Leaves Chichen Itza Reflection of Goddesses hammdramTh3S@nwhitchMann Locks and Keys Addictive Memories Food Baby

Literary Submissions Visual Submissions Music Submissions Video Submissions

6 Pg. 35 Sloppy Seconds Eternally Taste Pg. 36 Introspective Free Speech Pg. 37 T O U C H She is...

Pg. 38 Window to Heaven Pg. 39 Daydream: Tea Leaves Pg. 40 Painting Pg. 41 Floppy Ears Refreshment Pg. 42 Normal Pg. 43 Paper Skin Pg. 44 Jasmine DuBois Pg. 45 Crossfire Pg. 46 A Conversation with an Opossum Nesting in the School’s Trash Bin Pg. 47 The Cat’s Meow Pg. 48 Up and Out Pg. 49 Energy Nighttime Haunt Pg. 50 First Snow Pg. 51 Daydream: The Library Pg. 52 Flawed Masculinity Pg. 53 Getting There Pg. 55 Christmas Cow Pg. 56 Perfection Pg. 57 Framed Vision Consequences Pg. 58 Diner Meal Pg. 59 Gate by the Blue Pg. 60 Tulip Garden Mickey’s 90th Birthday

Pg. 61 Hailey Eyes Pg. 62 Crimson Altar Lily of the Valley Memories Pg. 63 Drunk History Pg. 65 Ink Splat Awards Pg. 67 Washington Group Award A Place to Bring You Back Pg. 69 Washington Runner Ups Pg. 70 Roll Over Beethoven Award Pg. 71 Thank You’s and Support

A Nice Place to Be Stranded Haley Dixon

Silly Superstitions Series No.7: Scorpio Edward Gonzalez

God Damn it Karen Fuck Your “Just Being a Scorpio” Let Me See the Kids

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my bones, the hills Houston Louis Keenan

my bones, the hills, long for repentance i have been saturated with the cruel irony of life baptized in the clay and the mud and the thick sludge of inter-generational trauma and i have been made clean still i wish my toes weren’t blackbirds and my eyes weren’t ravens i wish my legs weren’t backwards and my hands weighed less heavily on my wrists i have so many wants and so little life. down my spine, water trickles angrily, following the primordial patterns of being-ness sometimes life can be reduced to synapses, serotonin, and sideways rain i wish now could be one of those times

Sleepy

Madeline Piper Riggins

Nightlight Bonnie Watson

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For Real Friends Samantha Palker

You are both the snake coiled to strike And the pucker sweet pomegranate On top of that you’ve helped me realize that I’m those things too You’re the force to be reckoned with And I’m lucky to know you I’d fight for you I’d get beat for you most likely

Diner de Cheveux Melo Dekelsa

Reuel Goes Home Gillian Nicole Kieffer

The first time I saw my imaginary friend was the day after my sixth birthday. I was in a park when a woman running through the area collided with me. I fell to the ground and when I looked up, there was a strange creature sitting on the swing set.

He was tall, slender, and had abnormally long limbs.

He also had no face, and that scared me to tears, but what freaked me out even more was that no one else could see him. I asked “Mommy, who is that sitting on the swing?”

But she saw no one.

I saw my imaginary friend every day for the next four years. He didn’t talk to me, nor did he interfere with my life in any way, he just lurked in the background and watched over me. I stopped being afraid of him as he became a regular part of my routine. Sometimes I would even talk to him when he stayed in my room, but he never said anything back.

Some years later he just disappeared. I was ten years old by that point, and when he left, I felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. He never spoke to me, but I suppose, in a way, I enjoyed his constant company.

He didn’t show up in my life anymore after that, but he did make appearances in my dreams from time to time.

Around my sophomore year in high school he disappeared completely, and soon enough I wrote him off as an imaginary friend from my childhood, and nothing more.

On my twenty second birthday I was at the Atlanta airport with a one-way ticket back home to upstate New York. It was apple picking season, and I yearned for the

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taste of fresh apple cider.

I had moved to Georgia for the last two years of college after a tremendous heart break changed my life. I was in love with a beautiful and kind woman, Elizabeth. I never thought a guy could be so lucky until I met her, and I never knew great pain until I lost her. Losing her made me eager for a change, so I transferred to an out of state college for a fresh start. I didn’t want to stay in Georgia though, and as the lease on my apartment came to a close, I packed up what I needed, and bought a plane ticket back home.

The lines for security at the airport were slow, but steadily moving. A security officer sitting at a podium, looking unamused, called me up. She was an older, bulky woman, who looked like she’d seen thousands of flight passengers in her years. She called out “Next. Boarding pass and ID please” she scanned it over, “Reuel Anderson?

Well ain’t that a unique name.” She was unbelievably monotone.

I got that comment often, I smiled at her “well thank you, my mother actually named me after the author-” “Look kid, I don’t really care who your mommy named you after, all I know is that you’ve got to go on through security and you’ve got to go home now, Reuel. Next!” I couldn’t believe she had cut me off so rudely, it left a sour taste in my mouth for the next few hours, and that last thing she said made me feel uneasy. How did she know I was going home?

We were in route to New York when our flight started to experience turbulence, and the seatbelt light flicked on. I wasn’t normally a nervous flier, but my hands were sweating, and my heart was racing. The shaking only got worse, soon the other passengers started to look uneasy too. A mother a few seats over was comforting her child, and for a moment I wished I had someone to comfort me as well.

The turbulence only progressed, and storm clouds surrounded the airplane. The cabin windows showed the sky darken as we flew into a storm. The cabin lights flickered on and off as luggage fell from overhead

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Just as I was about to close my eyes and brace myself for the worst, something appeared in the aisle far ahead. It was a dark figure, it didn’t look like a flight attendant, and it was completely steady, unfazed by the violent bumping and shaking. As I looked harder, I realized I recognized this thing, it was the imaginary friend from my childhood. He was back, twelve years later, and completely unchanged. How did he get here?

He lifted his thin, long arm, and waved at me. I had the urge to wave back, but I figured the stress must be giving me hallucinations. I closed my eyes; I must be going crazy.

Almost immediately after I saw him the turbulence stopped, the flight was completely calm and normal again, and the storm clouds were gone. It was the most unusual experience, but I was just glad to be alive.

A little while later a voice came on over the speaker, it was the pilot. “Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to apologize for those unexpected turbulence, we are hoping for a smooth flight the remainder of the way. Thank you for your cooperation. You’ve got to go home now, Reuel.”

I snapped my head up, did he just say my name? I turned to the man next to me, “what was that last thing he said?”

“He just said the seatbelt light would be turning off”.

I was relieved, I must have just imagined it, the stress was really getting to me.

The rest of the flight was smooth, but fast, it felt surprisingly quick. Soon, I had made my way out of the airport, and I was greeted by the cool New York air. I missed that crisp autumn breeze.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and switched off airplane mode. One message popped up. When I read who it was from my heart dropped to my feet. I felt sick, I ran to the nearest trash can and threw up. Then, with shaking hands, I held my phone up again, the text was still there.

It read “Lizzie-Bug: I hope you had a safe flight, honey.

Text me when you’re headed home!”

Watch the Tapes Abbey Vincent

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How could this be possible? It was like someone was playing tricks on me. Elizabeth couldn’t be texting me; Elizabeth was dead. She died in a car accident on the night of our fifth anniversary, and it was my fault. I was laughing at a joke she had me when our car drifted into the next lane on the highway. A massive truck collided with the left side of my car. She died almost instantly and I came out with barely a scratch. It still haunts me to this day.

Before I had too much time to think, my mother pulled up to the airport, eager to see me. I was still in shock, but also curios in a way, could it really be my Lizzie texting me? No, that’s impossible.

When I got into the car my mother smiled at me and said “I’m so glad to have you back home Reuel, I know Lizzie is too. This week apart must have been really hard for you two, but I know at least one of those interviews you went to will get you the job you want.”

I had never been so confused, she said I was in Atlanta going to job interviews, not for college. I felt like I was in some sort of parallel universe, one in which Lizzie had never died. I had so many questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask any of them.

The car ride back home should have taken over an hour, but somehow it felt like it was only a few minutes long. I must’ve had a lot on my mind.

We arrived at the old apartment Lizzie and I shared a couple years back. My heart fluttered as the door swung open and my beautiful Lizzie was standing there, smiling at me.

She looked just as wonderful as the day I last saw her, except a couple years older. Her ginger hair fell gently onto her shoulders like silk, and her blue eyes shimmered in the moonlight. God how I’d missed her.

As my mother hugged me goodbye, she whispered in my ear “You’ve got to go home, Reuel.” It was the same phrase I’d heard the security officer and flight attendant say.

“What?” I asked.

“I said I love you” she looked confused. I told her I

loved her back, went inside.

The apartment was just like I remembered it, but cleaner, I sat down with Lizzie on the couch. She asked me how my trip was, I didn’t even know how to answer.

The next few hours flew by, midnight came quickly. Time was passing at an alarming rate, something wasn’t right, and I ended up just going to bed for the night. How was this happening? When Lizzie came to bed, she wrapped her arms around me and laid her head on my chest. “You need to go home now, Reuel.” She whispered.

“I’m sorry?” I questioned.

“I just said that I’m glad you’re home now. I missed you.” I missed her as well, being here was like a dream come true, but it all felt so wrong. Why did I keep hearing that phrase?

The next morning, I woke up to the scent of bacon being fried on the stove. I just laid in bed questioning everything. Eventually, I decided that just for a day I was going to pretend life was normal, I would enjoy this time with my Lizzie while I could.

At breakfast, I asked her out for a dinner date, we decided to visit our favorite restaurant later that evening.

I was so thankful when she agreed, I felt like I was falling in love all over again and the sadness I had felt for so long was fading.

After we ate, the day passed by in what felt like an instant. I couldn’t even remember going anywhere or doing anything. All of a suddenly we just appeared at the Italian Restaurant we used to frequent back in the day.

It was on the top of a small mountain that overlooked a lake, I wished I could go here with Lizzie every night for the rest of my life.

We shared a plate of calamari, and both ordered pasta. I hadn’t enjoyed food this much since before she died. The joy I used to feel in life was back, and I couldn’t be more thankful. The rapid passing of time was still lingering on my mind though. Time was passing like it would in a movie, with all of the irrelevant moments being cut out.

I didn’t even remember finishing dinner, I was just in the

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Miami Nights Deon Turner

car suddenly, driving home, while Lizzie looked out over the water. The road down the hill was steep and on the edge of a cliff, it was the perfect scenic drive to end our night. Everything was perfect, I was finally happy again.

But then, out of nowhere, my imaginary friend appeared in the middle of the road. I was so frightened; I couldn’t even think and I jerked the wheel to avoid hitting him.

Because of this, my car flew over the cliff to the right and landed in the lake.

Water came in through the air vents as the car sank. I tried to open the doors but the pressure made it impossible. The windows wouldn’t roll down, and the car was filling fast.

Time felt like it was slowed down now, the car was filled with water and we were sinking to the bottom of the lake. I looked over and saw Lizzie had fainted. Through all of the panic, she still looked gorgeous, with her hair floating in the water. She looked at peace, and I felt at peace as well.

The air in my lungs was fading as the surface of the water became distant. Everything around me fell more silent and tranquil as the moonlight faded. I felt a tugging on my chest, I was in dire need of oxygen, but I had no hope of a fresh breath any time soon. I knew I was fading, and I accepted it, this wasn’t the life I was meant to live, I had to go home.

I felt lethargic in those last few moments of consciousness, and didn’t try to fight the inevitable.

Almost like an odd illusion of a memory, I heard a piano song playing in my mind. It was Lizzies favorite song, Yiruma’s “Dance”. The ethereal song played like a dream in my delirious mind, and gave me a calming gateway in to unconsciousness, into darkness, and into death.

I thought everything was over, until I woke up again.

I was in a hospital bed. I survived the car crash? Who saved me? I saw my imaginary friend in the corner of the room, he waved, and vanished into thin air. He didn’t return.

I looked to my left; my mother was sitting in a chair.

“What happened? Is Lizzie okay?”

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My mother looked devastated. Tears were welling in her eyes as she replied. “Reuel, Lizzy died in a car accident almost three years ago. You were in a plane crash; your flight went down in a storm. You were one of the only survivors, I’m so sorry baby. You’re okay now, you’re home now, Reuel.”

I’m fifty-six now, and I still don’t know what really happened. To this day, I often wonder who my imaginary friend was, and I can’t help but think that he was more than imaginary. My life went on, and I haven’t spoke of this incident again until now. I still miss Lizzie every day.

Stars

Madeline Piper Riggins

My Relationships Speak Naya Jackson

How sweet does it taste, you need to feel everything, always greedy, always yearning for more, I am the demon sitting on your chest, don’t move, only I can help you, are you afraid, funny how something so toxic can taste so good, like you, and here we are, both dying in our own way, why, don’t answer, I already know why, you wanted to see what I can do, I can show you, your blood is slowing, you cannot see, good, just hear, all everyone needs to do is hear, are you afraid of the way the static is moving through dead fingers, don’t be, this is a natural state, it’s like an itch you cannot scratch, just like me, although I never wanted to scratch, you made me scratch and I haven’t been sated since, the wine is delicious though, huh, go to sleep, I’ll see you tomorrow doesn’t matter the place. We will both be there.

Mirrored

Destiny Woodyard

Fire Dragon Tevon Kelly

Use of Pencil and Watercolors

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Awkward Horror Madeline Piper Riggins

it’s raining. you’re in a garden, beside a pond. the pond is overflowing and the flowers around you are wilting, and the wind is far too cold for summer. there’s a faint melody in the air and it’s familiar, but you can’t quite place from where. you don’t remember how you got here or where you are in general but somehow the confusion is comforting. across the pond is a stone gazebo, dappled green with age. you see a pair of eyes glinting at you. staring. unblinking. the rain comes down in heavy torrents, and your shoes are soggy. the eyes multiply spider’s eyes spider’s legs spider’s fangs it crawls out of the gazebo, the size of a small treehouse. it stares at you. you stare back. you’re extremely grateful for the pond separating you. “excuse me,” the spider calls, and it’s voice is the echo of disembodied dead languages, and you know you shouldn’t be able to understand, but you do. “excuse me,” the spider calls again. “you good, bro? “you look a lil damp bro. “bro. bro you wanna share my gazebo, bro?

“It’ll be our gazebro, bro. “ha! get it, bro? gazebro? “bro, why are you screaming?”

Sarcophagus

Tevon Kelly

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Appearing from the Darkness Haley Dixon

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Envy

Deon Turner

Serenity

Samantha Vigoya

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Daydream: Tea Leaves Madeline Piper Riggins

Golden light seeps onto the floor like pools of honey. The air is heavy with lavender and incense smoke, and you feel a little drowsy. The woman sitting across your table is various shades of purple, wrapped in ocean hues, little white sprigs of baby’s breath sprouting from her scalp. She’s hunched over a teacup, searching.

“That blob right there could be a pair of lungs,” she says.

“Or perhaps a turtle. Does that mean anything to you?”

You shake your head. You’re finding it difficult to keep a coherent thought in such a stuffy room.

“And that bit right there,” she said, tilting the cup towards you and pointing at a clump of tea leaves. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“Maybe. I could ask, if you’d like.”

A windchime outside sings and you nod. The woman goes to the window and shouts at the sky: “HEY! IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MEAN ANYTHING TO HER?”

A moment passes, then two, then three. Then a voice thunders down, and it sounds like waves breaking upon rocks, and a melting glacier, and a bleating lamb, and a child, and it says:

“Lady, that’s your job, how the hell should I know?” The woman sighs and sits back down. She looks at your teacup again.

“Well,” she mumbles. “That’s the last time I ask the old gods for help.”

“Is there anything useful in there?” you ask.

“I think you need to buy a new umbrella,” she says seriously. “The one you have now is rusty. And you need to eat more vegetables.”

“The tea leaves told you that?”

“The Divine Ones care about your well-being, I guess.”

You sigh. “How much do I owe you?”

“That button you have in you left pocket and your next laugh. I’ll settle for a butterscotch, though, if you have any.”

“Wouldn’t you know if I did?”

“Of course. But a gal can dream.”

You toss her the button and write an IOU for the laugh, and you step outside. The door rings shut behind you, and you check your wallet. Umbrellas could be so expensive these days.

Reflection of Goddesses Deon Turner

Chichen Itza Taylor Moore

hammdramm Th3S@nwhitchMann Haley Dixon

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Locks and Keys Charles P. Reeve Students walk past the fountain as sheets of water burst into drops and drown out the sound of keys jangling in their pockets.

Silent and unseen, within each inner self reside keys that don’t jangle and aching locks hungry for keys that fit.

A fine joke Mother Nature has played: The keys I carry don’t fit my own locks— they fit locks inside him or her or you.

One of your keys might fit one of my locks, or maybe not. How do I know unless I step into your world and you open up to receive me?

Wouldn’t it be grand if we knew who held the keys to our locks so we could ask them to free the secrets within us—the gifts, the joys, the love?

Is there a golden treasure map to lead me to that aching lock inside some stranger— a lock that only one of my keys will fit?

Ah, the complex mysteries of life, the game is ever on—the continual searching, the forever trying of keys and locks—the eternal trial and error.

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Addictive Memories Vidal Corona Gonzalez I’m shooting your memories up my brain like heroin inside my veins The only problem was your memories did more damage that caused me pain No matter what I did, I could never suffice what you need Now I just lay here all alone watching myself bleed Was it worth it? All the shit I did for you?

Cut me open to my bones; goddamn I wish this wasn’t true The countless nights I stayed awake waiting for your call Who would’ve guessed I’d be the only one to fall?

This isn’t fair. It never was. It never will be Both eyes open and I still couldn’t see You were the toxin in my veins that I just couldn’t resist The more of you I took, the less of me that did exist I lost myself, lost my friends, lost everything I had Gave so much of me that didn’t exist I’m so shocked I made it last I never was good enough, that I can finally admit All the bullshit you said yet I still couldn’t quit I had hope; I had faith that everything would be okay So blinded by you that I listened to every word you had to say In the end it was all a lie; that I can’t deny You left, took all of me and left me there to die

Food Baby Paige Randall Singer

“Why’d you let me eat that?” Alice yelled, half-joking, half-serious, at her husband Mark as she took a sip from her glass of Chardonnay while patting her barely bloated stomach. It was always a toss-up between that joke and ‘look at my insert-food-item-here baby’ joke every night after they and their two children finished dinner.

Their two kids always liked the food baby trope better, and their seven year old son would join in and exclaim, ‘I have a food baby too!’

Mark rolled his eyes in response and chuckled as an afterthought. He’d been hearing Alice’s same jokes since high school, and they had lost their humor. He cleared the dishes as the children scattered up the stairs and Alice went to draw a bath for herself.

When Alice got out of the bath, she stood in front of her mirror with her bedroom door cracked, examining her food baby. It was a joke she’d been making her whole life, and it was a joke her mother made before her; but it wasn’t really a joke. She made the joke to make light of what she considered insecurities, but may or may not have been more than that. Pinching what she perceived to be fat but was really skin, she sighed, “I need to go on a diet tomorrow.”

All the while, her ten-year-old daughter, Mia, sat on the floor peeking through the crack in the door. She idolized her mother. To her, her mother was the most beautiful women in the world with her strawberry blonde hair that always fell on her frail figure in the most graceful way. *** It was the week before the first big dance at Mia’s school.

She was in eighth grade now, so she was a three whole years older, and in her own opinion, a three whole years wiser as well. She had never been to a school dance before, so this was a big deal, right? That’s what all the movies Mia had seen told her. She grew up watching romantic comedies with her mom, and she was too young to understand that life wasn’t always like the movies. While she expected her crush to ask her to the dance in a big way, in actuality, he had already asked the girl he sat next to in Latin class.

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Mia’s best friend broke the news to her on the bus ride home. Her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach. She had been so sure that he was going to ask her. He had smiled at her in art class just the day before. How had she read the signs so wrong? She choked back tears and tried to shrug it off to her best friend like it wasn’t a big deal.

She didn’t really want to go with him anyway. Or at least that’s what she told her friend, but she wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince her friend or convince herself. It was the first time in her thirteen years of life that she’d felt this kind of disappointment, although she equated it to heartbreak.

When Mia stepped off the bus and got into her mom’s parked car, Alice could immediately tell something was up. “What’s wrong?” she asked her daughter, genuinely concerned.

The second her mom asked her what was wrong, Mia couldn’t hold it any longer. Hot tears started streaming down her cheeks. Somewhat inaudibly through her cries she explained to her mother, “Ben…. asked…. Lydia…. to the homecoming…. dance. And I thought he was going to ask me…”

“Oh, Mia, it’s okay.” Alice paused. “Maybe you should start wearing a little makeup,” she offered. “You know, you could go on a diet too. You just should start caring about your appearance a little more.”

They were silent for their drive down the street to their house. When they got home, Mia made her way up to her bedroom. She stood in the mirror and pinched what her mother must have perceived to be fat on her. The reflection she saw in the mirror confused her. She didn’t see someone who was fat; but she must be, right? Because if she wasn’t fat, why would her mom suggest a diet? So, in that moment, she decided she was fat and her first diet would start tomorrow.

The next day, Alice looked on proudly as Mia counted the allotted amount of wheat thins she could eat with her lunch.

Sloppy Seconds Eternally Edward Gonzalez

Death cuddles lovers.

She waits until life is done.

Luckily, life cums fast  

Taste

Isabel Martinez

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Introspective Samantha Palker

“It’s only awkward if you make it that way” My feelings are a burden that no one should have to bear “How do you expect anyone to love you if you don’t love yourself first” I am worthless and should get used to being alone “I can’t imagine you getting married” Happiness is for other people “Just be careful” I’m stupid “Don’t” Won’t Every time I’m shown the slightest attention I go in with my whole heart. It’s a good way to get disappointed. It’s no way to live a life.

Still I see myself in the poem I think maybe this time I must be worth something How will I know happiness?

“You’ll feel different” I guess

Free Speech

Danielle Ann Verwers Heavy with pocket change can you spare fifty cents to dissent or will you sit in silence the jingle of words unspoken for court costs and lawyer fees to charge Socrates with blasphemy?

Will this be cash or credit?

How will you pay your bill when all the words are taxed?

TOUCH Isabel Martinez It’s 1am, just laying in bed.

Reminiscing about the feelings I get when I’m with you.

The sweet comfort I get from simply holding your hand.

But that hand travels, to wherever your mind wanders to.

When I’m not with you I’m not happy, when I’m with you I’m not sad.

There I lay asking myself, am I in love with him, or just his touch?

She is...

Lisa Rosemond She will hit you like a gust of wind, engulf you completely like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s day.

She will whisper sweet nothings in your ear, drawing you in with every word she says, creating the feeling of safety and security.

She feeds off you, captivated by the energy and feeling that she drains from you.

She isolates you, to the point where you believe that she is your only friend in the whole world.

To the whole world she is nothing more than an enigma but to you, she is an all mighty being.

To you she is soul consuming and thought provoking.

She is…depression.

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Window to Heaven Antauwn Wade

Daydream: The Forest Madeline Piper Riggins The sky is black as pitch and the birds are singing. You’re in a forest, the trees as tall and thick as skyscrapers, their branches whispering in the breeze. Raccoons and rabbits and mice and squirrels scamper in and out of the trees, dashing across your feet, chattering excitedly. In front of you is a monster.

It could have been a buck, once. Or perhaps it never was.

It could be as far from being a buck as anything is, but could also be nothing but. Its hooves are human hands, rough and callused, eight-fingered and muddy. Its fur is patchy, breaking in spots of bright, fleshy goo. Its whole form is shifting, morphing, bleeding. You find it difficult to focus.

It asks you if you are lost, and its mouth is a cavern of yellowed fangs and human molars, its tongue blue and iridescent like oil. You do not answer, and think of all the places you’d rather be, like at the bottom of a ditch.

It asks you again, and it is at this moment that you realize the birds have stopped singing, and the raccoons and rabbits and mice and squirrels have been frozen in place.

A rabbit is suspended in air, mid-jump, just over your left foot.

Something allows you to speak, and you lie and say that you are not lost, and are just on a stroll, and would like to be alone.

The monster’s eyes are darting, jumping, rolling; all seven of them a pale blue, glowing like moonlight.

The monster lets out a heavy sigh, and the stench of rotten flesh burns your nostrils. It says that it is glad, because it has been lost for the past hour, and even though you would like to be alone, would you mind showing it the way out? or point it in the right direction, perhaps?

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40 You freeze. You were not prepared for this. You are the most directionally challenged person this creature could have come across. You point to the left and say that you came from there, and if it walked far enough, it would come to the outskirts of a village.

The monster bows, and its antlers are heavy with windchime-like bones and moss. It thanks you, and walks away.

It does not leave footsteps.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, the forests breathes again. The birds sing. The raccoons and rabbits and mice and squirrels run away. Your heart thuds in your chest so strongly, you can feel it in the roots of your teeth.

The embarrassment of nearly getting caught in a lie was the scariest part of that encounter.

Painting

Macie Grantham

Floppy Ears Sam Johnson

Refreshment Haley Dixon

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Normal

Ceciliana Marlana Maddox Normal, human interaction feels so odd and uncomfortable to me.

A professor stops to talk to me about the book I’m reading- I act normal but my heart races like I’m acting in a play and it’s opening night, but I’m shaky on my scene 1 lines.

I see an old acquaintance on campus, a reminder of a me that I was before this was me- the discomfort is paramount, but when they wave and try to speak, it escalates.

I am irate in my mind but I stay physically calm enough to turn up my nose to them without causing a scene.

Their confusion is unquestionable, replaced soon after by distress and I pray that they don’t press me because I know deep down, I will choose saving face over the looming cognitive dissonance they bring.

I want to ask a friend to coffee- I sit on my hands for days and play the possibilities in my head like a movie I’ve never seen and yet somehow memorized.

I type 3 different messages- erase, type, erase, type, erase, type.

Finally, I send the message. the interaction is normal but now I have to spend time with one person for an hour, maybe 2, and what if they don’t care for what I have to say.

I replay the scenes in my head, from the unpublished great works of my life- the series on ending friendships, the volume in which I finally lose them all.

I call another friend and she reminds me I’m ridiculous and I watch the way she moves, loves, exists with ease.

Can we please have a month-long session, can you give me a lesson on how to be a normal human being?

Paper Skin Allie Pizzemento

you whisper quietly “it’s okay, little one It’s all inside your head” but don’t you see that is exactly what terrifies me “All that thinking Must be exhausting For your little Girl Brain” And you lock me away Keep my cries muffled by prison walls I plead “Why do you do this?”

And you say “Because, little girl” And you don’t say “Because children should be seen Not heard” Like an ancestral estate Throw my skeleton in the closet And cover up My crumbling walls In vain hope I stay together But what you ignore Is that I’m not a child I am not weak And I am not afraid

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I am stained yellowed wallpaper bloodied towels used and ruined you can find me creeping a snake below the sand an itch under your skin a watchful eye behind your back I will tear down My pretty wallpaper skin Peeling off layer after layer Tearing the yellowed sheets Out of a tired, old book Until everyone can see The spine underneath And finally It will be you Who is terrified Of me

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Jasmine DuBois Naomi Allen

Crossfire

Ceciliana Marlana Maddox We sit in the silence of our own discomfort, waiting for the end before anything even starts.

We have already wrapped ourselves in blankets made from resentment- a protective outer layer to prevent us from ever again having to feel the sting of vivacity in each other’s presence.

We fear the luminosity we used to bring. It seems like a mirage in a desert land, where we are thirsting for some semblance of euphoria.

Our coup de grâce was a shot heard round the world.

All of our friends looked up in alarm, just in time to see our mountain disintegrate.

They watched it crumble under the weight of all the past wrongs I have carried in my arms for so long. I was just. so. tired.

All this time, this year gone by, I have felt every emotion toward you and still I have not figured it out.

I wept in sadness, anger, resentment, fear, confusion- all in the wake of a mess I know I made.

I shattered our stained-glass windows when all I wanted to do was burn down the crypt where my lifetime of heartbreak is housed.

You got caught in the crossfire somehow

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A Conversation with an Opossum Nesting in the School’s Trash Bin Danielle Ann Verwers

A schoolyard is no place for a day sleeper, a dream creeper. Once human hand met rolling land, order changed.

So empires threaten and invade your habitat, I’ll give you that, be civil though, vacate. Take some trail of tears. Leave us alone here you go on now to a peaceful place away where we send all our wild reservations while westward, destined to expand our hungry lungs fill and collapse this stake, this land now claimed.

Possum playing frightens children and you are no equal match for me, please.

Foes have gone extinct, yet I remain.

Shall we reason or has it come to this?

Dauntless, unafraid I will shake a stick and pry and poke ‘til you are woke and gone.

Glare at me, I dare you, creature of night I come in peace, but I will fight. Surely you know a school bin is not your den.

Here’s a tip, Jack, I will tip you, I give you a tip to move. All are welcome but you dear. Not now, not here. Scurry off.

The Cat’s Meow Sheena Stanley

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Up and Out Tres Taylor

Nighttime Haunt Samantha Palker

Walking back from the meeting After seeing old friends And nearly having a heart attack And are they really friends Or have I deluded myself Or is it just because it’s dark My mind floats off into space The scooter shouts its message to the world “poor Ghost is going to be late for class” “How will it pass?”

“There goes its hope for gainful employment” Are all of us the ghost?

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Energy

Tres Taylor

First Snow Jenna Grover

Daydream: The Library Madeline Piper Riggins

It’s early morning and you’re in an old library. You’re too warm, and your movements are sluggish, and your head feels as if its floating from your body by a wire. Your eyes burn when you blink.

The bookshelves tower and curve over you, breathing down your neck, but you don’t mind. Your shoes clack on the wooden floorboards, and the air is musty with dust and old candle wax. Somebody, from somewhere in the many aisles, is humming a little tune. You didn’t realize anyone else was here.

The bookcases are stuffed with books like adult teeth crammed in a child’s mouth. Titles like “Toadstools and Toenails” and “50 Ways To Grow A Herb Garden In Your Sock Drawer” and “Casting Out Angelic Disturbances For Dummies” and “Tooth fairies, Garden Gnomes, Elves, And Other Rodents.”

Many others are in languages you haven’t seen before, or contain nothing but reflected pages, or howl when opened.

One book in particular is pulsing like a heartbeat. A librarian wheels a cart by.

“Excuse me,” you whisper, not looking at her face, or lack thereof. “Do you know where the cookbooks are?”

“Three shelves behind you,” she answers, and you realize she’s carting books covered in rotten plants and carnivorous flowers, gnawing and snapping at the air.

You thank her and head backwards. You see books on poisonous mushroom soups (and how to get away with it), seafood for selkies, bone marrow cake for the dieting vampire, raw meats and pesticides for imps. You find a book titled “Food Poisoning: Surprise Your Neighbors With Slow-Onset Intestinal Cramping And Other Fun Party Dishes,” and another one called “Feeling Sick? Safely Induce A Coma Until It Passes.”

You check out the books and head upstairs, to the main entrance. The halls are so silent you can hear your own lungs expanding, and the librarians are huddling in circles, their hair floating in the air as if they were underwater. You leave.

The door eases shut, and the small shack you just left is cold and silent. The pathway in the forest is mottled with pools of light filtering through the tree branches. You hug the books to your chest and head home.

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Flawed Masculinity Deon Turner

Getting There Connie Shealy

He stood there. He could see himself and his surroundings as if he was having an out-of-body experience. His hair was no longer the tar-black it had been. The same tar-black he had lived with for sixteen years. It was now white. It made fresh snowfall look dull in comparison. He watched his hair float around in all directions. He looked just like his dad now. His ice-blue eyes perfectly matched his father’s, and now they both shared the same hair color. It felt weird looking so much like his old man, but only for a second.

He looked out in awe as he stood at the beginning of a dull earthy grey path suspended in a world he had never seen before. A world that surely wasn’t his own.

The sky was a swirl of dark azure, lilac, and magenta. He could see comets with tails of fire flying underneath him. Small asteroids were circling in and out of view. They had no direct path and nowhere to go. Stars were being born and dying all around him.

These objects were his only source of light; but they were so many, and so bright, that he didn’t need any other source of illumination. The twinkling cycle of creation and destruction was enough for him to clearly see miles ahead.

It was what was ahead of him that caused the most curious fixation. There was a path of stones that ascended to a house. It was made of the same dull grey stuff that he was standing on. All of the stones were suspended in the space around him. He could tell the stones were no wider than six feet, but the gaps between them looked almost miles apart from one another. Each stone rose a few feet upwards.

Probably no more than three feet.

But at the end, he could see a house. It was so far away it looked like the tip of a pen, yet he could clearly see it. A gold house at the very end of the path; it shone brighter than all the stars combined.

It was this house that caused the most fascination to

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arise within him. He felt a surge of energy he had never felt before. There was enough adrenaline coursing through his veins, running through his body, so that he felt he could stop a train in its tracks with a single punch. His heart was faster racing than any train, any vehicle. But that didn’t matter to him. Nothing mattered except for one thing.

He needed to get to that gold house. He had to get there. No matter what. It was calling to him, telling him to make the journey up the path. The voice of the house was filling his head and the space around him in a soft whisper telling him just one thing. Jump.

He didn’t know why he needed to take on this journey or why he felt so compelled to do so.

He had no idea what or who would be waiting for him at the end of the path in that gold house. But he knew one thing.

He had to get to that house.

He clenched his fist as tight as he possibly could without breaking his fingers. Bent his knees ever so slightly. Took a deep breath in and let out a long exhale of determination. Then took off in a dash towards the edge of the stone.

Just as he got to the edge, he used all his force and momentum to jump towards the next stone. He reached out, waving his arms uncontrollably around him as if this would help him grasp the edge of the stone.

The house saw him and his attempt to reach it. But it also saw he was not ready to make it up the path. There was still too much he needed to learn before reaching the top. “Not ready,” filled Ransom’s ears. It seemed that all time had stopped as he heard these words. And then…

He fell.

Christmas Cow Danielle Ann Verwers

- for my farmer friends

So the heifer died survived by her calf after a cutting delivery A scalpel sliced an open hole stitches could not fix and Abagail, a living witness.

Happened down a gravel road chickens clucked in frozen fair fields the calf was dropper fed by the king size bed inside the bedroom nearly every hour. The vet said it was touch and go.

Nearly Christmas time this orphan calf alone save the tired hands of Christ; she stayed up all night,

tending earth— a full-time job.

Christmas morn broke faithful and by some seasonal grace the calf took root, took the bottle supped warm milk of the word.

Outside, the ground still cold. Snow and blood began to thaw in daybreak.

Christmas! Son and Mary looked down upon the motherless. Mercy extended and from behind came a low bellow like mourning, perhaps, if heaven permitted tears

long guttural groans alone allowed.

Eyes upward on chatoyant skies Abagail prayed for stubborn Mother Earth to thaw hand and heart once more this heavy farm-dream taking more than it gave for the present now the culled herd from life birth on shifting sand, blood-red clay, hoof upon hoof she cried at dinner time, I swallowed Abagail’s embrace. Oh Christmas Day! Premature, she left to feed the hungry orphan

calf alone on the farm.

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Perfection

Kayley Anne Ayer Painted faces Sketched expressions We seem to care Too much for first impressions Pretty picture Perfect poses Like an antique vase Of delicate red roses Vanity mirror Spotless glass Perfect is what we strive to be But perfection doesn’t last.

Growing up Getting older Our smiles get warmer While our hearts get colder Human being Beautiful life We break trying to bend And forget that we are alive Perfect puzzle Mismatched pieces Our search for perfection Never ceases Heartless creature Blind eye You’re hurting others Do you even know why?

Weak flame Broken heart We have to fix what we’ve become But where do we even start?

Framed Vision Deon Turner

Consequences Deon Turner

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Diner Meal Naomi Allen

Tulip Garden Houston Louis Keenan

Mickey’s 90th Birthday

Jenna Sawyer

Gate by the Blue Haley Dixon

Hailey Eyes Caitlyn Shirey

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Music Submissions Memories State of Clarity

Crimson Altar Albert Jackson

Lily of the Valley Mark Pelfrey

Video Submission “Drunk History Parody: How Hitler Killed Art” Bailey Mullins

Check out our Youtube Page for this year’s submission, and the previous video submissions!

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Vol. 52

Ink Splat Award 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 the award through blind review. This year, our judge was Professor Joseph Kameen, a distinguished professor at USCA. This years’s award winners are:

Diner de Cheveux Melo Dekelsa

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Framed Vision Deon Turner

The Cat’s Meow

Sheena Stanley

Miami Nights Deon Turner

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 by a special committee to determine which works are eligible for this additional recognition. It is the intention of the committee to award prizes each year in poetry and prose.

Each winner is acknowledged in the magazine and receives a cash award.

This years’s top place winner is:

“A Place to Bring You Back” Allie Pizzemento

To read this work in its entirety, please follow the link attached to the QR code.

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The bell jingled in greeting above our heads when my aunt pushed open the door. The seal against the outside was broken and hot air blasted against us. The air was scented by the countless confections being made, and for a moment I felt as though I was stepping back in time.

Straight off the boat from Naples, Italy, John Mainella opened a bakery in 1957. Rapidly, Bella Napoli became a Sunday staple for the Italian community of Albany, New York. Patrons flocked to the store from every corner of the upstate to get a taste.

My family had been regulars for the 10 years I had been alive, and then some. If my relatives couldn’t make the baked goods themselves, they picked it up from Bella Napoli. Like their slogan says, “Selection to bring you in, taste to bring you back”.

That Sunday, my aunt and I had come to pick up some bread and sweets for tonight’s Christmas Eve dinner. She firmly believed that a family dinner called for the best bread money could buy, and the best bread came from Bella Napoli’s ovens. And we had to be there by 6:30 a.m., before the best of the best loaves were gone.

It was an Italian grandmother’s Thunderdome.

Dozens of women were crammed into the 20 foot by 20-foot space, all vying to get closer to the glass display cases. They shouted at one another and spit while they did it. Like bulls, they forced themselves past anything, or anyone, in their way. There was nothing, and I mean nothing, that could stop an Italian woman from getting bread for her family.

The large cases, stuffed with treats and draped with garland, stood like sentinels against three walls, protecting the employees from the horde. Shelves loaded with bread of every shape and size covered...

Washington Group Other Awards Prose 1) A Place to Bring You Back Allie Pizzemento (Pg. 67)

2) Getting There -

Connie Shealy (Pg. 53)

3) Reuel Goes Home

Gillian Nicole Kieffer (Pg. 11)

Poetry 1.) Christmas Cow Danielle Ann Verwers (Pg. 55)

2) Conversation with a Opossum Nesting in the School’s Trash Bin Danielle Ann Verwers (Pg. 46)

3) Silly Superstitions Series No. 7 Edward Gonzalez(Pg. 7)

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Roll Over Beethoven Award The Roll Over Beethoven Award 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 our music editor, Abbey Vincent. This year’s award goes to Mark Pelfrey.

Lily of the Valley Mark Pelfrey

Support From Our Local Community Thank You:

116 Pendleton St SW Suite Aiken, SC 29801 A non-alcoholic cafe & lounge in downtown Aiken. A place where you can have amazing coffee, teas, smoothies, and snacks.

Relax, do homework, study (quiet room available), read, watch movies, play games (board, TCG, LAN) or just hang out