Broken Ink Vol. 50 by BrokenInkUSCA

ROKEN

Literary and Visual Arts Journal

vol. 50 2018

From the editor

In my four years at the University of South Carolina Aiken I have never felt more at home than with my Broken Ink family. Therefore, I think it of the utmost importance to firstly thank the editors and staff of Broken Ink for working diligently to construct this publication. A special thank you goes to my layout editor, Haley Dixon, who had to deal with my eccentric decision-making skills and provided a voice of reason when I wanted to make everything pink. Of course, this publication would never have been made possible without USC Aiken’s talented students. I am incredibly proud of this publication and everyone who made it possible. This year, our journal received well-over 200 remarkable submissions for our 50th volume. Indeed, it was a difficult task to decide which pieces would make an appearance in our journal. I want to take a moment to thank everyone who submitted this year – we at Broken Ink truly enjoyed reading, looking at, and listening to all of the pieces sent in. Broken Ink would also like to give a hearty thank you to Roy Seeger, who guided us on our journey to meet and exceed the expectations we set for ourselves. Additional thanks go to Bill Claxon, Becky Crawford, Jeremy Culler, Michael Fowler, Karl Fornes, Andrew Geyer, Mark Hollingsworth, Jeff Priest, Ahmed Samaha, Steven Sloan, Ginny Southworth, Ed Wilson, and Julie Wise; your support throughout this year has been phenomenal.

From the advisor

- Anna Norris

In the Fall of 1971, students at USC Aiken, through their love of literature and art, created Broken Ink. Although it is not quite 50 years old, we have reached a landmark 50 volumes of creative works. It has gone through many editors and advisors through those years, but it has always been a creative outlet for the students of USC Aiken. However, it is more than that. Broken Ink gathers together a community of artists in both the creation of this journal in your hands, but also in the community of voices we have the honor of sharing with you. And we do what artists do best—we create. Although I have only been the faculty advisor for just over two years, I am honored to have worked with this fine staff who is dedicated to presenting the creative works in their best light. It is hard, but important work. -Roy Seeger The 2018 issue of Broken Ink was created using Adobe InDesign CC, Adobe Illustrator CC, and Adobe Photoshop CC. We would also like to thank the creators of the Bolina, Dream Orphans, OldStyle 1, Helvetica, and Edwardian Script ITC fonts for letting us use them, free of charge. ©2018 Broken Ink and contributing artists. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States.

Staff

Anna Norris

Isabel Martinez

Haley Dixon

Bonnie Watson

Jennifer Nichols

Dasha Rivers

Editor-in-Chief Layout Editor

Literary Arts Editor

Staff Staff Staff

Anniebelle Quattlebaum Visual Arts Editor

Ethan Ellis Music Editor

About us

Roy Seeger

Faculty Advisor

Broken Ink is produced yearly by a staff of USC Aiken students. The journal accepts and reviews student-created visual, literary, and audio submissions. We compile the best, based on our review process, into one journal. All students are eligible to join 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 email your questions to brokeninkusca@ gmail.com.

Mission

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.

Review process

All submissions are reviewed blindly and rated on a scale of one to five, with five being highest, by volunteers and staff. In order to supply an accurate and objective representation of USC Aiken’s artistic community, we ask all panelists to 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 occasionally 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.

Contents 6-7

Awards Literary and visual pieces

8-72

Audio pieces

Video pieces

Recognition of past editors and advisors

Featured artists Visual

Poetry

Prose

Abshire, Lizzie Caught in the Act Pause of a Moth

Audio

Video

57 70

Anthony, Regan Eye In The Darkness

Brennan, John Too Soon

Burns, Matti Dreaming With Eyes Wide Open

Bush, Victoria What Is A Soul

Chosen I Apologize

Corder, David B. Mr. Crumble

Shoes Full of Sand

Breakfast

Splash

Dakin, Liam Wild Turkeys The Escape Dirks, Jennifer Rock Tortoise Seagull Sunset

44 59 11 49

Dixon, Haley Journal Cover Window Freshwater Feeding

30 74

Ellinger, Maisy Yellow Towel

Ellis, Ethan (with Anniebelle Quattlebaum) Watch My Line

Farrell, Shannon Radiance

Henderson, Jordan Sea Shanty

Little Lighters (three variants)

Hetzler, Kaelen Feel

Hightower, Tequila Nobody Too

Suicide Circle

Holland, Isabelle Fast Lane

Jameson, Hannah It Goes Down

Jones, Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Yante The Weekend

Contents Visual

Poetry

Prose

Martinez, Isabel Disneyland

Audio

Video

Love Wins

Flower Girl

Melvin, Aubry I’m Laven Der Weather This Summer

Miller, Drake NOMADIC

Mitton, Parker The Barrachs of Dachau

Parking in Jackson Hole

Work, Power, Freedom

Nemo Beetlebum

Hollow Man

Urge

Kink

Nichols, Jennifer Happy Little Mountains

Norris, Anna Kay Die Altenberg

A Poem is

Pelfrey, Mark The Real Thing

She’s Not That Into You Pizzemento, Allie Wolf

73 27

Provost, Machi First One for Fun

Quattlebaum, Anniebelle Drip

I Pooped in Your Shoe

Forest Stroll

Tyrone E. Saurus-Rexâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Great Writing Adventure

Randall, Jacob Teenage Boardom

Robins, Tory Liberation

Light Years

Rebel

Shakal, Emily The Lemonade Stand Save the Planet

8 25

Smith, Jeremy Creation No. 1

Smith, Marlayne Peacock

A Lovely Death of the Lovely Dandy

Vigoya, Samantha Samantha

Vincent, Abbey Bug-Eyed Goldfish

Wayne, Selin Vanilla Chai Baby

Awards

Washington W G Group Award

In 2004, Washington Group International established an endowment fund to be managed by the USC Aiken English Department for the purpose of recognizing exemplary student work in creative writing. To that end, all submissions accepted by the student staff each year for publication in Broken Ink are reviewed anonymously by a special committee to see if any meet the qualifications for this additional recognition. This year, the committee consists of Dr. Bill Claxon, Professor Karl Fornes, and Dr. Andrew Geyer. It is the intention of the committee to award prizes each spring in poetry and fiction; each prize is acknowledged in the magazine and accompanied by a cash award. This year, the awards go to:

Prose

Poetry

1 2 nd 3 rd st

Breakfast

David B. Corder

Suicide Circle

Tequila Hightower

Shoes Full of Sand David B. Corder

Wild Turkeys

Liam Dakin

Splash

David B. Corder

Wolf

Allie Pizzemento

50 32 18

44 71 27

I Ink Splat Award S

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

1st

Liberation

Tory Robins

2 nd

Yellow Towel

Maisy Ellinger

3 rd

Pause of a Moth Lizzie Abshire

Rollover R Beethoven Award B

Generously sponsored by an anonymous donor in tribute to the Joesph T. and Mary H. Usher Music Program Endowment, the Rollover Beethoven Award is given to an original student audio piece that displays meritorious quality. The winner was selected through a blind review by Professor Steve Sloan. This yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s award goes to:

Creation No. 1

Jeremy Smith

The Lemonade Stand Emily Shakal

“Nope! You don’t get it!” The little girl giggled as she brought a dirtcovered hand to her forehead to brush disarrayed bangs out of her eyes. She giggled again and began to dance in a circle before him, displaying her ratty dress and bare feet for all to see. “I’m as rich as rich can be!” The man furrowed one brow and raised the other as he slowly retracted his $10 bill, half expecting her to change her mind. He considered extending the offer again, or at least offering some food, but she continued to dance her little way behind the table crudely labeled “Lemonade stand,” written in thick, black ink on a half-crumpled sheet of newspaper. There was no lemonade. There wasn’t even a pitcher. He had told her he just wanted to give a gift, no lemonade required. And this was her response. He opened his mouth to speak again, but before he had even decided what he was going to say, she smiled up at him and started back into her sing-song. He wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or annoyed. Neither emotion seemed a worthwhile prospect. He shrugged and continued on his way to work. His office was on the 5th floor of an adjacent building directly overlooking that corner. If he decided to concern himself with it, he figured, he could at least monitor it from above. Many times throughout the day he felt compelled to turn his back to the computer at his desk, away from undreamably dull Excel spreadsheets to observe her. He did so observe her often, sometimes for as much as five minutes at a time. His intern brought him coffee which he sipped thoughtfully, considering that he finally had a beverage in hand while she remained on the streets running her lemonade stand which contained no lemonade. What was she doing it for? What was she gaining? As the day dragged along, he looked out the window more and more infrequently, and not because she wasn’t there. She was always there, every time he risked a glance, and each time he grew more and more uncomfortable, even irritable. His spreadsheets all began to blur together, words and numbers losing all meaning. Prada - $100,000. Coach $50,000. Bus-stop poster. Cosmopolitan magazine spread. Channel 12 commercial. The short-haired blonde model. The brainy brunette with glasses and a bun. He was probably just thirsty. If that little girl had actually given him lemonade, he probably wouldn’t be in this position, he reasoned. When the intern stopped by and offered a coffee refill, he just said, “I could really go for some lemonade. I saw a lemonade stand outside. Go get me

some, would you?” He threw the same $10 bill across his desk. “And ask her what her name is.” The intern cautiously took the bill asking what change he expected back. He could only shrug in response. The intern left. Once again alone in his office, he peered out the window, evaluating the little detail he could see from five stories up. “Yep, she’s dancing again. No lemonade.” The intern re-emerged about fifteen minutes later with a cup of lemonade. “Where did you get that?” “The bakery down the street.” “Oh,” he offered, visibly disappointed, before continuing nonchalantly, “Did you happen to walk past that lemonade stand on the corner? I wouldn’t have minded supporting some kid’s stand.” He turned back to the window. “Yeah... She didn’t have any lemonade. She just danced around saying she was rich. So I went to the store instead. Here’s your change.” The man didn’t even glance back from the window as the intern dropped some bills and change on the man’s desk. After a pause he turned to regard the intern. “And her name?” “Amber.” The intern shrugged as he turned on his heel and disappeared, probably to go suck up to some other executive, he mused. As the work day finally ended, he packed up his briefcase with a set face. “I’m going to go down there to Amber and ask her what her business was, trying to lure people into buying something she didn’t have to give. Utter nonsense, dancing around like that and keeping people from living their lives.” He saved his spreadsheets and shut down the computer. The whole elevator ride down he prepared a speech, trying to determine the best way to teach a kid in kid terms about what is and isn’t appropriate in the business world and how she won’t get a leg up if she doesn’t help herself by fulfilling her customer’s expectations. As he stepped out of the sliding glass door onto the sidewalk across from the so-called lemonade stand, he stopped short. A young couple that was suitably, normally (albeit not finely) dressed stooped over to fold up the legs of the lemonade stand table. The man then kissed the little girl on her head before loading the now-compacted table into his car. The woman took the little girl’s hand, who was now skipping and appeared to be chattering excitedly. And just like that, this little girl Amber, who had so intruded upon his day was gone. They loaded up the car and drove away, never to be seen again. Every day, he returned to the office. For months he occasionally looked back to the street corner to see if she had returned to set up

shop. Nothing. At least he could be more productive now. He never even liked lemonade that much. Months passed. God knows spreadsheets passed. And finally â&#x20AC;&#x201C; another promotion. He was big-time now. He moved his items, boxes at a time to his new office, which overlooked the opposite street on the far side of the building. He finally settled into his new home away from home. The last thing he did was place his name plate, prominently displaying his new title, on his office suiteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s door. He shut it and admired his new view from the window. It was a nice view. A new street corner. Maybe finally he could get, oh, what was her name? out of his mind.

Rock Tortoise Jennifer Dirks A beautiful picture of boulders inspired me to do this piece. The way the rocks stood there made me think of a giant rock creature. As I was sketching, the piece fell into the shape of a tortoise and I fell in love.

Yellow Towel

2 nd Maisy Ellinger

Disneyland Isabel Martinez

Mr. Crumble David B. Corder Mr. Crumble, the goblin lad Is rowing across the pond Standing with spidery legs in his boat The copper buttons gleaming on his coat His green, pointed ears are perky today A broad grin across his leathery face The swans and ducks giving him greetings as they pass That most delightful, happy goblin lad His boat slides over the water smooth as glass Sparkling with diamond light in the sun He makes small splashes in the water with his staff Humming on his well-made goblin raft Mr. Crumble thinks of what to have for lunch As his tummy grumbles, groans, and yawns A slice of meat pie? he thinks. Tasty crumpets with strawberry jam? Or perhaps today he will settle for eggs and ham. For now Mr. Crumble hums, passing lily pads and dragonflies Spring around him like a blanket of warmth He makes his way towards shore, to his homey shack That most intriguing, adoring goblin lad.

This poem was, of all things, inspired by a photo on Pinterest. Goblins get such a bad rap from The Lord of the Rings and Dungeons and Dragons. In some cases, goblins are just simple people who enjoy spring days and eggs and ham.

Anniebelle Quattlebaum

Drip

Nobody Too

Tequila Hightower

Fool! I ain’t nobody, and I ain’t gonna be Nobody with you.

This is an ekphrastic poem to Emily Dickinson’s “I’m Nobody! Who are you?”

The Barrachs of Dachau

Parker Mitton 17

Shoes Full of Sand

3 rd

David B. Corder

When it rained, the playground looked like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. About the length of a football field and stretching from the parking lot to the high school softball diamond, the playground was crowded with giant monuments erected out of the hardened, wet sand: jungle gyms, slides, swing sets. A lion’s head that spouted water from its mouth into little kids’ mouths stood gaping at the sky, rain-drop tears spilling from its chipped, vacant eyes. Swings dangled over murky puddles from broken chains. The jungle gyms had their share of rust. You’d think that kids didn’t play here anymore. But they did. Just because something was broken didn’t mean it wasn’t playable. When the clouds evaporated, and after lunch had been devoured, the doors would burst and kids flooded out. They climbed on the lion’s head as if it were a mount to ride into battle. They swung from the broken swings like lemurs. Rust flaked like dirty snow off the jungle gyms as tennis shoes scampered up their bars. August through September, March through the end of May: the days of hot metal, thirsty mouths, sweaty brows, squinting eyes. Everything became smoldering pokers and branded kids all over their small bodies: shins, thighs, elbows, knees, fingers, calves, arms, shoulders. The monkey bars blistered my palms, my shins were branded by the hot metal of the Turtle Shell, and the tongues of hot sun rays deep fried my skin. There was only one tree in the Sahara of scalding metal and dust, a spindly dogwood with wimpy leaves. Lush trees that thickened into a forest shadowed the edge of the playground, but kids couldn’t touch them. The fence barred them from the woods, the shade, the cool. Depending on the time of day, though, the darkness would inch its way under the fence and touch the playground. A kid could find sanctuary under the protection of the branches. It was in this way that the bad kids who had to stand against the fence during recess were the lucky ones. They were safe while the ones who got to play suffered in the hot sun. They could sense the grandeur of the endless sea of trees at their backs and sometimes they peeked through the holes of the fence to see if they could spot any squirrels or stray dogs that took on the guise of wolves in the gray shadows of the trees. Since us kids were barred from the oasis of shade like Adam and Eve

from Eden, we had to make do with slivers of protection provided by the undersides of slides. Kids liked to hang out under them, talking, playing rhyming games and clapping hands, while they were sheltered from the angry orb of fire. Under the Silver Slide my best friend, Joseph Staley, got married to Taylor Still. There were witnesses and someone threw a veil over their faces as they pecked each other on the lips. I watched from the jungle gym and seethed with jealousy because earlier that year Taylor had kissed me on the cheek. Why did she love Joseph now instead of me? Out of all the slides on the playground, the Silver Slide was the worst when it was hot. When the sun was blazing in an empty sky, kids could barely slide down it without burning their buns off. But it was also the fastest. Jeans were the best to wear when riding it because they increased your speed tenfold. Lay back, hold your arms to your chest, and let go. Shewm! Blast off into space like Sputnik. Then the kid would be flying as they came off, arms and legs momentarily splayed out and flailing. If the kid landed on their feet, they had skills. If they landed on their face they got covered in sand. I usually landed on my feet. Usually. Not as fast as the Silver Slide, but just as fun (and least likely to burn your bum), was the Tube Slide. Kids lined up and vanished one by one into its light blue maw and tumbled down in an S arc. As soon as they got down, they would circle back. The Tube Slide was the greatest piece of equipment to play pretend with. Some kids imagined that the tube was an evacuation shoot on a spaceship and that they had to get down the slide as fast as they could before they were obliterated in space. Since our mother was a school teacher, my brother Andy and I would have the rest of the playground to ourselves after 3 o’clock and the Tube Slide was always the play thing of choice. I’d grip the edge of the slide, screaming in terror because I knew that at the other end of the blue tube was an ocean of lava. Andy would struggle to pull me up, and sometimes he did, but nine times out of ten, I was too heavy, or our hands were too sweaty, and I would instead slide down the tube to my agonizing doom. Sometimes, Andy let me go on purpose just to be a little jerk. But we took turns, and when it turned out that I was the one holding him up, I was sure that I took my vengeance on him. Of course, there were other fun things to do aside from the slides. Kids scaled the top of the Turtle Shell or the Red Jungle Gym and shouted at the top of their lungs. If there was a decent swing available (which was seldom because they were coveted like gold) you could fly by having Darius Ephraim or one of the bigger kids push you with all their might (I didn’t stay on the swings for long because they tended to make me sick). There were foot races, Power Ranger battles, and the fourth graders played Yu-Gi-Oh! next to the parking lot, being careful that the teachers didn’t discover them and confiscate their trading cards. The merry-go-

round made kids nauseous, the world twisting into a wild blur of shades and hues as they spun round faster and faster. The gutsy kids sat on the bars and leaned out backwards as the merry-go-round spun violently like a star blasted out of orbit, their hands flailing. Others would do flips on the bars and that’s how Nijel cracked his skull and got three staples. Accidents occurred often on the playground. Nijel’s head busted open like a zit, kids scraped their knees bloody and raw, some dived off of the jungle gyms and landed straight on their heads like arrows, and fat kids got stuck in the tube slide. Cheeks wet with salty tears, ugly black and blue splotches, teachers hushing screaming kids and rushing them to the nurse’s office. Some hurts happened because of accidents. Others were intentional. Andy had his hand crushed by a Brandon Mitchell’s foot while they were climbing the jungle gym. Brandon didn’t apologize, so Andy yanked the kid off the jungle gym and kicked him in the ribs as hard as he could until a teacher dragged the young avenger away. When he was in third grade, Andy also chucked a rock at a sixth grader’s head because he had called our mom hot (Dad always said that my brother had a strong sense of justice). Detraivan, who possessed a wild demeanor and was labeled a troublemaker by his teachers, took his role as the dog of a play family too far and bit me on my rump (I can still remember my mom’s reaction. She yelled at my principal over the phone, “That boy bit my son on the ass!”). Then there was the fight between Joseph and me. He wanted Taylor to be his girlfriend and I wanted her to be my girlfriend, and basic physics dictate that when two six-year-old boys have a dispute, then blood must be spilled. The fight took place by the Turtle Shell and boys gathered around to spectate, egging me and Joseph on. I had never been in a fight before, and presumably never had Joseph, so instead of us landing punches on each other, we locked each other’s shoulders and proceeded to kick at one another. We both dodged each other’s strikes with ease and we moved as if we were performing an Irish jig; instead of seeing great combat the boys around us had been subjected to a dance recital. The show didn’t last too long. Mrs. Whittle sprinted from the other side of the playground and wrenched us apart. When she learned why we were fighting, she looked at me in disbelief. I guess she never expected me to do something so heinous. In any case, neither Joseph or myself got written up although I received a scolding from my dad later that was worse than any one that Mrs. Whittle or my principal could give me. He didn’t yell. He didn’t have to. The tone of his voice was enough to drive shame into my heart like a stake. “You don’t fight,” he said. The next day, I went up to Taylor on the swings. I asked her if either Joseph or I was good enough to be her boyfriend. “Let me check,” she said. She pulled out an imaginary laptop and

starting typing. She grinned at me. “My computer says that you are both good enough.” I told Joseph later and he nodded, smiling. “Alright, then.” We were friends again, and we both had the woman of our dreams. Taylor fell by the wayside and my romantic aspirations spread as I grew up through elementary school. Jo Rogers was a spunky redhead that I developed a crush on. One day after school, we stood on the merry-go-round and she told me that she wouldn’t love me until the birds sang. I didn’t know what that meant. In the middle of 5th grade, a dirty blonde haired girl named Hannah Metts from Florida popped into the library. She was talking to a girl and she mentioned that she liked magic tricks, and then and there, I decided that I liked her. I told this to a couple of kids, and a few days later as we lined up to come in from recess, our shoes buried halfway in sand, I heard her call my name. I turned around. She had a stern look on her face. “I don’t like you,” Hannah said. I shrugged and turned around, trying to play it off, but secretly I was heartbroken. The greatest of my romantic blunders took place with Taylor Chavis. Raven hair, dark eyes, the girl that every boy wanted. I went up to one of her friends while she was standing near the shade of the woods and passed her a note and asked her to give it to Taylor. Next thing I knew, on the last day of school, I had my own note saying that she liked me. That entire summer, my eyes were glazed with infatuation. That fall, she said that she didn’t like me anymore. To kids, twenty minutes on the playground can seem like a lifetime of freedom. Other times, they had been swinging but two minutes before the teacher started yelling for them to abandon their aspirations of flying. They had only swung halfway across the monkey bars, their feet dangling over the abyss filled with snakes and crocodiles, when they cringed at the teacher’s whistle summoning them back to the confines of the classroom. At least the classrooms were air conditioned and had chairs. Kids could sit down and cool off, their shoes and socks filled with sand, tiny grains wedged between their toes. For a minute or two before the teacher began droning on the life cycle of frogs, they could rest their sweaty brows on the cool wood of their desks. They could breathe easily, their mouths still wet from their quick trip to the water fountain. It was nice to have a break from playing, but it wouldn’t be far into the lesson before they started daydreaming about hanging upside down from the Turtle Shell, avoiding the singing heat of the lava pit, or having sparks fly from their butts as they shot down the Silver Slide. I love to write about kids and teens, and this piece is a collection of memories I have from when I was a child. The nostalgia that comes from seeing the playground you used to spend hours playing at is unparalleled.

Samantha Samantha Vigoya

Abbey Vincent

Bug-Eyed Goldfish

Sea Shanty Jordan Henderson Ol’e Beckett Brass, Ol’e Beckett Brass, took to the sea to find that lass. The nasty pirate queen with curled cutlass. She’ll take our ship with a cannon blast. I once saw the woman with her white hair aflutter. I knew I was dead unless I turned my rudder. She waved at me, her hands so old. That’s when I noticed, I was missing my gold. Ol’e Beckett Brass, Ol’e Beckett Brass, Look to the sea to find that lass. The nasty pirate queen with the curved cutlass She took our ship with a cannon blast.

Look at us, We used to be potters Our ship took a shortcut Through her waters She stuck quick Faster than a raptor Now part of her crew, We call her master. Ol’e Beckett Brass, Ol’e Beckett Brass, Look to the sea to find that lass The nasty pirate queen with the curved cutlass She took his ship with a cannon blast I once had a friend, A good Navy man. He tried to fight her Off the coastal land He tried to hit her flagship With a well-placed shell, If you want to hear about it, You will find him in Hell.

Save the Planet Emily Shakal “We have heard this stuff before,” the TV speaker squawked as the man on the screen brought his fist down onto the solid oak pulpit before him. “God did not make the world imperfectly. If God wanted to make us on Mars, He could have. But He didn’t because it was not according to his good and perfect plan. We already know that Global Warming is a myth crafted by the government. They are manipulating lost souls with groupthink and mind control. We already know that NASA is full of liars. Some people still talk like we’ve landed on the moon. You need to know the truth and it will not be found on Mars, the moon, in NASA, or in the government. It’s in this book.” He lifted up his Bible, frayed by overuse. Several post-its fluttered out of the pages to the floor below, as though they were suicidal butterflies trying to free themselves from tired church clichés. He droned on in the same undulating pattern of yelling in offense offset by sweet, urgent whispers of the Lord’s love. Jim finally tired of it and pressed the mute button. He leafed through the newspaper, amused that the cover of The Times looked nearly identical to the cover of the tabloids he wrote in his younger years. Conspiracy theory after conspiracy theory, page by page. “The President of the Swiss Confederation says ‘I told you so.’” read a headline on the third page, accompanied by a photo of a very smug Swiss official. “Damn.” Jim grumbled. “I guess no one can play neutral by claiming to be Switzerland now.” He crumpled the paper into a loose ball and stacked it on the styrofoam plate before him which still contained remnants of Eggo waffles, pierced by an erect plastic fork. He groaned as he stood to carry them to the trash bin. He lowered his foot to open the lid and paused for a moment as he held his plate over the opening. He thought to himself, “Maybe I should get a recycle bin.” He pondered it for a moment longer and glanced back toward the TV, slightly disappointed that the preacher who was now flailing about in a craze was still on mute. Jim chuckled wryly and said, “Nah, it’s not worth saving.” He shut the lid to the trash bin, and picked up his briefcase. It was time to go to work.

Wolf

3 rd Allie Pizzemento

I may be a dog With loyalty dripping From my bloodied fangs, But I promise you I am nobody’s bitch. There’s no muzzle, No leash, No cage, Strong enough To restrain my lupine soul. Man’s best friend Or his greatest terror, Never afraid To bite the hand That feeds me, I may come when you call. But “trained” is an illusion, “Good girl” just a fable Don’t think for one moment I follow the pack. I lead it.

Fast Lane Isabelle Holland 27

Happy Little Mountains

Jennifer Nichols

This is my take on Bob Rossâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s famous wet-on-wet oil painting technique.

Love Wins Isabel Martinez

Beetlebum Nemo I’m writing this because you like metaphors, and I like you like a warm gun. You kick my fix like skag in my wrist; it makes me numb. Tender was the night lying by your side, blurred when we sang ‘Here comes the sun’ In my dreams I kiss your cunt, Jai guru deva om

Window Haley Dixon During my study abroad for multimedia journalism, our first assignment was to take photos during a tour of the city. This picture was the overall favorite among the teachers and brought on the encouragement for me to focus more on photography. Without this picture of a random woman at a tourist spot, I would not have had the confidence to continue my study of photography or art in general.

Suicide Circle

2 nd Tequila Hightower

We’re drawing near an end to our game. By this time I have lost Aubrey as my ally because I called B.S. on her “four”—I had all the fours. She took the deck. B.S. is a ruthless game. Scandalous even. The rules of the game are blurry here in ChAd. For example, Ian ten feet away likes to hide his cards behind the chair he is straddling, which is not as effective a strategy as he thinks. He could slouch casually and hide them under the round table except that he’s forbidden from coming within ten feet of Aubrey and, as it follows, the round table. You see, there is no touching in ChAd. And especially no kissing. ChAd is the childhood and adolescent wing of the psych ward. I like to call it Chad, like a person, because it feels more homely and personable. It makes sense because you miss homes and people. Chad is the better of the facilities in the area. The nurses, the techs, and even the food are mostly pleasant. Even though it’s cold, carpet-less, and cruelly lit it has a homely air. It’s the people. Especially the patients.

There isn’t much different about us when we’ve all adorned those same cheap scrubs awaiting our civilian clothing—most of us don’t plan on being here so, naturally, we don’t plan ahead. Those scrubs, let me say, are not nipple-friendly and it would serve Chad well to invest in scrubs of a softer fabric. Anyway, the patients. We’re all nice kids and get along well. We bond over our shortcomings and misfortunes. Aubrey would be on top of the world if she had resisted social pressures skewed marginally toward eating disorders. She’s pretty, gentle, and not unintelligent. She’ll make one hell of a housewife when she grows up. She’s fifteen. Ian will probably be all-American when he gets out. He’s our pretty blonde-haired, blue-eyed white boy—anger and all. If his parents hadn’t swept his ADHD under the rug in elementary school Ian would already be all-American. He’s seventeen—all in good time, Ian. I am definitely cut from a different cloth than Aubrey and Ian, and if we had attended the same school I may not have known them, but they’re okay and they think I’m okay too. Dee is sitting next to me—we always sit next to each other. She is the only other black girl, so we have an inherent understanding. What Dee needed was guidance. She’ll never admit that she’s starving for guidance, and structure, and love, with the lack thereof resulting in her self-destructive lifestyle. In a couple months she’ll be eighteen, and that is really when her choices will hurt her. Then there’s Mike sitting on the other side of Dee. Mike is the gay white boy (there’s always a homosexual male in Chad). The gay guys don’t even have to

be here—that’s the tragedy. Mike could be thriving if his family would not cyclically attack and isolate him. He’d probably be just on the better side of Ian. Nevertheless, he’s caught himself a hard case of Depression. Seems like an epidemic and this is quarantine. Truth is, though, we’re all just kids who’ve had a hard time too early on. Yes. Kids. “Gina’s a weird name these days,” I shout for the new admit across the room to hear. She’s practically isolated herself to a corner, which isn’t unusual for new admits. We’re going to break her in. “I haven’t heard of any Ginas since the 90s. Of course, I wasn’t there til six years in, though.” Jokes ease them in. “And Brandy’s a drink so…” “That’s very nice, Mike. I’m gonna call B.S. on your next card.” We laugh. I offer Gina a seat near the round table until the next game and she unexpectedly obliges, however timidly and languidly. Though the round table is large enough to accommodate about six of us, card games create exclusivity. And then comes the dreaded question: How long have you been here? She skips the biographical information and everything. Now, it seems like a harmless question but it really means how long will I be here, and nobody wants to be a hope-killer. Dee gives the humane response. “You’ll prolly be here about a week, which isn’t bad at all.” To that Gina gave the much revisited response of an eye roll and sigh of teenage despair. “Unless you’re like Brandy,” Mike snickers. Gina focuses her wide eyes on me as if she shares in my excess. She asks how long I’ve been here in that soft, timid voice that seems to jump from newbie to newbie as they adjust to life on the inside and new admits assume their former status. Naturally, I deflect. “How long you’re here really just depends—” “The big 2-0,” Ian interrupted slyly. “—on what you did to get in here.” My status as a veteran patient is a running gag. I’ve seen others come in wet behind the ears and leave as green as when they arrived. I’ve also seen patients come in green and leave as if the future is as bright as ever, which is probably how Ian will go. I’ve seen the eight-year-olds, ten-year-olds, and catatonics, with the catatonics being the only ones I couldn’t break into blossom. I’ve written many an inspiring letter and dedicated so many coloring pages to people I would invariably fall out of touch with. I’m that patient. Repeat offender. Poster girl for recidivating. It dawns on me that Chad is full and with the new admit there are more patients than beds. Dee is leaving this evening. “Well,” I

say, throwing my winning hand onto the table half comically and half despairingly, “y’all know what time it is.” The nurses from behind the counter are summoned to print coloring pages as I fetch the crayons and markers. It is time to create memorabilia and make promises. The nurse—our favorite, actually—waltzes in on an air of hope to tell Dee it’s time to strip her bed. After all, Gina will need a place to sleep tonight. I’m always happy to see my fellow patients off, but I’m disappointed that it couldn’t wait until after dinner at 4pm. For old times’ sake. But we let her go anyway, with our coloring pages tucked into her large brown paper bag, phone numbers, and Facebook names discreetly scribbled on the back, letters full of compliments, and words of inspiration, and promises. I can see her through the narrow window of the door disappearing already. Gina will take her place in the suicide circle. She will shower, sleep, and eat in this strange place and she will have limited contact with her closest of family, and so we will become her surrogate family. She will be prescribed what may be her first ever medication and she will dig up old demons for the good doctor, so he can fix her up. And if she gets better her time at Chad will be short and she will move on with her life, but if she doesn’t then she’ll be back. And when she leaves again Chad will stay with her. There’s so much emptiness in the empty spaces between our presents, our futures, and ourselves. I won’t say Chad really fills those voids or fixes what nature or nurture has fated for us, but he certainly cures the loneliness. This is completely fictional and in no way based on true events.

Liberation

1st Tory Robins

Too Soon

John Brennan

Owl of Athena harasses the Fire of Ares Too much time spent in the archives, not enough in the field Her shield gleams, as does her helm, as does her spear His shield does not give light Concaved, cracked and crevassed Shards embedded, shafts from arrows protrude Her wisdom does not realize the gravity of her folly, though to understand is her domain For Athena is a god of knowledge foremost, war second Ares a god of war, only war, only war

Parking in Jackson Hole

Parker Mitton

Little Lighter (three variants) Jordan Henderson Lighter Little lighter, You are a friend You look pretty and give me warmth, But will burn me if I get too close. Lighter You little lighter, You are a friend. You can give me warmth And make me brighter, But if I get too close, I will have a wound to mend. Lighter You little lighter You are a friend You can give me warmth and make me brighter But if I get too close, The strings of my hood will singe

Anna Kay Norris

Die Altenberg

Watch My Line Ethan Ellis (with Anniebelle Quattlebaum) I keep a close watch on this line of mine I keep my eyes wide open all the time All these shoplifters will face a fine I know your kind — I watch my line I find it very, very easy to see you There are five cameras watching over you They are watching every single thing you do I know your kind — I watch my line You are impetuous but not very bright I will hunt you down all day and night If you challenge me I will start a fight I know your kind – I watch my line

Anniebelle and I both have experience working in retail settings and were discussing shoplifters. We thought about Johnny Cash’s song “Walk the Line,” got out our guitars, and the rest is history.

Light Years Tory Robins

Dreaming with Eyes Wide Open Matti Burns

Hollow Man Nemo

The photographer took this picture of a scarecrow he made. The eyes were produced via point-blank shotgun blasts.

Wild Turkeys

1st Liam Dakin

Do you remember, my straw haired sister, the wild turkeys who chose our woods to visit, resting from their long flight homeward? Terrifying fat bodies roost in trees. Puffed up males keep watch and scare small children who venture too close to their progeny. Who protected us in that lonely house? When storms hailed down heavenly rocks of ice, When coyotes killed the chickens and cats, When we were hungry but too young to read a cookbook, use the stove, or wield a knife, Who was there for those two children in the end? Do you remember, my dearest sister, When life pushed hard, and we were too fast grown?

This was inspired by Jeanetta Calhoun Mish, Oklahomaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poet laureate, and is an autobiographical poem based on my own childhood in Oklahoma.

Eye in the Darkness Regan Anthony

Vanilla Chai Baby Selin Wayne I lift the lid To your soft, nervous kiss, Cinnamon to my lips. I savor your essence â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the mark That youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve placed on me. The inhalation of too sweet saliva, The smell of a messy loving. Do we continue? Do we stop? Once. Twice. Trap my heart with an open palm. Do not release it. For I fear it will fly away with the rest of the butterflies. The aftertaste of an empty 99 cent cup and damaged expectations. Left with the reminiscence of a warm drink. A pit of nostalgia for that refill.

Teenage Boardom Jacob Randall When boredom tries to get the best of us, my friends and I cruise away from it on our penny boards.

What is a Soul Victoria Bush Close your eyes. Imagine a hole in the ground. A dark, endless hole. There is silence, and a weighty damp that clings to you like cigarette smoke as you peer in, fearing what you may find. The hole is massive, yet compact. You can feel it as you live and walk and run and hurry, an emptiness, unescapable. Some would say the hole is unexplorableâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;others deny and desperately crawl within, screaming their way through the grit and mud, looking for a hidden light in thick loamy silence. I choose to peer into this space, feel the dank mist, wrap it around me like a blanket. Sitting on the bottom of this conception, I inhale the musty odor, close my eyes, and breathe in the death of it all. To me, that is a soul.

As both a recently-born poet and recently-elected leader of the Guild of Poetic Intent, I have struggled to refine and, in a sense, define my poetic style as I lead others in creating theirs. I have drawn on my experiences with depression, hope, and middle-ofthe-night philosophical musings to create a wistful, searching poetic voice through free verse and haiku.

Seagull Sunset Jennifer Dirks

Sometimes you just need to paint some happy little clouds with one of the masters, Bob Ross. During a particularly stressful week, following along to The Joy of Painting is a great way to relax, even if the techniques are different between the mediums. Figuring out how to apply painting techniques to digital art is really fun!

Breakfast

1st David B. Corder

Hooters Dorky hair. Glasses. Weird vest. Thirteen and a pervert. All thirteen-year-old boys are perverts. Her name was Katie. Blonde (of course), southern twang, glittery eyes, her boobs sacred and holy relics. She reached over me to refill my glass of sweet tea and when I turned around my elbow ricocheted off her right breast. It was purely unintentional. They flocked around me like geese, a flurry of white tops, short orange shorts, and smooth thighs. They all made me stand on a stool and dance. It was a ceremony, my rite of passage. They kissed me on the cheeks. Happy birthday to me. Now I was a real man. Hot Tub Same dorky haircut. No shirt. Love handles. Her eyes were the bluest I had ever seen. She had a flat tummy and she looked gorgeous in a bikini. When you’re fourteen, pretty much every girl looks good in a bikini. My hands looked like they belonged to an old man. The water was hot, steam rising like ghosts and swirling in the hot summer sunlight. There were bubbles, as if frogs were slumbering and snoring beneath the water’s surface. They were loud frogs, but I could still hear what she said. “Have you ever kissed a girl?” her blue eyes asked. Our lips met and she took my lip-ginity. We got out of the hot tub. I was dazed, both by the heat and the kiss, and I was barely aware of the lump in my swim trunks, although everyone lounging by the pool saw it. It didn’t matter. It was a salute, a declaration, a testament to the world that I had kissed a girl. She peeked at me from across the pool. Her fingers danced in a shy little wave, her mouth pulled into a braces-jeweled smile beneath those blue, gorgeous eyes. Mall Love handles gone. Hair long. The bastard son of John Lennon. “Do you like Kung Fu movies?” I asked. The stand in the mall was filled with them. The covers had Asian guys in black and white pajamas, limbs arced in all sorts of crazy angles as if they were dancing to some

kind of retro-pop music. “I love Kung Fu movies.” Her eyes sparkled, just like her nose piercing. Freckled face. Long, curly dark hair that spiraled past her shoulders. A half-head shorter than me. “I also like anime.” Anime. Yes, this girl was sent by God. She blinked at me. “You know, you’re not like most guys.” I raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?” “Because most guys like to stare at my chest.” She motioned with her hands, and of course, I looked down. I could see why guys stared. Open collar, milky white Nirvana. “Oh, yeah, I’m not really like that,” I said, lifting my eyes, my cheeks burning. I wasn’t a pervert anymore. I was just human, a male human. She laughed. “Yeah, I’ll see a guy staring and I’ll be like…” she wiggled her body toward the floor as if she were doing a dance, trying to keep her eyes locked with some unseen figure. “David, let’s go.” My parents were behind me, shopping bags in tow. Without a second thought I turned. “Sorry, I have to go.” “It’s okay, I’ll see you around sometime.” She waved and flashed her teeth. I smiled back and dashed after my parents. I didn’t ask her name. Breakfast We had breakfast on the front porch like an old married couple. Not chicken eggs. Duck eggs. Rays of sunlight stretched themselves through the branches of the gargantuan oak tree in the front yard. The world was still yawning awake. Summer’s breath made our skin tingle, the birds began calling one another, the grass was still cold with dew. Longer hair. College. Not a pervert; not even human, because I was in love, and love is divine. I would catch her with questions while she was still eating. She would have to pause, press the back of her hand to her mouth while she swallowed, hiding her smile, her fork dangling gracefully from her fingers. Her hair was loose and long and beautiful. She had green eyes; the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. She was sunlight. She was earth and trees. She loved dragons. She could hear the music in flowers in water and in sky. Her heart was gentle. Her heart was fragile. This work is a reflection of my growth as romantic human being. I believe most men will be able to sympathize with this piece.

Urge Nemo Rip â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;ling tender, shaped of pulsing tides Appetition touching the underpinning hide Oscillation delighted, lush from the flow Painting the town, and drinking it slow Attracting no shame of prime spying eyes Anticipation satisfies as she slips from her guise Vibrations induce sparks to flare Drifting at sea in a dance without care Two chase chosen flames glow, lick and kiss Such genius between them of elegance and bliss Cursive passions spelling a secret faith Few loyal bodies should ever taste Touch on her shape stirs her urge Allusive hearts warm on the verge

Work, Power, Freedom 52

Parker Mitton

Radiance Shannon Farrell

I Pooped in Your Shoe Anniebelle Quattlebaum Simply unclog your ears and take note: It is no fault of my own but of the “greens”— the greens, which you name the “vegan diet”— greens which are not green at all but dry, tan pellets which have infiltrated my existence (despite my vocal resistance) and replaced my daily feast of tuna, chicken, and liver. I assure you, it was through absolutely no pre-meditated malice of my own that I soiled your shoes. For I simply sat, a sleepy cat paws nestled, upon the canvas bed— belly unsated, though newly fed— when a rumble aroused my slumber bewildered as my bottom stained the white a hairy, murky brown. As the odor awakened my horror,

I fled! To behind the curtains where you found me— the lace curtains of the bay windows through which I now leer from outside your abode. Indeed, I know the culprit for the accidental, involuntary turd in your Toms. The green diet has furthermore made me prone to involuntary spasms— Spasms which, last week, upon consuming me, assaulted my limbs—and flung them, wildly, into your dear, floral crystal vase and precious, yet gaudy Dachshund figurine shattering them into sad smithereens. Now, ponder on this possibility— in all of these years of tuna or chicken or liver, was there ever a crack in your clock? Or was ever a tabby triggered to take a crap in your Crocs?

I was inspired to write this poem after reading an article on owners who sought to make their cats vegan. I immediately began to ponder the comical outcomes of such an endeavor and envisioned a peeved kitty.

Peacock Marlayne Smith

Lizzie Abshire

Caught in the Act

Feel Kaelen Hetzler

The Escape Liam Dakin I wish I could start at the beginning of my entrapment, but to do so would be to build this story on half-truths and fragmented memories, and it is my wish to tell this as honestly to you as possible. My time in the deep underground did not start when I awoke, but that will have to do. Before the cold, the damp, or even the blindness (there was no light, not even in my dreams), the first sensation I remember was the cold press of flesh on flesh. Not from another body pressed against mine, for I was always, always alone, but from my own skin folded, chilled, and rough. Just the feel of that skin brushing skin was wrong. My body was a foreign thing, a vessel not rightly matching with the mind it housed, and (turn away if this bothers you, but remember it’s all true) I clawed it, and hurt it, and yelled in my rejection of it. How long I fought against myself until reason once more (or perhaps for the first time) guided me back to my surroundings, I do not know. I only knew I had made the physical body’s condition worse than what it had been upon waking. But now, feeling oddly calm after my self-inflicted torment, I noticed how I could not see. Funny that a body that could not be viewed could cause so much pain, I mused from my dark prison. Getting up on atrophied legs, I shuffled in about eight inches of near freezing water. The temperature stung, freezing my feet and ankles, and numbing them so that I fell over and over before I ever found a wall. The floor under the water had sharp rocks which cut, and I imagine if light were to shine down in that awful place, the water would have been a lovely shade of pink. The walls of the cavern were no better than the floor. I tried to climb, but the slick growth of algae, or some fungi, kept me from finding purchase. Many times, I cursed God, the universe, my parents, and myself (I don’t think I cursed the right people). On more than one occasion I envisioned I had died and been sent to hell. If it weren’t for the thirst and sleep that caught hold of me, I may have believed in those awful fantasies. Day and night are meaningless things when there is only darkness, and time only means anything to people who have a purpose. But since this is an honest narration, I will tell you that I had two sleeps before anything changed. My body still unnerved me, and my vision still gone, though I often hallucinated of what could have been memories or wishes. The cold worked its way up my legs and caused a pain in my back and groin. The

numbing pins creeped like slow metallic spiders. I began to worry. Even if I got out, would I ever dance with someone again? Go running? Enjoy sex? Useless concerns, especially when the new thing happened. The thing, or things, made my hell, my chilly, painful hell, so much worse to bear. When the first thing brushed up against my leg like a long, limp arm, I am embarrassed to say I screamed. Besides my crying and cursing on the first day, this was the first that either I or the cave had heard my voice. Too late, I realized, they all heard. Summoned by curiosity at the strange invader in their habitat came dozens of those arms. As they swarmed, I ran without thinking, earning more scraps from falls and collisions. Every time I lost my footing, every time I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stand on my own, they touched me and moved up on me. Their mouths, tiny sucker like things, bruised my skin, and I felt no eyes on them as I pushed them away. For a while, they made me their victim, their terrible playground. Their skin would have felt human if it hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been for the same slick on them which covered everything else in the cave. When I stopped shouting, stopped making any noise of protest, I felt them grow less interested in me. Brushing a very lively monster off my arm with a bit of violence, I shuddered at finding my skin covered in their slime. The more I let them touch me, the more the substance seemed to spread. This was the first time I had felt like my body belonged to me, and as a result, the start of my self-rescue. Once I realized making no noise and being a bit rougher in my rejection made those things leave the hell alone outside the occasional slippery caress, I had my third sleep, though it felt as if maybe I had missed one. My small world changed again. Far above, or perhaps not so far but just an illusion of distance due to the size, hung a small dot of light. Whether natural or not, I could not tell, but under its dim glow I felt a sense of hope so painful I wanted to lie under it and never get back up. Around this light I spent three or four sleeps. During this reprieve I took stock of the body I had been so careless with before. I became proud, as proud as one could in the situation that I had survived in for so long without light or warmth. I became surer of my body and mind, and even more confident in how I dealt with the loach-like things. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t because of the light I recovered, though I did thank it and speak to it in whispers like one would a lover. My newfound sense of self had been all my doing. Once I had found the desire to protect my body, the mindless zombie I had been began to disappear. The fog keeping me back dissipated. I remembered much during that time, though not how I had come to be abandoned down there. I remembered my name. Remembered my intelligence and wit. I could even remember experiencing some of those more complex emotions that supposedly define us.

So, as I said, I thanked the light in a hushed voice, and settled in for that next cycle of sleep. When I awoke on the last day, my light was gone. This should have been terrifying. This may have you speculating if I panicked again, or perhaps did I punish myself against those sharp rocks until I could bleed no more in a fit of depression. Perhaps that would have happened in a different life, after a previous sleep. I imagine it has happen to other victims, and I mourn them, but at that time I needed to survive. I had had the smallest glimpse of what was good in life and I wanted to know if there was more. Despite from being weakened by my prison and numb from the deprivation of warmth, I felt serenity. Absolute peace. I knew this day would be the end of my time here one way or another and I embraced both options. So, I stood slowly, shakily, and began the march. I had been following and sleeping beside the left wall. However, in my revelry with my tiny dim light, I had forgotten which wall had brought me thus far. Taking a chance on fate, I stumbled about until I hit a wall, and walked. Many steps later, my vision started to come to me. First black on black, then gray on black, then hints or hopes of green and blue. Even though I could make out some of my surroundings, I dared not look down at my body for fear of what I would see in this place that distorted oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s vision and tricked oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind. Just right, then left, then right, on and on with my hand on the wall that was becoming more and more dry. When I hit the point of reds and yellows, I looked down at my feet and finally saw what I walked upon. It was a truly beautiful sight. Littered under the clear water lay millions of glittering rocks and crystals. I wondered if they had been the reason I entered this hell. No matter. Now my soles were calloused and walking on them for as long as I had had destroyed my ability to appreciate their beauty for longer than that first moment. Onwards I went until I turned a bend, and then, just ahead, a bright light filtered through the maw of the cavern. Everything I could see through this small glimpse of the world looked too saturated, too real to be real. Though my eyes had become more accustomed to light as I walked, the brilliance of the scene was painful and blinding. All at once I wanted everything in that world to be mine and I wanted to die just there, too afraid to go forward. What would I be once out there? How would someone like me, who had been tainted by this hell, fit into a world I knew to be beautiful? Where is there room for the mere shade of a human? Fearful I would turn and run back, I closed my eyes and walked until the wall ran out and my feet once more (or perhaps for the first time) touched dry ground. Now, I write this in a place where I am warm and can clearly see,

and I bring this story to you, no longer fearful of what still swims in that underground maze. I visit sometimes, but only in my nightmares. Occasionally, I don’t recognize my reflection as belonging to me and I suppose I will always have those scars. But now I’m free, I made myself that way. And I am warm, I found companions outside those monsters. I know part of me died in the dark. It’s the part which lives, the part which I thought had perished long before I awoke, that I choose to share with you. For those who experience dysphoria and those who lose themselves in toxic relationships, we fear leaving because we don’t realize we are worth so much more. You deserve the world. And for my chosen family, you were my light in the dark.

I’m Laven Der Weather this Summer

Aubry Melvin

I took this picture in Montreal, Canada a few years ago on a summer trip! When I saw the patch of lavender, I fell in love with the vibrant colors and had to capture the moment!

NOMADIC Drake Miller All that I am is the essence of an evergreen sapling Bright within my youth And blooming from within my own heart. From the ground up I will grow to be torn down With sharp iron through my wrists. I am displaced A product for others to abuse. I hear her voice on the wind Beckoning me to take root deep within her chest. Yet where is home, If pieces of me are scattered across state lines?

Kink Nemo The photographer took this picture in exploration of his desires of vulnerability and trust.

A Poem is Anna Kay Norris Like a child, who is born through great exertion who is covered in amniotic fluid, and occasionally vernix caseosa – which keeps wrinkles at bay – (man, they should bottle that stuff), who is washed with warm water, who is trapped with care in cotton, who is cradled in its creator’s arms, who is ripped of its umbilical cord, perhaps too soon, who is passed from person to person like a joint, who is measured and compared to others, (others who have already accomplished so much), who is slightly purple from lack of oxygen – lack of life – who is born to be remembered, or, more likely, who is born to be forgotten.

Rebel Tory Robins

It Goes Down Hannah Jameson The Value of human life Goes down with each passing second Their silent tears of strife As another child is ripped from their mother’s womb Sucked out like a piece of trash Thrown in the garbage can; that’s their tomb My toes clench hard as their toes clench hard At the cold metal extractor that penetrates Their sensitive flesh and pumping heart It goes down, the value of life With each passing second The disregarded “burden” of unimaginable strife

In honor of all the innocent babies that have ever been aborted and will be aborted.

A Lovely Death of the Yellow Dandy 68

Marlayne Smith

3 rd

Lizzie Abshire

Pause of a Moth

Splash

2 nd David B. Corder

It curves away. That smooth, glassy, green path Going around the bend. Leaves drift by like snails. The drops cling To your Holocaustic body As you leap, arms flailing like a chicken Into the water below. Cicadas and mosquitos hum a Southern Concerto As we push each other under as we race for the ladder. Childhood monsters slither out to bite off my toes and I quicken my pace. I splash out of the water. Years have gone by But these trees have always had drooping gray hair, Their roots have always been gnarled like arthritic fingers. There are always thousands of wiggling tadpoles. Suns and Moons have vanished again and again In the sky overhead. But we still push, and laugh, and splash. We will never be too old for this. My younger brother and I spent most of our summers in the river. We stopped going for a couple of years, but revisited the banks this past summer once again. In this poem, the two of us are always young.

72 Isabel Martinez

Flower Girl

Audio These pieces can be heard on SoundCloud https://soundcloud.com/broken-ink-787472133

Music

Artist statements included in track descriptions

The Weekend

D’yante Jones

The Real Thing Mark Pelfrey

She’s Not That Into You Mark Pelfrey

First One for Fun Creation No. 1 Machi Provost

Jeremy Smith

Forest Stroll

Anniebelle Quattlebaum

Spoken Word I Apologize Chosen

Use your smartphone’s camera to read this code and visit our SoundCloud!

Video

Freshwater Feeding Haley Dixon

Tyrone E. Saurus-Rex’s Great Writing Adventure Anniebelle Quattlebaum

Use your smartphone’s camera to read this code and visit our YouTube channel!

Celebrating 50 Volumes Broken Ink Editors 1971, Spring – D. Hubler & K. Treadway 1971, Fall-1972, Spring – S. Sharp & J. Wells 1972, Fall – J. Burns & C. Henderson 1973, Spring – C. Henderson 1973, Fall – B. Frazier 1974, Spring – issue not found 1974, Fall – C. Jennings 1975, Spring – L. Wood 1975, Fall – R. Dees 1976, Spring – W. Hite 1976, Fall – R. Napier 1977 – K. Highberger 1978 – issue not found 1979 – L. Horton 1980 – G. Russell 1981 – T. Snead 1983 – C. Olliff 1984 – B. Maddox 1985 – K. Rouse 1986 – K. Sherman 1987 – M. Martin 1988 – A. Williams 1989 – N. Frost-Hewitt

1990-1991 – J. Barnes 1992 – R. Garrett 1993 – T. Conner 1994, Spring – E. Tilley 1994, Fall-1995, Spring – J. Lowrey 1995, Fall – S. Poorbaugh 1996 – C. Morton 1997, 1999 – K. Devonshyre 1998 – L. Green 2000, Spring – issue not found 2000, Fall-2001, Spring – D. Matos 2002, Spring-2003, Fall – R. Black 2004, Spring – C. Collins 2004, Fall-2005, Spring – C. Stickland 2005, Fall-2006, Spring – A. Morris 2006, Fall- 2008, Spring – L. Hecckrotte 2008, Spring-2009, Fall – M. Austin 2009-2011 – C. Berkshire 2012-2013 – M. LaRoca 2014 – R. Mathis 2015 – R. Golson 2016-2017 – S. Herick 2018 – A. Norris

Broken Ink Advisors 1971-1973 – Dr. Franklin B. Ashley 1974-1975 – Dr. Stephen Gardner 1976-1977 – Dr. Don Blount 1978-1979 – Prof. Jim Lawrence 1980-1992 – Dr. Tom Mack

1993-1997 – Dr. Phebe Davidson 1997-2003 – Dr. Sue Lorch

2004-2007 – Prof. Linda Lee Harper 2007-2015 – Prof. Karl Fornes 2015-present – Prof. Roy Seeger

Vol.

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