2012 by Broken Ink

Volume 44

• U S C A L i t e ra r y a n d Vi s u a l A r t s M a g a z i n e • Vo l u m e 4 4

Editor-In-Chief Maria LaRocca Literary Editors Justin Edwards Brady Morris Visual Editor Valerie Johnson Layout Editor Degan Cheek Online Editor John Chambers Music Editor Celia Gary Design Staff Rebecca Barnwell Felicia Ireland Literary Staff Patrick Sanders Faculty Advisor Karl Fornes

M M I

S S

O N

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

CONTRIBUTORS Amy Agnel Ashleah Hudson Benjamin Mitchell Cayley Smith Connor Turner David Welcher Dora Robinson Eli Montgomery Elizabeth Fonte Emily Short Isaiah Cohn Lauren Jones Martyn Turner Nathan Allen Phylesha Hiers Robin Kronberg Ryan Bell Ryan Mathis Taylor Hudson Online Website - broken-ink.org Email - brokenink@usca.edu Submissions - submissions@broken-ink.org

C O N TE N T S Abuse Apostasy At That Moment Enlightenment Happiness in a Bottle Hey Was Her Name Inspire Me Japan 3/11 Meh Neva Know Middle Eastern Lipstick Return of the Muse Running with Scissors Sand River She Should Shiva’s Flowers Southern Boy Talk Nerdy to Me The Black River The Closet Door Till Death Do Us Part Wisteria Season

43 19 23 51 15 10-11 9 41 26 32 48-49 7 52 50 38 27 22 35 39 40 6

An Anger, Like Lightning As Light Whirls ‘Round Her Heart Child’s Mind Chill Time Classic Coke Curiosity and The Big Red Wall Flustered Highway Ice Cream Shop Iris Kape Americano Khamsa Kota Love Song for Cigarettes On the Road Smells Like a Beer The Shadow War Stories White Light and Contrast

5 20 37 30 53 12 47 36 24 16 31 17 42 33-34 8 25 21 4 44

28 Ashes Eval The Hand of My Father The Old Man and the Window

29 45-46 18 13-14

Paradise No Meaning Vices Last Act Revenant If It Means That Much to You 3 54

Volume 44

Ink Splat &

Washington Group

AWARDS This year the USCA Art Department generously sponsored the Ink Splat Visual Art Award for the recognition of superior student artwork. The winners of this award are chosen through a blind review by artists and visual arts experts from the community.

1st Place 2nd Place

Degan Cheek “An Anger, Like Lightning” p. 5 Martyn Turner “Ice Cream Shop” p. 24

In 2004, Washington Group International established an endowment fund to be managed by the USCA English Department for the purpose of recognizing exemplary student work in creative writing. To that end, all submissions accepted by the student staff each year for publication in Broken Ink are reviewed anonymously by a special faculty committee to see if any meet the qualifications for this additional recognition. It is the intention of the committee to award prizes each spring in poetry and/or fiction; each prize is acknowledged in the magazine and accompanied by a cash award. This year’s winners are: Prose - David Welcher “The Old Man and the Window” pp. 13-14 Poetry - 1st Place 2nd Place 3rd Place

Brady Morris “Talk Nerdy to Me” p. 22 David Welcher “Running With Scissors” p. 7 Elizabeth Fonte “Southern Boy” p. 27

On behalf of all the students whose work appears in this year’s magazine, the Broken Ink staff thanks Professor Vicki Collins, Professor Roy Seeger, Dr. Amanda Warren, Dr. Tom Mack and Mr. Todd Lista for their review.

Broken Ink

Phylesha Hiers • Digital Photography “The hands of a Korean War vet. The hands of a man who fought the cold of the Chosin Reservoir. Hands that helped me color. Hands that put up my first yellow swing on and old oak tree. Hands of a hero. Hands of my grandfather.”

Volume 44

Ink Splat Awa rd Wi n n e r

Degan Cheek • Digital Photography “Photography is all about light and perspective. This shot transforms a perfectly innocent tree into a spooky and angry creature, ready to crash down on you and eat your soul.”

Broken Ink

by Patrick Sanders The seasons have cycled once again. It is another year of violent haze, the hateful by-product of intended fame, hailing from Western Boroughs with faith. Cults and ghosts rave and burn, burn and rave beat down, down, down with manic passion like masters to slaves. There’s celebration in the forest tonight with fowl blood and vicious voodoo. Gasoline is cast among the oaks and pines amidst the craze and the dark smoke stains their skin and waters the already red eyes. When silence falls with the full moon, a cold sun rises from slumber to reveal a meandering maze of rainbow ribbons trailing freely in oil, unshackled from the mindless ministry.

“This poem was written for Professor Seeger’s Poetry Workshop. My intention behind this piece is to attack the beliefs and practices of a certain religious group that likes to make its way into the news while addressing their poisonous demeanor.”

Volume 44

by David Welcher My taxidermist claims the world is floating on top of his root beer float. He stretches pelts across the landscape, filling them with the Arabian desert. I’m filing my fingernails and inhaling the ashes of an already jaded American century— Somewhere between sub and consciousness, as scientific as God and as faithful as Darwin. Ronnie Reagan shook hands with Mickey Mouse, watching Uncle Remus drown in the summer stench. Where will we go when the bombs drop? This curve-swerving prostitute never pauses to pant past her shame—all her friends relish getting away fast. Every Sunday, she leans over the marble counter, contemplating the skinless beautiful fish. I want to love monkfish, but I can’t. At the other block, a cop and his girlfriend’s twitchy little boy whipped out their credit card and killed Jesus. In a collision with a kite, handsome British men appear masculine, aggressive, arrogant, and angry. Their journey is the greatest mid-life crisis while blindfolded. A Long Islander who shops for cashmere socks at Loehmann’s knows what’s important in life, but why should that rule out a romantic test-drive?

(Speaking of the biblical Sodom and Gomorrah):“And Lot’s wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.” -Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

Broken Ink

Ryan Mathis • Digital Photography “This was originally a color picture but was later turned into a black and white. I like this picture because of how the building looks and how the sign adds to the picture as well.”

Volume 44

by Valerie Johnson Searching within myself  a means of expressing beauty, revelation, and truthOnly to discover optimism to be transposed  with the cynicism and rot that comprises and fills  the deep recesses of my mind  and facades the void that has replaced my soul. Am I a monster?   My hands create monsters   when positioned on paper, but I do not know if they are reflections of self or suggestions of a volatile, noxious mental plague.  Maniacal, I laugh. Giving birth to the inner delusions on paper, a wry, half-smile emulates my composure,  for I’ve become a-mused.

“This piece is about looking inwards for inspiration—especially as a means of therapy.”

Broken Ink

by Justin Edwards There was another drowsy dream Of another one of my mystic modern maidens, Tis not a tale but a terse summary of how I learned How her name happened to be Hey. Like any dream while lazily laying We remember memories beginning en medias res, The past and presents of our persona are mysterious, And still we manage to stay the same individual. Thus, I suddenly surmised to be sitting in some type of bar One I found to like as a dimly lit location. The air was arid but void of smoke, The populace was poor but rich in my perception. I was at ease as I wasted away my hours, However I happened to not have a beverage in hand, And so my eyes moved towards my mystical barmaid, But she countered my call by coyly walking away. A muscular brute of a man moved in her place, And so I pondered upon what profound beverage I’d have, And as memory fails me I’ll make my mind up to gin, Yes, I had a taste of gin, tonic, lime, and hint of mint. With mint upon my palate I pondered her curious descent, She was beautiful beyond any bounds of comparison, As a man of many tastes I’d always deny having a particular type, And yet, the background of the beautiful barmaid bewildered me. Monotheistic as I am, I managed to manifest a new faith, For what wonderful race of mankind could combine to form goddess? In Greek myth, man and man does not make man-made god. Thus her origin was obviously of some heavenly orifice. The question remained why she wondered to the world of man. This bronze, golden brown figure of brilliant black curls. With every sip from my glass of sparkling spirit I waited to speak, Yet courage crept from the chest of this curious coward.

Volume 44

One question, one simple and intently subtle enquiry, One question was all I would waste of her time, I’d question name of the goddess that I mistakenly missed in class, Before the sobering moment of mettle lost I made my move. She sat in a quiet corner on the comfort of a couch, I did not know if the glow was from her or the light above, But I now knew that the need of more mettle was necessary, A little late for learning, a little early for language, I reluctantly stood. One question was the goal, only one word was summoned. “Hey” Hey, the great greeting that grew a grimace behind my smile. The same smile that she shined back at me. In an instant I was atlas with the weight of the world upon me, Time froze and I felt like a fool as the silence flooded my mind, But from some destined divine intervention she un-damned me, The smile smirked a laugh that landed a reply, “My name is Hey.” This modern maiden was mystical indeed, She read the mind of a man that couldn’t mold a simple question, The man that unthinkingly also appeared to read thought, And so I attained a name, the name that I’d always wanted. Hey not hay for horses or some Asiatic Hei, just Hey, Hey was simple yet intriguing, sassy yet inviting, Hey was adorned with all things adorable, unbearable and unforgettable, Although I always forget the names of my mystical maidens, this one remains. Drug by consciousness I victoriously held in hand the treasure of knowledge, From the dream a new beginning manifested in medias re, This time when reviving I remembered, rejoicing and reveling in her name Hey.

“I have bizarre dreams, but remember quite a bit of detail about them. I also try to categorize them. This poem came from one of my “mystical maiden” dreams. Sometimes I dream and almost fall in love with these imaginary women, but never seem to remember their names. For the first time I remembered one a few nights ago. Strangely enough, her name was simple and easy to remember, Hey. Ironically, the woman with most simple name has the most significance.”

Broken Ink

Degan Cheek • Digital Photography “Downtown Augusta, GA has the most extraordinary textures. Everything is old and on the verge of falling apart. Somehow, beauty emerges from the wreckage.”

Volume 44

by David Welcher

The snow drove harder as the morning crowd shuffled into the alley

diner. On the sidewalk, an old man stood painting Christmas designs on the diner window. Steam pulsed out from between his sunken cheeks, and while his body quivered, his hands were unnaturally calm. The patrons and waiters inside watched as he carefully layered on each color. “It’s sad, just sad,” one patron said. “What is?” “That old man outside.” “Seen him painting the grocery store yesterday.” “He’s probably a failed artist.” “I knew a guy like him. Had paintings lying everywhere in his house. Didn’t even sell them.” The waiter began his first round pouring coffee. The old man finished with the white edges and began with the red. Each time he set the brush down to change colors, he drank from a styrofoam cup. “That cup he’s drinking from. Probably whiskey.” “I don’t think he has a home.” “Never see him with anybody.” “You think he’d get a real job.” “Probably doesn’t want one.” “Can’t find a job in this economy.” “There’s plenty of jobs out there. Hell, I’ll offer him a job right now.” “He’s just too old.” “Well an old man needs to keep his mind busy anyway.” “Shave that beard and put a tie on him.” “Least the last of his years he’ll be happy.” “I don’t think he wants to be happy.” “What kind of sense does that make?” Everybody began ordering. The diner smelled of eggs and bacon. The old man, having set the base colors, began adding detail, his brush strokes short and exact. The first table was served, then the next and the diner momentarily hushed. Bringing coffee around for some final requests, the waiter stopped and watched the old man. “It’s beautiful. I wish I could do that,” said the waiter. “My son can do that. And he’s ten.” “I couldn’t do it.” “There’s too much blue. Red and green is all you need. That’s Christmas.” “Maybe he’s sad.” “Blue means sad, doesn’t it?” “What does it matter anyway?” “Like I said, he needs a real job. And a wife and a car.” “Who says he doesn’t have those things?” “Well I know if I did, I wouldn’t be outside freezing over some window decorations.” The clanging of forks and knives ended and the patrons waited in line to pay for their meals. One lady asked for a hash brown and coffee.

Broken Ink

“That old man probably needs it,” said the lady. “He looks starved.” “Heard he tried to commit suicide.” “What for?” “How should I know?” “Police pulled him off a bridge.” “Should’ve let him do it.” “Somebody would’ve had to scrape him up.” “That’s not what I pay my taxes for.” “Well, he’s blocking out all the light in here.” “What’s to look at out there anyway?” The lady took her check and stepped outside. The snow had since stopped falling. The old man was gone. All that was left was his painting. Some had paused to glance at it. “It’s all wrong.” “Downright mediocre, I say.” “That’s a lot of effort to soon be wiped clean.” “Where do you think he went anyway?” “Probably soliciting another job.” “Nah, he’s where he’ll always be.” “What do you mean?” “What is he saying?” “Nonsense.” “Who knows.” “It’s a quarter to nine already!” “Damn old man’s made me late! “What an inconvenience!” The last of the patrons shuffled to their cars. Inside the diner, the waiter grabbed a rag and began cleaning. When he finished, he rested at one of the tables and gazed at the old man’s work. The deep, rich colors, illuminated by the sun, filled the entire window, blocking out the alleyway. He kicked his legs up and sat awhile.

(Strictly how Sartre explained Garcin’s quotation and NOT the commonly misunderstood perception): “So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the ‘burning marl.’ Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for redhot pokers. Hell is—other people!” -Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit (Huis Clos)

Volume 44

by Cayley Smith

It turns out you can buy happiness It comes in little yellow bottles With screw on lids With your name printed on one side And a little label that tells you “Take twice a day” It turns out you can eat happiness It’s little white pills with numbers stamped on You wash them down twice a day And go on with your business. Sometimes you forget about your happiness in a bottle You look at that label that says “Take twice a day” And wonder to yourself “Why? I’m not sick. I can be happy alone.” So you put the bottle under the sink And say you’re better now. But suddenly you’re not a person anymore You’re just a sock full of lead with a frowny face drawn on And you can’t think any more And you just want to take a little Tylenol And you just want to take a lot of Tylenol And you just want to take all of the Tylenol in the fucking cabinet And sleep for the rest of your life. But you go to get the Tylenol For your lifetime sleep And you dig under the sink for a cup to wash it down And you find your happiness Still in its little yellow bottle With its screw-on lid And your name printed on one side And the label that says “Take twice a day.”

“It’s never fun to go on medicationthere’s always that voice in the back of your mind, that you’re broken or sick. As it turns out, you’re much sicker when you go without those little pills.”

It’s not so bad taking your happiness in a bottle A lot of people can get their happiness from little things Like puppies and babies and blue skies and hugs from a mother But sometimes people just can’t do that But we want to be able to smile and laugh too We don’t want to be socks full of lead with frowny faces drawn on. So instead of taking a nap that lasts forever We take happiness from a bottle And we can be people too. Broken Ink

Nathan Allen • Digital Photography “I used a scanner to create this image. The scanner lets you have complete control over composition and subject.”

Volume 44

Maria LaRocca • Digital Photography “The khamsa is most commonly associated with Judaism and Islam as a symbol of protection. Though I wasn’t aware of its origin until recently, the combination of eye and hand has always been interesting to me.”

Broken Ink

by Rebecca Barnwell

His dark brows furrowed and his calm eyes became fierce and hard. Every muscle seemed to

tighten as his anger seethed to the surface. He raised his hand back poised to strike, threatening as he yelled. His palm was flat and his fingers straight and rigid as he sliced the air emphasizing each syllable of his wrath. He made an intimidating figure, but the truth was that my father never struck us. He was the proverbial dog— ‘all bark and no bite.’ My brother and I did receive corporeal punishment on occasion in the form of traditional spankings on our rear ends, but they were seldom and were most often a wound to our pride rather than a physical infliction. My brother responded better to spankings than I. This caused my parents to become creative in my corrections. My mother soon found that I responded very well to loss of privileges, much to my juvenile chagrin. As I grew older, years of previous experience with my father had emboldened me. His empty threats washed over me barely causing an impression, but I would still comply out of respect. One day, my father and I began to argue over something petty. The subject of our dispute was so entirely insignificant that I can’t even recall what it was. Well into puberty and filled with the common angst of being a teenager, I was sitting on the recliner in our living room with my arms crossed across my chest when my father addressed me. He went through the motions: his brows set, his eyes pierced, and his hand instinctively raised. I looked at the hand and something inside of me sparked into being. Obedience was out of the question and my body rose, as if possessed, from my seat. I stood face to face with my father, my jaw clenched and my eyes meeting his gaze with equal animosity. My voice rose and exceeded his volume. My mother who was busy in the kitchen stopped to see the scene unfold. I shifted my stare from his eyes to the poised hand. I heard my own voice sneer sarcastic and daring, “What Dad, are you going to hit me? Go ahead! HIT ME!” I heard a swift movement before I felt the sting of a solid smack on the right side of my face that shifted my perception to the ground. Catching my breath, I looked back trembling at my adversary. There my mother stood between me and my father. How she moved so quickly I will never know. Trying to picture the scene, I can only account for her speed through some sort of supernatural ability or a hidden affinity for acrobatic ninja flips. I instinctively held my scalded cheek as my mother pointed at me, “Don’t you ever, ever, talk to your father like that!” I momentarily glanced at my father. His face had softened and hung downward. His eyes that were once hard now appeared defeated and glistened with unfallen tears. My heart caved as I saw that I had hurt him far more than my mother’s slap could ever injure me. I ran crying to my bedroom, dejected, embarrassed—regretful. I sat crumpled on my bed and cried long and hard. I could not erase the image of my father from my head and my face still felt warm from my mother’s slap. I wondered why I felt so sorry when just moments before, during the heat of the argument, I felt so justified, so self-righteous. My tears rolled heavy over my checks as I set in reflection over the moment. Suddenly the door creaked open. My mother poked her head in and then entered slowly. She sat next to me on the bed. “I am sorry I had to hit you, Bec. But you hurt your father very badly. You know he has never hit you, but his father use to beat him when he was your age and younger.” My tears still choked my voice. I could only shake my head acknowledging that I understood. I leaned toward my mother and she out her strong arm around me and held me while I cried freely some more. I wet her shoulder with my remorse. “I’m so sorry, Mom.” “You need to apologize to your father.” “This is a memory of a time when I By the time I had repaired myself, my father was sitting on the couch. He stared defied my father. I am not proud of blankly at the TV screen. The shocking look of tears had dissipated but he still appeared this moment and hope to never hurt my father again. God has blessed me solemn. I went to him with arms open and asked for his forgiveness. with such wonderful parents; this piece is dedicated them.”

Volume 44

by Valerie Johnson

“Apostasy—to forsake one’s faith, principles, or cause.”

I took a leap of faith – Eradicated my rationale And plunged myself into uncertainty, Not knowing if my feet would ever hit solid bottom Or if I’d ever live to see this through. I closed my eyes to all I knew And sacrificed myself to blindness Until my trance was broken by the surface of the sea – My body submerged in cold numbness And the current dragging me away to an unknown place. And from the unknown, You emerged ethereal – Emanating radiance and light, An angel, a dream. And at my most vulnerable, I called out to you and you came – My divine apparition, And your feet left no shadows below Or broke the surface of the water thereof And you lifted my dead weight And carried me to shore. And upon reentering consciousness, I felt your eyes upon me Deadlocked in vehement stare – Melting my wall of icy resoluteness That I told myself I would never break or succumb – To weakness, to need, to desire. But with a fluid parting of your lips I was defenseless against your allure, Sweet toxins unleashing my most primal intuitions And instinctively, I allowed myself to become engaged In the most delicious acts of sins and unholy animalistic passion, Ecstasy igniting my veins and losing all sense of limitation, You became my only obligation. I sank to my knees in unmitigated acceptance, And you pulled my towards you and filled the space between our bodies With the contours and convexes of your own, Consummating our beings into solid entity – LIFE. It is you my angel, my other half, mi querido, It has always been you, That I have spent the entirety of my life searching for, And upon my death, it will be you, holding me once again In eternal embrace of our infernal passion, For I have found immortal love and salvation In this dance with the devil.

Broken Ink

Degan Cheek • Digital Photography “My friend Christina has an extraordinary talent. She feels no greater joy than when she is spinning a hoola hoop around her body. The lights show exactly where her heart lies: in the middle of a hoop.”

Volume 44

Felicia Ireland • Digital Photography “I was inspired to do this piece from one of my favorite cartoons. I thought this group of photos was great because it showed something fun and different. I had the opportunity to play with the shadow and make it a creature.”

Broken Ink

Washington

by Brady Morris

Shall I compare thee to a video game? Group None equal your vivid interactivity, Award more exciting than the best Winner boss-battles, you bring an endlessly updating universe of excitement, a real-life adventure I could spend a lifetime among your pixels, admiring shades and textures billion-bit CPUs couldn’t hope to display, criss-crossing your worlds in search of every last Easter egg. All-night marathons never seemed so attractive; school, food, and sleep will have to wait while I wire my fingers in between yours. You overclock my heart in an overwhelming fiber-optic eruption of fireworks, frying my processors in a first-person sensory overload. More addicting than the most masterful MMO, you thrill me more than a level-up, and bring beautiful new meaning to the phrase “hand held.” You are the game-over to end all games, a critical hit to my heart I’m a full-blooded fanboy, filled with fascination deeper than any attraction ever evoked by a little box of blinking lights and sound effects. You are my missing heart piece without you, I am incomplete, insecure, without hope of heroism or happiness, but when I see the emerald affection in your eyes, the perfect truth in your smile, “Initially just an exercise in nerdy wordplay, this poem soon grew into I realize there is no other something much more meaningful. hero I would rather be Hopefully, geekier audiences will be but yours. able to relate to this fun love poem for nerds.”

Volume 44

by Rebecca Barnwell Hollow canyon between my breasts fills with the scent of ocean mist, expanding the space between my ribs. Capsaicin sweet waves tide in my veins. I claw at the cliff of my consciousness, searching for high ground, as I sink lower into the abyss. Electrical surfs pulsate across tiny skin receivers, scintillating. I’m falling beneath the surface. Kiss me and drown me quick. I’m crushed, suffocated— a temporary Rigor Mortis of an infinitesimal whisper of time. Ready for the autopsy of my spluttering heart.

“I wanted to capture that heart-racinghard-to-breathe feeling right before a kiss with someone you really love. The special moment in time may last only half a second, but your body reacts in such mysteriously powerful and exciting ways.”

Broken Ink

Ink Splat Awa rd Wi n n e r

Martyn Turner • Digital Photography “Through my engagement shoots I try to capture the unique quirks that make every couple’s session special. In this photograph I have shown the first date and the first kiss... plus ice cream parlors make everyone feel loved...as you can see it makes you want to ‘save the date.’”

Volume 44

Robin Kronberg • Digital Photography “This piece was taken as documentation of the Guild of Poetic Intent, during their monthly reading at Café Rio Blanco. It is intended to convey the feeling of preparing to read an original piece in front of the audience, and smelling the breath of the previous reader coming from the microphone.”

Broken Ink

by Isaiah Cohn Meh neva know yuh come from ah place so bad Meh neva know yuh live a life so sad. Yuh neva mention di place yuh from Yuh chat like anuh part a yuh Meh cyaan imagine bcuz yuh a good gyal plus yuh nuh smoke Now mi a try buy chain fi put roun’ yuh troat Yuh neva waan all dem material ting Meh waan fi marry yuh, but yuh nuh waan ring Meh ask she “yuh nuh love me?” She seh “Me cyaan marry yuh till yuh understand me.” Meh neva know yuh come from a place so bad Meh neva know yuh live a life so sad. She always seh stories bout she grandma so meh go dung deh to meet meh fucha madda-in-law. In di place dung deh some gyal sell dem body on di corna and to wash off dem sin, dem nah even ava hot wata. But di gyal should ave no shame, meh can see it pon she face and her family dung deh, nuh even ave lights in deh place meh nuh understan’ har, but she nuh understan’ meh. Meh neva tell she bout di place meh start breathe. Yuh neva know meh come from a place so bad Yuh neva tink me can ave a life so sad.

“I really enjoyed writing this piece. Upon entering the university, I have had many opportunities to encounter people from the Caribbean. The inspiration came from Jamican Patoise or ‘Patwa’ where I tried to examine the life of two impoverished young adults.”

Volume 44

by Elizabeth Fonte He plays hard rock on his electric guitar by his father’s Confederate flag hanging in his closet-spaced room next to hunting gear, glossy posters of Mustangs and Ferraris, a classic rock-metal-punk band sticker-studded case, and worn-out drumsticks by a box of tools. He hammers, bends, and slides notes, reverberating remorse & amplifying his anger at a small town peopled by gossiping church members along Bible Belt lane, the clucking rubberneckers by the highway massacres made famous by intoxicated patriots who prattle that America can fix itself independently on duct tape. It isn’t long until he pulls and rips another solo, teeth gripping the lower lip lined with metal studs as he muffles a fury to oblivious Piggly Wiggly cashiers who take too damn long to bag. He wrinkles his brow now as a sultry summer sweat cascades on the vindictive contours of his jagged side silhouette framed by a rising sun. Rocking a nirvana note, he transcends from his house, the wild woods, maddening mountains, and Indian hills. Nevermind. He is a free bird on a crowded platform in New York where he waits for the No. 9 train. All the lonely people surround this forlorn son-of-a-gun. He is a wilting rose among the thorny multitude who secretly want, wish for, and dream of the mountains, valleys, and hills of quiet churches, gracious cashiers, and the hushed, dry pavements of a small town.

“When I lived in Alabama, I hung out with friends similar to the character sketched in this poem. This piece was inspired by a high school friend of mine who loved classic rock music.”

Broken Ink

This year, Broken Ink is proud to include original songs from your fellow student musicians. Follow the QR code to our playlist online to listen to these songs, or visit broken-ink.org/music2012.

aradise Side A Track 1 “Parad is we reac e is the place ha in our lives w overwh point of ease here a elmed with lo nd find ourse where v lves e . A t I foun least process d myself in th this is of mak ing it.” e

song “I wrote this eak after a hard br I up. I felt like was breaking t down and I fel like everything I knew was is song changing. Th eaning’ called ‘No M was I captures how feeling during this phase in my life.”

Side A Track 2 & 3

“This song, ‘Vices’ is an original song I wrote about letting your heart slip into the hands of someone with so-called n vices which in tur ng makes everythi seem more complicated.”

“Made albumto be the las t , beats a this song is piece in my a nd cla ssic pia mix of breafirst k no sou nds.”

Sid Track e A 4&5 “Extre Dubst me sound fo ep mix rm of hard h ed with guit experiment al mus itting ar, clas ic dr s sound s makeums, and caical element . s, r n t favorit his one of ival my e song s.”

Volume 44

Track 6 Side A

ation the inspir m the o fr e m ca out of jumping se that “I suppo er. To th o ng into an have for this so hen at th w sacrifices work risks taken ship gs thin on to make one relati t of whether e are a lo n decide at ca es u me, ther im yo et m ly so Th on s d n en k ea an ta s M e al f It idu to b two indiv to make them. “I , I’m ready. between h y ea ad re “Y e g u’r at yin or not yo You” is sort of sa e ready to do wh b Much to t.” u in and u o yo t rk le o a w this I’m gonn to make I have to

by Patrick Sanders

I was expecting a dramatic exit, like you see in movies.

A dying character grabs onto the nearest person and sputters some cryptic words about his unknown fortune or a secret illegitimate child. Or maybe he would say some witty one-liner, smirk, and then die. The actual event could also be more spiritual, like with my cousin Paul. I wasn’t there myself, but the story goes that as the family hovered over his bed, my comatose cousin opened his bright green eyes quickly and widely and stared at something no one else could see. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile as he let out his last breath. My aunt Virginia has always insisted she saw a wisp of smoke leave his body: his spirit, maybe. Given her background of mental hospitalization, I’m understandably skeptical. But that was Paul, and it was years ago. On this particular Saturday night in late summer, the person lying in his death bed was my uncle Red. He lay there awkwardly with a respirator strapped to his face, his eyelids fluttering briefly every few minutes, like butterflies wafting toward nectar-filled flowers. He gasped for air even with the oxygen pouring into his body. While everyone waited with bated breath, my mother began to write down figures on a notepad, muttering about three packs a day for x years means x cigarettes per year, which means this much money, and… …He stopped breathing. Someone let out a cry. I saw it happen; and honestly, it was nothing. No last words, or actions, or anything. My mother instructed me to collect the rest of our family, who sat in one of the hospital waiting rooms. The weight of this message I was carrying made me feel like Atlas. As I arrived in the waiting room, the family was watching some movie on TV with giant explosions and mushroom clouds. They barely noticed me and kept their attention on another chain of explosions. Finally, I coughed. “He’s…you know…dead.” Immediately, they jumped from their chairs and hurried down the hall. I shuffled behind them sheepishly, wondering if uncle Red had even realized he was dying in that one moment. Or did his death just happen, and that was it? In a few days he would be ashes spreading over a green cemetery among the synthetic flowers and granite headstones, eventually travelling with the wind to gutters in the street and the heart of the city. I’d leave the cemetery then, as my aunts and uncles and cousins sob and moan, all taking long drags off their cigarettes. “This short story was written for Dr. Geyer’s Intro. to Creative Writing class. Inspired by my uncle’s death from lung cancer, my intention in this piece is to attack cigarette companies and address the irony of people killing themselves everyday without having a second thought of the people they are affecting.” 29

Broken Ink

Robin Kronberg • Digital Photography “This piece is intended to induce in the viewer a sense of relaxation—the bliss of having nothing to do on a nice day.”

Volume 44

Elizabeth Fonte • Digital Photography “‘Kape’ means coffee in Tagalog, a common language in the Philippine culture, which constitutes my ethnicity. My dad ordered an Americano coffee when we were in Toronto, and I decided to take a photo of him for my Documentary Photography class project. I genuinely love this piece because it gently knits my ethnic background with the culture in which I grew up.”

Broken Ink

by Isaiah Cohn

She holds what was once her baby exchanging tears for his blood. A mother trying to hold in her screams with a bloody hand. She paints her lips.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I wanted to write a piece that was different than spoken word, but one I wanted to be proud of. I wanted to provide a shocking image that shows pain and anguish.â&#x20AC;?

Volume 44

Maria LaRocca • Digital Photography “This musician was appealing to me almost immediately. I found his music to be soulful and heart wrenching in the best possible way and knew I had to try to capture the raw beauty of what I was witnessing.”

Broken Ink

Volume 44

by Brady Morris

“Inspired by a song of the same name, this poem seeks to capture a warrior’s sense of apprehension as he or she leaves home for war in strange and unfriendly lands. The dark imagery works to evoke the same sense of dread in the reader.”

You march. The canyon, unfamiliar with the sun, sprawls out ahead like a gash on the northern landscape, the black river at its core exposed like an artery, lifeless, yet still flowing, its blood the water, liquid night. You feel the eyes, the hands, the warmth of the distant homes and cities at your back, not so easily forgotten. Trail mud has invaded your every sensation, and another timeless stretch of marching brings you to river’s edge, when someone cracks a joke about a bath. No one laughs. The dock clings to the bank, crammed between rock walls its creaking ferries sit leashed in silence, slapped by dark waters against their hulls, rocking like mourners. Across the river, the canyon wall rises to the frozen wastes that wait to swallow your warmth, to numb your soul. The river, ever-flowing, is cold, constant, oblivion, the chilled air blowing across the black waters, condensing your breath, and like the cold you are aware that each of you who taking up an oar will soon replace it with an axe, a bow, a sword to fight the foe of your fathers, of your grandfathers, to strike against that which threatens to devour all. The challenge burns in your mind, as your father’s blood burns in your chest, driving you ever forward, daring you to take up the oar, to face that which is every man’s greatest fear: the ones who crossed the river, and never came back. Your mind turns to those who did return, as dead as the dark boundary you now cross between your realm, and theirs. Spray from the hull numbs your face, when the drums begin their rhythmic pounding against your ears. You row. Your arms start to burn with each pulse of the drum and stroke of the oar, until you sink into the slap, pull, slap, pull, of heavy oars against heavier waves.

Broken Ink

Connor Turner • Film Photography “This is my favorite place to take pictures. When my sister (Martyn Turner) and I need a break from the world around us we come here and take pictures.”

Volume 44

Phylesha Hiers • Digital Photography “Children are so interesting because they are developing their sense of the world. Their opinions change so often because of the knowledge they gain every day. I think this photograph captures the innocence and curiosity a child has.”

Broken Ink

by Emily Short Tulips touch in daisy grass, “Will he love me, will it last?” Drawing “Love me!” in the sand, Lines of fate are in her hand — all is as it will be. Petal softly rosy lips Eyelids tender to the kiss. Whisper gently breath of May Baby laughed her fear away — all is as it should be. Black-eyed susan bent to earth, Bird of summer on its perch. Flag and Lily once did stand, Falling now upon the land — all is as it could be. Riddle future, riddle past Iris eye is fading fast. Long time far away it seems In the skies of indigo dreams — all is as it would be.

“This poem reflects my work in painting and photography in which I also consider renewal and remembrance, and the spark of life.”

Volume 44

by Patrick Sanders Just as I realize other lives in your past reflect feelings you once had, I drown in the premise of being just another one, until your eyes tell me Never, and together we are whole, behind the walls of the world, reclusive in our desires against what is allegedly of nature, carefully pressed together, with knowledge that we are gods of our own.

“Whenever I’m inspired I handwrite poetry in a notebook. I take Wordsworth to heart by pouring out my emotions before going back to edit what I have written. This particular poem was inspired and written for someone close to my soul.”

Broken Ink

by Ashleah Hudson For Julia Herbert and the many other women who have suffered the same fate. Unprepared for the storm, I cower in the corner like a small, caged animal. Your thunder-voice roars – “bitch”, “cunt”, “whore” – as your lightning-fists strike my tender frame. You bathe me in a flood as red as the roses you once showered me with. I pray for the tempest to subside, shaking like an autumn leaf barely clinging to its limb, and I regret ever seeking shelter. With a flash of revolving steel and two booming claps of thunder, the storm finally ends. Floating freely towards the light, an angel by my side, I watch with great relief as the fires of Hell consume you – a nightmare over, a vow kept.

“A friend of mine told me the story of a woman whose husband killed her and then killed himself. It had been an abusive relationship and the details shocked and saddened me. ”

Volume 44

by Rebecca Barnwell The media promises “raw footage” to distant eyes, who gawk and awe over the carnage and chaos like patrons at an ancient coliseum.

While real people suffer— the stabbing aches of hunger, the destitution of financial crisis, the mournful search for the remains of loved ones—in this real world.

I watch the cars and boats tumble over one another like a child’s tub of toys; playthings tossed in waves of turbid water.

But it is so far away, isolated overseas… that it becomes myth, a story with pictures shared on the ten o’clock news.

Indifferent hearts join the indignant, who believe that their war gifts to Hiroshima and Nagasaki were generous enough: apathy for a shattered nation.

A foreign mother searches for her baby stolen from her arms by a water demon, while I tuck mine away in his crib, thankful for the peace and quiet of a sleeping child.

Facebook games offer special rewards for donations to a relief fund. Gamers rejoice for the new worthless items for their fake farms where they harvest fake crops, fake friends, and earn fake money.

In my solitude, I wondered— What if America was broken and my homeland drowned? Then I wept for my selfishness and prayed for the childless mother.

“This piece was inspired by the tsunami that devastated Japan in March of 2011. I was appalled at how indifferent so many people felt here in the United States. This poem was completely cathartic and I cried as I wrote it.”

Broken Ink

Lauren Jones • Acrylic on Canvas “This painting was inspired by a close friend’s dog. He is clumsy and comical, which is what this painting attempts to portray of him. In this particular painting, he is playing in the snow.”

Volume 44

by Cayley Smith You were abused as a child. I wasn’t abused. I had a good childhood. You were abused as a child. Your father beat you. No he didn’t. My father was a good man. He loved me very much. You were abused as a child. Your father beat you. He would drink and take his anger out on you. My father never drank in excess. He never laid a hand on me. You were abused as a child. Your father beat you. He would drink and take his anger out on you. Those scars on your arm are from being struck with a broken bottle. The scars are from falling out of the tire swing in my backyard. My father never beat me. You were abused as a child. Your father beat you. He would drink and take his anger out on you. Those scars on your arm are from being struck with a broken bottle. Your job makes you anxious because your boss reminds you of your father. I don’t remember being abused. You were abused as a child. Your father beat you. He would drink and take his anger out on you. Those scars on your arm are from being struck with a broken bottle. Your job makes you anxious because your boss reminds you of your father. You’ve made yourself forget so you can function every day. My father doesn’t talk much when I go home for Thanksgiving. You were abused as a child. Your father beat you. He would drink and take his anger out on you. Those scars on your arm are from being struck with a broken bottle. Your job makes you anxious because your boss reminds you of your father. You’ve made yourself forget so you can function every day. You need to get past your abuse so you can live a healthier life. Come back for a few more sessions and you can become emotionally stable again. You can’t do this without help. The fees are worth it. You need help. You need help because you were abused. I was abused as a child. “There are a lot of less-than-reputable psychiatrists out there, who will try and make you think you’re much worse than you are to get your money. They’ll implant false memories of abuse into your mind, to make you distrust your family and yourself, when in reality the only abuse in your life is from them.” 43

Broken Ink

Dora Robinson • Digital Photography “I had to use spotlights for an art project and I was amazed at the detail that came out when a light was placed behind this flower. I love the contrast between the black and white values.”

Volume 44

by Benjamin Mitchell

A boy wanders the wasteland of a ruined planet. This world was once a beautiful

land; with oceans of green plains, and the seas as clear as glass. Then the planet died; it died when the sky grew black, the wind howled, and then the darkness came like rain. Now only dust and sand remain. Where great cities once stood nothing but shattered frames remain. A boy wanders the wasteland. He has never felt warmth, but he does not feel the cold. He knows not how to smile, knows no joy, but there is also no sadness. He is a void, apathetic; he cares for nothing; as nothing has cared for him. A ship descends from the heavens. Dull grey sinks to the surface. Four men and a woman exit; they are not human, but they are close. So many species exist in this universe it is impossible to identify one from the other without a trained eye; they are simply called people, for they possess the same quality as humans; the ability to love, hate, and deny their baser instincts. One thing is clear; they are scavengers. Still, there are worse professions; at least they only steal from the dead. Collecting the various useful remains is a hard living, but it’s better than starving. They set about their work; it takes them several hours, and they find little of use. Rather than leave right away, they decide to make camp and rest. One of the men, not the captain, complains that their journey here was nothing but a waste. He starts to complain more but his words freeze in his throat. Across from him stands the boy, just at the edge of the light of their camp. The boy is emaciated his cheeks sunken so that his teeth show their impression on his flesh. His eyes are sharp with solid red pupils. The men back away slowly, fear wells up inside, nothing should be able to survive here; the words resonate in their minds. Evil, the men think and slowly back away towards their ship. The woman stands transfixed, a strange feeling burst forth from her chest. Tears roll down her pale blue cheeks falling to the tattered cloak she uses to protect herself from the sands. She walks forward slowly; a strange maternal instinct drives her forward; the boy doesn’t move. She stands right before the boy, and still he does not stir. Ever so slowly the woman pulls off her cloak, and wraps it around the boy, protecting him from the wind and sand. Her arms cross his back, an embrace, something the child has never known. A strange warmth spreads through the boy, and his eyes shift; the scarlet fades, and only a pale blue remains against his sheet white skin, he no longer appears evil; only a pitiful soul in need of aid. Ever so slowly the boy’s arms rise up, and grasp the woman shirt, it seems like the natural thing to do, the boy does not understand, but this feels right, he tells himself. A voice rises in the back of the boy’s head, ‘you are evil, this is not your place;’ the voice tells him. He ignores the voice; this feeling is too good to let slip away. The men slowly come closer to the woman and boy; he sees them and for the first time in his life he smiles. The men fear him no more. They leave the ruined world together, and the scavengers have gained a new member of the ships family. The boy grows quickly learning everything the people on the ship have to offer. Time rolls onward, and the boy learns of happiness and joy. All the while, the voice in the back of his mind is constant. ‘You are evil! You do not deserve kindness. You will only bring pain and destruction to them. You are a plague, a destroyer. You cannot 45

Broken Ink

change it. It is your nature.’ The boy ignores the voice, shutting it out, but still it presses against his consciousness, constantly pushing at the barrier, that the boy constructed to seal it away. Time moves on as nothing can stop its progress. The family experiences success as well as failure. Even through the hardships the boy continues to smile, even the worst of conditions is better than being alone and cold wandering the wasteland. The boy is almost an adult, so the ship descends to a world full of life to celebrate. The mother sheds tears; the boy has grown so fast; ‘only a short time ago I held him in my arms while he slept;’ her thoughts are not private for the rest of the crew can read her mind as if she were an open book. They all move through the market singing merrily, drinking, and dancing in the street. The boy stops as the sun in the sky begins to set. His eyes lock onto the sky as the swirling darkness of night begins to spread. ‘It is time. I tried to warn you. You are evil. It is your nature. You have lived this fantasy for long enough, and you cannot stop what is about to come. This life, will only cause you pain. I pity you, but this is what you are. You are a destroyer.’ The voice that was a constant nagging at the back of his mind faded with its last words nothing but a whisper in the echoing silence. ‘Hot, I feel so hot,’ he screams and grabs at his head as a sharp burning pain scorches his mind. He opens his eyes, and stares at the blackened sky. Gone are the pale blue, exchanged with the scarlet, like blood, the whites are gone as well, only shadows remain. The darkness descends like rain swallowing the world as the wind howls wiping all life from the planet. The family of scavengers turns to ash. The mother reaches for her son, but she to turns to dust dispersed by the wind. Eval, the destroyers of worlds, that is who they are. They are creatures that are hated by all things living. They were so dangerous that their species was hunted to the brink of extinction. Time passes and memory turns to history, history to legend, legend to myth, and finally even myth is forgotten; how the last of their kind survived is a mystery, but that is what he is, the last Eval. A boy wanders the wasteland of a ruined planet. He has forgotten his family, only a strange feeling remains. He is alone and cold. The boy’s eyes look to the sky and a single tear rolls from his scarlet eyes. Not quite a memory, but a feeling. A feeling of lost warmth and joy, A hollow feeling sets in; the boy knows sadness even though he cannot remember joy. He feels cold, but does not know what will make him warm. What was once apathy; is now sadness and loneliness. A boy wanders the wasteland, cold and alone.

Volume 44

Valerie Johnson • Digital Photography “This piece is one that I am working on as a self-promotion. I feel that this photo epitomizes the stress and exasperation shared by those who work full-time and go to school.”

Broken Ink

by Justin Edwards Where has It gone? Whatever It was, or rather Whatever It is, That source of inspiration, That sudden relief from exasperation, That which fed and fueled my desire To spill my heart, my mind, my soul On paper until the time I tire. What else shall I call It? For I would have to know, That is, if I expect them to show Me the direction in which it took its leave. How am I to help them, help me to see? To help me find that which is truly, Only in my mind, That in which I am too meek and weak To discover for myself. Alas it is lost — I let It go the day I became selfish, The day I chose to no longer partake in What many call “giving a damn.” And what caused It to leave? Was it heartbreak? Yes. Because of her? No — and yes. Yes it was partly her, It was she, it was them,

It was the — The thing, something, anything That I felt failed or let me down, Most of the time it was myself, But the female that triggered the change, It was the wasted time, the wasted words, Energy, time and space in which I could have Used to do what? To become this? Well yes, I suppose so, I suppose to grow sometimes we must let go, I had to let go of a part of who I was To become who I am today I held on to the abused heart that I had left And gave up the part that “gave a damn.” At least for a while, For one can’t truly be both, Ambitious and apathetic, So in that time alone I have grown, I feel that I have cleansed the grit, Healed a bit, and learned what it was That was preventing me from becoming a man. Even now I don’t like to claim that title, And still, I believe I’m well on my way, And by the way, I believe that in a way I am what I’ve been searching for all this time. An epiphany? It may possibly be, They say you have to love yourself

Volume 44

Before you can love someone else, And with every step I’ve been doing just that. But I hope it will eventually, inevitably, Not be a journey I have to make alone, Although I’ve given up on the females of my past I haven’t found it in me to give up on her, In a way she’s driven me this far And though I admit to stumbling A few times along the way I’m more than sure that I will catch up to her, When the time is right. Side by side with our parallel strides Hand in hand we will travel Down this path that is our lives.

And so I ask again — Where has it gone? Or rather, where has it been? Because I’m starting to feel it again, Wherever it went it returned With a changed flame and a different burn, Its calmer now, quieter, pure, Its understanding, content, mature. Although it burns steadily along, The heat from its flame is just as strong, I find that I am finally becoming content, For with progress and potential, success is imminent. I’ve become quite the optimist and rightfully so, For each day is a step Into what was once a future we didn’t know, If I maintain stepping in the right direction I’m bound to reach the horizons gleam, I will find her and the rest of the elements Of what I now refer to as my dream. Where has it been? A purposeless question to ask again, I’m just glad it didn’t blighted, For once again man and muse are one, united.

“In the past two years I’ve only written a few pieces. After a while, I began to feel out of touch writing. I feared that I had lost my ability to write poetry, something that I used to define myself. One midnight I randomly felt inspired and came up with this. The piece is me questioning myself and experiencing a catharsis all at once.”

Broken Ink

by Isaiah Cohn She was the nicest of girls from the nicest of worlds only child raised right the most precious of pearls. Her parents were elated because she wants to get educated and she has a chance to make it. She left home for the first time and committed her first crime. She fell in love with a man for the pride in his chest. He made his life seem hard like he was trying his best, but he was lying about the severity of it which such clarity he spoke and she was loving him for it. Now she is deceived, he got her on her knees. She don’t even know what she needs… she should be prayin’ tonight, but he’s stayin’ the night Then he tells her that he loves her just to make it alright. At least, that’s what it seems—she sees a future in her dreams. He sees one night, or two weeks, or one month, nah—that’s too much Now he’s rollin’ around in her sheets…thinkin’ Tryin’ to find TLC so you know he’s creepin’. She don’t even know what he’s doing on the weekend. When he comes home he is reekin’ of all kind of scents and she seems to have lost her common sense. She’s doing a lot of things she aint used to. Now she’s feeling used too She’s drinkin’ tonight; she could use two She’s not feelin’ alright. If she stands-she cries, so she is fallin’ in depression laying on her back she’s going to teach herself a lesson. She opens up her thighs, and then closes her eyes… When will it end? Slept with so many men— she can’t find a friend. Now she is diggin’ She can’t go to church because no salvation in religion. Now she is trying to find a reason for living. She should be prayin tonight, but she’s holding a knife she will cut across her wrist just to make it alright. Now she is laying there…bleedin. She should have used her head tonight, but she’s dead tonight.

“This piece is about a young woman coming from a nice life, but encountering the wrong relationship at the wrong time of her life. It could not end any other way than tragedy.”

Volume 44

by Elizabeth Fonte A wind blurs reality— The Japanese maple wrinkles reds and rustic browns— a sweet lavation of star-shaped contours washing their shadows on his open back. We lay bronze like sleeping urns on unfurled silk, relics unearthed after a violent storm. We have discovered each other. Our secrets, ambitions, quiet responses that have echoed their souls through the veil of that fragile maple. We are fragile selves, groping in the shadows, flesh trembling in the flash of the sun as we find that vessel of peace which we yearn to fill with our noble hearts and sacred ashes before we watch them crumble and whisk away to some forgotten crevice. In my still silence, he stirs like the leaves in their mistral state of biting demur. But I lay my head on his chest—smooth and hard like the hot stones that sit by the cool, rushing stream, whose wandering course meanders, transcending our penumbrae to fleeting eternity.

“This is an imitation of one of Carl

Phillips’ poems I wrote for Professor Seeger’s Poetry Workshop class. As a poet, Phillips is a muted sensualist, and I wanted to capture the same tone and style in this poem. This piece was initially inspired by the Japanese maple tree.”

Broken Ink

by Amy Agnel

If you like, I’ll walk with you to sacred places like Sand River between Bear Pit Lane and Bluebird Hill in the heart of Hitchcock woods. If you walk eastward fifty steps or so to where the river of sand widens by a fallen monarch tree pierced by a thousand tiny ants far from the low rumble of the world on a November Monday morning where crickets, squirrels, and birds commute; and withered leaves and pine needles crackle into softness under your step; and a few remaining ocher leaves dare not to bow… here, you’ll find the God that speaks to me. Time is your only tithe in this cathedral of light and crimson gold. You won’t sit straight on hardwood pews, among starched white collars, and bored little boys melting onto floors. No, you will lie down under early morning’s shadow and get sand in your hair, sinking your fingers into its coolness from the night. Above, you will watch the sun torch the tops of golden trees against a deep blue sky. Autumn drops her glory in a nonchalant way and you will wonder if one ocher leaf will land on you, but if it doesn’t, the sun will soon lean down, and kiss your forehead. And from here, my friend, you will go in peace.

Volume 44

“I discovered the Sand River which flows through the Hitchcock Woods soon after moving to Aiken. I have heard of a legend that an Indian brought his dying daughter here to be healed. True or not, there is something very special about this place. If you have not walked in these woods, I hope this poem will inspire you to go there.”

Martyn Turner • Digital Photography “‘It’s the real thing.’ Vintage photography makes you feel like you have stepped back in time. Through this photograph, I brought the idea of the print ad to life, making this couple advertise the true meaning of love being ‘The Real Thing.’”

Broken Ink

S T A F F Valerie Johnson

Maria LaRocca Degan Cheek

Brady Morris

Karl Fornes

Justin Edwards John Chambers

Rebecca Barnwell

Celia Gary

Patrick Sanders Felicia Ireland

Our staff would like to send a special thanks to everyone who helped make this year’s edition of Broken Ink possible. For all who submitted work, we cannot have this magazine without your hard work and talent. Thanks to the professors who took time to judge pieces for the Washington Group Awards and acted as our mentors. Ginny Southworth and everyone on the Student Media Board, thank you for all of your support and feedback. We are grateful to Todd Lista for choosing this year’s Ink Splat Award winners. Also, thank you to Christina Berkshire and Abe Kalsbeek for your guidance even after your years of hard work on the magazine. You left us a legacy that we hope to uphold. Lastly, thanks to the readers! This one’s for you!

Volume 44

The 2012 issue of Broken Ink was created in Adobe InDesign CS 5.5, Adobe Illustrator CS 5.5 and Adobe Photophop CS 5.5. Fonts include Adobe Garamond Pro, Trebuchet MS, Postino Std and Minion Pro. We would also like to thank the creators of the following fonts and brushes for letting us use them free of charge: Aerojones NF, Blitzkrieg, Selznick Normal, Selznick Remix, Creampuff, East Market, Dubba Dubba, UppenArms NF, Conga Brava Std, Fabian, and Grunge Brush by Aramisdream.

University of South Carolina Aiken 471 University Parkway Aiken, SC 29801 broken-ink.org Broken Ink