.
>^.^^#^j
.^S/fm^fAr^r/f Literary Advisor Dr. Wayne Cox
Literary Staff
Jill
Ayers
Cassie Kolasky
Maghan Lusk McAdams
Ashley Jess
Sopolosky
Design Advisor Eric Whitlock
Layout Design Danielle Webb
Photography Kristy Eppolito
aoob
C^
i_^^^ .=^â‚Ź'^^â‚Ź'.)
is
a
statement of arts and letters dedicated to
all
things we as artists strive for, a chance to allow our voices to be
heard. This potters,
is
a
collaboration of graphic
and photographers.
We
artists,
painters, poets,
have one thing to say to you.
The
striking electric light strobes saturate
His believers — parasitical sponges seeing only red, blue and green.
They
give their tithe,
devoted and faithful to the electric light deity.
This god that
summons
sits
in the center
the sea of souls to gather around.
Attending mass in half-hour increments they giving their
Baptized into the
life
life
to the divine light.
of flipping through
the waves of electric light religion,
channeling their souls to the screen,
connected
to a cable wire
that passes through the brain.
Cliff Burgess
Stacey
Adams acrylic
///i/lyMf/irM^m^/^ I
my summer working in a store among the fat, overripe adolescents
spent
them find
to help
discs they
and the occasional empty,
won't buy,
dropped
to clear the carnage of carelessly
discs
plastic shells left in their wake.
Call security again.
My
clothing too heavy and horridly ugly, a penalty I
of
retail
earn for knowing the dull
management; and
lifting the discs to
be scanned,
as
my
I
stand
art
among them,
thoughts float beyond
my monotonous task of scan, open, organize — to my life where nothing is so simple, after all
—
life
does not come with
a
packing
slip.
Confrontation comes in clusters like
too
much
product, in one shipment lumped;
which
1
cut, tear
open, and sort well.
Another email comes
more
more papers and
lusty teens to
watch
as I
in the droning, cluttered, yet efficient
of
my retail management
all
in,
projects to complete, to file;
do
it all
manner
through the summer. Jess Sopolosky
>/4^; I
have a television that as
The
an unwanted
set is in
my box as a
is
brave, emotionless
how
quiet time
energetic;
it
obeys
it
golden retriever would,
my TV is
happened.
it
do-it-yourself kit,
when I want some in.
my place,
where, why, and
Just like a
broken
would;
shogxin warrior has to be
RCA explains when,
a^ trained
gxiest
the center of
pupil in the center of the eye,
like the
like
up my studio apartment
fills
after
me
it
has been
sees different actions
everyday as a
commercial
pilot sees different cities
during his
flights
unlike
my girlfriend who it
ask if she looks
does not care about staying
up
late at
to watch Emerils'
my television
is
its
obesity
night
cooking show
always there to help
just like the
fat,
my pillow
Antoine Robinson
me
sleep
^le
/m^^r^^(^m/aw^i
The marble holds the running steam Her weakened eyes fade to the floor I feel the warmth and I want more
My lonely day she will redeem This lovely woman,
I
esteem
To keep her
close I'd start a
Tonight she
lies
without
But more than ever she
a
war
snore
will
dream
And here, I am all she will need But to me she will never cling My embrace can only concede Her departure
is
like a sting
My sorrow continues to breed For I am just fabric and string. Reb(
She
Amanda digital
Lyle
photograph
WmMeWmr/f Among piles
of sand used to a
It
fill
the graves
towering magnolia stood.
was hollow on the inside;
draped over
a crinoline
its
leaves
of branches.
On days when my father stood behind the oak pulpit, delivering eulogies I
hid under the magnolia,
among
the smooth, waxy leaves and heavy blossoms.
I
played in the dust, stirring
it
with a
small finger until clouds of grit choked the sand used to
fill
lay waiting, always waiting,
I
me
the yawning holes that
behind me.
scattered the thick white blossoms until
on my tongue;
the heady fragrance rested until
it
chased away the
on
days
I
taste
of death,
hid under a magnolia.
Sarah Swofford
Beneath the I
lie
Perhaps I
soil
you stand upon,
here to rot and watch the world go by. I
am
bored;
never liked to remain
still,
Life was like a tiny prison.
In death
I've
found freedom.
My sadistic humor, my lack of faith, my anti-conformist spirit is welcome here. Perhaps I'll push out of my eternal cradle, and reach up to you who visits my grave, to grab I
as I
your ankle quickly- then
will listen
with the pleasure
I
release, retreat-
never found in
life,
you scream with horror.
will cackle in the
and you
will
jump
wondering what never to stand
is
same deathly tone
I
suppressed in
life,
away; that ghastly
upon
a
sound beneath the stone-
grave again.
Jess Sopolosky
Nearby
The
a
wren
cries out,
An August and auburn
rain invades
I
my
sight,
leaves curl, taking flight.
Raking them?
I
never bother.
pray for spring buds, dear Father,
—and guide my That
soul to do what's Right.
last line
My prayer when
"Mother."
wrind pulls trees toward each other.
all life's I
was an afterthought.
is
incomplete
at best,
wars have not been fought.
should not
These scattered
sit
alone
leaves will turn
while
all I
do
is sit
at rest.
and
rot,
and jest.
jAmber Dumas
../fm-rfA'^//
The as
I
salty air
caught in I
shift
my
lungs
onto the huge, slippery rock.
step carefully
Now
permeates
a
my
position of contrapposto,
full
weight forward
—
landing both feet on the ocean-drenched boulder.
The
sun's vibrant rays caress
my arms and legs —
with long, luminescent fingers
leaving a slight impression of golden fingerprints.
The choppy, green water foams and churns beneath me, -
lapping
Gazing down,
at
I
on the
my moistened see
my
reflection dancing
water's surface,
and the brightly bejeweled
Longing
feet.
to join
fish
them,
I
dancing beneath
it.
inhale deeply,
preparing to plunge into the liquid
crystal.
moment, I find myself floating backwards. The sun's rays are replaced by the
But, at that
obnoxious intensity of overhead
and the
lighting,
tantalizing waters that
would have enveloped me
now enveloped by
gold frame.
are
a gaudy,
Chris Bradley
Savannah Springer graphite
In
a
dark part of the
city,
Where people sleep on cardboard beds, Sui-vival takes on a new meaning; it means Getting through
a brutal
winter
Without catching pneumonia.
They roam
the streets looking to dig
Their next meal
like
up
an archaeologist.
People with malnourished bodies
Expose their ribs through their
An x-ray.
skin, like
Their discovery means new
life.
Forgotten by an entire world, they Live to see
if a
new day will bring
Second chance in
Where
And
the only light
smiles of those
a part
of the
a
city
comes from the hopes
who make
it
another day.
Jeffery Watson
Nicole Tyson oil
David Slone oil
The in
of
tip
its
my pencil
yellow uniform.
poses for a
moment
on a half-sheet of paper, marooning my thoughts, confining them to two narrow edges before they flee
They're fleeting
my grasp. at best,
trying to elude the graphite that pins
to the
No
them down
prisoners held
like
ground by stronger hands.
barbed wire here,
no razor
fence,
but with minds of their own they ignore a
and
slip
before
I
call to
attention
over the edge
can catch
Margaret B. Hayes
a
hand.
Nikki Fillion ceramics
S^M/.^w/iS^^e^^/e I sit
on
the dock in late Augxist
breathing in thick, humid, sweet
summer
air
my feet slowly in the lake warm like my bath, dead water my murky green reflection stares dipping
back
on
at
me; and
pierces through as
as raiy feet
stand weighted
the rotting wood, the sharpest splinter
my thick flesh
words sometimes do, certain broken words
like failure
shattered,
and committment,
mangled oak,
which cuts deep,
hits the
bone, and stings
in the fresh, bittersweet, heart-break
of the lake in
Jamie Ball
late
August.
Kelly Shaw
pen drawing
I
was just your average a
man — 2-5
kids, a pretty wife,
house in the best suburb of New York.
Each lawn spread out
like
patches of the same green quilt,
no blade of grass longer than
its
neighbors,
each house a carbon copy of the others.
I
worked on computers, and
thanks to constantly crashing servers I
spent a lot of time gone on business.
Milkawee called again,
me right away, I told my wife. kissed me and told me to hurry home.
they need
She
I
assured her
I
would.
The plane touched down, I retrieved my car from overnight parking, and started for the house. In the best suburb of another I
parked
city,
my car and greeted my wife with a kiss. I
was, after
all,
just
your average man. Sarah Swofford
m//i//^^ yf^c^f^
Don't pretend that these are tender moments. I
told
you
like this
There
that there
would always be days
where we swear under our breath.
are things neither will
comprehend
about the other, locked into the cruel vault of consciousness, hs. the orange flame
of your pining cigar whittles to ashes against the coolness of the sky, that
I
embrace you that
I
don't
like a mistress.
some jealousies
feelings
myself
tell
are better than others,
the one that wants you to
Then your head
I
myself
tell
know what thoughts or
come back
to
me.
crested with curls roiling
like the restless sea turns,
your cheek
brighter somehow, the kind folds
of your eyes speak
softly.
like vagrants, they say,
Come
at
the edges
let
us talk
our words the only
necessity that will leave us never satisfied.
Maghan Lusk
Rebecca Shaw acrylic
Kristy Eppolito digital
photograph
No
inspiration, only lack of sleep-
Am
I
to
be creative in
This asks too much,
My I
friend,
I
I
suffer
I
am
all
must
I
I
my
feet.
fate.
is late.
sleep.
give up.
creative notions gone.
not sure
I
Oh look — line I've
Abandonment
again, again.
—
theme too deep.
blending rhyme and
be unique before
try to
I fail
a
lacking; time to face
find no hope.
I'll
simple form mandate.
do not expect
struggle, merely
My sonnet,
this state?
this
can get through twelve.
muck.
this
Hooray! I'm almost done!
only gotten through by sweat and luck.
Petrarch
— he had
a
weird idea of fun.
Maghan Lusk
^/^ 'C^'e/^^o Wheat that
it
as this
is
sleeping underground, yet
will
I
vow
ripen in our eyes so long
know no wrong kneading of your brow
path goes unforked.
in dirt-caked palms, the
I
turned over now,
like fresh tilled rows,
the
your
mockingbird's love song
sickle spine, the
in your kind, upturned
soil,
mouth.
I've
walked alon^
befriending fresh horses, a polished plow, a
double harness wanting use, and must
place in thirsty earth to wait for the
my unfounded
fears
blooming heads of hope. Dust
reapers, clouds, soothsayers in oil-black tiers
darken the ground. Be rain, I
have lain fallow
Maghan Lusk
all
I
will
not
these winter years.
rust.
Bonnie West mixed media
Emory Cash acrylic
Heather Dowell
mixed media
This place
I
know,
so thick with trees
one wonders
if they,
like friends after a binge,
hold each other up.
So close are the
fabric's threads,
one could weave if
a net,
wool in hand were wound
from tree to tree. It would soon a covering be, but not for catching things.
This place stretches
No human
foot,
free.
not even mine,
disturbs this sanctuary
for
little
no one
things
ever sees.
Margaret B. Hayes
Dianna Morrow oil
I
have packed
my bags and
closed
Leaving the heaviest of burdens deep in
Only
a
more long and wearing miles
few
muddy wellies
after
tight,
my dark suitcase.
until peace
Leave your beaten, old suitcase Like
them
at the
and
serenity.
door,
an April shower.
Take off the anchor that has been tied around your ankle. Like a ball and chain weighing
Walk down Feet
on
for at least a while,
And all
you
all,
at the
it
brings with
you will do
your deep hole with endless
Closing
it
tightly,
door.
will escape the real
the baggage that
At the end of it Filling
a prisoner.
the sand, heart in the clouds.
Leave your worries
And
down
to the ocean, light as a feather,
and off I
will
it
world
it.
again.
issues
and such.
go back to
reality,
A crowded bubble full of confused faces awaiting failure. Tying I
The
this
slowly,
my ankle once again, make my way back home.
anchor around but surely,
black suitcase, full of clothes
Feels of
from
nothing but dead weight,
as
a
weekend spent
heavy
Antoine Robinson
as a
at
the beach,
bucket of wet sand.
Beth
Ann Johnson graphite
Dorian Gunnels digital illustration
Dianna Morrow oil
Amber Dumas acrylic