2015 Broken Ink Magazine by ronni golson

Broken Ink

Literary & Visual Arts Magazine USC Aiken • Volume 47 • 2015

Broken Ink 2015

CONTENTS & Literary A Fine Day to Fly a Kite

Marylyn W. Mason

A Lovely Ride

Alex Deal

An Old Soul

Sarah Marie Elizabeth Williamson

Beauty in Tiny Things

Marylyn W. Mason

Breathing is Easy but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Terrible at it

Brent Blackmon

Closing Time at the Store

Rachel Watson

Corazon Mal

Rachel Watson

Dark, Cold Night

Angel Albright

Drowning in the Day

Sarah Marie Elizabeth Williamson

Follow the Leader

Caitlin Butler

Forbidden Fruit

Brent Blackmon

Gray is...

Amanda Barton

Ink Tests

Brent Blackmon

Life Times in Season

Alex Deal

Madness

Cecilia Youndblood

Maiden-Mother-Crone

Sarah Marie Elizabeth Williamson

Mama and Gasoline

Carl Palmour Elliott III

Our River

Carl Palmour Elliott III

Party Animal 123

Rachel Watson

Paying to Attend

Caitlin Butler

Pursuit of the Question

Thomas Gardiner

Roleplaying

David B. Corder

The Wall

Sarah Chatelain

The Wages of an American Hero

David B. Corder

To Gild a Fire

Caitlin Butler

Wonder Woman Doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Have to Worry About Taxes

Ashton Hendricks

Yellow Tree

Elayna Hatchell

Our 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, visual, and audio arts throughout campus and the community. 1

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S & Contributors Visual

Audio

Abstract Bridge

Alyssa Anderson

Black Coffee

Nicholas D Moore 53

Ambrosia

Ronnica Golson

Come Through

Tenerio Hawkins

Caffé del Borgo

Mikalah Ramey

Eccentric Love

Caged

Daydream

Ashley Ellefson

Terrell DouglasWilliams

Brittany Burgess

Emma Jase

Sydney Herrick

Pinetrees

Garret Carrier

Eye of Horus

Alyssa Anderson

Lego My Ego

Frozen

Brittany Burgess

Terrell DouglasWilliams

Frozen Aspirations

Brittany Burgess

For Hip Hop

Funny Weather

Tamara Younce

Raushaun Michael

Gore Cutie

Chelsea Youell

Injured Cutie

Chelsea Youell

Just a Regular Friday

Ryan Mathis

Lady in Black

Ashley Ellefson

Linked

Sydney Herrick

Lying Laughter

Awards

Editor’s Note

Staff

Ryan Mathis

About Us

Mockery Passages

Brittany Burgess

Mother of Earth

Ieshia Bell

Colophon

Punk Goblin Cowboys

Jude Jackson

Review Process

The Face Not Fake

Ronnica Golson

This Freedom

Sydney Herrick

Trail of Light

Emily Johnson

Wild Ride

Mathis Ryan

Awards WG

Washington Group Award

Ink Splat Award

Established as an endowment fund in 2004 by Washington Group International, the Washington Group Award is managed by the USC Aiken English Department and is awarded to students who show exemplary talent in a piece of creative writing. All literary submissions are reviewed blind by a faculty committee to find works that displays such talent. 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 we would like to thank the reviewing committee composed of Dr. Mack, Dr. Geyer, and Professor Collins.

Poetry

The Ink Splat Visual Art Award recognizes outstanding artwork by the students of USC Aiken. Sponsored by the USC Aiken Art Department, the winners of the award were selected by Dr. Culler in a blind review.

1st Emily Johnson “Trail of Light”

2nd Ryan Mathis “Just a Regular Friday”

RB Roll Over

Beethoven Award

1st Brent Blackmon “Breathing is Easy but I’m Terrible at It”

2nd Thomas Gardiner “Pursuit of the Question”

3rd Brent Blackmon “Ink Tests”

Prose

1st Ashton Hendrix “Wonder Woman Doesn’t Have to Worry About Taxes”

2nd Carl Palmour Elliott III “Mama and Gasoline”

3rd Sara Chatelain “The Wall”

The USC Aiken Music Department proudly sponsors the Rollover Beethoven Award, which is awarded to a piece of student audio work that displays meritorious quality. The winner was selected in a blind review by Noura Gordon of Pyramid Music in Augusta.

1st Raushaun Michael “For Hip Hop”

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Forbidden Fruit By Brent Blackmon

“Never bite into fruit hanging from your own branch,” they warned, as we bloomed in the climax of spring  whilst the white-welted blossoms began to blanch.   You would bite your own tongue lest the troubles it’d bring  taint the breezes that’d flutter your flowering bed,  but my God, you belled sweetly--oh, the notes you would ring   would swell slowly. You’d sing for the ripening red  swimming low in your chest--your nectarine navel  prefacing your proud breast. Forbidden love fed,   I’d leave from your limbs if only I was able.

In the middle of a 30-day form poetry challenge, topics often become difficult to generate. Upon asking my friends for something I could write about, one of them blurted out “incest”. Unfortunately, I don’t back down from many challenges. ...YOLO.

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Just a Regular Friday By Ryan Mathis â&#x20AC;˘ Digital Photography

With my fire photography, I always try to capture the energy and detail of both the performer and the fire itself, and thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what I feel I was able to get in this photograph. 5

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The Wall By Sarah Chatelain “Entschuldigung, darf ich Dich bitte Fotografieren?” Harald blinked in surprise at the young American woman standing in the packed dirt front of him, asking to take his picture. She was bundled up in a bright blue quilted jacket with red piping, a matching scarf, red gloves, and thick jeans, but he could see her shivering in the brisk November cold, her breath clouding around her in a puffy fog. He looked down and observed the cause of her discomfort—bright white Nike tennis shoes, the bottoms stained brown from the dirt. Typical American mistake, he thought: if your feet get cold, it doesn’t matter how many layers you’re wearing, you’ll never get warm. American-made tennis shoes did nothing to insulate against the deep cold of German winter. The woman shifted slightly, beginning to grow uncomfortable under Harald’s scrutiny. She clutched a camera in her gloved hands as she looked expectantly at him, struggling to keep a smile on her face. A man and a small girl stood about ten feet away, presumably this woman’s family. Their matching bulky jackets confirmed Harald’s suspicion; most Germans only needed a good wool coat to guard against the frigid air. Not three days ago, Harald would have been forced to shoot this woman and her family just for interfering with his patrol. As an officer in the National People’s Army of the German Democratic Republic, his job was to patrol the “dead zone” between the East and West sides of the Berlin Wall, watching for intruders and potential escapees. However, in the few days since the East and West Germans had torn it down, Harald’s patrol was beginning to look more and more irrelevant. Great slabs of the cement barrier had been knocked over, and guarding against intruders was a lost cause. Even now, Harald was unsure how long his job would continue. These Americans were undoubtedly taking pictures of the wreckage. The little girl had a small rock hammer in her hands—so they were taking souvenirs also. As Harald glanced at her, the man pulled her closer to him, laying a protective hand on her shoulder. She looked to be around six or seven years old, with pink pudgy cheeks and blonde hair that was just beginning to grow brown at the roots.

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WG She stared at Harald with bright blue eyes, curiosity quickly winning over her caution. She broke into a wide grin as he met her gaze, revealing a gap in her teeth where she must have recently lost a tooth. The man shifted his footing and clenched his jaw, clearly not happy that Harald was giving his daughter so much attention. Harald returned his regard to the woman, whose smile was beginning to falter. “ Es tut mir leid ,” she said, turning away, “ Ich gehe weg.” Her prompt apology and statement that she would go away stirred Harald into action. As an East German, he had been told that Americans were generally selfish people who took what they wanted with no concern for anyone else. But this family didn’t seem to be at all like that—asking to take a picture and showing willingness to retreat when he didn’t grant permission. Almost surprising himself, Harald answered, “ Ja, Sie dürfen mein Foto machen .” He smiled to show his enthusiasm. He should have enough time to take a picture before the rest of his patrol arrived. The woman’s face lit up in an expression that reflected the little girl’s open grin. “Bitte! Bitte! ” she exclaimed as she started to remove the lens cap, struggling with her thick gloves. Harald gestured to the man and the girl to join him. After a moment, the man reluctantly nodded and removed his hand from the girl’s shoulder. Given permission to join, she excitedly skipped ahead, her short hair bouncing in the cold air and her breath clouding around her. As she reached Harald, she confidently stuck out her hand and said, “Ich heiße Sarah! Wie heißen Sie?” Her German was more natural that her mother’s. Probably a military family, Harald surmised, given the husband’s short haircut and stern demeanor. “ Ich heiße Harald! ” he answered, shaking Sarah’s hand. She bore a strong resemblance to his younger sister, and he couldn’t resist returning her enthusiasm. She grinned, already at ease with Harald. Her father cleared his throat and pulled her back slightly. The border was only eliminated for some, it seemed. The woman gestured for them to group together for the picture. The man shifted next to Harald, holding Sarah off to his side, his protective

hand holding her in place. As they began to smile, Harald heard steps from behind, the clear crunch of heavy boots on frozen earth. His heart dropped. He knew that sound all too well. It was his commanding officer approaching, an uncompromising older man who had been a firm believer in the Republic and strict enforcer of the rules. Oberstleutnant Mencken would not tolerate Harald’s interaction with the Americans. Harald’s stomach turned—what would become of him and this family now? The woman had been preparing for the shot, counting “Eins, zwei…” Before she could reach drei , she stopped, lowering the camera to reveal wide, panicked eyes. She must have seen Mencken in the viewfinder and realized the danger they were in. Beside him, the man turned and studied the intruder to the picture. His stance immediately grew defensive as he saw Mencken’s stern figure and he jerked the girl behind him. Mencken reached the group. “Was gibt es?” he asked Harald, his expression unreadable. While his breath also clouded around his face, there was no other sign that Mencken felt the penetrating chill in the air. His cold blue eyes glinted like chips of ice, piercing through Harald and filling him with apprehension. “Ein Foto,” he stammered, “Für das Mädchen.” Harald had heard rumors that Mencken had a granddaughter, and he hoped that he could limit his punishment by involving the little girl. Mencken’s face remained impenetrable. Suddenly, the girl wriggled out of her father’s grip and strode to Mencken. She stuck out her mittened hand and introduced herself to him. “Guten Tag! Ich heiße Sarah!” she declared, looking expectantly into his face. Mencken remained frozen, his eyes wide in shock at her precociousness. After a tense moment, his face broke into an uncharacteristically wide grin, his eyes seeming to warm in the radiance of the girl’s smile. “Ich heiße Franz!” he replied, firmly shaking her hand, “Lassen Sie uns ein Foto!” He gestured to the woman to raise her camera. Astounded by his permission, the group hesitantly reformulated around the new member. The woman began to count again, but before she reached drei , Mencken swiftly reached down, scooped up the girl and held her in his arms. She threw her arms around his shoulders as the camera flashed, capturing in the shadow of the shattered wall, their nearly identical grins.

My family was stationed in Berlin in 1989, and we made several trips to explore in the days following the fall. On one, we ran into a group of East German soldiers and my mother convinced them to take a picture. At the last minute, one of them picked me up and sat me on his knee, which utterly terrified my family and created a dramatic picture.

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Daydream By Ashley Ellefson â&#x20AC;˘ B&W Film Photography

This photograph was inspired by dreams. I love how the picture fades towards the top as if it were a dream that was fading out of oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind, the type of dream that once you wake up you instantly forget it, but somewhere in the back of your mind you remember that it was incredible. These are the dreams everyone longs for.

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Breathing is Easy but I'm Terrible At It Yellow Tree By Brent Blackmon

april suns always left streaks of yellow on your driveway before they sank. you laughed at how the flowers coughed on me along the bilirubin pavements on the way to your house I confused all the streetlights for sunsets and drowned in halogen tidepools in those evenings when the sidewalks ended but my thoughts of you wouldn’t maybe love is the sum of all the excuses we make for it, or I’m just too tired to pull myself to the surface

By Elayna Hatchell

Slowly becoming bare, like myself, The yellow maple leans into the setting sun. Dead leaves scattered in intricate patterns Around its trunk tickle my naked feet. Sunlight streams burnt orange between the leaves. They fall delicately, leaving traces, Brown speckles facing up towards the sky. The branches reflect, nude and vulnerable, say I know you. Others admire us from a distance As we embrace the changing passages of time, Careful not to reveal our true selves, Until the last leaf has fallen.

you roll the blades of grass through your grips, dusting your fingerprints with haptens and what-ifs. I’d like to blame you for every wheeze and rale but goddamnit I just can’t

The quickly-written product of rejection and personal revelations striking around the same time as a bad case of pollen fever. Spring can go suck it. Is it June yet?

I would like to thank Dr. Geyer and his Creative Writing class of Fall 2014 for encouraging me to write and, even more, to appreciate literary works.

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Caged By Brittany Burgess • Watercolor, Acrylic, and Pen on Watercolor Paper

I did this piece when I first moved out. It’s a reflection of how you’re safe at home “within your cage” and soon you’re outside that cage and “your comfort zone”.

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Abstract Bridge By Alyssa Anderson â&#x20AC;˘ Wax on Canvas

I have a bit of an obsession with wax and the process of using wax, and this was just the product of an idea I had to use popsicle sticks to mold/manipulate the wax. This is also a part of a series of blue pieces Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been working on.

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Closing Time At The Store

Ink Tests

By Rachel Watson

By Brent Blackmon

IIt’s closing time at the store. We are all ready to go— The employees really can’t take much more.

Rorschach blots fickle tears onto diner napkins in the diner bathroom. he can’t seem to bleach out the tessellated piss stains on his jeans: this one is a dog, that one is every drip of vision he could never catch at second glance the umbrellaed tables outside float through sidewalks full of ink like gondolas in the beerbuzzing phosphorescence; all the taverns emptied hours ago and nobody paddled home. they’re too awake, sprawled on rust-patches peppering the chairs half-drowned across the patio in bruise-tinted blots he scrubs his legs with wet paper, scrunched in the stall where he and Freud met to lock moth’s wings to butterfly lips; behind each other’s backs they graffitied the walls with lady bugs and hibiscus petals and rain splashes and melted Zheng He masks the marks with his jacket, double-knotted at the waist, and dissolves through the diner door. the sot-sodden patios, too, have drifted into the streets. he swims home, careful not to bare his stains to the ink.

The floors are shagged, The trash is done, And we are ready to see The last customer gone. There’s the regular guy, He’s always in here this late. That crazy lady from last week came back, And she brought her two kids, whom we all hate. That guy who’s stuck in the ‘70s is still here, piling high his buggy full of junk. One of those kids is now riding the electric cart And his mother isn’t stopping him. She’s an ignorant cun— “Hi, how are you doing today?” Even though I really don’t care. Just get your groceries and leave. Yes, I know this isn’t fair. If you’re the last customer, please get off the phone. It’s closing time at the store, And we just want to go home.

This poem is for anyone who works or who has ever worked in retail. There are always people whom we call “those people” that come in five minutes before closing time, and like to make a mess of the entire store. This poem is written from the point of view of a retail employee working at the front of the store who just wants to go home.

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Ink Tests is the probably-pretentious product of consuming way too much post-modern and surrealist art in the days leading up to a psychiatric health-related lecture. This piece wants to be whatever you make of it—at first glance or otherwise.

Mama And Gasoline By Carl Palmour Elliott III I smelled gas as soon as I got out of the truck. It was a blistering hot day, even for August in South Carolina. Sweat already covered my brow after riding with no AC, but now my whole body began to sweat. Standing in the heat was a lot worse than driving in it. I walked to the bed and lifted out two barrels full of fresh fuel. The drums felt light, not only because I’d done this exercise fifty times over the past month, but because I knew this was the last haul. It was all we needed. I carried the barrels over in front of the shed and started to jingle keys out of my pocket for the padlocks on the door. The smell was overwhelming now. When I opened the door, barrels were stacked to the ceiling. I managed to fit the last two just inside the frame of the steel shed, closed the door, and locked it back. My hands were hot from touching the metal. It had to be over 100 degrees. I hopped back into the truck and bounced through the yellow field and down the sloping redclay dirt driveway. A young George Strait sang on the radio. I got out of the truck at the bottom of the drive, and started walking towards the three acre catfish pond. I was headed to see Grady. While I walked, I thought back to when I first met him, about six months ago now. *** I was fishing the pond same as always. It was a warm day for early March, very pleasant. It was one of those days where I was enjoying the relaxing a lot more than the fishing. The breeze shifted. Someone walked up behind me, quiet as an Indian. It startled me when he spoke. “They bitin’?” “No sir. Who are you? I ain’t never seen anybody out here before.” My eyes bulged when I noticed the rifle loosely gripped in his right hand, the barrel pointed harmlessly at his toes. “Name’s Grady. I just bought this land here.” He spit. “You’re trespassing from what I can tell.” “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean no harm. I been fishing out here since I was little. Mr. Bodie, he used to own this land and he never minded, so I just kept on after he died. I ain’t never been told I couldn’t by no one. I swear on it.” He started to laugh. He thought it was funny that he’d spooked me. I wasn’t laughing. He was a commanding figure: 6’ 3” with an athletic build for an older man. His coarse grey hair was pulled back into

WG a ponytail and a matching beard hung to his chest. He wore blue jeans and a grey T-shirt. “Don’t worry about it, boy! I don’t mind you fishin’ out here one bit. Matter of fact, I’m glad to know ya. I haven’t met not one person since I moved here. What’s your name?” “John Archer,” I said plainly. “Archer, huh? Ain’t y’all kin to the Faulkners?” “No sir, not that I know of.” I was too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t even know a Faulkner. “Well, no one ever said I knew everything.” He said with a chuckle. He sat down beside me, pulled a silver flask out of his pocket and tilted it back long enough for the apple in his throat to bob twice. Then he offered it to me. I couldn’t ever remember drinking liquor this early in the day. But not wanting to offend my new acquaintance, I took a pull. Bootleg. I had drunk enough to know moonshine when I tasted it. He laughed after I drank it, even though I thought I’d kept a pretty straight face. It was strange sitting there with a stranger, but he seemed content to just sit there beside me and stare into the water. We both watched my bobber sit on the water peacefully. He offered me a drink, after a few more pulls, conversation began to flow. He was easy to talk to, mainly because of his quick smile and clear blue eyes. He told me how he just moved here from Georgia on account of losing his family in an accident. He said he couldn’t take being there anymore, too many memories. Since he told me something so personal, I told him about how I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do now that I was about to graduate high school and how my mama wanted me to go to college, but I didn’t think I wanted to. I knew we didn’t have the money to. He took a lot of interest when I said that. “Why do you want to go to college, boy?” He asked with a sincere look on his face. I was caught a little off guard. I stammered out, “Well, I don’t know. I guess to get a good job and make some money. Plus, my mama wants me to go.” He laughed, “One day mama ain’t gonna be there son, and you’re gonna have to make decisions on your own, like a man. And as far as making money, there’s plenty of ways to do that. Making money is easy, you just have to have a plan. And I got one, a good one.” He took another drink and

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passed it to me. “Oh yeah?” I said, feeling lightheaded and confident. “Well, you got a partner if you need one.” And I stuck out my hand. He didn’t take. “Can’t no mama’s boy be aparta’ my plan.” Before I could tell him I wasn’t a mama’s boy, he laughed and shook it. Then, with blue eyes full of life, he told me the plan... *** In the sweltering heat, I worked my way around the pond to Grady’s Winnebago tucked back in the woods. I found him stirring a mash barrel, a cigarette hanging out his mouth. He looked up before I had the chance to speak and said, “Got the last load, Jonny?” “Yes sir!” I said with a grin. He gave a loud rebel yell of excitement. “Hot damn, boy. I been itching to get this thing rolling, and now we don’t have any more excuses. We definitely got enough gas, and everything is planned out as good as it could be. We’re gonna do it tomorrow. You go home and get ready. Meet me back here tomorrow.” “You got it,” I said. I started to feel like I was floating. My heart was beating in my chest. I don’t really remember the drive home. It seems like a blur now. I do remember wanting to tell my mom that I loved her. I wanted to tell her goodbye. But when I got home, I found my mother sitting on the porch of our trailer, drunk with a friend. I didn’t mind her drinking. She had her reasons. My dad had left the both of us when I was just a boy. That was real hard on her. It hurt me to think about my mother. She deserved more than a singlewide. I was gonna get her more. “Hey, Jonny,” she said in between puffs on her cigarette. A wave of emotion came over me. I wanted nothing more than to cry and tell her everything. I wanted to tell her every bad thing I’d ever done. I knew she would hold me, and love me, and tell me I had a good heart. But I couldn’t. I never have. A man can’t do stuff like that. “Hey Mama,” I replied. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just looked at her. She smiled back happily. She was still beautiful—tobacco, alcohol and age hadn’t done her any favors though. I told her goodnight, walked in the house and went to bed. Sleep was hard to come by. The world was hard to figure I thought. There’re some bad people that got everything they want and more, but an angel like my mama don’t have nothing. I tossed and turned thinking about that. I ended up sleeping late. When I finally woke up I had the same kind of feeling I’d get before a football game: nervous but excited. I dressed myself and went downstairs to the kitchen. My mom was already gone to work. I looked through the cabinets

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and fridge for something to eat, but I knew I was just doing it out of habit. I wasn’t hungry. I grabbed my bulky, hooded Carhartt jacket from inside the hall closet then went to the garage. There, I grabbed a hammer and a pair of work gloves just like Grady had told me. When I got to the pond. I started to think of how peaceful this place used to seem to me. It didn’t seem that way anymore. Grady was out in front of his house cleaning his guns on top of a folding table. He had two guns. A Remington 30-30 and a 9mm. He had taught me how to shoot, load, and clean both of them. He was a good teacher too. When I walked up he smiled. “Nervous?” he asked. “Nah, not really, just excited.” I said. He saw me looking at the guns. “Don’t worry son. Remember, if everything goes to plan we ain’t gonna have to use these. But it’s just always best to be prepared.” “Yeah, I know. I don’t think I could shoot nobody anyway.” His eyes pierced into mine. “A man can do most anything when his life depends on it, Jonny. And it don’t make that man wrong, it just makes him alive.” I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded. “Alright. Well, let’s start loading up then.” We went to my truck and drove up the long drive to the shed. I unlocked it, and the smell of gas rushed over me. Grady stepped up beside me, grabbed the two barrels in the front that I had put there yesterday and set them in the bed of my truck. I followed suit. We stacked the barrels in my truck until there was no way to fit anymore. There was still at least ten left in the shed, but Grady said that we had enough. We were ready. Now all we had to do was wait. It was around one in the morning when Grady finally said that it was time. I stood up and put on my jacket that had been resting beside me. I zipped it up as high as it would go. Grady did the same with his. I got in my truck and started to drive. Grady followed in his old beat-up Ford. When we got into town there was no one in sight, and for good reason. It was 1:30 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, and the only bar in the county was out close to the Hampton line. I parked on the end of Main Street like we had planned. Still no one. I got out of the truck and began doing what we had been talking about doing for the last six months. I sat a barrel of fuel in front of every other shop window. Grady followed behind me pouring gas from an open jug connecting all of them. When we were done the whole street was covered and we still hadn’t seen a soul. We both got into my truck. Grady looked at me and said, “Remember boy, we’re doing all these people a favor. They all got insur-

ance on these buildings.” He looked into my eyes. “Remember son when you see blue lights, don’t get spooked, they ain’t gone be for you.” His eyes glowed orange from the street light. “Now get going. I’m setting this off in fifteen minutes.” I nodded and put the truck in gear. He handed me the 9mm. The gun felt heavy in my hand. I tucked it in my jacket pocket. He got out of the truck. I pulled up to the jewelry store twenty minutes later. It was positioned at the top of a popular shopping center, set off from the rest of the stores. I put the truck in park and killed the engine. I put my gloves on and tied a bandanna around the lower half on my face. I saw smoke rising behind me. This was it I thought. Its time. I gripped the hammer in my hand, put my book bag on, and started walking towards the store. When I got to the glass door, I swung the hammer. The glass shattered. Alarms began to sound. I broke the rest of the glass and stepped through the door. It was dark except for the flashing light of the alarm. I started breaking all the display glass, leaving each cabinet I came to bare. When I was halfway done sacking the store, I saw countless pairs of blue lights streaming in my direction. I wanted to run. I had to run. They were coming for me. The blue lights flashed in the window. I could see my mama’s eyes. The police cars flew past the store. They were headed straight for the smoke. I continued filling my bag. When I finished, the book bag was full. I stepped back through shattered glass, got in my truck and drove slowly to the pond to meet Grady. When I got to the pond and stepped out of the truck, I finally realized how bad I was shaking. I started to run around the pond towards Grady’s house. When I got out front, no one was there. I called for him. He stuck his head out of the Winnebago. “Jonny! That you sonny? How’d you do?” He said. “We got ‘em for everything they had!” I screamed and held up the bulging book bag. He smiled. “Good. Well, get inside and let’s see what all you got.” I ran to the steps of the camper and walked inside. The butt of a rifle smashed into my temple, and I fell over. My head was on fire. I was in a heap on the ground holding my face when I felt someone take the gun out of the back of my jeans. The rifle butt smashed into the back of my skull. I tasted blood. I couldn’t see. I heard my book bag being picked up beside me. He unzipped it and laughed. “I always liked you Jonny, but now? Now I love you.” I couldn’t move. My head was throbbing, aching, ringing. I heard him step out of the camper and quickly return. I smelled gas. I felt it wet my clothes. I heard someone shout from outside. “Sorry, sonny! I

truly am!” I could feel the heat before the gas trail even reached the camper. I lurched awake. I was on fire. My entire body contorted, and I thought about dying. My mama urged me to get up. I struggled up, engulfed in the flames. Belligerently, I stumbled out of the camper. I could only think of the pond. I staggered towards it and crashed into the cool water. It felt like a dream under the water. My body felt too heavy to move. My lungs screamed for air, and I exploded to the surface, baptized. I crawled to the bank and laid there for what felt like an eternity. Then with all the strength I could muster, I got in my truck and drove up to the paved road. I parked in the middle of the yellow lines and prayed for help. I remember waking up in the hospital with my Mama sitting next to me. I was bandaged from head to toe. Second degree burns covered most of my body. The doctors said if I hadn’t been wearing the heavy clothing, I’d probably be dead. The pain was uncontrollable. I laid there in agony. When the police came, I told them everything that happened same as it really did. They said I was gonna go to jail when I got better. They asked me a lot about Grady. I told them everything I knew. Nobody around town had ever heard of him.

I initially wrote this piece in Dr. Geyer’s creative writing class in the fall of 2015. “Mama and Gasoline” is a story about an eighteen year old kid who is convinced into helping an older man commit a crime for money. The setting is South Carolina in the early 90s. I’m from South Carolina and used a lot of my own experiences to create the setting and dialogue. The message I wanted to send is that crime never pays, and you can never go wrong with doing what your Mom would want you to.

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Lying Laughter By Ryan Mathis â&#x20AC;˘ Ceramics

I made this piece with Robin Williams in mind as a depression piece. Even trying to make this mask look like him, I wanted this piece to show that like Robin Williams, people hide their darker feelings behind laughter and put on a face to their friends and loved ones in order to make them not worry. Broken Ink 2015

An Old Soul By Sarah Marie Elizabeth Williamson I see The New Age Through my eyes; I feel The Old World In my soul; Mental limbs Stretch from this to that, Eventually severing The woman whole. Time refuses To recognize the state In which I have been subjected, A slave to the generation gap The number of my years but not My wits has placed me inside.

No, death does not speak. My memories And instincts passed down From mother to daughter Dictate my decisions in all Their subtle, inaudible demands. This connection Stems from a heavy heart And mind brimming with ideas Created in this day yet deemed Retro due to its inevitable nature Of being buried before its infancy And too old-fashioned for the majority’s Present peace of mind.

My youth Remains sturdy and intact, But my spirit pines for something more Than the decided laws And customs of this decade— Something ancient and dormant But not quite dead. I yearn To learn all my ancestry Might teach me— If I would just be quiet And play the part Of a holy priest and tame My tongue as if I were sworn To uphold confessional silence. My mind Balks at the idea Of maintaining this mute madness— Or is it my gender? Either way, my heart reminds My thoughts that all my ancestors Are dead. Will a whisper From the grave disturb the earth And rustle the rotting leaves Above the granite stone?

I have been called an old soul for most of my life, and I decided it was time to finally write a poem about what that might actually mean.

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Funny Weather B y Ta m a r a Yo u n c e â&#x20AC;˘ W a t e r c o l o r

This work was inspired by the drawings of children and their loose relationship with reality. I have paired the real forms of the hills and trees in the foreground with a free thinking child-like color palette to bring the viewer back to the time they were most excited by the smell of a fresh box of crayons.

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Trail of Light By Emily Johnson â&#x20AC;˘ Digital Photography

I took a glow stick ball and threw it across my house. The picture is the trail of light the ball made with my camera set on a long exposure.

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Follow The Leader By Caitlin Butler

Our dining room table wasn’t very old, but its soft surface was already scarred. Books of the Bible had been permanently etched into the grain with sharp pencils. Mama sat at the head of the table with a clipboard and pen, planning a menu. She asked for my help. I looked up from my book – the 5th grade math that made me cry – and squinted through my glasses at the Georgia pines as I thought. It was grocery day, the one day we went somewhere besides church. At the store, I walked close on Mama’s heels, trying not to kick them. My five younger siblings, dressed to match, paraded after me. Shopping was like driving in traffic. We wove past other shoppers, making halting progress as Mama stopped periodically: pasta … tomato paste … milk … not bread – we made our own. Abruptly, we stopped in an aisle. I hit Mama’s ankles. She turned around, I thought to scold me, but she said, “Cover your ears, kids. This song on the radio is bad.” We didn’t ask questions; If Mama said it was bad, it was bad – probably evil. We covered our ears and walked on, eyes forward, elbows out, like participants in a strangely somber game of follow-the-leader. As she led us down the coffee aisle, I took a chocolate flavored bean from underneath a dispenser and popped it in my mouth. It smelled sweet, but when I bit into the bean and sucked on it, I found it cruelly bitter and completely void of the sweetness its aroma promised. A new thought crept into my mind as the bitterness crept across my tongue. I put my palms back over my ears, and didn’t wonder about the noises I was blocking out. I did wonder if we looked funny. I had never wondered before, but marching there, hands over my ears and a train of matching brothers and sisters behind me, I suddenly felt conspicuous. Up until then I believed I was normal, but suddenly I knew I was involved in something weird. And then I wondered if we were weird and everyone but me had noticed.

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Genesis 3:11 “And he said, “Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?” This story is about self-realization and perspective; it’s about a shift from blind acceptance to questioning. It reminds me of that passage in the Bible when Adam and Eve see their own nakedness after eating forbidden fruit.

Mother of Earth By Ieshia Bell • Digital Photography

She protected you, fed you, taught you, and nourished you. You fight her, starve her, and rape her. She’s dying, you laugh. She’s dead, the cycle repeats.

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Punk Goblin Cowboys By Jude Jackson â&#x20AC;˘ Digital Sketch

From samurai to cowboys, gumshoe detectives to cyberpunk hackers, genre fiction is always ripe with inspiration for remix and crossover. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unpretentious fun for any artist to play with. This illustration is a mashup of high fantasy creatures in punk fashion, dramatically staged in an overexposed spaghetti western. Broken Ink 2015

Party Animal 123 By Rachel Watson A shot here. Just to take off the edge.

Drink number eight. Are we staying up late?

A shot there. Make the pain go away.

Drink number nine. I don’t feel so fine.

Drink number one. My head still weighs a ton.

Drink number ten. Don’t let me do this again.

Drink number two. Damn, look at you!

I’m sure I’ll wake up With some stranger in my bed With a familiar pounding Strumming deep in my head.

Drink number three. Now I feel free. Drink number four. Why am I on the floor? Drink number five. Am I still alive? Drink number six. Shit, don’t get sick! Drink number seven. I don’t think I’m going to heaven.

Just another night, Another one dead and gone. Party all through the night; No sleep until the dawn. I’m such a drunk, Such a party animal. ABC. 123. Just one more shot And I’ll be set free.

Many college students are best friends with a drink known as alcohol. In my early college years, I was no different. This poem is a reflection of these years, and some of the reasons behind the drinking.

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Linked By Sydney Herrick â&#x20AC;˘ Digital Photography

This was one of my favorite pieces from my journey through Documentary Photography. This piece captures the pure emotion of exploring a new city with good people and good food.

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Beauty In Tiny Things

Maiden-MotherCrone

By Marilyn W. Mason

By Sarah Marie Elizabeth Williamson

Purity precedes And guides the girl to carefree Gleaming gossamer Sparkling with dew diamonds Hung on spider silk

Days of innocence.

Dancing diatoms All dressed in silica shells Microscopic art

Motherhood muses

Midnight water shines Emitting soft blue-green light Dinoflagellates

Her children must learn.

Over her toils, the lessons

Wisdom warns the youth To flee temptationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grasp, for Women must endure.

This haiku series explores the beauty found in the smaller elements of the natural world. Diatoms are a large group of algae that have the unique feature of a cell wall made out of silica. Dinoflagellates are protists found in fresh and marine water. Some of them are capable of bioluminescence and produce eerily beautiful glowing tides.

This poem reflects the overall characteristics of a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life from childhood to adulthood by appealing to the Maiden, Mother, and Crone concept.

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Frozen By Brittany Burgess â&#x20AC;˘ Digital Illustration

A piece I did to practice digital illustration.

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Injured Cutie B y C h e l s e a Yo u e l l • Digital Illustration

(Left Page) I originally created this cutie for a contest I was going to submit to but didn’t. I use a lot of pastels in my illustrations because they remind me of things happy and sweet. I also call a lot of them “cuties” because my characters are like my babies and that’s what I like to refer to them as.

Gore Cutie B y C h e l s e a Yo u e l l • Digital Illustration

(Right Page) I created this cutie to enter into a gore contest but made it a little too cute. I used to draw a lot of gore doodles but now I like to just draw cute doodles; when I tried to draw something gory after so long, I had to add my own spin on it. It’s also an excuse to draw my ghosties.

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Eye Of Horus B y A l y s s a T r e s s l e r â&#x20AC;˘ M o l d e d / C a r v e d W a x , Te x t u r e d G e s s o , A c r y l i c , M a r k e r , W a t e r c o l o r , P e n c i l

I was exploring the process of molding wax and I wanted to carve a design into it. I wanted to add some of my style so I changed the traditional curved line into an Egyptian falcon wing.

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Pursuit of the Question By Thomas Gardiner

Our River WG

Quick before slow The cold before snow The strong before the weak Inherited by the meek Existence is nothing if the opposite doesn’t oppose Poetry has no form without the rhythm of prose So what might I be, if not a reflection A token of an image built by perfection In the ought, I should, become something more Than a status by symbol, the rich over poor But what can you be if not judged by the self The paradox, misunderstood in itself Are the embers of life found in the coals Or do we travel the world in payment of tolls To cross the bridge over waters of trouble Caught in the tide, of froth and of bubble Like the tortoise, never catching the hare A semblance of being, not truly there Tied to the world by the yoke of our senses We come clean in the wash, a cycle of rinses With our soles to the Earth, a welcomed reception Leaving nothing but answers in pursuit of the question

Pursuit of the Question is a journey to find self-identity. It describes the polarity between what one could do and what one should do. It exemplifies what someone goes through in the struggle to find meaning in his or her existence.

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By Carl Palmour Elliott III

You birthed me; you raised me. Your gray canopy shelters me, inviting me to your black water. My feet know the way. The wind blows and your trees sigh. The best friend I ever had trots at my side panting, wagging. She knows where we’re going. Browns meld with swampy grays and greens, we round a bending left and there your black water swims peaceful, ancient, through the soil. As we approach you, frogs jump into the drowsy current and the woods rustle. Now it is our stage, I find the perfect stick next to a massive cypress and throw it into the fresh water. Greta runs and jumps and flies for an instant before crashing into you. She retrieves the stick and brings it back to me with her coat soaking wet and her eyes afire, longing to do it again.

“Our River” is a free verse poem about spending time with my dog on the banks of the South Edisto River. That dog is gone now so it acts kind of as a memorial to her.

A Fine Day to Fly a Kite By Marylyn W. Mason The strident buzz of the bedside alarm wrenched Edna from dreams that burned off her mind like fog in the morning sunshine. Her hand trembled as she extended it beyond the warmth of her plush, white bedspread. The alarm paused for a few seconds and then shrilled again. Edna silenced it on the second try. A chill infiltrated her cocoon and seeped into her bones, making her body ache. On another day she would have retreated back into the shelter of her blankets, but not today. She swept the blankets aside and slowly pushed herself into a sitting position as the chill washed over her bent body. Moving on legs that threatened to fail her, Edna shuffled across the thick, white carpet to her closet. She dressed as quickly as her knotted hands allowed, fumbling with buttons and zippers, ever aware of the incessant ticking of the clock in the hall. It counted away the precious seconds it took her to button up her tattered gray coat. As she shambled from her bedroom, she passed the accusing clock that mocked her slow movements with its steady rhythm. She paused just long enough to collect her worn basket from beside the front door and stepped out into the sunshine. The early April air still clung to the vestige of winter’s chill, but spring demanded that its presence be known. The golden sun radiated in a crystal blue sky while the air about Edna was thick with the perfume of the wisteria vines that crawled up the side of her house. She stood a moment, soaking in the spring. Finally, she skirted around the side of her house to where Martin would be waiting for her. He was exactly where she knew he’d be, perched on an exposed root of the old oak tree that lightly scraped the side of the house in the breeze. He was wearing a red and white striped shirt and blue shorts. The morning sunshine filtered through the oak leaves and dappled his sandy hair. Martin looked up as she approached. His face lit up as he hopped to his feet. “Are we ready to fly the kite, Momma?” he asked. Edna nodded as she steadied herself on the oak, the fingers of her hand slipping into the long-healed ax wound in its bark. Martin skipped off in the direction of the park, cutting across their neighbor’s lawn. “Martin!” Edna called, but he was already too far

ahead. She sighed and hobbled after him. She skirted around the for sale sign that still proudly proclaimed “SOLD” in bright red letters. Marlana moved in a month ago with her three dogs and yet the sign remained. The sound of the Yorkshire terriers’ barking drew Edna’s gaze to the low beige house that hunkered in the shadow of her own decrepit, two-story abode. There was no sign of the occupant, just the disembodied yapping of the dogs. Edna hurried on to catch up with Martin. Her knees were on fire by the time she reached the park two blocks away. Martin was crouching by the pool watching the minnows darting around the water lilies. He looked up, his eyes sparkling like the sunlight on the water. “Let’s fly the kite now,” he cried eagerly. “Help me put it together,” Edna wheezed as she set her basket on a bench near the pool. “My hands don’t work as well as they used to.” She painfully lowered herself onto the bench as Martin dug the kite out of the basket. His small hands deftly slid the dowels in place and within moments he stood proudly holding the red and blue diamond kite. “Good job.” Edna smiled at him. “Now go fly it.” Martin’s face fell. “I can’t. You need to get it in the air for me.” “You can do it. Momma can’t run like she used to.” “Please, get it to fly for me. Please, Momma,” Martin begged. The thought of disappointing him hurt worse than the ache in her knees. Edna hauled herself to her feet and took the kite. She took a moment to orient herself and then lifted the kite and headed into the breeze. Her hips and knees protested as she stumbled forward through the Bermuda grass. The early morning dew had yet to evaporate and it quickly soaked into the hems of her pant legs. When she was moving as fast as she was able, she launched the kite into the air. For an instant, she thought the kite was going to spare her further agony and take to the sky, but then it pirouetted in the air and plummeted. Martin retrieved the kite for her and she tried again with similar results. Every muscle in her body screamed as she prepared to try again. “This is my last try,” she panted. “You can do it, Momma.”

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Once again, Edna charged into the wind. She tapped into her last reserve of strength as she ran. The breeze picked up promisingly and she lifted the kite to launch it skyward. At that moment her knees gave out and she pitched forward, landing on her hands and knees in the turf. Her knotted fingers dug into the dirt as pain rippled through her. The world tilted and spun about her. “Momma?” Martin’s voice came from close to her left, but he sounded far away. “It’s … okay,” she gasped, “Momma … just needs … to rest.” She tried to disguise her growing sense of panic as she struggled to breathe. Pain in her stomach crept up into her chest like heartburn, but she knew it was something else. Dread mixed with the panic. She fought for air, the breath coming in wheezing gasps. “Momma,” Martin said again, “it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt for long.” Edna looked up into his soulful brown eyes. She smiled weakly at him as she began to relax. Unknotting her fingers from the ground, she lay down on her back to gaze up at the azure sky. A few white clouds lazily drifted by. “You’re right, Martin,” she wheezed. “Everything is going to be just fine. Come here and watch the clouds with me.” Martin lay down next to her and pointed up at one of the clouds. “That one looks just like a kite!” Edna smiled. The sweet spring breeze fanned her sweaty face while the bees’ droning and the birds’ singing lulled her into a sense of peace. It turned out to be a perfect day. Marlana probably would have walked right by without ever noticing Edna lying in the grass if all three of her Yorkies hadn’t pulled in the same direction at once. She looked up from the text message argument with her boyfriend to see her elderly neighbor stretched out in the park. It didn’t take long to establish that something was seriously wrong and to notify the police. The officer who arrived followed her over to where Edna lay. “Poor old Edna Jefferies,” he commented, shaking his head. “What was she doing out here?” Marlana asked.

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“Flying a kite, I’d reckon.” “At her age? Was she nuts?” The officer shook his head. “No, she did it every year. Something of a local eccentric. My father told me that she started flying the kite after her son died. He fell out of a tree while sneaking out to fly a kite and broke his neck. Mrs. Jefferies never recovered.” He turned to look at Edna smiling lifelessly at the sky. “This is the happiest I’ve ever seen her. I guess she’s gone to be with Martin.”

Flying a kite, one of life’s simple joys. A mother’s love, an infinitely complex phenomenon. I wrote this short story as a creative writing exercise, intending it to be a simple vignette. As I wrote it, however, Edna’s story encompassed far more than just a day at the park.

Lady In Black By Ashley Ellefson â&#x20AC;˘ B&W Film Photography

This picture came from the very first roll of film I developed in the darkroom. There was just something so intriguing about developing my own film and watching my pictures come to life. I used my sister as my model. I dressed her in all black with a white collar to create contrast. Behind her there is a storm forming which created an ominous grey background. 34

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Corazon Mal By Rachel Watson Alas a tale of heartbreak, a fable although short. The message plays in two, a tango of cohorts. Derived from glass and broken bones, this story finds a muse. The time the match strikes gasoline without a needed fuse. Despite the struggle and mayhem, The arterial spray astounds When the heart is left shattered: A statue fallen on the ground. From the purest plate of gold, To now the most repulsive of rust, The heart has hardened And has allowed no room for trust. In order to eliminate the warriors of the enemy, the heart silently charges, Stating to the general as the nemesis barges. On fights the valiant, the bravest of them all, but when dawn breaks horizon Everyone must fall. The drums silently play, a message low of sub, Indicating the victor: The courageous lub-dub.

The inspiration for this poem came shortly after a devastating heartbreak, and the re-reading of “Charge of the Light Brigade” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I wanted to use the metaphor of battle to the sound of the human heart breaking. The title of the poem is Spanish for “Bad Heart.”

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Life Times in Season

A Lovely Ride By Alex Deal

By Alex Deal

The rays adhere to earth Hands glance over the first Dozen digits The moon’s light bounces off Ripples of water Sunsets on the horizon Temperatures ascend and descend Over time Leaves fall graciously Blanketing the crust New life springs up Time floats on Coping changes Brown covered with gray tint Pigment lost, paleness takes over Lives of man now stand As gray granite tombstones

This is just the realization of life and how everything is always changing and soon you will be 6 feet under. It’s time measured in the seasons and how they come and go. Just as humans we take life for granted and nobody knows when their life will be over and somebody’s will change as a result.

Blue rolling mountains Across gracious land Mystical hazy fog waiting On the mountain top Big yet so small Assortment of trees Climbing up mountain sides To reach their destiny Lake at a pause Gently grasping the mountains Seeking their destiny River rapidly flows Through mountains as Life is on winding roads Mountain laurel shade the mountains Like a veil of white silk

I wrote this poem as I was riding home from the mountains in Hiawassee, Georgia. I was just looking out the window and it just looked so peaceful and beautiful. So I decided I would do my best to put it in a poem.

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Caffe del Borgo By Mikalah Ramey • Digital Photography

I love this picture because it captures how happy and enchanting it felt to be in Florence, Italy. When you’re traveling, it’s easy to stop and admire the little things. Sometimes we’re so focused on the big picture in our daily lives that we forget how important it is to notice the little things in life that make up the place we call home. Broken Ink 2015

Frozen Aspirations By Brittany Burgess • Photography, Photoshop

This is a spin-off of a dream where I wanted to show a world that might be possible. We don’t know what’s set in stone in this world. If someone could dream up different types of worlds, why can’t it be possible? I wanted that dreamlike quality in this piece. An unexpected world on the back of something as small as a bee is worth exploring.

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Drowning in the Day Dark, Cold Night By Sarah Marie Elizabeth Williamson

Sometimes I think it would be nice To fall and never be caught, Yet never hit the ground. To slowly drown Without dying— To simply fade Into the push and pull Of currents encompassing me And dark waves taking me Far, far away— To somehow float Within the ocean, To flow in slow-motion. I think it would feel nice To be carried out to sea If not even death could touch me, If no one could find me In the shelter of shielding waters. I could listen to the conch shells Scraping the salt and sand below me; I could hear the ocean’s song As if it were the siren luring me Farther out to where the water is most deep. No burdens could claim me, No pain could maim me If I could drown without suffering— Suffering is something I already know From drowning in the demands Of every dragging day.

This poem acknowledges the struggles and overwhelming moments of an average day as the speaker wonders what it would feel like to just let go if no consequences would have to be feared.

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By Angel Albright

Alone on the dark roof, I hear traffic passing On the next street. The heating units blast, Trying to warm those inside and asleep. Outside and awake, I feel the cold winds Roll over every inch of my body, My hands becoming numb As I write these words. My imagination consumes me, Floating everywhere, Leaving my true thoughts Untouched. In the midnight hour I sit alone and listening, Dreaming of another someone Who cannot sleep.

I created these works in my Creative Writing class and I felt proud of them. I wrote my poem to describe surroundings and evoke physical senses. I enjoyed writing both of these pieces and I hope they’re entertaining to the readers.

Paying To Attend By Caitlin Butler He pays the professor a little smile as he plays with a packet of Folgers instant coffee, rolling it between his fingers, the plastic crinkling as the coffee crystals crunch within. His work boots are ombre, but certainly not because ombre is trendy; the suede is lighter near the wrapped yellow laces and black leather cuff, usually protected by the hem of his faded jeans. Right now, though, his socks are showing, worn hems exposing black ribbed ankles because his feet are up; easy, relaxed, straight out in front, propped, crossed, in a sideways desk. His radio voice is silent now; he is in class. But the Folgers packet is speaking for him. He reaches down, his eyes still on the professor, popping open the lid of his water bottle. Then he deliberately removes his ball cap, placing it on his knee. To pay is a transitive verb meaning to give, transfer, or hand over something in return for goods or services, or in discharge of an obligation; to deliver something owed. A payment is an exchange. I pay approximately three dollars and fifty cents for a latte at Starbucks. The price paid for a thing is the cost: that which must be given or surrendered in order to acquire, produce, accomplish, or maintain something. The price I pay for a cup of coffee is approximate three dollars and fifty cents, which is the equivalent of half an hour’s work, plus a certain amount of time spent traveling to Starbucks and waiting. I pay for my latte, and book it to class. I fling my bag onto the floor, and fling myself into my seat. The caramel-laced fragrance fills my nose as I take a scalding gulp, the steam creeping up my glasses threatening to obscure my vision, and the caffeine creeping into my bloodstream bringing my brain to life. I place the green and white paper siren on the floor, and my stomach rumbles as my hand rummages in the left front pocket of my book bag. I need breakfast, and I need a pen. The smell of bacon sneaking into our classroom from down the hall teases me as my fingers push past a mini stapler, an old granola bar wrapper, and my tangle of keys, finally grasping my favorite pen. Dr. Miller is talking about the movements in American literature, which is nice, because sometimes he talks about other movements, like the movements of his family members’ bowels, which I do not tend to enjoy quite as much.

He toys with the red packet, quieter now, pinching off one end and then, swiftly, pouring the contents under his tongue. He slips the packet into his backpack, bringing his water with him as he sits back up. Long pull; hold; swallow. His ball cap is on again, brim pulled low, shading all but his chin. His chest falls and rises slowly under crossed arms; he is definitely asleep. Folgers has failed him, or at least hasn’t begun to work yet. Attention is the noun form of the infinitive verb to attend, which means the action, fact, or state of attending or giving heed. Attention is earnest direction of the mind, consideration, or regard. Attention may also be defined as ceremonious politeness or courtesy. Both are used specifically in the phrase to pay attention. This pen is my favorite because it makes smooth, bold lines; the ink flows thick and fast with my ideas. Sometimes it stops up, like my ideas. Sometimes I draw in class because it helps me focus. It gives my fingers and eyes their own occupation while my ears are occupied with listening. I listen and I draw. I draw connections, draw conclusions, draw lines and dots and pictures in the backs of my notebooks. Sometimes I get distracted and my ideas stop following the professor’s and take their own course. I’ve stopped listening to Dr. Miller and started listening to a crinkling sound to my right. I begin to watch the source of the sound and write what I see. The boy with the Folgers packet is obviously not paying attention. At least, he doesn’t appear to be paying attention. Then again, I guess, neither do I. Neither of us looks at the professor. Neither of us sits up straight. Neither of us takes notes, although maybe it looks as if I am. Truthfully, I am paying attention – just not to the things for which I pay tuition.

This piece is a braided essay, a form of writing which takes 3 styles or 3 different narratives and essentially layers them, unifying them with a shared theme. The theme here is simple the phrase “paying attention,” and was born of my wondering why attention is something paid.

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This Freedom By Sydney Herrick • Digital Photography

Being from a small town, I’ve never had the opportunity to witness a protest. Seeing it put things in a new perspective for me. We always stress the fact American’s have freedom of speech, but never have I seen it in action. Definitely a really cool experience. Broken Broken Ink Ink 2015 2015

Mockery Passages By Brittany Burgess â&#x20AC;˘ Photography, Photoshop

This is an escape from the straight dark path our lives carry us on. The light is welcoming us into another chance or new beginning. I wanted to combine all my photos together and express that life can get dark and seem like a never ending track like railroads. A door opens for us full of new opportunities when we least expect it. 42

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Gray is...

Madness

By Amanda Barton

By Cecilia Youngblood

Groans of nature:

Soft shimmying sleet pitter-pattering to the earth, Eerie crunching boots on frozen solid ground, A sudden snap and crack of a pinewood branch Amputating itself free from its mother tree.

In that moment, heat rose from me as I lifted my weapon, bowing my head before it like the first prayer of a child to their father’s god. And with the hands of an innocent it came down, gratifying the lust of a sinner for provocative pain. The luscious flow, like the first bite of a ripe tomato, whose insides flow readily down the face of its attacker, ebbs the eroticism and stills my breath. A sinister impulse follows and quickly poisons my peace.

Contradictions of bitter and sweet: Decadent dark chocolate, Tart lip-puckering plums, A glass of warmed blackberry merlot. Smoke—soothing and smothering: Mesmerizing flickering bonfire flames, Freshly blown-out candles Intertwined with muted fragrance, A slow methodical cigarette-laden exhale. Shuddering sensations: Hair rising on the nape of a neck, Burning scratches just shy of shedding blood, The sting of a steaming shower on icy skin. Growing pains of being: Erratic intestinal butterflies of anxiety and adrenaline, The desperate grasp to faith in the face of fear, And the somber sobering reality post-paradigm shift.

This poem was an activity in Adolescent Literature class with Professor Collins. As a class, we created a metaphorical poem about the color yellow describing the sound, taste, smell, feeling, and emotion of the color. Our following in-class activity/ homework was to write our own poem about a color. This is my poem, and I really enjoyed writing it.

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Is one bite ever enough to satiate the appetite?

II. I am driving blind through a forest of denial, ripping up the roots of the insidious thoughts you planted when you abandoned me here. You watched me first, enthralled by the spirit behind my delicate effervescence. To you, I was an ethereal nymph of lush, velvety mist, purposefully dangling myself before you. You matched my coyness with wanton bribery, a little sugar to cut the bitterness. Even after you were gone, I became a mistress to carnality in every aspect of my life.

This piece is inspired by the ramblings in the journal I kept as a fifteen year old. I read through what I wrote, interpreted it, and wrote this piece in a way that matches my thought processes as they currently are. I wanted to illustrate the inner madness of a self-harm addict’s mind and the causation, which was a childhood experience with sexual abuse.

The Wages of an American Hero

To Guild A Fire

By David B. Corder

By Caitlin Butler

Do you notice how army men Stand erect and in action For the stretches of all eternity Always ready for battle? Rifles lifted above their heads Hugging the earth (or the bedroom floor) Crouched with shoulders hunched Arms wide open

Despair flared into blazing pain At last he fell The flame could not choose between The twigs and the blood Of the fire-provider

Do they ever tire? Do their muscles ever cramp? Do they ever wish they could at least twitch? Or even just blink?

The fire remembered the warm fear of man And his fingers encircled The helpless to find His mittened heart freezing

Their valiant service is repaid with jokes Andy’s mom crushes them beneath her heel Izzy the dog crunches them between her teeth (they don’t scream) They’re the first to fall into the dark abyss Known as the trash bag

Death turned his face And it struck him as curious To have no connection with earth

The wages of an American hero

I wrote this poem as an answer to a challenge given by the USCA Guild of Poetic Intent, based on the theme of a childhood toy. I believe army men have the suckiest job being toys and are completely taken for granted. They deserve rights.

“To Gild a Fire” is a found poem based on an excerpt of Jack London’s short story “To Build a Fire.” Found poetry, for the unaware, involves blacking out all but a few words of someone else’s work to create your own completely different work. In London’s story, the man is consumed with building a fire and fails; in my poem, the man builds the fire and is still consumed.

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Wild Ride By Ryan Mathis â&#x20AC;˘ Photography, Photoshop

Watching these sort of airplanes perform their acrobatic stunts always seems to boggle the mind regarding what the pilots are able to withstand and what sort of stresses the airplane has to endure. What I wanted to get from this image was the feeling of performance, speed, and thrills.

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The Face Not Fake By Ronnica Golson • Photography, Photoshop

“The real being, with no status, is always going in and out through the doors of your face.” This quote by Linji Yixuan, the founder of a school of Buddhism during the Tang Dynasty in China, is visually represented in this piece in an almost literal manner. The dark spaces represent the inner being, and the division of light and dark on each face represents “the doors” of that face. I think what the quote means is that it’s good to be transparent; to be open and honest about what you’re doing instead of lying and being “fake” to others. 46

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Roleplaying By David B. Corder

Twenty-sided die in hand, Character sheets splayed out across the table, Geeks sit like knights at Arthur’s Meeting. Every single one of them needs a tan. Every die roll is a sword stroke. Every critical is an undead skeleton obliterated. Ironic since they themselves resemble skeletons Even swallowing spit might make them choke. Isn’t it pitiful, spending hours playing this game? Imagining that you’re a dwarf slaying mighty dragons Or that you’re a cunning rogue Hooking up with an elf chick. How lame! But this is preferable to real life: Wedgies that leave scars, girls laughing in your face, Jocks making you bob for apples in the toilet (except that isn’t an apple). Oh, what suffering strife! Life sometimes sucks, admit it. Crap happens (so they say). So a fantasy world, on one or two occasions Isn’t bad to visit Twenty-sided die in hand, Character sheets splayed out on the table, Geeks sit like knights at Arthur’s meeting. Every single one of them needs a tan.

This poem conveys the typical stereotype of those associated with playing tabletop RPG games (i.e. Dungeons and Dragons, Pathfinder). I thought it would be something fun to write since I play DnD and don’t fit the stereotype (at least in my own opinion).

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Ambrosia By Ronnica Golson â&#x20AC;˘ Charcoal and Ink on Paper

The subject of this piece is the personification of Ambrosia, the food of the Greek gods and goddess. Her plump figure, a sign that she eats well, is a parallel to the abundance of food that she represents. This personified form of Ambrosia is immortalized on paper; her eye-less sockets mimic the cold look of an ancient Greek statue while the splotches of color over her skin give her a certain fleshiness. The tones surrounding her mimic the flavors washing over the tongues of the gods and goddesses as they feasted. 48

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Emma Jase By Sydney Herrick â&#x20AC;˘ Digital Photography

Innocence in its purest form. She still has so much to learn. There are so many things to accomplish in her life. But sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never be as innocent as she is here. Everything in her life will slowly corrupt her into adulthood. And before you know it, that adorable child is just another face in the crowd. Broken Ink 2015

Wonder Woman Doesn't Have To Worry About Taxes By Ashton Hendricks

Life would be simpler if it involved slaying dragons. Bilbo Baggins didn’t have to move back in with his parents after his big adventure. He got to travel the world tax-free, eat breakfast twice a day, and return to his own house a much richer hobbit. Slaying dragons, as it turns out, is a surprisingly lucrative business. Kim has two suitcases that hold everything she owns when she pulls into her mother’s driveway in a town forty miles from Seattle. One is filled with clothes, the other with books. As she walks up to the front door, her mother isn’t standing on the stoop in a floral skirt and a smile like you would see in a movie. They don’t live in a suburb, the sky isn’t that sunny, and Howie Day isn’t singing softly in the background while John Hughes directs. Kim rolls her bags to the front door and rings the doorbell. She doesn’t have a key. The woman who answers the door is an older, chubbier version of Kim, wearing plain jeans and a polo shirt with a bird stitched onto the breast. “There’s my baby,” she coos, hugging Kim tightly before letting her inside. “I’m so glad you decided to come back home while you get your bearings, sweetie,” her mom says over her shoulder as she leads Kim inside, the latter tugging her heavy suitcases along behind her. “Your old room is for Kaitlin’s kids now, but you can stay in the guest room.” Kim catches sight of her old room as they pass it in the hall. The walls are now painted in Easter egg green, and most of the space is taken up by two twin beds with Disney princess sheets. The Kool-Aid stain on the carpet has been Hoovered up by some magic she can’t fathom, and the crack in the wall where the tree fell in ‘99 has been spackled up and painted over. The guest room – her sister’s old room – looks nearly the same as it did when Kaitlin left for college. It has the same light blue curtains, the same plaid comforter and spotless cream carpet. “I’ll leave you to get settled, baby, and order some pizza,” her mother says with a smile. She hugs Kim once more and leaves, closing the door to the jamb.

WG The room feels cramped. Kim digs out a heavily creased paperback from her bag and tucks herself into the space between the bed and the wall to read. In high school, everyone always says, “You can do anything you set your mind to!” and “You can be anything you want to be!” They say a college degree is the key to a better, happier life. But the sickening optimism of the generation preceding Kim’s has done nothing more than disillusion her from the reality of the future she faces. So instead of spending the evening online, searching fruitlessly for a job in town or an apartment that doesn’t ask for petty things like rent or a credit score, Kim loses herself between the pages of Tales from the Captain’s Table and forgets, for a few hours, that she’s not roaming the vastness of the universe in the Enterprise. Kim pours herself a bowl of Cheerios at half past eleven the next morning. Her mother has been up for hours, watching Parks and Recreation on Netflix. Hearing Kim in the kitchen, she pauses the episode and turns around to peer at her youngest daughter over the back of the couch. “Shouldn’t you be out looking for a job?” she asks. It’s not a question. Kim shrugs. Her mother turns back around. “Well, it’s only Monday. All the business people will be grouchy anyway. You take your time.” On Tuesday, Kim makes it through her entire collection of Incredible Hulk comic books and writes up half of a resume. “Kim, I wish you wouldn’t read those; they’re for boys! Besides, you’re too old to like cartoons.” Kim’s mother plucks Hulk #119 from her hands and settles excitedly at the chair opposite her. “So? What’s the plan for today?” Kim doesn’t have one. On Friday, Kim applies to half a dozen jobs within thirty miles and re-reads The Half-Blood Prince for the third time. By Wednesday, Kim has four rejection emails ranging from “we have no openings at this time” to “you are overqualified for this position” in her inbox, and she’s circled back to reading The Sorcerer’s

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Stone. “You have a bachelor’s in engineering; it can’t be that hard to find a job. You’re just not trying hard enough. You spend all your time with your head buried in those silly books when you should be scheduling interviews.” Kim’s mother squeezes her gently from behind. “You got to take it easy at college, but this is the real world now, sweetie.” The next Tuesday, Kim lands an interview at a weapons plant the next town over. She spends fiftyseven minutes in a waiting room staring at birds through the window and pretending that half of the old white men waiting for an interview aren’t trying to look down her shirt. When the birds fly away, she reads “Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption” on her phone until she gets called in. On Friday, the plant rejects her in a generic email with her last name spelled wrong. “Your generation is so lazy. You don’t understand how easy you have it! When your father and I started out, we had nothing.” Kim’s mother goes on about how she worked a summer job to pay for her college instead of taking out loans and how privileged Kim’s generation is to have the advantages they have. Kim’s fingers itch for The Further Adventures of Wonder Woman sitting dogeared on the kitchen table. On Monday, Kim goes out at eight in the morning to find the nearest bookstore. She puts seventy dollars’ worth of fantasy novels on her credit card and spends $2.99 on a bookmark with a swinging cat that says “Hang in there!” A rejection from TranTech Radiation is waiting for her when she returns. Her mother orders Chinese that evening. “Honey, I was able to retire at sixty because I worked hard when I was your age. I was the first of my family to go to college, you know! You’re lucky to have a mother who supports you. You need to buck up.” On Wednesday, Kim’s mother begs her not to stay “holed up in the guest room” with her “nose in a book” and instead watch TV in the living room with her. They watch something on Animal Planet about migrating birds and Kim thinks how nice it would be to be able to take off like that by yourself. Birds don’t have to worry about things like car payments and insurance plans. On Friday, Kaitlin shows up with her kids, both of whom take off like a shot for what used to be Kim’s room the moment they get in the door. Kaitlin hugs her younger sister, something she hasn’t done since Kim graduated high school. Kaitlin’s grin is blinding. “Hey Kimmy, how’s the job search coming? I know you can do it, you were always the smart one!” She breezes past Kim to embrace their mother and ask about whatever TV show they’re both into this week. Kim migrates to the kids’ room. Harper and

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Sawyer, three and five years old respectively, are digging into their toy box. They eye Kim suspiciously as she sits down on the bed and whisper quietly to each other. They huddle in the corner and giggle while they play with bright plastic toys and otherwise ignore Kim completely. It doesn’t look like they have any books in their toy box. Kim remembers when she and Kaitlin were in middle school and they had both pledged to start their future kids on a Harry Potter regime as soon as possible. Kaitlin must have forgotten. Kaitlin and the kids stay for the weekend. Kim spends most of the visit giving the impression of socializing while keeping a book on her at all times. The Prisoner of Azkaban had once been Kaitlin’s favorite. Kim gets another hug when Kaitlin, Harper, and Sawyer leave Sunday evening. “You’re going places,” Kaitlin tells her with a big, white smile. She straps her kids into her sensible minivan and drives off, waving from the window. Kim closes the door. That night, Kim lies in bed and thinks about her still-packed suitcases and her car parked on the curb. The blue 2007 Mazda is her personal set of wings and if she wanted to, she could go anywhere. Right now. She could slip out of bed, take her suitcases, and just go. She might go to California and get tanned on the beach with a Kindle in hand. Maybe she’ll drive up to Canada and learn what the big deal about hockey is. Kim thinks so long about the places she could get up and go to right now that she falls asleep right where she is. On Monday, she’s halfway through the histories in The Riverside Shakespeare when she gets a phone call from Seattle about a job interview. On Tuesday she gets an email that the position has been filled, and Kim flips open The BFG . Her mother gets her attention just as the tall, dark shadow has whisked Sophie away to places unknown. “Sweetie, I just want you to be happy, you know that. But you’re going to have to do something with your life. I didn’t raise a bum,” she says in a patient tone. “You need to find a job, find an apartment, and start your real life.” She smiles and slaps Kim’s shoulder fondly. “And have fun! You never go anywhere!” Kim placates her mother with an encouraging smile and returns to Giant Country and the cave with jars of dreams. That Friday Kim’s mother drags her to a ballet performance in Seattle. Kim doesn’t know anything about ballet other than that The Nutcracker is one, but it’s entertaining enough, even though she isn’t quite following the story. Men and women leap gracefully around the stage,

light on their toes. Kim, who has been drifting off with thoughts of the half-finished novel she left back home, perks up when the music swells. The male lead appears center stage, draped in a pale pink shroud that glows against his dark skin. The feathered fabric flutters down the length of his arms as he spins in a half-circle of dancers. Kim watches with new interest as he begins to dance faster and faster, the music struggling to keep up. His makeshift wings flash and snap as he moves, and he jumps miraculously high, as if he might take off into flight at any moment. The music reaches a miraculous crescendo as the dancer makes one more fantastic leap down center stage, his arms stretching high and wide, exultant face arched toward the beaming lights above – and down he goes. The snap of his ankle is clearly audible as his pointed foot buckles beneath him. His scream is lost in the violins. People begin to murmur and gasp, unsure and untrained for this outcome, and the other dancers bunch protectively around their sobbing lead. The violins die off. The lights dim. The dance is over. Three Tuesdays later, Kim gets a job as a waitress at IHOP. It’s only temporary, of course, until she can find something better. She buffs tables, balances plates, pours coffee and puts up with lousy tips and rude customers with a smile that says “How may I help you off a cliff today?” until she can go home and bury herself in the adventures of Artemis Fowl or Arthur Dent. Her boss treats her like shit, and her coworkers are mostly high schoolers or bored, retired women, but sometimes she gets free food, and that’s something to celebrate. After all, it’s only temporary.

For the cynical millennials who lament the hard sciences they’re told will make them money and would honestly rather be at Hogwarts.

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Audio Th e fo l l o w i ng l i st s h o w s B r o k e n I n k ’ s a ccepted Audi o s ubm is s ions. These have been composed b y stu d e n ts o f U S C A i k e n . I f y o u w i s h to l is ten to any of the s ubm is s ions ,vis it our S oundC loud p a g e o r s i m p l y s c a n t h e Q R code on thi s page of the magazine.

Spoken Word

Lego My Ego

By Terell Douglas-Williams

A childhood toy rendition of NYC, it started off as a poem challenge of a childhood toy and evolved into a social commentary piece.

Eccentric Love

By Terell Douglas-Williams

Love isn’t Hollywood; it isn’t romance novels or Disney princess movies. Love is unexplainable and when trying to explain it you get weird references and metaphors like the one in this piece.

Music

Pinetrees

By Garrett Carrier

This song really started as three or four different remix ideas that eventually morphed into one big chilled tempo track with multiple vocal samples and direction changes. I was really feeling the heavy synth and pulsing hip-hop beat throughout, so it pushes that interplay between them while it slowly becomes more abstract and eventually floats off with a slow synth ending.

For Hip Hop

By Raushaun Michael

It is bigger than music, and it is bigger than myself. This is from my heart to yours.

Black Coffee

Nicholas D. Moore

A lighter song from my friend Jackson Redd and I. We play a wide variety of music, and this is just one of our many sounds. Our band is called LemonTwist. Thank you.

Come Through ft. Pop Deez

By Tenerio Hawkins

What inspired me to write this song is the movie “Friends with Benefits.” I just wanted to show all aspects of a relationship that goes from sex to friendship to a relationship. However, the real message is that a little time and effort can turn into something in the end.

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Staff Ronnica Golson Editor In Chief Broken Ink is the embodiment of the creative collective on campus. This year’s submissions were off the charts, and the quality and variety of works that got into the magazine were incredible! I commend each and every student that submitted work to the magazine. It really means a lot to the staff and I that other students support us. Being on the Broken Ink staff has allowed me to grow both as an individual and as a leader. The experience of working with such a dynamic group of individuals has led me to develop a love and appreciation for what they do. I would like to give a special thanks to the staff for their awesome perseverance this year —without their contribution to the magazine’s production, Broken Ink would not be as spectacular as it is. I would also like to thank the English and fine arts faculties for supporting us, the Student Life office staff, the Student Media board, Dr. Tom Mack, Dr. Andrew Geyer, Professor Vicki Collins, Dr. Jeremy Culler, Professor Ginny Southworth, and last but not least our amazing and somewhat crazy advisor Professor Karl Fornes.

Adora Ewuzie Layout Editor

Terell Douglas-Williams

Sydney Herrick

Brooke Clark

Visual Arts Editor

Music Editor

Literary Arts Editor

James Paisley

Ieshia Bell

Brent Blackmon

David Corder

Copy Editor

PR Coordinator

Staff

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About Us Produced yearly by a staff of USC Aiken students, Broken Ink showcases the best works of visual art, creative writing, music, and spoken word pieces submitted by the students of USC Aiken. All works submitted for publication are reviewed by the Broken Ink staff, and, based on our review process, we determine which works are the best and compile them into a single magazine. Any and all students that attend USC Aiken are welcomed and encouraged to join the Broken Ink staff, regardless of year, major, or experience. Weekly meetings are held in the Student Media Office located in the Student Activities Center (SAC). For more information, visit our website at www. broken-ink.org or e-mail your questions to brokenink@usca.edu.

Colophon The 2015 issue of Broken Ink was created in Adobe InDesign CS 5.5, Adobe Photoshop CS 5.5, and Adobe Illustrator CS 5.5. We would also like to thank the creators of the following fonts for letting us use them free of charge: Comfortaa (Light, Regular, & Bold), and Harabara Mais Demo.

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Review Process Submission deadline dates are advertised across campus through posters, special events, and by word-of-mouth. In order to submit a piece of creative work, students must go to Broken Ink’s website at brokenink.org. There, they can click on the “How to Submit” link and follow the instructions for submitting work. Once having read and adhered to all the criteria, a student can attach their work and personal information as attachments in an email to submissions@ broken-ink.org where they will be accessed by the staff of Broken Ink . All submissions are reviewed anonymously and rated on a scale of 1 to 5 (5 being the highest) by literary, visual, and audio art panels assembled from student volunteers on Rating Day, the Saturday following the final submission deadline. In order to maintain an accurate and objective representation of USC Aiken’s artistic community, we ask all panelists to recuse themselves from rating their own submissions and the submissions of works by artists that they recognize. Accepted works are determined according to the highest average rating. Due to space constraints, Broken Ink staff must occasionally decide between two or more equally deserving works both by average rating and artistic merit. Such occurrences are resolved based on the current publication’s concept or “voice” and Broken Ink’s mission to represent a wide variety of student work. Full rubrics are located online at www.broken-ink.org/our-policies.

broken-Ink.org soundcloud.com/broken-ink-2 University of South Carolina-Aiken 471 University Parkway Aiken, SC 29801

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