The Inkwell Literary
Magazine
Fall 2014 Volume 2, Issue 1 The Cento Issue
The Inkwell Literary Magazine
Southwest Georgia Technical College thomasville, ga
Fall 2014 Volume 2, Issue 1
Brittany McInvale
Editors Managing Editors Angela Baze Nicole Kelley Charles Allen Associate Editors Kimberly Burns Advisors Maria Studebaker-Coppage Jay Snodgrass Polly Swilley Photographer Cole Posey
The Inkwell Literary Magazine is a creative publication for the College and the community supported by the English Department at Southwest Georgia Technical College. The Inkwell Literary Magazine publishes issues bi-annually in the Spring and Fall. The works here in are the sole property of the authors and artists. The Inkwell Literary Magazine reserves the right to publish any submissions. The Inkwell Literary Magazine is a free publication and can be obtained on the Southwest Georgia Technical College campus and online. Correspondence address: The Inkwell Staff, English Dept., Southwest Georgia Technical College, 15689 Highway 19 N, Thomasville, GA 31792. Phone 229-225-5202. ISSN 2327-6142 (Print). ISBN 149939182X
Redaction means to The necessary information is often removed in order to protect the agency of the operatives in the field of information.
The Editors would like to thank their family and friends for their support. Special thanks goes to SWGTC, without which this project would not have been realized. Cover Image Redactions by Angela Baze, Photographed by Cole Posey. All photos by Cole Posey Department of English and Humanities Southwest Georgia Technical College 15689 US HWY 19 N Thomasville, GA Post or email submissions welcome at: Inkwellpublications@gmail.com Contributions are welcomed and encouraged from those affiliated with Southwest Georgia Technical College and the local community. The Inkwell Literary Magazine welcomes submissions of all artistic mediums. All works undergo editorial review and appropriated submissions are selected for publication. Poetry submissions are limited to five pages. Fiction and non-fiction is limited to 3,000 words. Art should be submitted in .JPG format.
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Contents Brittany McInvale Redaction 5 Kailee Reeves Mask 10 Ashley Hart Poem 14 Clint Godwin Machinery 15 Angela Baze Redaction 16 Torey Johnson Posession 17 Chelcie Nix The Nightshift 18 Shameka Cole Mask 19 Nicole Kelley Redaction 20 Morgan LeShane Routine 21 Hannah Pollock Redaction 22 Andre Bryant
Feminine Virtues Lost Angela Baze
Mask
Jenna Clark
Untitled
24 26
Angela Baze
Redaction
27 Lindsey Ferguson Beach 30 Jare Esquivel
Perfect or Imperfect 32 Kimberly Duncan Brighten 33 Snodgrass
Wing
Angela Baze
Redaction Vanessa Santillan
Enigma
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What I Feel Beforehand Kaillee Reeves
Reaction
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Selena Dekle
Fine Furniture 40 Sophia Zeigler
Redaction
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Brittany Hurst
Figure 3.20 Lapith and Centaur
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Kimberly Burns
Realm of Tranquility 43 Anonymous Creature Death 44 Charles Allen Forgiveness 45 Jennifer Gufford Redaction 46 Kimberly Burns The Brew 47 Kimberly Burns Music 48
Veronica Baillargeon Mask 49 Anonymous 23
Redaction
52 Hannah Singletary
Food: The Yummy and The Gross Nicole Kelley
Redaction
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Laci Jarrell Mask 55 Brantley Crosby
Father & Son 56 Clara Oliver
The City of Dreams 57 Jennifer Gufford
Redaction
58 Anonymous Creature
Second Sight 59 Angela Baze
Redaction Kelsee Broadway
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Emotional Prisoner 61
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Emili Todd Wilt 62 Laci Jarrell
Jaym Densing
Build the Dam 86 Marla Bush Rosie 87 Shameka Milhouse Work 88 Caroline Weeks Story in Red 89 Amy Ward
Redaction
63 Madison Richards
Barberito’s Saint
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Anonymous Creature
Plague 67
Lindsey Ferguson
Marianas Trench
I don’t Understand Why
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Cierra Miller Mask 69 Ellen Traywick Mask 70 Jared Warmack
Dartha Braswell Landscape 92 Angela Baze
Redaction
Centauromachy
I Wish You Lived On My Street Hunter McLendon
Redaction Rooks Pullen
Metamorphose
The Death of Sarpedon
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The Park
The Apothecary April Hataway
A Career of Jobs Patricia Coram Mask Terri Lewis
Redaction
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Torey Johnson
The Kitchen 84 Jennifer Roberts
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Caroline Kelly
Drunk/Sober 100
Anonymous Creature Peace 101 Snodgrass Redaction 102
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76 Anonymous Creature Hercules Beatle Nicole Kelley I’m Done 79 Jill Baggett
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Caroline Weeks
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Shameka Milhouse Work 72 Michelle Semones Redaction 73 Chris Dietz John Jackson Mask Hannah Hayes
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What Happened Last Night 85
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Thereat my Leader spoke with so much force, that I had never heard him use the like: In that thine arrogance, O Capaneus,
is not extinguished, art thou all the more chastised; no torment, saving thine own rage, were for thy furious pride a fitting pain. Inferno XVI
Ashley Hart Poem Oh Hegeso, who has married, Woe unto you, for your husband is off with another woman. He is being entertained while you sit there in your beauty, adorning yourself with jewelry and riches, taking care of the children and yourself. You have taken upon you this role, knowing that all that you do will never be mentioned. All the triumphs will never be acknowledged, nor will the hard fought victories. All those hours of tolling, taking care of the future generation, never to be talked about by the men. Yet you are still held highly, like a goddess who has descended from above, to the most important role one can have. Your children worship you, and your servants offer you gifts. They bask in your presence and want to be like you. You children will remember you, and you sons will seek to marry women who value the things you do. In the end you will be remembered, for your deeds and your contributions to society.
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Clint Godwin Machinery I am a machine of my indecisiveness. There is no one to blame but my own mind. I can’t ever seem to figure out what I want because I am a machine of my own mind. I find something I like, and I run with it until the new wears off or its attraction turns rotten because I am a machine of my indecisiveness. I am a machine of my depression. I come home and I sleep, eat, sleep, eat, do school work. Repeat. I am a machine of my loneliness. I am a captive of my mind. I am a prisoner of my indecisiveness.
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Angela Baze 16
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Torey Johnson Posession Aprons float about, to-and-fro, monikers of servitude upon the ones who dawn them. The Kitchen is alight with workers buzzing about, all coordinated in utter chaos. There, in the Kitchen, lies the epicenter of the commotion; the cook steadily producing and giving his workers purpose, he is our sun. Lofty guests, filled to the brim with their choice alcohol, emit a soft roar of meaningless chatter which can be heard anywhere on the grounds in some intensity. The central lode, a wooden palace hidden amongst the Georgian pines, it stands softly along the landscape, owing its existence to the very forest that encases it. Its seclusion cannot keep it from the grim reality of the world; there are two types of people in this world: those who serve, and those who are served.  
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Chelcie Nix The Nightshift Dead on my feel is how I feel. the things I see aren’t full of grace. It hurts my heart, The injustice all around. Those who are sick wanting to be healed. But some things aren’t meant to be. I think of my family, It frightens me so much. Praying they never know, The bear called cancer in our midst. Care and compassion are what I do With patients who struggle to make it through. Helping people is a mission to me. The mountains they climb I cannot see. I go to work each day to make a difference. Sometimes I do others not. How does God choose the struggle? Some get well and move on with their lives. I love to see them spread their wings and fly. The care and compassion of a nurse never fades. Being there for my patients is my priority. Through good times and in the driving rain, I hope they know I sense their pain. My job is not as glamorous, as you can see. But it will always be very special to me.
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Shameka Cole
The Inkwell
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Nicole Kelley 20
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Morgan LeShane Routine It is my job to smile at you. To make you feel welcome to greet you. Wait on you hand and foot. I must do my best to please you with open arms and happy face, “Hi!” If only I could let this tired smirk of mine leave my face to scream out my anger at the world… Tis my job to smile. My feet ache, My stomach rumbles, my back throbs, my eyes constantly fight to stay open. But I pretend none of this is real. No matter what I truly feel…
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Hannah Pollock 22
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Andre Bryant Feminine Virtues Lost Thou canst be a woman of ancient time, To have no voice nor be respected. To be mistreated and not valued is such a pity, Only looked at as property to men. Women of Athens were as lapdogs, Treated so awful they lost their virtue. Athenian Women should have been praised, Instead of being looked upon as slaves. If they would have rise against rules, To be shunned or killed like enemies. Beauty of the hetaera was only in vain, Treated as human art was demeaning. Feminine Virtues Lost from the womb, No positive atmosphere to consume. Only failed hopes and dreams in their future, A pleasure to be born male in that time, Thoust would thrive and honored all gods. If thy would been woman in those years, Thy life would been full of tears. Feminine virtues were never known, Lost and forever gone.
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Jenna Clark Untitled Day after day same boring routines; Work and more work is all that it means. From this moment onwards until I’m old, Be walking to work, rain, snow and cold. Depressed and lifeless beyond belief. I’ll be old before I find relief. Tired and eyes like lead Thinking, can it be any worse if I was dead. Where there are no more worries or heartache. But, I have to struggle with life, for family’s sake. So similar are the days, they all seem hazy. Another 50 odd years left, I can see myself going crazy. To sleep forever and wake up refreshed. Ready to take on the years that are left. That dream I’ll have to wait for, for when I’m in my grave. Knowing my luck, it’ll be my old, dull life that I’ll crave. But where there is a will…I’ll find a way. I will battle up life’s hill day after day. Like many who have come and gone before me, I will survive and succeed, just wait…you’ll see.
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Angela Baze
The Inkwell
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When he saw me weeping, he answered: You must go another road, if you wish to escape this savage place. This creature, that distresses you, allows no man to cross her path, but obstructs him, to destroy him,
and she has so vicious and perverse a nature, that she never sates her greedy appetite, and after food is hungrier than before. -- Inferno Canto VII
Lindsey Ferguson Beach Reflecting off the water, the palm trees look like large hands ready to scoop me up I’m telling myself my face is tan, not burnt. It’s just the heat from the sun. It’s making me hot. I’ve been here for hours watching the waves below the blue skies, wishing my pain would be buried beneath the sand like the shells, and sand dollars, the crabs, the unwanted treasure. At this hour all the people look as if they have turned into lobsters. They do not care. They forgot the sunscreen. I have my sunscreen. So here I sit on my towel sunbathing for hours observing the faces of people. I would not take their place if they asked me, because our choices seem to differ. The birds dance with the waves, a dash and dive into the ocean. On the people’s faces are raccoon eyes covered up by sunglasses. They sing songs of sunny days with toes in the sand. I want an upbeat song that keeps rhythm with the ocean like a metronome keeping beat as a pianist plays their favorite tune sitting in the sand with my cold drink quenching my thirst. Sometimes when a daiquiri touches my lips, I think of my getaway as a grand reward
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each thought and memory in its place. The weatherman predicts no hurricane only another sunny day waiting to be enjoyed by me like the kid enjoying the ice cream cone, the ice cream parlor that makes me want to buy every flavor or go run a mile. When I go home at the end of the day my face is tight with sunburn. People go back for a midnight swim but I’m too scared to. Sharks bite peoples legs, the people scream, blood spreads throughout the water and it’s not a pretty sight when the people are brought ashore. I’m reminiscing of the days events collecting in the deepest trenches of my mind, in whispers, of every memory of this beach trip.
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Jare Esquivel Perfect or Imperfect What would you rather be, perfect or imperfect? To help you decide, think of it like this— perfection is a circle. Imperfection is a cloud. A circle can only be a circle, whereas a cloud can take any form it desires. A circle can only be still, while a cloud can move in any way imaginable. Circles are mountains, they can’t move on their own. Clouds are birds, and they are free to roam. A circle can only be the letter “O,” but a cloud can be any letter in the alphabet. Clouds can be high in the sky, Whereas a circle has to be on something flat. So if asked again, what would you be: the perfect cloud or the imperfect circle?
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Kimberly Duncan Brighten I gaze out of the window for a split second, hoping no one notices I wonder what it would do for me to stand on the edge of the world No one knowing, not even my name. A foolish, rash, naive way of thinking. This is how I live This is what I do I cook, I clean, I watch over “them” But why does it feel like “They” are watching over me The days are long. The work is hard. My mind is dwelling in a distant life But there’s no time to daydream Fall 2014
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Snodgrass 34
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Angela Baze 36
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Vanessa Santillan Enigma I am the coffee stains on a white T-shirt, unwanted and hard to ignore. I am the explorer of pain and hurt, travelled a sea with no shore. I am the colors in a black and white photograph, invisible and unnoticed. I am just another portion on a census graph. I am a daisy in a Greek garden full of Lotus, not as extraordinary but utterly beyond compare. I am not my mistakes or bad decisions. I am no renaissance man, and I am aware, but I have accomplished significant missions. I am not rich, and I have not found gold, but I have found a wisdom that is worth much more. The sagacity I earned and behold, I would never give up for any amount of gold. I am an enigma, difficult to understand. My life is a mystery, wearisome to uncover.  
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Kati Bowden What I Feel Beforehand A fear controls my frozen heart, pinning me to the wall like shackles. I feel eyes holding me in place, their gaze the sights on a rifle. Do I move? Do I stay? Leaden doubt fills my stomach. Ragged air slices my lungs as I force it down And I feel like a sword is pressed to my throat, sending shivers down my spine. There it stands, only a short distance before me, a small steel beast upon its perch. It taunts me, telling me to shake, to find fault in myself. “Be afraid!” it screeches silently. Its blank face sneers. “You’re not strong!” Why am I here? I’m just a quiet deer on a highway Who feels as if her time has run out with the nearing of a truck’s headlights. The heavy quiet finally breaks, allowing the notes from a violin to fall down on me. The cold I feel is chased out by the comfort the piano drops on me like a cloak. A spark of courage, of hope (of confidence?) begins to burn in my heart And my soul sheds the cape of darkness my nerves had earlier delivered. A single deep breath, in, then out, and my chains of fear shatter. One, two, three, just three short steps, and I’m in front of the beast. I silence its heartbreaking quiet, grabbing it like the tool it is. The music carries me like a gentle tide, letting me breathe in preparation. Words rush through the forefront of my mind and swim up from the pool that is my lungs And finally. Finally. like a bird of graceful flight, I sing. I sing.
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Kaillee Reeves
The Inkwell
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Selena Dekle Fine Furniture The pillows thud against the chairs As I reshape them, making them presentable. The rows of furniture are silent, waiting to greet The customers as they pass by. The couches await to be tried, and the wing chairs Sit tall, until they are noticed. The lamps shine brighter, Draping their light over the observers. Dust gathers on the shelves and tables, plotting Against me. I sweep up the crowds as my nose begins to twinge. Here it comes. I sneeze. The silence is broken, If only for a second. Then the phone rings, as I run To answer the voice on the other end. Hold. Line 1. Just call me Sarah. I straighten the depressed lamp shades and pictures. I search for wallpaper To match the drapes. Floral, abstract, straw, and stripes. They all hug the walls, and welcome all who enter in. Hours slip away, into the afternoon, And I walk out the door. Into the bright sunshine and humidity. Another sunset. Another day.
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Sophia Zeigler
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Brittany Hurst Figure 3.20 Lapith and Centaur What beauty and strength does the Lapith here show, His arched back and poised form gripping this Centaur as it were a bow. Will the Centaur’s will prevail, will he prove his might? Which being will choose to meet his fate tonight? A celebration it seemed, but a battle it became, Of a human and a beast, fighting for their name In the stars where the gods do reside. Who will walk away with the satisfaction and pride? Superior is the Lapith, a warrior of the earth, Waging war to seize his right given from birth. No Centaur will defeat him, he is very sure. How could a Centaur against a Lapith claim to be pure? Flesh against flesh, grinding at once, Bones breaking, cracking, crushed! Prayers to the gods will not help him now, When will the Lapith be able to wipe his brow? A match made in the heavens, neither will give, Maybe they both deserve the gift to live. If only peace of this war could prevail, We could obtain some peace by the end of this tale.
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Kimberly Burns Realm of Tranquility Take this minute to rest, And find your realm of tranquility. It does not have to be imagined, The world is already complete with wonders, It does not have to be far from home, Just observe the time around you. Daylight warming the end of night, The evening as it bursts with stars, Now when you get up and go back to work, Don’t forget these moments. For in each one you can embrace, Your realm of tranquility
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Anonymous Creature 44
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Charles Allen FORGIVENESS What is forgiveness? Why do we forgive? Is it necessary? Is it real? Does it work? I heard an angry man say, “God forgives, I don’t.” And that is true. A lot of people can’t do it. There’s power in forgiveness. It’s not easy. Lord knows it’s not easy, especially depending on the situation. It takes inner strength. The Reba Show is just that, a show. You become best friends with the person who assisted in ending your marriage, yeah right, but oddly enough it is possible. If fortunate enough, we can turn acceptance into forgiveness because not being able to forgive imprisons us. Especially when we’re not able to forgive ourselves. Not being able to let things go will literally hold us hostage. There are people out here right now with ulcers and other health problems solely because they won’t let go. Developing the inner strength to forgive is the equivalent to moving a mountain without getting your hands dirty. Hell, we love a good old fashioned redemption story that inspires. So, if you will, look at it like this, if you’re able to be inspired then there is a very good chance you’re capable of inspiring. People who believe in God refer to it as a testimony. You experienced something unsavory but you pulled thru and that’s a beautiful thing. The book Picking Cotton is a perfect example of what I’m trying to express. A man and a woman have to forgive in order to live. Like I said before, it’s not always easy but we have to at least try. Overall, life is beautiful and there is no reason to walk around with unnecessary stress because you’re the only person who cares that you were wronged and as insensitive as that sounds, it’s true. Nobody else cares about your feelings but you. A person may sympathize you but the entire time they’re thinking, “Woo, better them than me.” So, if possible…Let it go!
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Jennifer Gufford
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Kimberly Burns The Brew A storm brews in the skies, The deep hue of coffee, I breathe in the aromas Of damp air and ground beans, Rain meets earth as I pour, Flashes of lightning and swirls of cream, Clutching the mug to my chest As thunder causes my hands to tremble, Tipping the mug to taste the contents, The world outside goes silent, The heat touches my throat and I swallow, The storm is vanquished
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Kimberly Burns Music A violin in the empty streets, A guitar in the alley, A flute covered in rust on the stairs, A piano its keys of ivory, Yet none of them are touched, The lifelong silence is too much, Dust covers the orchestra stage, Where the great musicians use to play, Music was once like the sun’s light, That cut through our dark and cloudy day, Imagine a world without these majestic instruments, No, do not think of such, Because a world without music, Would mean a world of hurt to us
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Veronica Baillargeon
The Inkwell
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The whore that never turned her eyes from Caesars household, Envy, the common disease and vice of courts, stirred all minds against and being stirred they stirred Augustus, so that my fine honours were changed to grievous sorrows. My spirit, in a scornful mode, thinking to escape scorn
by death, made me, though I was just, unjust to myself. By the strange roots of this tree, I swear to you, I never broke faith with my lord, so worthy of honour. If either of you return to the world, raise and cherish the memory of me, that still lies low from the blow Envy gave me. --Inferno Canto XIII
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Hannah Singletary Food: The Yummy and The Gross Cheeseburgers make me happy like a child receiving Christmas presents. Finding pizza in the freezer is like discovering treasure in a pirate movie. Spaghetti noodles are like the veins that bring nourishment to my body. Sushi is life. Eating tender steak is like finding love for the first time. Mashed potatoes are like fluffy white clouds on a warm summer day. Tomatoes are red and juicy like my heart. Quesadillas are round and cheesy like a pizza. Eating salad is like eating leaves, but in an enjoyable way. Zucchini is green like money, which makes me feel almost as happy as does. Cauliflower makes me as sad as if someone forgot my birthday. Although tacos are shaped like a smile, they make me frown. Brussel Sprouts are like a baby’s diaper. Cake is fluffy like mashed potatoes, but mashed potatoes actually taste good. Sweet potatoes are like rotten pumpkins after Halloween. Guacamole is green like snot. Caviar makes me feel sad like when the bad fish eats Marlin’s family on Finding Nemo. Anchovies are hairy like unshaved legs. Vienna Sausages taste like disappointment in cylindrical form. Whether the food tastes good or bad, it gives me energy like electricity to a lightbulb.
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Laci Jarrell
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Brantley Crosby Father & Son Our minds are alike, but our bodies are different. The will of a genius in both, yet the scars of working class in one. The luxury of a suit and tie, and the loss of a dirty T-shirt. The CEO, above all. Or the grunt, under all. Our brain power is equal, but the choices we make separate the greats from the mistakes. Father’s challenged by none. Who is greater than the other one? Father, the tattooed welder, knowledgeable just like an elder. Or Son, unsure of which to choose, brain or brawn. Make the mistakes of Father or spread his education wider? Should he work like a dog, using brawn over brain, or should he apply himself and be smarter than the rest? With everything at stake, the choices Son makes are crucial.
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Become a criminal, hated and despised or a successful hernere and soar the skies? Will he climb to the top or take his father’s demise? He is equal in mind and body, but will he use his head and try or his body and wisp away? Yes, the stakes are high, and he has the traits. He just needs to apply himself and Son will be the better guy.  
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Clara Oliver The City of Dreams This city is a mirage. It looks like opportunity from a distance, sounds like accomplishment from society, but once you arrive it reeks of disappointment. The air is as heavy as a semi and tastes like stress. The skyscrapers are made of money, and the streets are paved with poverty. The businessmen are wolves; the street vendors are snakes, and the homeless are barnacles stuck to a boat. People look through each other as they pass by because everyone lives in their own world, working 8 hours a day for a few pieces of paper, but really their lives aren’t worth much. There are 8 million people here, but I am alone. This city is a melting pot? I’d call it a salad. This city is my heart, and maybe that’s why it’s broken.
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Jennifer Gufford 58
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Anonymous Creature
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Angela Baze
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Kelsee Broadway Emotional Prisoner Buried deep down inside, cold and closed, is my heart. The time capsule enclosing all the pain I have accumulated in this lifetime. My lips are soundproof walls, keeping in sighs, screeches, and cries for help locked tightly inside. My eyes are rivers, overflowing with tears, granted to me by years of betrayal. And my trust is the ghost hiding in the shadows waiting desperately for me to let down my guard. I am a prisoner of love, confused and stuck in an emotional struggle. I am a repellant to meaningless words; I’ve heard too many to care. But I am a slave to my own feelings, they control me inside and out. My emotions are dying, looking for a fast and easy way out. But who am I to call? What is left for me to do? My words are ineffable, like my feelings for you. I know I shouldn’t be like this, but despair powers through. There’s a costume over my body that I put on for you. My heart is a beautiful thing, open and free. My lips are orange slices forming a smile so bright. My eyes are vibrant stars, glistening with happiness and joy. Because you are my world, you keep me moving and alive, but you never treat me like I deserve to be treated, not like a gift, but a prize. So I’ll keep on my costume and like gears I’ll turn, hoping to leave you in this world to burn. I see a smile on your face, I know you’re aware. I am, too.
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Emili Todd Wilt In the reflection in my phone, I see the bags under my eyes. My face has the look of anything except beauty. Exhaustion has weakened my senses. My muscles ache from lack of sleep. Through the halls, I am pushed and shoved. To them I am invisible. Each day is a little easier than the One before. I will never forget how close we were. He was my companion. Now I will never see him again. Why did he have to leave like that? Was I not enough for you? Did I never give you what you needed? Is it time that I moved on?
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Laci Jarrell
The Inkwell
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When he saw me weeping, he answered: You must go another road, if you wish to escape this savage place. This creature, that distresses you, allows no man to cross her path, but
obstructs him, to destroy him, and she has so vicious and perverse a nature, that she never sates her greedy appetite, and after food is hungrier than before. Inferno Canto XXXII
Madison Richards Barberito’s Saint I listen to the crowd, reminding me of a stampede of elephants, all craving burritos. My heels ache, like an Olympic athlete. But my aching comes from frying chips and taking orders from the hungry beasts of Thomasville. The grease flies and stings me, feeling much like a hug from a wasps’ nest. As the night flourishes, my demeanor is diminished by the work piling up against me. When the heavenly light of the “closed” sign reflects off the tinted windows, glorious emotions erupt from inside, and I turn to the leaning tower of dishes calling my name to be cleansed. I, too, am wishing to be cleansed. Cleansed of the crusty cheese dip, black grease stains, and rude comments running through my head. I have become accustomed to the rolling of eyes and demanding guests barking their needs to me. My cash register is the only device holding me back. Saving my butt from the harsh lecture I would receive if I were to be truthful to customers. Apparently honesty is not the best policy. As I look around the vacant space, I am reminded of how sloppy folks can be. How much strength does it take for one to flush the toilet? Or to entrust their garbage to the trashcan? The strength of a lion appears to be too miniscule for these strenuous tasks. Refer to me as Hercules, for every night I waste slaving in this establishment I am able to perform all of these tasks, and more. In just under two hours. Essentially, I am not Hercules, but rather a Barberito’s Saint, for I am able to keep the secrets of whom the slobs are.
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Anonymous Creature
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Lindsey Ferguson Marianas Trench Reflecting off the water, the palm trees look like large hands ready to scoop me up I’m telling myself my face is tan, not burnt. It’s just the heat from the sun. It’s making me hot. I’ve been here for hours watching the waves below the blue skies, wishing my pain would be buried beneath the sand like the shells, and sand dollars, the crabs, the unwanted treasure. At this hour all the people look as if they have turned into lobsters. They do not care. They forgot the sunscreen. I have my sunscreen. So here I sit on my towel sunbathing for hours observing the faces of people. I would not take their place if they asked me, because our choices seem to differ. The birds dance with the waves, a dash and dive into the ocean. On the people’s faces are raccoon eyes covered up by sunglasses. They sing songs of sunny days with toes in the sand. I want an upbeat song that keeps rhythm with the ocean like a metronome keeping beat as a pianist plays their favorite tune sitting in the sand with my cold drink quenching my thirst. Sometimes when a daiquiri touches my lips, I think of my getaway as a grand reward
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Cierra Miller
The Inkwell
each thought and memory in its place. The weatherman predicts no hurricane only another sunny day waiting to be enjoyed by me like the kid enjoying the ice cream cone, the ice cream parlor that makes me want to buy every flavor or go run a mile. When I go home at the end of the day my face is tight with sunburn. People go back for a midnight swim but I’m too scared to. Sharks bite people’s legs, the people scream, blood spreads throughout the water and it’s not a pretty sight when the people are brought ashore. I’m reminiscing of the days events collecting in the deepest trenches of my mind, in whispers, of every memory of this beach trip.
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Ellen Traywick 70
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Jared Warmack Centauromachy O woe, O woe, woe are the Lapiths Is a feast not meant to be joyful, ‘specially when two are wed? Why then, instead of joy, is blood being shed? Are not the kindred of the bride, now kindred of the groom? Nonetheless two bloods are spilt, and Pirithous spells his doom He condemned the horsemen to not share in the feast of his coupling And so they plotted in indigence And fought him with a loathing But who then holds the biggest guilt, offended or offender, for both have done their wrongs. But, Nothing rhymes with ‘er. Perhaps that’s the wrong question “Who is at fault” Been host to the centaurs, yes the king aught, and as for those horsemen, they should not have fought.
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Shameka Milhouse Work As I wake in the morning, I imagine chicken. My mind thinks, the motive like my heart beats. I tell myself I do it for the come up, “Go get it or die trying” is my motive. Every time I blink, I see work. Like hours adding up and minutes ticking on a clock My mind reimagines the money and bettering my future. Like a kid with a dream, I am trying to reach my goals. There’s nothing free in life, so work for what you want. Like a human with a job but no money, think… WORK! I forget all about the body pains, pressure on my legs, Pressure rising from my feet, I forget it all. Like having the finer things in life, not just the basics. Work long, hard, tiring days and nights. I tell myself to do it for My Family and the come up. Forget the goals of being average. Dreams, goals, and my success. I am headed to the top. A young, hard-working teenager with success and a dream is all it takes.
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Michelle Semones
The Inkwell
Fall 2014
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Chris Dietz The Death of Sarpedon Blood flowing from your wounds, I see you fighting death, Eyes fluttering with pain. To the underworld it is, Another soul in the grave. Death and Sleep grasp you in their clutches, Holding on forever. What is our nation to do? We lost a great warrior today. Honor him and never forget. Always replaceable he might be. His heart has no fear, Only instructions of what he’s been told. Defend our land, great warrior! Save us from tyranny! What about you, my friend? When is it your turn? Put your life on the line. Exhale deeply, It might be your last breath.
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John Jackson Fall 2014
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Hannah Hayes The Park The grass underneath me is a bed. My skin soaks in the sun like a sponge. People buzz around me like bees, but I am away like a driftwood in the sea. The bird’s chirp is music. My ears hear the song of the breeze. People buzz around me like bees, but I am away like a driftwood in the sea. The greenery is crisp in smell. My nose breaths as steadily as waves. People buzz around me like bees, but I am away like a driftwood in the sea. The day is as bright as a whiteboard. My closed eyes see redness like apples. People buzz around me like bees, but I am away like driftwood in the sea. Suddenly, the grass is as itchy as sequins. The bird’s chirp is a cry. My eyes burn like the sun is close, and I am back like driftwood on a beach.
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Anonymous Creature
The Inkwell
Fall 2014
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The Inkwell
Nicole Kelley I’m Done She’ll carve out her heart and put it on a stake. Shell send it to you and make no mistake, you’ll remember her misery where ever you go. The look on your face, it just goes to show that you finally realize what you have done. You’ve ruined this girl, now she’s holding a gun to your head, telling you that you should have paused to think of the consequences your actions would cause. She’s lost herself, she’s hollow. It’s your pride you should swallow and five her an apology, ease her mind. She’s through with it now, through with being kind.
Fall 2014
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Jill Baggett The Apothecary Standing in the hallway, I’m filled with anticipation. The grind of the day brings hope to a lost and forgotten world. Thrown from society, the helpless seek refuge in this place behind walls. Each day brings new hope when I look into the windows of their souls. Their minds are tormented by the unseen shadows that linger from within. Locked behind the black door, they are waiting to break free. The voices consume their day as they struggle to survive, Abandoned by their family and friends. I am the keeper of caged birds with no voice wanting to sing. They look to me for relief in their sea of sadness. I provide the need, but not the candy their desire. It comes in a cocktail of legal pleasure. Calming the voices heard deep within, it provides the relief needed. As I look through the window and see the storm subside, I see a bird has found refuge and ready to fly. I’m thankful to provide the temporary peace, for only a moment they can release. The hallway is empty. The sky turns dark. I see the windows in my nest of quiet refuge. The day was long. The night will go by fast. Tomorrow my routine will be as the last.
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April Hataway A Career of Jobs Searching my brain, trying to think about jobs I’ve had, I realize that I’ve spent more time trying to find jobs than I’ve actually spent working. It seems that I have made a career out of trying to find a career. Jobs that range from manager to janitor. Some of which, contain both of these duties at the same time. Each job, different yet the same. All using me for their own purpose and gain. All draining me, taking my time and energy, leaving me ultimately shuffling and struggling to find the next one. The worst part of losing a job is being reminded that there is yet one more thing that I failed at and disappointed another person. I hate that. I always try to make people happy; often neglecting myself and my family for the sake of bosses who generally don’t care about me anyway. But three children don’t eat for free.
Fall 2014
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Patricia Coram
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Terri Lewis
The Inkwell
Fall 2014
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Torey Johnson The Kitchen Aprons float about, to-and-fro, as a moniker of servitude upon the ones who dawn them. The Kitchen is alight with workers buzzing about, all coordinated in utter chaos. There, in the Kitchen, lies the epicenter of the commotion; the cook steadily producing and giving his workers purpose, he is our sun. Lofty guests, filled to the brim with their choice alcohol, emit a soft roar of meaningless chatter which can be heard anywhere on the grounds in some intensity. The central lode, a wooden palace hidden amongst the Georgian pines, it stands softly along the landscape, owing its existence to the very forest that encases it. Its seclusion cannot keep it from the grim reality of the world; there are two types of people in this world: those who serve, and those who are served.  
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Jennifer Roberts
The Inkwell
Fall 2014
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Jaym Densing Build the Dam I come in at 3:30 right after school. Everyone’s day is ending as mine begins. The busy doctor needs to buy his snow crabs. The single mom needs to budget her money for the week. The beeping of cash registers echoes in my ears like a buzzing bee. Children scream and yell like inmates in a prison, they want to escape. The senior workers are ready to go home, too, they are ready to retire for the night. The clock hits 8:00, it is time for my break, and I scan the store like a hungry wolf, trying to find a rabbit to eat. I give up on my search and settle on buying Skittles. And a bottle of Mountain Dew. I hope this keeps my energy up, and I have a long night ahead. Everyone is gone and we are short of workers, so we have to hurry and clear the lot before the store closes. The last customer leaves for the night, and it is time for us to clean the store. They run the wax machine, and we start mopping all around the store. I am eager as a beaver to get home and build a dam over my eyes. We finally finish at 11:00pm and my day is officially over.  
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Marla Bush
The Inkwell
Fall 2014
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Shameka Milhouse Work As I awaken to the morning, I imagine chicken. My mind thinks of the motive for my heart beats. I tell myself I do it for the come up, “Go get it or die trying” is my motive. Every time I blink, I see work. Like hours adding up and minutes ticking on a clock My mind reimagines the money and bettering my future. Like a kid with a dream, I am trying to reach my goals. There’s nothing free in life, so work for what you want. Like a human with a job but no money, think… WORK! I forget all about the body pains, pressure on my legs, Pressure rising from my feet, I forget it all. Like having the finer things in life, not just the basics. Work long, hard, tiring days and nights. I tell myself to do it for My Family and the come up. Forget the goals of being average. Dreams, goals, and my success. I am headed to the top. A young, hard-working teenager with success and a dream is all it takes.
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Caroline Weeks Story in Red She wrote a story in red on the part of her leg that her skirt covers, in long, thin, indecipherable lines. It might say, “I am homesick for arms that do not exist.” Or, “Look me in the eyes.” Or maybe it says, “Heal me.” She’ll never know until she is no longer afraid to look. When she is willing to brush her fingers along the raised red lines, where the incommunicable has found its language, she will know what it says. When the sting has faded into a feverish memory, evaporated pink and diluted in the steam of a scalding bath, when she has thrown out the razor, when she can look down at her hands and they belong to her again, she will read it, and finally, finally know what it says.
Fall 2014
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Amy Ward I don’t Understand Why I didn’t understand why my mother died. I didn’t understand why she never said goodbye. I didn’t understand why she signed us over to her family As she laid in the hospital only to give Up and die. I didn’t understand why Lupus attacked her body to leave us with a hopeless end. Now, you may wonder why, why this tone but by and by you will understand why. Nevertheless, I will forever say that I don’t understand why. I didn’t understand how we were supposed to be cared for, loved, comforted only, Instead brutally tortured. Even though I’m only sharing one part of the entire story but when I think of it all I still don’t understand why. I’ll never forget one cold night when it all began. We left to pick up my aunt but he’d already plotted the most evil sin. Lord knows I didn’t know how your preacher could sin! Why? Why became my constant cry! I didn’t understand why did he take me down that lonely dark road. But oh by and by I’ll soon know why! Only to be pinned down ripping my clothes off just to force himself in well there goes my innocence. I kept saying why, please, no, and stop only to hear his voice say your mines so shut up. I fought so hard only to be told I will kill you and your sister. He asked? Who will save you now? He says oh that’s right, there’s no one left. No one else wanted you all, not even your mother, you’re all mines so shut up. So, from that night on every night it had become a ritual. 90
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I know someone is saying why? why not just tell? Well, as I said I really didn’t understand why but to anser your question, I did. I tried to tell my aunt but she wouldn’t listen and she punished me but he did say: who would believe you a dysfunctional kid? I’m a retired cop, a preacher, I work for the state, I’m a good guy, I took y ou in. But my cry still remained, Lord why? But then something happened that I couldn’t comprehend! Now I’m pregnant still not understanding why. Why now this started at 13, I’m now 17, Lord, why? Still no answer, so I didn’t understand. Why? Now, thinking a baby from him, no this can’t be! wow, I’m never going to win. Who I now call an angel to help save us all. Just deliver us from the hell we live in! My uncle who now noticed there was something wrong within me. Kicked me out to fend on my own but the haunting thought that was ringing within, he will start on my little sister, killed me. Even though I didn’t know how this would turn out, I still said I must tell somebody. Yet I’m still ashamed and afraid, but I have this drive, I want to save them! I didn’t understand through the process that victims are made to be the criminals, even though I was being slayed I kept my faith. Now this baby is born, a girl blood drawn from her to prove was it all the truth or a simple lie for attention. All still depended on me because the other children were to afraid and still trapped within. Three months later the blood results are in, yes it was the truth, but now my baby girl dies. Lord, please, I don’t understand why. Even though she freed out lives and he was sent to prison, I still didn’t understand why, because I had lost everything. And after all of this, I also enter a new prison, yes prison! Prison of the mind as well as an Identity Crisis. All due to him. He stole my life and until this day, I still don’t understand why.
The Inkwell
Fall 2014
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Dartha Braswell
Angela Baze
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Caroline Weeks I Wish You Lived On My Street We swam in the electric blue swimming pool, covered in a green blanket of ginkgo leaves, until I felt like my head was unattached from my body. We go inside, and it is so dark and cool as you sit beneath the stairs with me, holding my face in your hands. You name each one of my bones as you touch them with your calloused fingertips. I hear your heart doing to your rib cage what jackhammers do to sidewalks. The others are outside yelling and getting drunk, but there is this stillness I feel when you touch me that is so like being underwater and watching the blush of the clouds from below the surface. It is just like something I want to possess but never can; something I want to photograph, but should just enjoy instead. It is like sitting at the top of the orange tree and hearing your car pull up. Sometimes I feel the scratch of your beard on my cheek,
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your laughter burst in my ears, smell the mint of your mouth. Your honeyed hair tangled in my fingers, the color of straw, or sunsets, or lucky pennies. The color of something too golden for names, something as unreachable as you. I wonder when I will ever grow up and learn ways to be close to you without holding you. I wonder when my heart will crack. I wonder if I can ever forget the particular wholeness of your face buried in my neck or your hands so warm and prayerful the humid May night we sat in the back seat of your car and listened to the rain coming down like applause. Our goodbye. Our finale. I wonder if you will remember, if the only salvation is in forgetting. You said to me that night, “I wish you lived on my street.” I whispered, “Please let my door be the one glowing in the back of your mind when you need to go home.”
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Hunter McLendon Fall 2014
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Rooks Pullen Metamorphose I metamorphose into a butterfly and float away to a cloud so high so high I can barely look down to spy all those others on cliché cloud nine. Up here it’s peaceful and quiet cloud nine is full of rages and riots down there I glimpse stealing and lying up here I’m my very own pilot cloud nine is a place where you lose your control just to fit in, just to be a part of the mold of the many there, few are so bold to step out, change the pace, make a new road the other’s merely follow changing everything in hopes of filling their inner hollow. It’s a rare site to see someone step out, to surpass all their fear and doubt/ they are more comfortable with joining the crowd rather than letting their inner self sing out. In contrast, up here I’m in no pursuit of a conquest I don’t want to sway you soul from going wherever it may go do what you may, I could not care less metamorphose into your own butterfly find your very own cloud and float away from all the rest.
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The masks are forms of self portrait. They were produced in The Humanities courses at Southwest Georgia Technical College as a project that combined the concept of the Roman Death Mask with the idea of modernist fragmentation. The Redaction Poems were produced as poetic a forms and literary assignments for English 1101 and 1102 by students and staff at Southwest Georgia Technical College.
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Caroline Kelly Drunk/Sober It’s 3 am and I’m drunk, AGAIN. My lips are numb and the rum is burning my tongue as it runs down my esophageal track, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a MACK truck. It’s 3 am and I’m drunk. Now my eyes are welling up. Over flowing like the proverbial communion cup and I am crying. STOP. STOP CRYING. Crying is weakness, it only gets you pity, and brings you shame, and CRYING NEVER GOT YOU ANYWHERE CAROLINE!! So stop. It’s 3 am and I’m drunk. I’m drunk and every prayer I’ve ever prayed is sifting backwards through my brain like I pressed rewind. But all I WANT is for it to stop. I have a head harder than steel and a heart as soft as wool and I wish that being me was a lot less complicated than it seemed. It’s 3 am and I’m drunk. You see God is running through my head, and God won’t let me go to bed, AND FUCK ME! God I just want to go to bed, Jesus Christ
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help me rest my head cause I’m not getting any younger and I don’t want to sleep when I’m dead. It’s 3 am and I’m drunk. I don’t think I’ve ever drank this much. I stopped counting at shot 8, started drinking out of the bottle swallowing as much as I could take just trying to forget for a night the stakes I’m risking in a game I never chose to play. It’s 3 am and I’m drunk. It’s 3 am and I could be sleeping. Instead I’m in the bathtub shivering and puking, promising God “IF YOU SAVE ME NEVER AGAIN WILL YOU CATCH ME DRINKING!!!” It’s 5 am and I’m nearly sober. I’ve had ample time to think it over, you sent me a couple angels telling me death is not the answer. You are providing me with everything I need. It’s 5 am and I’m nearly sober. I’m done with drinking. I’m done trying to bury my problems so deep that no one can see them. I’m done. I think its about the time where I should be sleeping.
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Anonymous Creature
The Inkwell
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Snodgrass
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The Inkwell Southwest Goergia Technical College Submit: inkwellpublications@gmail.com
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The Inkwell
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Southwest Georgia Technical College 4102 llaF llewknI eh Thomasville, Georgia