Miscellany, Fall 2011

Miscellany Behind theLock

Magazine of the Arts Georgia Southern University Fall 2011

From the Editors

My journey as an editor began after spending a substantial amount of time in the brick cell that is the Miscellany office. This journey first required my introduction to the Mac, which equated to a complete disaster. After creating a complete mess of archives, emails, and files, I graduated to working through the obstacle course that is magazine creation.

During production, I’ve been pushed to consider what secrets I’ve held and what they mean to me. Walking into the office everyday and reading through submissions made me realize that secrets can make us and they can destroy us. They eat away at our conscience and build walls that are not easily torn down. The things we keep inside personally define us and make us question the truth. Reading through secrets inspired us. They let us know we are not alone in the things that we do.

As you read and look through the work of Georgia Southern students, consider what is behind your lock. You are defined by the things you choose to hide or expose. Discover your definition.

Until Next Time, Kayla Hurley Editor

A few weeks ago I came across this archival print that read “The ‘earth’ without ‘art’ is just ‘eh’.” True, right? I began thinking on this summer and how many nights I spent in absolute bewilderment beneath a glowing moon and dozens of constellations. I felt as if I’d become a part of some otherworldly masterpiece. I’d gained this fascination with morning skies and the way the puffs of orange, purple, and pink made waking up more of a victory than the day before.

Being a part of the Miscellany this year was something that just sort of happened to me, much like art. It happens to us. And being able to watch it all come into fruition, from the overwhelming amount of submissions to scouring downtown Statesboro for the perfect cover piece, was nothing short of an awesome learning experience. I hope you all enjoy this semester’s edition. But mostly, I hope it ‘happens’ to you. Just as art should.

Ayana Moore Assistant Editor

This is my first year working with the Miscellany. At first I thought of it as just an art magazine. The process was standard: students sent in work, judges chose work, and it was published. Although the theme this semester, secrets, got me thinking about this magazine in a different way.

I began to think of secrets of my own. You can either let them eat away at you or share them and possibly inspire others. Some secrets are kept at the request of loved ones, some are kept as a result of shame or bashfulness, and yet some are kept, because you haven’t found the right person to share them with. We all have our secrets, some are more emotional and sensitive than others, but they are all kept for a reason. Do not let yourself be ashamed of your secrets. Your secrets help determine who you are and what you value in your life. We hope that these secrets will inspire you to share your secrets, or even realize that some secrets are best kept.

Enjoy, Kelsey Paone Design Editor

Table of Contents

Art

Shelby Childs

Gentle Eyes Amanda Gibson

Irish Snails Alessandra Dzuba

Siuka-Burka Shanna Goodwin

Piano Jimmy Guo

Silence Lauren Howard

Feed Me Brittany Kolar

Bring Back the Old Sheila Boarman

Desirable Path Jose Gil

IV Lindsey Rowland

Zebra Blues

Writing

4 7 8 11 15 17 19 21 21 22

Michael Hendley

Recycling Tavidee Hoskins

Facade Suicide Christopher Kessler

Savannah Michael Hendley

Hatashiai (Duel) Axel Wright

Keeping the Vitals Covered Spencer Lenaway

A Few Waka for the Mind Christopher Hiers

Old Florist Chad Sanderson

Breaking the Cycle Jimmy Guo

Oh Soldier, Soldier Kaela McNeil

The Bones (a ghazal)

Country Boy

5 6 7 9 10 16 18 19 20 23 23

Cover photography: Megan Fletcher Inside photography: Kayla Hurley

Submissions The Miscellany is copyright 2011 by the Miscellany Magazine of the Arts at Georgia Southern University, Statesboro, Georgia.

The Miscellany is owned and operated by GSU students using

facilities provided by the university.

This magazine is produced twice a year by and for the students of GSU. Opinions expressed herein are those of the student writers, artists and editors and do not necessarily reflect those of the faculty, staff or administration of GSU, Student

Media or the University System of Georgia. Readers may pick up two free copies at distribution sites.

Additional copies are 50 cents and are available at the Williams Center. However, unauthorized removal of additional copies from a distributions site constitutes

theft under Georgia Law, a misdemeanor offense punishable by a fine and/or jail time. Editors will seek to have any person(s) who removes more than the authorized number of copies from distribution sites prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

Gent le Eyes

4

Shelby Childs Freshman Drawing

Recycling

A certain man decided to eat his bicycle instead of giving it to his ex-wife in the divorce.

He thought of cooking it first, but instead decided to eat it raw. He sat it on the dinner table and carefully looked it over. He began with the tires, a rough licorice with the hint of asphalt and trail dust. He then turned to the rims and broke them off and ate one spoke at a time.

Next came the chains. Using his fork he lifted each chain up to his mouth and slurped them up like lumpy spaghetti.

Now accustomed to the taste of metal, he started on the bike’s main body. First he unscrewed as many parts as he could, and proceeded to lick the metallic blue paint from the bike as if it were an odd shaped candy cane. He then chewed on each naked part until it all disappeared down his gullet. The handle bars were far too wide for his mouth, so he cut them into three equal pieces using his butter knife.

Finally, came the bike seat. A rough leathery liver that had the odor of farts and the taste of nut sweat. After an hour of chewing, the meal was finally complete. His stomach now full, and quite misshapen, he patted it with his hand as he said, “Let’s see her get it now.” He then headed to bed, to sleep off his feast, but not before grabbing the remaining bike screws and popping them in his mouth as after dinner mints.

Michael Hendley

Senior, General Studies Poetry

5

Facade Suicide Can you see the lights flashing?

Angels draped in heavenly new fashion So, let me raise a question worth asking Who’s that when they raise their mask Girl interrupted on a track so tragic Seen on the scene throwing back those glasses Suppressing her dreams living life so flaccid Drastic, changes have polluted her passion

See, she’s been a manic depressive since her early adolescences Felt she lacked a lot of blessing so she settled for rebellion Felt she lost her place in heaven since the age of eleven Now she feels reality using her body as a weapon All the same beauty is her name As they measuring her frame perfection’s what they claim But never do they dig below the surface Examine her imagination where the real beauty is lurking, and Touch her soul The inner her is starting to vanish Painting her face with as much makeup as she can manage And she gets an empty feeling when she doing her damage Realization, she tarnishing a beautiful canvas And though it hurts, Habitually she do it because it works Break his neck when she pass flash his wealth and give a smirk Blinded by the dollar dormant feeling dull her destiny Got the mind for college, but on the test she ain’t impressed She see the Bentley and the Lex, wants next to who possesses the Absorbing disrespect she must reflect on what use to be In the kitchen making biscuits; “My mother really knew me” Flour butter hug each other stir and let the dough breath Now that other soft white causing chronic nose bleeds Spiral of destruction, inside out she’s dying slowly But despite what he paid her, YOU are her savior Message her intellect, be her spiritual bather Reverse the destruction of this emotional genocide Don’t let her fall victim while facing façade suicide

6

Tavidee Hoskins

Sophomore, Psychology Major Poetry

Savannah

Mighty oaks stand strong Ancient with Spanish Moss beards Guard the Old City From the gaze of travelers Seeking a past they don’t own

Christopher Kessler

Irish Snails

Senior, Writing and Linguistics Major Poetry

Amanda Gibson

Senior, English Literature Major Photography

7

Siuka-Burka

Alessandra Dzuba Senior, Fine Arts 2-D Painting

zuba 2-D nting

Hatashiai (Duel) The moonlight casts a brilliant Shine over the landscape.

Tall grass waves like the ocean As cherry blossoms dance and Swirl against a starry sky.

Amongst the grass, In a small clearing, Two figures stand alone.

Their eyes look deep Into the others Never looking away.

Their surroundings become dull, Colorless and blend into the pale White background, for nothing Else matters in the world Besides the other.

Suddenly the figures thrust forward Becoming a single blur as Two reflections of the moonlight Pass by in an instant, And then all is still.

In one silent motion One of the two falls.

A dark crimson shadow Seeps from beneath To outline his defeat.

With head bowed The now lonely victor Walks into the grass Perhaps in hopes these waves Can wash this from memory.

Michael Hendley

Senior, General Studies Poetry

9

Keeping The Vitals Covered In the gaps under the canopy

of umbrella traffic on campus,

the unshielded bodies are soaked

translucent;

shirts like a second skin

and belly-buttons seen straight through.

She walks a soaking sway, with a textbook roofing her hair

like tin sheets.

Axel Wright

Senior, Writing and Lingusitics Major Poetry

10

Piano

11

Shanna Goodwin

Senior, Art History Major Photography

My Secret :

I cheated on my boyfriend.

I broke up with him when he cheated on me.

I think I’ll grow up to be a bum.

I'm an upperclassman, and I have never dated.

Now, I feel like I’m in love with my best friend.

I slept with my best friend’s ex.

She was the only girl I ever truly loved. Nothing could come between us until she met him.

I just found out I have an STD. I haven’t told my girlfriend.

I’m still afraid of the dark.

I’m a virgin.

Even though my mom is proud of all I’ve done, I just want her to accept that I am her bisexual son above all.

I did it because I knew it would piss you off.

My girlfriend doesn’t know I dream about her roommate.

I’ve gotten more comfortable with the idea of meaning nothing to someone, rather then meaning something to someone.

I took a year off from school without telling my parents. They are under the impression that I have graduated, even though I still have 30 hours left.

I don’t know how to tell my mom that I no longer believe in God.

I contemplate dropping out of school every morning.

I don’t know how to tell my best friend that I’ve been seeing her brother for over a year now.

I was raped on my 18th birthday and was too scared to tell anyone.

When I was little I would make sweet love to a stuffed frog.

My sister dropped out of college. I’m only a few credit hours away from earning my degree.

I’m more proud of her than I will ever be of myself.

I faked loving him in the beginning, but now it's real.

I’m afraid I will never experience love.

My parents don’t know the extent of my drinking.

I told my mom I tripped. Really, her husband pushed me.

At least my friends drew flowers on my cast.

I like to hold silky things when I’m naked.

I er me. ds my

Silence

Jimmy Guo Freshman, Graphic Design Major Watercolor, Acrylic

A Few Waka for the Mind Rustling boughs sigh, leaves showering the ground; a gentle complaint of heavy storms and dark days that bring them life nonetheless.

Fire on the hills, Burning wood and screaming birds Destruction abound.

Yet, after the smoke is gone A sapling bursts through the ash.

A frog rests; croaking on a smooth lily pad throne, happy in the rain.

When the drops cease falling a falcon finds it’s supper.

A well worn highway jammed with frowning passengers: morning frustration.

But the catalyst, a wreck turns necks into rubber.

Drifting snow falls down, blanketing the ground in white blocking the driveway.

Livid muttering is heard From the man shoveling ice.

Spencer Lenaway

Senior, Creative Writing Major Poetry

16

Feed Me

Lauren Howard

Sophomore, Psychology Major Photography

17

Old Florist

At eighty years old, he is somewhat of a brutish man—narrow chasms etched into his forehead, yellowed teeth from decades of Folgers. He arranges a kaleidoscope of flowers on an aged oak table carved by his father; his calloused hands plow the dark soil into its fitting places, flowing as silk through his sausage-thick fingers, dirt from last month under his fingernails. With sweaty brows and an aching back, he brings to life vegetation with flamboyant pigments of ruby and turquoise. He is a florist. As winter approaches, he flips his car into a small, greenish-blue creek and drowns. ***

The phone rings—“Hello.”

“Elizabeth Krasinski?”

“Yes, this is she. Who is calling?”

“My name is LeAnna Evans from the County Coroner’s Office. Your father…”

Entangled in the phone’s cord, Elizabeth slides down the wall to the floor— her face pale, her mouth open. The piercing sound of mourning engulfs the oncemute room. *** At four years old, Britain soars into his parents’ room and springs onto his father’s side of the bed. On the other side, his mother sits in tears.

“Mama, you got a boo-boo?”

“No baby, grandpa’s been in an accident.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Grandpa’s broken, honey.”

Britain begins to cry. “Why can’t we fix him?”

Christopher Hiers

Senior, Writing and Linguistics Major Flash Prose

18

Bring Back the Old

Brittany Kolar

Junior, Graphic Design Major Photography

Breaking the Cycle That day he didn’t go to work, he didn’t clean the gutters like promised, he didn’t empty his cereal bowl into the sink, he didn’t use the electric razor they got him for his birthday, he didn’t meet Jan in the driveway for the mail, he didn’t replace the batteries in the TV remote, he didn’t fix Kyle’s tricycle, he didn’t flip through the classifieds, he didn’t return Bill’s phone call about the tiller, he didn’t rummage in the attic and forget what he was looking for, he didn’t compliment her dress when he really didn’t mean it, he didn’t misplace his wallet again, he didn’t look at his high school yearbook and wonder where his throwing arm went, he didn’t eat pizza for the third time that week, he didn’t listen when the other parents asked each other “What is that guy’s problem?” he didn’t count the days he had been sexless, he didn’t ask what happened, he didn’t take anything with him, he didn’t lock the door on the way out, he didn’t reminisce.

Chad Sanderson

Senior, Writing and Linguistics Major Short Story

19

Oh Soldier, Soldier In the name of God we slay In the name of our country we kill But God is nowhere in this place And the blood of brothers stains our country’s hands Oh soldier, soldier what have you done?

We fight with honor and courage and valor But where is the honor in this act of betrayal Where in God’s name do you find Any trace of valor in this treason against mankind?

Oh soldier, soldier what have you done?

And now she lays breathless on the floor And she was a child And now she lays, to speak never more And she was a mother Oh soldier, soldier what have you done?

And now of what was once a city Lays only ash and ruin And now of what was once beauty Lays only tears and bloodshed Oh soldier, soldier what have you done?

And now that the blood of man blights man And now that we have turned our guns upon our family And now that our hands have been a party to this travesty We leave the worlds we have torn apart To return as heroes to our nation, but what to our hearts?

Oh God, oh God what have we done?

Oh God, oh God what have we become?

Jimmy Guo

Freshman, Graphic Design Major Poetry

20

Desirable Path

Sheila Boarman

Senior, 2D Studio Art Major Matte board, acrylic paint, mixed media

IV

Jose Gil

Junior, Graphic Design Major Ink Markers

Zebra Blues

Lindsey Rowland

Junior, Graphic Design Major Oil paint

22

The Bones (a ghazal) The leaves are all dead, leaving their spines, their bones In a layer of crunch, tree limbs stretching like skeletal bones.

My uncle, grandparents, Blane, all dead, but I didn’t understand until My dog was car-struck; beneath my curious finger, the crack of her bones.

My grandma, manic, drove on the wrong side of the road for fun.

She said: “My soul would fly if I weren’t trapped in these old bones.”

Lying on cold earth, I feel soft soil sucking me in, another layer Added to the timeline, heaped onto the stacks, another bag of bones.

I wondered if my ancestors, buried under dirt and stone, McNeil, Fogarty, Rudamen, Hadley, if they too found poetry in bones.

Country Boy Your voice is the heat of June, a tongue Of hickory-smoked Texas-twang spread out On plastic chairs where cotton-mouths are Cooled by bottlenecks or sweet tea and fed with Corn on the cob on Dixie plates.

Your eyes a glass of Johnnie Walker Dappled with water like your tattooed skin, Sweating scents of Pall Malls Under the burning of summer. But Tonight our body’s tears are lost and hopeful In this ethereal majesty: the night-glitters, the fireworks crying Into our starry sky.

Kaela McNeil

Senior, English Major Poetry

23

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