M iscellany VOLUME LVI ISSUE 1
Georgia Southern’s Art Magazine
EDITOR'S LETTER I’ve been working on the magazine staff for three years now and every year I’ve been here has been about growth. Georgia Southern is growing. The magazine staff is growing. The GeorgeAnne is growing. I am growing. At Southern, we’re about growth and expansion—we have been for a long time. In the Miscellany, all I see is growth. I’ve been a part of this great magazine for so long that I’ve had time to see frequent-submitters grow as students and as people. Some people found religion. Some found shady habits. Some people found their inner peace. Before I graduate in December, I have come to realize that growth must come from yourself before it reaches to other aspects of your life. Find your purpose, find who you are, and be comfortable with that. Then, the rest will fall into place. Sincerely, Gracie Kessenich Miscellany Editor It is my pleasure to present to you the Fall 2012 edition of the Miscellany! This is my first time working with magazines, and I have to say it has been one of the best and helpful experiences I have had in a long time. This experience has allowed me to grow as a journalist and learn how to be more versatile. I want to thank Gracie for all of her help, and for showing me the ropes for next semester when I’m editor. The magazine staff works together like a family. It is great to be in such a strong work environment, and have fun at the same time. I hope everyone enjoys this magazine as much as I enjoyed preparing it for you guys. If you did not submit your work this semester, please do not hesitate to submit next semester! I can not wait to start my journey as editor next semester. With the help of my team and my training from Gracie, I know I will not let you down. Thank you! Sincerely, Krystal McMath Miscellany Deputy Editor
Judges Alan Swirsky - Poetry Judge, English Literature Graduate Student Mary Stephens - Poetry & Short Story Judge, English Literature Graduate Student Dr. Julie McGuire - Art Judge, Art History Professor Linda Hughes - Short Story Judge
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COVER DESIGN
Diana D’Antre Harris, 2D Design Major Pastel “Diana” was inspired by a study of Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” that I conducted for my final project for Drawing II in spring semester of 2012. I had a great interest in the meticulous mark making in the starry sky. The sky in “Starry Night” is the most beautiful part of the piece in my opinion. I used it to play with different textures and to test my ability to take two very striking images (1. The Figure and 2. The Sky) and render them in a way that would be harmonious. “Diana” has no particular deep meaning. I prefer to leave my work open for interpretation so that it speaks to each individual differently. For me, it’s just a beautiful experiment, but for another it may be a pondering of the past, or maybe the sky illustrates how “Diana’s” mind looks at the moment. For someone else it may be a representation of natural beauty and a celebration of women of color. Another onlooker may consider it as paying homage to Van Gogh. Another may think it’s just a hot girl and a cool background. That’s the beauty of “Diana;” various interpretations of her for on-lookers and the emotions that she may evoke in them. -D’Antre Harris
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Miscellany
VOLUME LVI ISSUE 1
Georgia Southern’s Art Magazine
Student Led
MAGAZINE EDITOR IN CHIEF Mallory McLendon BUSINESS MANAGER Chloe Douglas PRODUCTION MANAGER Kelsey Paone MISCELLANY EDITOR: Gracie Kessenich MISCELLANY DEPUTY EDITOR: Krystal McMath DESIGN EDITOR: Tyler Fleider OFFICE OF STUDENT MEDIA DIRECTOR: John L. Harvey ADMINISTRATIVE SECRETARY: Brenda H. Greene GA/CIRCULATION & MARKETING: Nick Garcia, Corey Carnahan, T.J. Jackson, and Amber Gordon The Miscellany is copyrighted 2012 by Miscellany and Georgia Southern University, Statesboro, Ga. It is printed by South Georgia Graphics, Claxton, Ga. The Miscellany is operated by GSU students who are members of Student Media, a Georgia Southern student-led organization operating through the Dean of Student Affairs Office and the Division of Student Affairs & Enrollment Management. The magazine is produced three times a year by GSU students for the Georgia Southern University community. Opinions expressed herein are those of the student writers and editors and DO NOT reflect those of the faculty, staff, administration of GSU, Student Media Advisory Board nor the University System of Georgia. Partial funding for this publication is provided by the GSU Activities Budget Committee. Advertisements fund the remaining costs. Advertising inquiries may be sent to Office of Student Media, PO Box 8001, or by calling the Business Office at 912-478-5418. Inquiries concerning content should be sent to Magazine EIC Grace Kessenich at 912-478-5305 or by emailing Reflector@georgiasouthern.edu. All students are allowed to have one free copy of this publication. Additional copies cost $1 each and are available at the Office of Student Media in the Williams Center. Unauthorized removal of additional copies from a distribution site will constitute theft under Georgia law, a misdemeanor offense punishable by a fine and/or jail time
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TABLE OF CONTENTS JUDGE SPOTLIGHT 6
Fountain Street Heat Linda Hughes
Student Work 8
Cinderella Cathy Harris
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Role Model Dgiovahni Denize
10 A Brief Suspension in Time Millie Fortner 11 Feelings Ghazal Jackson Sharpe 12 Green Bag Courtney England 13 A father always knows... Victoria Yates 14 Just Can Go Harrison Fountain 15 Composition No. False Mirror Jamie Hendershot 16 Bristow Blues Lydia Luke 17 My Mother’s Hands Lydia Luke 18 Scream Axel Hawthorne 19 Take Out to Obesity April Faison 20 Aladdin and the Arabian Nights Lindsey Rowland 21 Little Black Dress Kyera Swint
22 Master Study Victoria Slagle 23 Self Portrait: Through Another Lens Victoria Slagle 24 Haunted Rose Gringer 25 I’ve Decided that Identity… Sarah Fonseca 26 10 Haikus Chad Sanderson 27 Yogi and the Tree Frog Caleb Brewer 28 The Mourners Beside Me Dustin Tilligkeit 29 Headlights Daniel Martin 30 Little Memoirs of You Gerrard Davis 31 Boltrope Julie Collins 32 Acorns Jamie Overstreet 33 X Jamie Overstreet 34 Reach for the Stars Matt Veal 35 Breathe Deep Mary Kirkland 36 A Darker Shade of Pale Michael Conner 37 Unmasked Julian Strayhorn II
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JUDGE
SPOTLIGHT
Linda Hughes GUEST SHORT STORY JUDGE Dr. Hughes joined Georgia Gwinnett College in 2009. Prior to that, she worked at Georgia Perimeter College for seven years and the Georgia Department of Adult Education for two years. Before re-entering the educaton field, she spent 20 years providing training programs for government, military, educational and corporate clients around the world. She has worked in 13 countries and has visited many more. She lives in Braselton, Georgia, with her husband and their pampered pets.
Fountain Street Heat
Jonella Joy Johnson expects the summer of 1959 to be wonderful! After all, the orphan just graduated from high school, turned eighteen, and can finally escape from the fanatically religious aunt who raised her. What could possibly go wrong?
Excerpt from “Fountain Street Heat” The choir stood and began to sing, “When you walk through a storm ...,” which was met with many an “ah huh” from the congregation. Rory whistled his approval. Then a glorious tenor voice rang forth, “... hold your head, hold it up, hold your head up high.” One by one the children danced across the front of the church, just like they’d practiced, waving blue scarves to demonstrate the storm clouds described in the hymn. Jonella, just turned eighteen and reveling in the freedom of burgeoning womanhood, danced through the billowing clouds in an ethereal interpretation of the music, her feet gliding gracefully across the old stone floor. “And don’t, don’t you be afraid of the da-ar-k. For at the end, at the end of the storm, there is a golden, a golden sky, and the sweet sil-ver-er song of the light.” Suddenly, inexplicably, Jonella froze. Her arms fell to her sides. Her legs refused to move, overpowered by an unseen force. Sensing a preternatural presence, the teen painstakingly turned to the back of the church as her eyes fell upon the door. Confused as to why the lead liturgical dancer now stood like a stature in the center of the nave, the organist looked up from her sheet music and let her eyes follow Jonella’s. The organ went dead. All heads turned to look behind and Fountain Street Holy Church became stone still. A woman stood just inside the door at the back of the church. Straight and proud in a skintight, crimson red, summer knit dress; red straw hat with a fat black feather; shiny black patent leather pumps; and black net gloves; she clutched a large black patent leather purse at her side. For a week she’d told herself that maybe Reverend Hyram Henry Haynes could make her go to church, but he sure as hell couldn’t make her stop wearing red. From his perch at the pulpit, Reverend Haynes stared at the flamboyant woman at the back of his church and couldn’t contain his joy as an enormous smile exploded all over his rough-hewn face. She had come at last! Rory couldn’t see the woman too well from where he sat in the congregation but knew it had to be “her,” the long-lost mother of Jonella. Ever since finding out that she was alive, he’d expected something like this. He’d never really believed she was dead in the first place. There was one more thing he expected. This dame in red was hell on long legs and Fountain Street Holy Church and everyone in it was about to be scorched by her infernal fire.
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Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life.
Henry Miller
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Cinderella by Cathy Harris I feel alone in here. Ashes make my bed. Tiny sprites of soot, laughing, dancing, singing Disney songs. An alternate universe Cinderella. It all tastes like ashes. Princes come and princes go forcing my feet into shoes that fit perfectly. I tear them off, crying over my bloodstained toes and remember that I never had any sisters.
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Role Model by Dgiovahni Denize
VERSE1 Heavenly Father I Confess My Sins To You A Slave To Lust, The Love For Lies It’s No Disguise (I) Can’t Hide The Truth. I’m Not Afraid, I’m Livin’ Proof I Ate The Fruit Upon The Tree. I’ve Got One Life To Live, and I Just Can’t Seem To Give It To You. I Knew I’d Never Make It This Far TRUST FALL, HOW HARD Do I Expect To Hit The Ground? No One’s Around Lord, Please Come Through! Baptize My Eyes And Set Me Free The Bread Of Life, Unbreak My Heart But No Replies Does He Despise Me As A Man? I Need To Know If He Can Hear Me If There’s Hope, Than I Can Clearly Express My S.O.S To Stress The Meaning Of My Theories But Damn, My Pride Keeps Blocking The True Reasons Why I Call On Him How Can I Play The Game If My Mind Is Strictly Above The Rim? Faith In You Is All I Have, But I Can Feel It Slippin’ I’m Trippin’ All These Opportunities That I Keep Missing The Mission To Seek and Listen As The Journey Continues I Fiend For Your Righteousness To Spread The Great Commission. CHORUS (x2) Constantly Falling Gotta Pick Up His Glory The Spirit Lives In Me Jesus Walked The Desert For 40 Days, He Is My Role Model (x4) VERSE 2 (Lord) Give Me Strength To Muster Up Another Day On This Earth
Since Birth, You Knew How I Would Use This Gift In It’s Worth. In It’s Entirety, I Thought It Was A Curse But Now I Thirst To Discover My Purpose Hungry! No More Living Like I’m Struggling! I’m Putting God First And You Can’t Argue With That See, I Would Never Hit The Gym But Now I’m Sprinting My Laps. A Living Testimony, When I Was Lonely I Would Pray And Seek The King With All My Heart And Now He Tells Me What To Say: “Humility And Fear Of The Lord Will Give You Life” (Proverbs) So Die Right Now To Christ Since He Already Paid The Price! THANKFUL! We Cannot Quit, We Must Progress, We Will Not Sit, We Will Confess With Every Breath Exhale The Chest And Go Be Blessed Refresh Success YES! And Go Be Blessed Refresh Success YES! Fight Through The Finish Be The Difference And The Change You Want To Be Reveal The Possibilities That Were Once Impossible Probabilities. (yes) CHORUS (x2) Constantly Falling Gotta Pick Up His Glory The Spirit Lives In Me Jesus Walked The Desert For 40 Days, He Is My Role Model (x4) (Prayer) CHORUS (x2) Constantly Falling Gotta Pick Up His Glory The Spirit Lives In Me Jesus Walked The Desert For 40 Days, He Is My Role Model (x4)
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A Brief Suspension in Time Millie Fortner, Senior Studio major Jewelry
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Feelings Ghazal by Jackson Sharpe Waking my eyes, I feel a slow heart beat and sift through feelings. An inward letter never came overnight, so I shift my feelings. The blinds fold the weather into lines, and I don’t care about the sun. I imagine thunder and harmonize, agreeing with rift feelings. I’d rather feel the sting of nakedness than the rock of heavy breath. Nothing escapes my body in or out, so I drift on a river of feelings. My clothes hang like ghosts from limbs until my heart remembers. A memory of you twitches muscles and limb to lift free from feelings. Wind spreads my skin like hands , and my lips tingle at their corners. Beat for beat my heart cuts me open, a wild gift of sharp feelings.
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Green Bag Courney England, Junior 2D Design major Digital Photo
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A father always knows (Lovely little roses) by Victoria Yates It must be easy being part-time, doing what you have always done best; leaving a scar. It has to be easy; you have proved it thus far. By now it is your specialty, I am sure, planting seeds in a distant vicinity, you have an affinity for watching them grow. You return with the seasons, with whatever you can reap, and it is such a damn shame that these seeds come so cheap. You will say,” I am sorry, my lovely roses so red, for all the time I was not there, and I apologize for the distance, because I really do care. I am not there when it rains, or when it snows, but I am still your father and a father always knows.” A father always knows the disappointment in his child’s eyes, and a father always knows how to tend to the wounds, and foster his perpetual lies. At last he will say,” I will cultivate you while I am here, give you all I have, and everything near and dear, but when the seasons change, and rain turns to snow, I will leave you again.” A father always knows.
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Just Can Go by Harrison Fountain The electric hum of a late-90’s model wood-framed big-screen; low, but even in oscillation, and its voices wafting up and down by Eudale’s bruised varicose right hand. It’s the kind of dim picture that blurs into total darkness when viewed at obtuse angles. I’m watching head-on, next to Grandpa, and a rough outline of us as some obscene Siamese twins appears on the screen; separated only by the thin glow of the 60 watt ember lamp and someone on HLN talking about a war, or a tax proposal or a dog named Mr. Frisbee: the sole survivor of a Delta plane crash. Split screen: On the right, FAA and NSA agents tag zippered black body bags; and in the distance you can make out men walking with random limbs, looking for the owners of severed hands—they’re putting people back together the way a child would a doll. “That’s a hell of a note,” Eudale spits out, nightgown flustered and dangerously untethered. “Bet they aint got no dog like Poodle,” she coughs and almost vomits in an old Cobalt jar. Grandpa is trying to transfer M & M’s from hand to mouth—two out of three are falling in the green shag carpeting, and Boomer Esiason (a Malti-Poo) picks out the red ones. On the left: B-roll of some kids in Indiana, reunited with Mr. Frisbee—not a scratch on the bastard, and he was being sent to the West coast as cargo. “A damned old dog. Woo! I aint never…” Eudale tilts a round Navy Snuff canister, tapping on the sides, filling the plastic lid with whatever is enough for a good quid—
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every element of the worst of ground leftover tobacco product; wet, tacky and filling her jaw, tongue to cheek. There is always a scent of sweets about to go bad. You’ll find an angel-food cake with an expiration date you are sure is today, but you’re also sure your Aunt Regina bought it yesterday because it was on sale. Eudale says, “That cake aint nothing but class. That’s the damn best they is,” and she looks at Grandpa, “Daddy,” she pulls the lever to release her fabric rocker’s footrest, and shuffles over to Grandpa; loose bowels farting underneath her snuff stained pajamas along the way, “You need to Pee Pee?” “Pee, Pee?” and he pulls his sleeves down his shaking, unsure arms. He stares past her. Now Grandpa’s got to go, and it is a very big deal when Grandpa stands up. It’s a hard thought. To be worn. I see a broad chested man—he used to toss hardwoods by hand onto trailers. A back made of iron and fingers forged of steel. Now, Grandpa is congratulated when he makes it back from the bathroom. It is a very big deal. We’re supposed to say, “There ya go!” and “Yea, you can do it!” And then have Grandpa sit back down in his chair. He does. The Oxblood leather crackles—he’s not there, but he’s close enough. He removes a black pocket comb from his britches, and nestles in, fingering his smooth white hair back in to place. It must be long, straight, white and perfect.
Composition No. False Mirror Jamie Hendershot, Sophomore Art History major Painting
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BRISTOW BLUES
by Lydia Luke
Three hundred and sixty-four acres with a little house down the gravel drive. Bilingual debates during Christmas dinner, the children carving Z’s into Mema’s walls. We haven’t been back since the funeral.
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My Mother’s Hands
by Lydia Luke
My mother’s hands are long and beautiful. Slender fingers notched by delicate knuckles. Veins forming mountain chains along the silky skin smelling too often of oranges and ginger. My mother’s hands help her talk and flirt with my father. She touches my forehead with the back or her hand, a concentrated look on her face. My mother’s hands complain about how she’s “not the maid!” while gently scrubbing dried pieces of frosted flakes from my bowl. My mother’s hands are magic and trigonometry transforming into serpents on the bedroom wall. My tiny fingers, unpracticed, try to replicate hers unsuccessfully. My mother’s hands are comfort in cups of steamy coffee and no-bake cookies. The freshness of garden vegetables and crispness of home.
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Scream by Axel Hawthorne I lie on the ground, staring up at a blank sky an open expanse of void, clear all the way to the stars. The void opens and consumes me and I feel its cold fingers splintering into my sides. Jormag waits with frozen breath, staring embers into my brain. I feel death creep across my spine fear freezing my blood and I am no longer a man. By fire and by steel I will prove my worth and rise against the mounting void. I raise my head against the storm and scream.
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Take Out to Obesity April Faison, Senior Graphic Design major Ceramic
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Aladdin and the Arabian Nights Lindsey Rowland, Senior Graphic Design major Painting
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Little Black Dress by Kyera Swint You make me feel cheap, as you douse me with a fruity perfume that smells nothing like strawberries. By the end of the night, I am peppered by the various bribes, of apple martinis and cranberry vodkas, that have sloshed over the cup. I am hurt, as you stretch me over your too voluptuous body, forcing me to hug your curves, only to be yanked and dragged away by calloused hands with hairy knuckles. I hate you, as you noiselessly put me on the next morning, sentencing me to hours of sitting in cold water to excrete all bodily fluids and evidence from the night before. I am humiliated, as you wear me to your most hated aunt’s funeral. I try to camouflage amidst the sea of black, but your alabaster skin acts like a beacon to disapproving eyes I wait for the day that my threads loosen from their seams, my color fading to a dull gray, finally going out of style.
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Master Study - After Paul Cadmus (Male Nude) Victoria Slagle, Junior Graphic Design major Charocoal and Prismacolor
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Self Portrait Through Another Lens Victoria Slagle, Junior Graphic Design major Prismacolor Pencil
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Haunted by Rose Gringer
I stop a car’s length from the end of the driveway and park. I open the car door and the warmth from inside escapes into the wet night air. My soles scrape the sidewalk to the unlit doorway where I look for the comfort of my mezuzah, but even it hides in the shadows. I insert the key and turn the deadbolt, mechanical movements that stop at the doorknob. Muscles tensed and knees locked, my eyes fix on the cold metal in my grip. I turn the knob and push, the door through darkness. I step in and the unsettled air touches my tongue, tasting of dust and ice. My hand finds the light switch and with a flip of my thumb I can see you clearly aren’t here at all.
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I’ve Decided That Identity Is Not a Root; It Is a Vein
by Sara Fonseca
Lazy heartbeat, languid pulse Aging this body slowly You look nineteen, Everyone tells me I’ll age well, I remind Everyone According to the photo albums, Kentucky genes and arithmetic, I—like my mother—will be 71 and using a push mower to cut two acres of grass in 48 years. Marry me and see how this tight this farm skin stays for the next four decades; how it flushes and glows over you I am a nothing but a body cloaked in a harvest moon But truth be known, I am in no rush. Slow Slow first kiss Slow hands Slow down, down down on one knee Yet today, give me a book and a front porch that hugs its house as tight as an overbearing mother I know the deadline is two days past I know that I will make it in time, time, like moonshine time, like preserves, time,
like a postman on foot This blood takes its sweet crimson time A doctor once told me that my insides looked like dirt This was meant to be a compliment The red banks of our lake are dense with iron; the loamy fields ripe with oxygen Cold stethoscope across my breast, he asks me to inhale I take a rich breath of rural air and my system replenishes itself The cycle happens again Ever. So. Slowly. I have not aged “Beansprout” is a deceptive term and even more deceptive nickname I did not shoot up to the moon I inched along the ground, found a solid surface, and climbed gradually Like that fat baby, weighing 9 pounds, right up the oak bars of her playpen Learning what muscle is Touching everything with bare feet and curious hands Learning what work is Sweating with men over sawed stumps and women over kitchen stoves Hands of every gender, knotted, veins pulsing to this same cadence
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10 Haikus by Chad Sanderson
a knock at the door fogged breath on the window pane the house is silent -the cardinal flaps and snow rustles from the pines; I get back to work -deep in the attic brown spiders’ webs are strung from porcelain dolls -frothing shorelinea lean runner pauses near dead fish -she saw from the bay a boat with white sails drifting just beneath the clouds -a man with one leg cooks beans beside the highway listening for rain -A lonely pool he throws pointed elbows into the silence -from the window- a wreck the epicenter of the universe widens -they salsa to the beat mama and papa; that was years ago -Abuelito’s clock in the den- hung by two nails like Jesus
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Yogi and the Tree Frog by Caleb Brewer My roommate’s dog is broken. While the other two dogs run around the perimeter of the chain-link fence, only stopping to bark at the occasional passerby, Yogi sits semi Indian-style on his big haunches staring at a spot about four feet up the warped vinyl siding of our house. The seven-month-old Bullmastiff supports his brutish one hundred pound frame with his forelegs as he enters his nightly catatonic state. One night, as I sat smoking a cigar with Yogi by my side, his eyes locked into the vinyl void, I remembered the tree frog. How could I forget? When accidentally left on for hours, the only light on our back porch made an excellent Mecca for mosquito-eaters, beetles, moths, spiders, and, consequently, tree frogs and toads looking for a midnight snack. One particularly vibrant green tree frog with a highlighter-orange mark along his right hind leg caught Yogi’s attention in the weeks before his behavior changed. Yogi would stretch up, placing his large, brown paws up as far as he could on the wall as he sniffed his new friend. The frog squirmed uncomfortably the first few times he was noticed, but after a week of similar occurrences you could tell that they had developed some sort of rapport with each other. Now Yogi stares blankly at the spot
where the tree frog used to be. It’s as if he’s waiting for his friend to meet up with him, but he never shows up. I started to play out some of the possible reasons for the frog’s disappearance. My initial thoughts hinged on Tree Frog meeting his unfortunate demise in the mouth of a snake or hawk. Perhaps he found a better feeding ground or maybe he had settled down and started a life with a frog wife and vibrant green frog kids with highlighter-orange marks on their right legs. Maybe he didn’t want to come back. Hell, these interactions with Yogi could have been the worst part of his day. But none of this mattered to Yogi; he just wanted his friend back. This got me questioning aspects of my own life. Was there anyone in this world that I would sit for hours and stare into oblivion for? Anyone I would miss so much that my entire comportment changes when they were no longer around? I snap out of my daze and realize that we are both fixated on the empty spot on the wall, awaiting the return of our amphibious ally. Maybe one day Tree Frog will come back from some grand odyssey and tell Yogi the tales of his travels and conquests, but for now we’re left alone, staring into the vinyl sided nothingness of our home.
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The Mourners Beside Me by Dustin Tilligkeit
The solemn souls draped in shadows, drifting forth, Issuing from the cold edifice of a cold sanctuary, Flowing into the mists and the eerie light of grief, They weep now, as they did not long ago at my bedside, Their tears, like tributes at the altar of afterlife, A land I see on the horizon, but from them is hidden. They cross the verdant lawn slowly, without notice, Of the soft grass underfoot or the warm sun overhead, They are wounded, deeply, ships set adrift, slowly sinking, Some may seek solace, sanctuary from the storm, Something to hang onto in the chaos, a piece of driftwood, A smile, perhaps, or a day at the beach last year. Veils hide saline stained skin, tears fall without respite, The day is yet bright, but no one takes heed of the sun’s warmth, The mourners see only the mist threatening their realm of safety, That mist which clouds out the day, which stole me away, They are wounded, gravely, longing to be relieved of the misery, Broken wings that refuse to fly ground them, weight them down. The mourners are drowned in the flood of memory, Awash in days long past, in voices never again to be heard, They think I’m lost, yet, I see a new path before me, It is they who are blinded, still unsure of their future, To them the mist covers all, and the rain refuses to break, Even on this, a cloudless day in spring.
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Headlights (Format 2) Daniel Martin, Sophomore Pre-business major Pen and Ink
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Little
Memoirs of You by Gerrard Davis
I blow the kisses to the yellow traffic light —for good luck, you used to say But I do it because
You’re not
there.
My wardrobe has more collared shirts now Because you always said you loved them And the variation of brighter colors; Lighter blues, purples, patterns of reds All against my dark carob skin. I used to hate the thought —the thought of shopping; window shopping—still hate shopping. But I can’t stay away now When I do the good things— When I do the good. Things— When I do the bad, I hope you’re watching Because I can’t stay Away.
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Boltrope by Julie Collins The car door swings wide and she steps into the morning’s glare— crisp sleeves, teetering on designer heels. Her dark hair is pulled back, her face heavy and slack from the worry of an inconvertible life choosing her. Her hands aren’t large but strong and meaty Swift and firm, they begin the cyclic dance. Unlatch, unhinge, unlock A chair with wheels emerges Latch, hinge and lock. Her knowing fingers sail through the air her touch finding him— all bent knees and elbows. Gently, she gives him her ropey arms to hold.
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Acorns
by Jaime Overstreet I think of her and envision acorns. I see acorns and envision her. I do not miss her Reading her Bible daily Annoying the shit out of me Not much knowledge of this modern world But knew where was a “woman’s place” Accused me a thief once Coming back from the store without her change Eventually coming to realize The price of her Tide and panty liners Were more than she’d sent Afraid to be alone with a man Brought on by childhood trauma maybe Wearing long sleeves in summertime To hoe her vegetable garden And a bonnet on her head In sleep she yells for me to come in for dinner And I tip-toe, barefoot, through the yard So as not to step on any of the acorns
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X Jaime Overstreet, Senior Art major Commercial Photography
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Reach for the Stars Matt Veal, Junior Graphic Design major Wood Cut
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Breathe Deep Mary Kirkland, Senior General Studies major Digital Photo
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A Darker Shadeby of Pale Michael Connor I’m on my own But not alone I’m incomprehensible But sensible I’m taking to give And dying to live Fighting for peace Beginning to cease Lying for truth Tightening to come loose Dreaming to awake Holding still to shake Starting to stop Bottom of the top Running to walk Keeping silent to talk Guilty of innocence Innocent of sense I’m rising to fall Just shy of it all Feeling like numbness Breaking my oneness Looking back ahead Moving on instead Laughing to cry Seem not me nor I And fall back forward Away from toward Always and never Slow when I’m clever Succeeding to fail A lighter shade of black A darker shade of pale
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Unmasked Julian Strayhorn Graphic Design Graduate Student Digital Illustration
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Hungry? Cook for yourself with with the help of Easy Weekly Meals Cooking is a chore for most. It’s an unnecessary end to an already long day. You’re hungry, tired, and all you want to do is lay on the couch with your oversized Labrador sprawled out long-ways on top of you. He always seems to have more food than you do. You don’t know what to cook or how and you most certainly don’t have the ingredients. Alas, never fear! Easy Weekly Meals is here! With cooking tips, tricks, and shopping lists, you’ll never be hungry again! Cut time, calories, and grocery money in half with this easy-to-use cookbook. Download it through Amazon or Nook, and you can take your momma’s cooking anywhere! -Gracie Kessenich Miscellany Editor Take Mom’s cooking with you anywhere for only $5.99! Check us out at www.EasyWeeklyMeals.com where you’ll find free cooking information, recipes, (like the one for this cheesecake) and loads more. Like our Facebook Page and you’ll be entered into our contest to win a free (whatever)! Download Easy Weekly Meals for College Students for only $5.99! 38
Come see us at the Miscellany Release Party on October 25th
MISCELLANY
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Miscellany: Magazine for the ARts miscellany_gsu @gsureflector Student Led. Student Read.
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