PANKU L ITE R A RY & A RTS M AGA Z I N E
VOL. 54 ISSUE II
PA N KU
L ITE R A RY
J AY M C I N E R N E Y , B R I G H T L I G H T S , B I G C I T Y
But what you are left with is a premonition of the way your life will fade behind you, like a book you have read too quickly, leaving a dwindling trail of images and emotions, until all you can remember is a name.
Fou nde d i n 1 96 4 , P a nk u M a g azi ne i s a s t uden t- run , b i -a nnu al l it er ar y a nd ar t s p ubl ic at ion f unde d b y B r ow ar d C ol le g e . O u r n a me s ak e i s the Chi ne s e Go d o f C r e at ion . C hi ne s e my t holo gy hold s that Pank u c r e at e d t he su n , t he mo on , the he aven s , and the
and hi s f le a s b e c a me t he a nc e s t or s o f m an . Pank u i s o ft en p or t r aye d w it h t he y in yan g s y mb ol . A nyone endowe d w it h cr e at i v it y i s s aid t o b e p o s s e s s e d b y t he sp ir it o f P a nk u .
e ar t h . F r om P a nk u f le w t he w i nd and the thunder,
INTERI M A DVISO R
COVE R A RT - G I R L
EDITO R I N CH IEF
PH OTOG R A PHY E D ITO R
SEN I O R MANAG IN G EDITO R
SOC IA L M E D IA L IA I SO N
L AYO UT ED ITO R
FI LM E D ITO R
LITER ARY ED ITO R
STA FF CO O RD I NATO R
ART ED ITO R
PRI NTI N G
Magdalena Van Thienen
Broward College Print Dynamics
S PECIAL THAN KS
Angelica Clyman, Neil Cohen, Leandro Dearaujo, Teresa Diehl, Andrew Dutka, Fred Fermin, Mirjam Frosth, Kelley Goethals, Diana Hargis, Pezhman Jatala, Jan Johnson, Patricia Joyce, Jamie Martin, Scott Miller, Jasmine Mosley, Erika Neff, Michael Nguyen, Carlos Parra, Joseph Pickering, Avis Proctor, Jamonica Rolle, Patricia Sanchez, Vicky Santiesteban, John Selburg, Silvia Selva, Leo Stitsky, Jennifer Shapiro, Xiao Wang, Wanda Sims and the Print & Graphic Services of Broward College, as well as the Security Team at WHC, Student Life, and our dear readers.
Jordan Ducran, Jake Fennimore, Roman Hernandez, Natalie Laurent, Dickson Luna, Jose Martinez, ZoĂŤ Elektra Nouel, Austin Philipson, Tomas Rodriguez, Jose Sifuentes, Johnathan Ulloa, Paula Valero
Panku, Volume Fifty-Four, Issue Two, was designed, produced, and edited solely by the students at Broward College. All contributions in this issue are by the students at Broward College. This magazine is funded by Student Activities Fees. The opinions expressed are those of our contributors and do not necessarily represent those of the editors, faculty, staff, administrators, or trustees of Broward College. Copyright 2018 by Broward College Willis Holcombe Center, 111 East Las Olas Blvd. Fort Lauderdale, FL 33301. Contributions, with a submission form which includes a full name, address, student number, and telephone number of the contributor, are welcome from all students attending Broward College. All communications with the editors, and all inquiries concerning this publication, should be addressed to: Editor in chief of Panku, Broward College Willis Holcombe Center, 111 East Las Olas Blvd. Fort Lauderdale, FL 33301. All copyrights revert back to the original artists and authors after publication.
ASS ISTIN G STAF F
Renat Ziton RETROGRADE
Daschielle Louis AWAKEN, MY LOVE
Daschielle Louis LOVE BIRDS
Sydney K. Bouwens EXPOSED
Sydney K. Bouwens RELEASE
Sydney K. Bouwens R E L U C TA N C Y
Sydney K. Bouwens OH, SWEET LOVE
Laura Torlaschi 1 8
D O N ’ T T H RO W M E AWAY
Mili Vila 1 9
W H AT W I L L I B E C O M E
C O N T4 E N T S
Mili Vila LA DESPEDIDA
Zoë Elektra Nouel SNOWFALL ON L AS OL AS
Zoë Elektra Nouel 2 2
MAN ON 7 TRAIN
Cesar Almonte Jr. 2 3
IT KEEPS ON GOING
Cesar Almonte Jr.
D E AT H O F A P O E T
Becca McLaughlin 2 6
Veronica Calderon 2 8
Veronica Calderon 3 0
BE L O W T H E S U R F A C E
Veronica Calderon 3 2
TH R E E PA RC A E
Alexandra Berlin 3 3
Noann Maia 3 4
Dickson Luna 3 6
Colby Larrucea 3 7
W I T H T H E W I N D 3 8
J.M. Andrade N O S T A L G I A A C H E S 3 9
Ramon Kopsick P A R K L A N D 4 0
Ramon Kopsick S I L E N C E 4 1
Six minutes and Twenty seconds A L I C E 4 2
Ling Tuo P E A C E 4 3
Megan Earl E G G P L A N T 4 4
Oleksandra Sinkova L A N D S C A P E 4 5
Oleksandra Sinkova A V O C A D O 4 6
Oleksandra Sinkova C A R L
Tyler Ferguson C A T W A L K E R 4 8
J E R O M E O F F O O D N O T B O M B S
Nik Rye H A P P I E R T H A N A U N I C O R N 5 1 Nik Rye
P O R T E V E R G L A D E S 5 2
Nik Rye C L A Y 5 4
Justin Arancibia S A T U R I N E 5 5
Michael Lozano O N E I N A M I L L I O N 5 6
Maxbarry Maurisset V A G A B O N D 5 7
Maxbarry Maurisset S T O K E D 5 8
Jake Fennimore W H A T V I E T N A M C O U L D N O T A C C O M P L I S H , A M E R I C A A L M O S T D I D
Terry Ingram E L L I O T T â€™ S M A P 6 4
Jake Fennimore N O M O R E R O O M I N M Y H E A D 6 6
Eli Schroeder F A C E 6 8
C O N T5E N T S
Bring Me the Horizon, Thatâ€™s the Spirit
Editorâ€™s Note This issue is done now. It is in your hands, and it is beautiful because of the beautiful people that I have worked with over the past few months. Panku is an organization of students who support one another and all those attending Broward College in their pursuit of the arts. It is a group of writers and photographers, filmmakers and painters, designers and artists who all have different ambitions in life but share the common goal of wanting to present to you the best magazine possible.
But I am relieved that I no longer have to tell a room full of people who are more talented than I am what to do.
To an outsider, Panku is just another college club. But through our meetings and our work, we become a family. If your name or your work is found within these pages, you are part of our family. If you are reading this, you are part of our family.
Welcome home. Eli Schroeder Editor in chief
I spent my first year at BC lost and unattached, looking for somewhere to belong. I was tired of searching when I joined this magazine last semester. It was immediately the most welcoming environment I had experienced since moving to Florida. It is now my last semester here, and I am sad that I will not be able to return to this home that I have found.
GROWTH Renat Ziton, Oil and acrylic on canvas
Retrograde DASCHIELLE LOUIS
we are hung works of artâ€” echoing in an empty room in america
Awaken, My Love DASCHIELLE LOUIS
my body remembers the prayers— beads silenced between cupped hands— 11
mourning another bloodline finished in satin.
LOVE BIRDS Sydney K. Bouwens, Gouache
You are human. You mess up. You feel bad. You have moments where you freak out and that is okay, as long as you move forward. â€” Sydney K. Bouwens
EXPOSED Sydney K. Bouwens, Graphite on paper
Sydney K. Bouwens, Acrylic on canvas
R E L U C TA N C Y Sydney K. Bouwens, Acrylic on canvas
LAUR A TORLASCHI
If I ever go through the pain of another first date, I hope the person across the table asks me what I do for a living. I’ll smile, starting on some tangent about my goals to become a psychologist or at least someone who knows a damn about anything. They’ll nod when I finish, sated with trivial knowledge. We both wait for the next innocuous question. What do you do for fun? Where’d you grow up? What’s your favorite movie? I’ll shift uncomfortably in my seat and hope they were raised not to comment on it. “Feels a bit like a job interview. At least I can eat during this one.” They’ll pretend that was funny and realize it’s their turn to propel the conversation a little further. I hope they ask me about my professional, psychological opinion on love. My date is probably pleased that they remembered my field. What a clever question, John, or whatever. “Well,” I’ll say as I open my mouth to disappoint them, “it’s something, isn’t it?” Clearing my throat, I’ll delve into the medical marvel. Step one: we follow physiological orders, intentionally baring ourselves in all our fleshy and bespeckled glory. It’s probably somewhere inconvenient, unromantic, almost comical. I guess biology isn’t much for the scenic route. Either way, the sheets are too cold and not worth getting under, so we’re wrapped in nudity and naiveté. We can hear the clanging of our big hearts, and they’re pushing to break out for once. Pushing and pulling and begging for the space to grow. So the process continues. Our big mouths and brains start working in tandem to match, getting us in trouble as we shed another layer. The questions become less innocuous, and the distance shrinks from the width of a dinner table to the space between our chests. The physical disrobing is nerve-wracking, but this one is always softer and more sensitive. This is where I swat people away and beg them not to touch. It’s a decidedly more painful route (it always hurts when you don’t know what you’re doing).
“Look, I can admit I’m error prone. Maybe even more than the average disaster.”
“Lord knows you have been the biggest drain of my time and money and energy.” To clarify, there are a great deal of things I know how to do. Most of them only on occasion and always sloppily (see: writing, arithmetic, and conversations). I never have to wonder that with you. Lord knows you have been the biggest drain of my time and money and energy. The learning curve is ridiculous, and I can’t remember a time in my life where everything felt this strongly. I’m a little exhausted, in all honesty. “Yeah, it’s something,” I repeat, trying to rein it in. “But it’s so worth it, isn’t it?” As I close my mouth for the final time, I’ll look at my date expectantly. They’ll laugh politely or nod silently or frantically wave the waiter over to ask for the check. It doesn’t particularly matter. This painful interview is coming to an end, and I’m just praying that my first date with you was the last one.
I’ll continue to explain while I bite into a salad I didn’t really want and think about you. It’s okay for me to order chicken nuggets and a milkshake when I’m with you because you accept that I’m a heart disease prone toddler. You never judge me for much of anything anyway. Look, I can admit that I’m error prone. Maybe even more than the average disaster. I have always been above average in some respect, even with a superhuman capability for culpability. At least you make me feel like your favorite mistake. “Trust me,” I’ll tell my date. Nick or Jordan? I know his name mattered at one point. It’s too late to ask. Anyway. It’s reflected in the way we spend our days. Milling about a store, our hands clasped tighter and tighter with each step. You don’t mind that my fingertips are calloused, and I don’t mind how unbearably warm your palms are. I just wonder how you survive in the Florida heat. Promises are made about replacing the missing button on that lobster shirt you know I love so much and I watch you nod to yourself, mentally adding it to the todo list you refuse to write down anywhere. You insist that you’ll remember everything you have to do. I remind you that you’ve been saying that since March and hold my phone right up to your face to show you that it’s nearly December. You smile, glowing in front of the screen’s light. “You win. You always win.” I think we’re both winning, and for once I’m okay with that. I actually believe we’re on the same side. In an attempt to be flirtatious, or at least interesting, my date
(It has to be Mark) will start poking and prodding for some sign of an adventurous or romantic past. “Do you ever make bad decisions?” Does agreeing to this date count? I bite back the actual answer and tell them I’m about as cautious as they come. It’s not a complete lie. I am the cautious type when I’m alone. Somehow, you and I have a penchant for bad decisions. I found you, just as fleshy and bespeckled, just as likely to fumble. We invest ourselves in each other, playing fellow venture capitalists of the heart. The thing is that I don’t quite understand economics. I just nod and pretend I get what everyone is on about.
D O N â€™ T T H RO W M E AWAY Mili Vila, Mixed media
W H AT W I L L I B E C O M E Mili Vila, Mixed media
La Despedida ZOĂ‹ ELEKTRA NOUEL
We stood on opposing street corners too nervous for confrontation but just brazen enough
to lock eyes
You yelled through the static how are you and I whispered back Iâ€™ll be okay
Snowfall on Las Olas ZOË ELEKTRA NOUEL
My father uses powdered skeletons as a substitute for the backbone he does not have.
One bump up the nose to make a man of this empty molehill— 21 1 2
the change is sudden.
I sit on the full sized bed in his one room unit and stare up
at a shadow of the past playing house in my father’s skin.
MAN ON 7 TRAIN Cesar Almonte Jr., Digital photography
IT KEEPS ON GOING Cesar Almonte Jr., Digital photography
Po e t
My words no longer made much sense. The rhythm didn’t follow a clear beat, making it hard to connect the tempo to the spoken word. My meter was off and couldn’t be found until I clapped out the words like an amateur. The emotions I conveyed never seemed to match what I wanted. The lines on the paper faded so the distance between stanzas was either too short or too long, with no clear start or end, just an emphasis on a break. I locked eyes with my boyfriend across the room. He used to be my muse. He made me smile when I needed to get out of my own head, and I never thought I had to worry about coming up with the right words to describe love; they used to come so naturally. I knew the way a kiss made my stomach leap into my chest. The happiness when he made fun of me while I devoured Twizzlers. The safety in being held after feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. He never used to be selfish with me; he respected me enough to bring me into the conversation before taking it upon himself to make the final decision. How could a man who treated me this way turn into my worst nightmare? I was scared of him; I was scared of myself. I was scared of the way he turned his feelings off so quickly. One minute he was the best friend I gave my whole heart to, and the next he was the malicious demon haunting my every thought. I was scared of the fact that I couldn’t walk away from him, no matter how hard I tried. I felt heavy as I watched him sit on the couch while I tried to write
“I blame him: his infidelity, his dishonesty, the look on his face as he begged for forgiveness.”
ly nothing. I zoomed in on the desk, in hopes that some philosophical line would come and change the way I felt about him, the situation, and my talent. Except, I only had one thought circulating over and over again: if I can’t find the strength to fight for him, I won’t be able to find the strength to write about something I once knew. It seemed impossible to find any kind of inspiration when I felt so lost without his reciprocated devotion. The idea of his hands on another girl consumed me. It brought a weakness to my knees that I had only seen in overly-produced Hollywood films. He had a power over me that was strong enough to shatter all my ideas on love and my artistry. I walked back to my empty journal. It was time to kiss the poet I once was goodbye.
Your art is a form of your heartache. — Becca McLaughlin, on “Death of a Poet”
a poem for the tenth time today. Everything in me fought the urge to write about this heartbreak I was feeling. I couldn’t touch the paper long enough to write a coherent sentence. The sound of my teeth chattering as the pencil hit my temple made me want to scream just to block out the noise. I blame him: his infidelity, his dishonesty, the look on his face as he begged for forgiveness. “Baby, can you hand me the remote?” He gestured toward the end table right next to me. My body tensed. “It isn’t like I’m doing anything important.” Lightheaded, I walked over to hand him the remote. He grabbed me and pulled me onto his lap and kissed me gently. His right hand ran through my hair and down my neck, while his left hand latched onto my inner thigh. I felt a rush but couldn’t decide if it was simply the physicality of it all. The only words I had left were lost in his touch, and the rhyming caved to the tingles in my bones. As the lingering visions of him with someone else took over my thoughts, my mind escaped to somewhere far away. I stood up from his embrace and felt absolute-
Veronica Calderon, Acrylic on canvas
Veronica Calderon, Acrylic on canvass
29 9 2
BELOW THE SURFACE
Veronica Calderon, Acrylic on canvas
TH R E E PA RC A E Alexandra Berlin, Digital photography
INCOMPLETE SELF Noann Maia, Acrylic, pastel, oil, paper and fabric
Dickson Luna, Digital photography
I like to provoke thought, OKONKWO Colby Larrucea, Food coloring
even if that means offending people. â€” Colby Larrucea
Calm SUSANNAH BEREZNYI
she watches beside the koi pondâ€” 37
a stray cat.
With the Wind J.M. ANDRADE
the Park, deserted and abandoned from the cacophony of visitors, expelled ease and tranquility.
below an Apple Tree, I sat on this Bench.
the wood felt cold under me, but I produced no movementâ€” waiting to be struck on the head.
as if the dream I had the night before this night was based on Newton. as if the dream sparked romantic emotions, reminding me of love-struck lovers.
Your polished legs, laid carelessly over mine. Your face, illuminated by the park light.
on occasion the fresh apples weighed down the thin branches. I picked, and continued picking, until your stomach filled.
and as winter arrived, with the wind, you were gone. the Tree, ultimately, produced nothing.
Youâ€™d grown hungrier for more than apples; for somebody other than me.
Nostalgia Aches R AMON KOPSICK
The playground was best in the evening when the sky cooled and the metal of the jungle gym did not scorch our hands. The ice cream stand closed at sundown Chocolate for you, vanilla for me. When I finished my cone, you gave a small grin and said you needed some help.
and we took opposite sides. We strolled to the highest hill heels crunching into gravelâ€“â€“ your sticky hands leaving prints on the ladder rungs we walked along. We always reached the top, the sun already setting. A warm breeze wafted through the overlong grass, tickling our bare ankles. You stretched up on your toes and I stooped down to meet your lips with mine.
39 9 3
You held yours out towards me,
R AMON KOPSICK
Blood-choked cries and the shots heard â€˜round the world did not quite reach Washington.
ALICE Ling Tuo, Magazine collage
PEACE Megan Earl, Oil on canvas
EGGPLANT Oleksandra Sinkova, Ceramics
LANDSCAPE Oleksandra Sinkova, Mixed media
Oleksandra Sinkova, Ceramics
CARL Tyler Ferguson, Digital collage
It’s hard looking for inspiration— I just start. — Tyler Ferguson
C AT WA L K E R
Nik Rye, Digital photography
50 50 JEROME OF FOOD NOT BOMBS Nik Rye, Digital photography
HAPPIER THAN A UNICORN Nik Rye, Digital photography
PORT EVERGLADES Nik Rye, Digital photography
S AT U R I N E Michael Lozano, Film photography
C L AY
Justin Arancibia, Digital photography
ONE IN A MILLION Maxbarry Maurisset, Film photography
VAGAB O N D Maxbarry Maurisset, Film photography
58 STOKED Jake Fennimore, Woodcut printmaking
What Vietnam C o u l d N o t A c c o m p l i s h, America Almost Did
TE R RY I N G R A M
High school graduation came and went in a whisper. Free at last, free at last! Unfortunately, I still had no dream. So, I fell back on old reliable: choose the path of least resistance or the one most familiar. Since no one in my family had ever attended college, why break the mold? I joined the Army. That decision took me halfway around the world to Vietnam. All I had to do was kill people I didnâ€™t know, who looked different from me. If the military was good enough for my father and my elder brother, then surely it should be good enough for me. After all, I reasoned, whatâ€™s the worst that could happen? How could I have known then that war would cause my father to succumb to cancer at the age of sixty-four, or that my elder brother would spend his entire adult life dejected and homeless on the streets of the country for which he fought and bled? At nineteen, if I survived, I might even win my fortune, become a national hero, or at least make my friends and family proud. And all this for the bargain price of a few dead people on both sides. Yes, Vietnam was the place for me. After surviving 365 days to the day, 300 of which were spent in combat, I was finally on my way back home from Vietnam to the United States of America, the land that I truly loved. For the second time in the space of a year, I found myself packed like a sardine, along with hundreds of other war-torn soldiers, into a tin-can commonly referred to as a troop commercial jetliner. This time, I didnâ€™t mind it, though. This time, my greatest fear was not Charlie or the jungles of Vietnam; it was surviving those next twenty-three hours until I touched down back in my homeland. Every Vietnam veteran utterly dreaded that last day in-country. We waited for the other shoe to drop. We were also abundantly familiar with the stories describing those last-day deaths after having survived the entire Vietnam experience. Although no troop commercial jetliner had ever been downed by Charlie after safely vacating Vietnam airspace, none of us wanted our flight to be the first.
“So, this is how it would end after all.” It was 6 a.m., February 9, 1971, when our jetliner lined up for its final approach into the San Fernando Valley in Southern California. The packed cabin was filled with a group of soldiers who had been catapulted from adolescence to manhood in a single year, each now expressing a gleeful childlike anticipation of a rapidly approaching joyous homecoming. However, unbeknownst to us, in about fifty-five seconds we were all about to get up close and very personal with Sylmar, a 6.6 magnitude earthquake.
“I struggled to camouflage the stain on my soul.” And they wanted blood. I suddenly found myself running to the nearest restroom. Like a well-seasoned magician, I jumped out of my uniform into my civilian clothes, buried it in the bottom of my duffle bag, and then scurried stealthily away. Shamed by a nation who considered me a “baby killer,” a murdering warmonger, and a brainwashed puppet of the United States government, I struggled to camouflage the stain on my soul. I desperately searched to make some sense of the
As our jetliner assumed its bird-like floating posture, transitioning into a smooth glide while preparing to caress the runway––now just seconds away––we all counted down in harmonious anticipation. 10, 9, 8 … Suddenly, the captain slammed the jet’s throttles to maximum power. All four of its mighty engines strained, screaming out unbearably. The resulting ominous cabin tremors caused every one of us to psychically reinforce each molecule of that jet with every fiber of our being, while simultaneously summoning reinforcements from any omnipotent deity we knew how to conjure. In what seemed only an instant, like the trajectory of a ballistic missile, we headed almost straight up. There was no way the jet could endure this strain. The only thing louder than the ear-piercing wails of the engines was the symphonic accompaniment of our pounding hearts climaxing in an endless crescendo. So, this is how it would end after all. Somehow, miraculously, our prayers were answered. The jetliner did hold together. Heaven must have been missing a couple hundred guardian angels because they were present and accounted for that day; each angel steadfastly perched atop the shoulder of every soldier inside that sardine can.
After nearly accomplishing what Vietnam could not, over two-hundred pale-gray, born-again soldiers were now diverted northward to Oakland, California. The cabin intercom squawked as if to come back to life, “This is the captain speaking,” he announced. “We were just advised by the tower that our airport was hit by a major earthquake and all incoming traffic has been rerouted. We will be diverting to Oakland. We apologize for any inconvenience. Welcome home, men.” There was only silence. As we disembarked in Oakland, having each kissed the flight crew’s feet, I prepared myself for the marching bands and crowds of people celebrating my service to my country. If there were no bands or adoring crowds, perhaps the U.S.O. had prepared a home-cooked meal for a few weary war-torn veterans. Unfortunately, the only greetings I received were venomous, vituperative epithets hurled with all the human saliva my uniform could wear. The onslaught of protesters carrying all manner of ad hominem signage was dreadfully alarming. It became immediately apparent that this mob didn’t just dislike me, they loathed my very existence.
madness which had overtaken the world I’d just While reconciling the previous eighteen years of left. I no longer recognized it. Who I had thought I my life in loyal service to my government, I had an was, who I had wished to be, and what I had wantepiphany. What if all this time I was on the wrong ed to do with my life were now in animated conside of the equation? My government had enticed flict. So, I wandered incessantly across this beautime into voluntarily engaging in mortal combat, ful country called America, land of the free, home risking my very life and limb, based on The Gulf of of the brave, from sea to shining sea, desperately Tonkin incident. That incident was lauded as the searching for answers. nexus to the Vietnam war. Having since been exposed as an outright lie, with the singular focus of That was 1971 in Southern California. I didn’t filling the coffers of the megalomaniacal, my Vietstop running until 1974, finally rooting in Hollywood, Florida. nam experience felt more like criminal entrapment than heroic service to my country. Over 50,000 I decided that my Vietnam experience would best American deaths and millions of Vietnamese casube served by joining the Hollywood Police Departalties were on the hands of a few wealthy elitists. ment. After all, my government seemed to be the Unfortunately, it appeared that I was an unwitting only one who appreciated my military experience. accomplice. But even as a law enforcement officer, my fellow My law enforcement experience taught me that countrymen continued their relentless campaigns local governments were no less complicit in the expectorating mucus upon my person, while siwar against humanity. I now realized that many of multaneously appending cruel appellations. Was it the high court decisions regarding police brutality just me they detested, or was it what they thought and outright constitutional deprivations were a I stood for?
“Was it me they detested, or was it what they thought I stood for?”
“Twice, I had sworn an allegiance to the United States Constitution, and twice I had utterly failed her.”
direct and proximate result of my own repugnant actions toward those inalienable rights. I read and re-read many of the Founders’ writings of American principles. Twice, I had sworn an allegiance to the United States Constitution, and twice I had utterly failed her. Never again.
Don’t stop being enraged. — Terry Ingram
I then vowed one final oath. But with this oath, I would stand resolute upholding the founding principles against a tyrannical government. A new adventure now beckons me––and I will not stop until I have achieved my Doctor of Law or until they pry the pencil from my cold, dead hand.
ELLIOTTâ€™S MAP Jake Fennimore, Linocut printmaking
no more room in my head ELI SCHROEDER
you say you’re lost but you grew up in this town and don’t want to go home there’s nothing for you there snow covered streets and the heat in your car can’t keep up it can’t even defrost the whole windshield fingers and toes went numb twenty minutes ago 66 66
you say you’re lost but you’ve never left this town just don’t want to go home just want to listen to a couple more songs turn it up a bit more not too much the speakers are fucked and if it’s too loud it won’t play the wind howls outside screams over the music just a couple more songs and you can try to go home but it’s not safe there’s ice on the road snow on the signs headlights can’t cut through the storm anymore just find a way to leave finally figure out why you’re driving just a
couple more songs you can figure out what to do about the girl you fell out of love with and can’t leave just a couple more songs and you’ll figure out what to do with your life just need the right song to go home to and the next song will make five seconds and if it doesn’t just skip it and if the playlist ends just start it over and if the tank runs out just huddle in a ball till they find you in the daylight just don’t go home it’s too quiet at four in the morning and you have classes in five hours just stay up until they’re all awake until it’s safe to turn off the music
6 67 7
you feel less empty for three minutes and twenty
FACE Sacha Vicnansky, Pencil and pen
S A C H A V I C N A N S K Y draws mostly in grey scale and wears mostly grey scale clothing. Likes to keep it groovy.
R E N A T Z I T O N will continue to read when the books contain empty pages and paint when the muse is no more.
S Y D N E Y K . B O U W E N S explores an infatuation with the cycle of life and death, creation and destruction.
M I L I V I L A created the art pieces “don’t throw me away” and “what will i become.”
C O N T R I B7U0T O R B I O S
Z O Ë E L E K T R A N O U E L is some modicum of strange magic.
C E S A R A L M O N T E J R . is a 19-year-old photographer passionate about filmmaking.
B E C C A M C L A U G H L I N has a passion for expressing human emotion through the written word.
V E R O N I C A C A L D E R O N is a mostly self-taught artist inspired by surrealism, nature and human emotions.
N O A N N M A I A is a first-generation American, born in San Francisco, who lived a portion of his childhood in Brazil.
D I C K S O N L U N A is an introverted artist who communicates with people through art.
C O L B Y L A R R U C E A gets creative with limited materials to create obscene and original pictures that get the mind to wonder.
S U S A N N A H B E R E Z N Y I is a high school senior with childhood dreams of songwriting and present day aspirations of dentistry.
J . M . A N D R A D E is losing his mind one day at a time.
R A M O N K O P S I C K tends to get his better ideas at three in the morning over a mug of coffee.
L I N G T U O is passionate about anything visual and wishes to become an outstanding graphic designer.
O L E K S A N D R A S I N K O V A is originally from Kiev, Ukraine. She likes to experiment with different mediums and takes her inspiration from nature, water, people and cities.
N I K R Y E believes artists are vessels of radical ideas and can promote change in their communities with their unique skills.
J U S T I N A R A N C I B I A loves the little things.
M I C H A E L L O Z A N O first picked up a still camera as a means of practicing the craft. Seven years later, and nearly a dozen countries visited, photography has become his primary medium.
J A K E F E N N I M O R E takes on every day loving what he does, hoping that it shows.
T E R R Y I N G R A M has simply and successfully taught laypersons about their civil rights for more than two decades. At 67, he is now attending his second semester at Broward College with the objective of achieving his Juris Doctor to become a Doctor of Law.
CO N T R I B7 U 1T O R B I O S
T Y L E R F E R G U S O N is a mixed media artist whose works are inspired by emotion.
Submit to email@example.com
Panku strives to be a platform for all art forms created by Broward College students, but only so many mediums can be properly highlighted in a magazine. For the filmmakers, performers, musicians, and any other artist whose work cannot be displayed in print, Panku created a YouTube channel. In conjunction with this and future issues, we hope Panku will become a more inclusive representation of the cultural life that thrives at Broward College.
Panku is always open for submissions from current Broward College students, and this semester the magazine received its first film submissions. The short films went through the same anonymous voting process that every piece we receive must go through before publication.
Subscribe to Panku Magazine on YouTube to view the new content.
E D I T O R I 7A4L B O A R D
K E L LY
Rosy cheeks, sick beats
Bans your favorite fonts
How does she do it?
M A X BA R RY
VA N TH I E N E N
A joyous and spirited enigma,
Light heart, heavy art
bursting with light and peace
She is the light
Dark angel who gave birth to
The perfect prototype of a man
the Panku channel
Broward College does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, ethnicity, genetic information, national origin, marital status, sex, disability, or age in its programs and activities.
Broward College's Literary and Arts Magazine