2013

Broken Ink 2013

Mission Broken Ink endeavors to accurately and objectively feature the literary and artistic achievements of USC Aiken students and to raise awareness of the literary and visual arts throughout campus and the community.

Editor in Chief Maria LaRocca

Layout Editor Degan Cheek

PR Coordinator Celia Gary

grace poplin

iesha bell

jon stroupe

kayce van pelt

Kelsey ramsey

Literary Editor Visual Editor Brady Morris Valerie Johnson

Web Coordinators John Chambers Ryan Mathis

patrick sanders

phylesha ronnica hiers golson

Taylor Hudson

Terell Kahn DouglasWilliams

karl fornesfaculty advisor

Š Broken Ink and contributing artists. All rights reserved. Broken Ink 2013

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Anemone Annihilation Anticipation Buckets Campus Sunrise The Dance Embrace Ferris Wheel If You Give Me Yours Island Breeze James 4:14, Or John Kiss Of Fire Lights, Camera, Action Looking Down Minimalism Mother’s Love Neverever land Never Rains Pure Bliss Red Life Reinforcements Steampunk Alphabet Sugawara Fields Sunset Hawk Vintage Vixen Perfume

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37 Artemis Visits An Outlet Mall 38 Der Deutsch-Maschine 24 Gum 30 In My Mind In The Morning 6 I Never Liked Sleeping 6 I’m Sorry 30 Invocation To Puppies 3 Killing Poetry 20-21 Little Eichmanns 39 Martyr 8 Mingling With Animals 50 Obviously Questionable Details 19 On An Old Coast 14 On Being A Throw Pillow 19 Rainman 40 Thanatos 42 The Buddy Holly Pantoum 39 The Diving Pool 45 The Haunting Of Harlem 16 Words Are Like Leaves 47 The Fight For Life 47 The Circle Of Life

Business Cycle Dead Poultry Medieval Vampires Terminal 113

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5 48-49 32-34 11-13 27

After The Gale Euphoric Discord Floating Going, Gone June 9th, 2012 Leaving Me Hanging Please Call This A Comeback Then I Try

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Broken Ink 2013

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In 2004, Washington Group International established an endowment fund to be managed by the USC Aiken English Department for the purpose of recognizing exemplary student work in creative writing. To that end, all submissions accepted by the student staff each year for publication in Broken Ink are reviewed anonymously by a special faculty committee to see if any meet the qualifications for this additional recognition. It is the intention of the committee to award prizes each spring in poetry and/or fiction; each prize is acknowledged in the magazine and accompanied by a cash award. This year’s winners are: 1st Place

2nd Place

3rd Place

Brad Carson “I Never Liked Sleeping” p. 6 Jasmin Nelson “Killing Poetry” p. 3 Patrick Sanders “The Buddy Holly Pantoum” p. 42

The USC Aiken Art Department generously sponsors the Ink Splat Visual Art Award for the recognition of superior student artwork. The winners of this award are chosen through a blind review by artists and visual arts experts from the community.

1st Place

2nd Place

brad carson

phylesha hiers

Jasmin nelson

Phylesha Hiers “Embrace” p. 29 Andria Mikkola “Steampunk Alphabet” p. 35

On behalf of all the students whose work appears in this year’s magazine, the Broken Ink staff thanks Professor Vicki Collins, Dr. Tom Mack, Dr. David Bruzina and Ms. B.A. Hohman for their review.

andria mikkola

Patrick sanders

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Broken Ink 2013

AWARDGRoUP n WinnER

WAsHinGTo

Jasmin Nelson

I killed poetry, I used my pen flowing with fire One last deep breath and I recklessly Pulled the trigger, Bursting flames fueled by ink went flying into the air, My head, mouth, eyes, nose, hands, and ears I could taste it, touch it, smell it, feel it, and see it Burning all of my nearby and faraway idle thoughts and fantasies to dust, Whose stormy battle never gave even half a millimeter of rest, Desperate for relief, And using everything I had, I landed one final blow Then laid it to rest forever, As if I had never known What I had done And what a time I had had Killing poetry.

“Killing Poetry� is one of my favorites, and I consider it to be one of the best I have ever written. This poem is about writing poetry and all of the difficulties that come along with it. This poem does not necessarily have to apply only to writing poetry and can be left up to the reader's imagination.

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This picture is none other than total chaos. To see something so large and historic be completely transformed into rubble and ruin leaves one with a feeling of deep reverence and reflection.

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bethany peterson

Press a few buttons.

Wait an hour.

Read the screen.

Repeat.

This was the future that Dimitri had facing him.

This was the future that Dimitri loathed.

The young Russian cursed as yet another paper ball failed to reach its destination. The pile of crumpled papers— including some that Dimitri probably should have saved— was mounting nearly as quickly as his boredom. He ripped another paper out of the thin, white binder on his desk. His desk wasn’t that big, but somehow it managed to fill nearly a third of his available workspace. The six-by-six cubicle had just enough room for the essentials: scattered pens and pencils; the binder filled with memos policies, rules, printed emails, and other presumably important papers; a bag of cough drops that seemed to work miracles when it came to curing hangovers; the file cabinet with nothing in it and was only added to make the space more “business-like”; the trusty computer chair (a winner of many department-wide Office Olympics races); the waste basket that Dimitri currently used to practice his free throws; and company-issued desktop number Y896Y. The screen on the ancient computer was black except for one word in bright red on the screen: SEARCHING...

“I thought that this was a cutting edge corporation,” Dimitri thought aloud as he formed yet another paper ball, this one from a memo about a change in the previous week’s lunch menu. “Can’t we at least have computers that were built this decade?” He broke out of his thoughts long enough to check the progress of the dusty dinosaur. The hulking beast of a machine continued its constant, monotonous whir, but the screen stayed exactly the same SEARCHING...

He closed his eyes and once again fell back into his thoughts. “What are we even searching for, anyway?” He didn’t have a clue. Nobody ever told him these kinds of things.

Whenever he asked his father what he did at work for twelve hours a day, he got the old “I’ll tell you when you’re older” response.

He never did.

Now he sat at the cubicle once held by his father, slowly improving his aim, doing— what seemed to him, anyway— menial, repetitive, unimportant tasks.

Press a few buttons.

Wait an hour.

Read the screen.

Repeat.

This story is based on the absurdist fiction genre which focuses on characters completing meaningless tasks and finding no purpose in their lives. I first came across the genre while reading Samuel Beckett’s play “Waiting for Godot,” and the unusual style of the writing proved to be a major influence in this piece.

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AWARDGRoUP n WinnER

WAsHinGTo

Samana Medhi

Brad Carson

I’ve never been harmed by anything that didn’t grow under my ribs.

Bones drone xylophone melodies that keep me awake far longer than necessary.

Notes float through veins always resting on the parts of myself that I have trouble loving.

I wrote this piece as a statement about the nature of occasional insomnia. The poem describes the path that thoughts and feelings can take through your body and mind in the moments before you fall asleep.

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I’m sorry Your body let you down, With its twisted sickness snaking itself Deeper into your flesh Entangling its poison, rooting its seeds Scribbling angry, ugly marks that ripped you Each time they grew, making you ill.

Your time is up, it said Before it reached in And took away your essence, Your humorous chatter and witty banter, The kindness in your carefully chosen words, That warm glow in which you wrapped your praise.

And it left you as an empty, cold shell.

I’m sorry.

“I’m Sorry” was written in honor of my uncle’s passing in the late summer. He had been battling cancer for a while, so this poem may not just apply to me but to everyone who’s lost someone to cancer. This poem describes exactly what I felt and what I wish I could tell him.

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This piece is just something fun I thought to do one day that turned into a fully finished piece. I love observing deep-sea life and I’ve always found it intriguing.

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My inspiration comes from the lack of trust in most relationships and how dark they can seem with that lack of devotion. I prefer to use ceramics because it is easier for me to portray an idea in 3D form. It seems more real to me than something flat and impersonal.

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Terell Kahn Douglas-Williams Open up, talk to others Need contact to live and flourish You aren’t above the common rabble Associate with the socialites.

Butterflies Teamwork there is no I in it.

Smile more, say hi, and don’t make waves Just like school, Ignore myself for the good of the group.

Guppies Isolation is wrong, it’s weird Suppress those feelings of awkwardness Why are you grazing alone?

Be an informed, conformed individual, our herd mentality.

Cows You were born a part of our community We are the apex predators of our society Even solo cups come in a set Run with the pack you aren’t alone.

Wolves Cain was cursed after Abel’s execution Of death we want nevermore Anti-socialism turned out well for Poe It is bad luck to be seen by yourself.

Ravens Roommates, big classrooms, groups are a must Friendships and relationships, two to tango Ask an inmate if they enjoy solitary Peer pressure busts pipes, the in crowd Humans Blonde hermit crabs always seem to have more fun.

Being an introvert in college it seems like everything from classes to organizations that you try and be a part of want to try and make you more extroverted. This is basically my rebellion against such notions – a little vent, if you will.

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This was an experiment with food coloring, and I was trying to catch the slow descent of the ink and dissolution of the color with the water.

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We often like to think of a college campus as a place of new horizons. It is very fitting that on one January morning I was able to catch just that right here on USC Aiken grounds. The sun’s rays shining through the pines are perfect symbol for a new horizon.

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Broken Ink 2013

Brady Morris

Sarah, Hey, it’s [-]. This might seem weird, me writing you a legit letter and everything, when I haven’t called or emailed you in what, a few months? half a year? Some best friend I turned out to be, right? I should’ve called or something probably a long time ago but my life has been, well, not good, for quite a while.

To be honest I lost your number a while back, and email isn’t safe, so a letter it is.

Pretending to talk to you almost makes me forget just how fucked up the past few days have been. But I can’t forget, because no matter how badly I wish I could, I have to tell someone while I’ve got the chance.

I feel like I’m losing my mind. I have to be losing it, because I can’t start to think about what it means if I’m not.

The things I’ve seen just can’t be real, but at the same time I don’t know how I could have imagined it all. I wish I could blame it on pot or booze but I’ve been clean since March, can you believe that? But even if I somehow get through what’s coming next, I doubt I’ll ever put down a bottle again. I don’t know how I’ll be able to sleep without it.

Whew, deep breath. Can’t lose my cool now.

You’re the only person left who I feel I can talk to. My face is probably going to show up a lot in the news over the next few days but at least you’ll know the truth, or what I’m afraid is the truth. Sorry for my shitty writing, I don’t have a lot of time, and I’m trying my best to stay calm but god it’s tough. Just listen, okay? Okay.

Where to begin?

I guess a bit of backing up would be best. First off, I managed to get myself back into school (proud of me?), this time back in [-] at [-] University. It’s nice enough, in a quiet little coastal town about [-]. Nothing big or fancy, only about [-] thousand students, and far from being a ‘party school’ (making it a good choice for my newly rehabilitated habits). I was studying English, mostly as an excuse to read a lot for class, but for the first few months I was pretty solidly focused on school (all As and Bs!) and things looked good.

But then between semesters the bastards decided to revoke my scholarships, which I found out about two days before the Broken Ink 2013

semester started. Bills were due, and since the only loan I could get on short notice was only slightly better than slavery, I had to start working night shifts at the fast food place by campus.

It seemed alright at first but it wasn’t long before the long hours started fucking with my grades. Assignments started coming in late, if at all, and no matter how much caffeine I pumped down my throat I started falling asleep in classes.

Ultimately it started coming down to the point where if I didn’t quit my job I’d flunk out, but if I didn’t keep working I couldn’t afford school. I had no idea of how to deal with it; my mind kept jumping between quitting work, finishing the semester, and then working up enough to come back and graduate, or dropping out and starting to save money immediately, but I just couldn’t commit to a decision.

Then I got the email.

At first, I didn’t really pay it any attention. I’d gotten used to the occasional emails offering “jobs,” usually posing as online textbook sellers designed to trick foolish freshmen.

But, troubled as I was financially, I read this one over. It was simple enough: one of the archives at the school’s old campus needed an assistant. Tasks included managing the front desk, some basic filing, shelving books; best of all, it listed “flexible hours, nights and weekends preferred.” I immediately went to send a reply email, but when I clicked the button my computer froze. I restarted it, blaming the crash on my old computer, but when I tried to reply the email it froze up again. Now I was irritated enough to look a little closer at the email, when I noticed something weird: nothing in the “From:” line, like a letter mailed with no return address. A harmless irritation at the time, but now it makes my stomach twist with fear to consider the implications of that blank line. Yet that night I quickly forgot about the nameless sender, and decided to go directly to the library once I had some free time.

That opportunity showed up the next day, when my first class canceled unexpectedly (another weird coincidence that makes my skin prickle). I hopped into my car and headed over to “old campus,” as it’s called; the school’s original location in the old downtown area, before it moved its current location after the fishing industry basically evaporated back in the

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30s. It’s pretty remarkable how quickly the town atmosphere changes from bright little college town to decaying, forgotten mess of empty tenements and abandoned rail yards. Old campus sat in the middle of it all, only about a mile from the waterfront, but the ten-minute drive from new to old felt like you stepped into a different world.

Really, it was no wonder that the college decided to relocate: what parent in their right mind would send their precious, sheltered child to school here? Still, the university kept their hold on the old central quad and the half-dozen buildings surrounding it (as if they could find any buyers). For years they tried to make use of the stained brick buildings, but the only one that I knew was used with any frequency were the archives.

The archives were really just a single building, a windowless, rectangular hulk of stained brick that sat at the eastern edge of the quad, just beyond the crumbling obelisk-fountain that had been dry for decades. Even for late winter, the building seemed hostile and uninviting, but I trotted up the chipped stone steps with only a slight sense of foreboding.

The inside of the archives was actually quite comforting, at least compared to the exterior. It looked like a typical old library, with some old wooden tables, chairs, and rows and rows of shelves packed full of old binders, books, and folders, probably bland historical records for the town. To my left was the large, curved circulation desk; the wall to the left of the desk had a hallway, leading into the back archival areas, while to the right of the desk was an office, with a large glass window somewhat screened from the outside by half-closed blinds.

Behind the desk was what I instinctively thought of as a living cliche; an ancient husk of a woman, bent over to the point where she could hardly see over the desk, with cokebottle glasses and a glare visible from across the room. I walked up to the desk, but nearly had a heart attack when a voice spoke from behind me.

“Ah, you made it!” I spun and found myself facing a man, slightly shorter than myself with brown hair, a big toothy smile, and deep bags under his eyes. He held out his hand, introducing himself as I shook it. “I’m [-], the new director of archiving. You must be [-].”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, caught even more off-guard. “How do you know my name?”

“I was contacted by one of your professors,” he said with a nonchalant wave. “I assume you are interested in the position that recently opened up here?”

“Definitely,” I said, though I’d mostly forgotten why I’d come here in the first place. [-] was delighted, and began to tell me all about the position. It sounded even better coming from him than it did in the email; easy hours in the evenings and on weekends, simple work, and plenty of time to do my homework, all for a sweet ten bucks an hour. Even though the prospect of spending my nights with the lich of a librarian, who [-] introduced as Mrs. [-], wasn’t exactly my idea of sweet college nightlife, I had a hard time not being excited. The job

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sounded perfect, and that’s exactly what I told [-]. He sounded almost as excited as I did.

I started working that night, and two nights later it all began.

Everything went perfectly at first. Once I’d gotten the job, [-] showed me around the building. It was mostly all on the ground floor, consisting of the central library, some study carrels, and a computer lab; the hallway behind the circ desk led to some storage rooms and a staircase leading down. I asked [-] about it.

“Just an old computer lab, with some digitized archival stuff. Your job probably won’t involve anything down there,” he said, quickly moving onto something else, but my interest was piqued. Maybe it was the way he said it, or just simple curiosity, but from the beginning I wondered about going down there.

For the first few nights I kept myself pretty busy, doing homework or organizing some files that looked like they hadn’t been touched in months. Mrs. [-] kept in the back office almost the entire time, leaving me to take free reign over the circ desk, though I could feel her occasionally glaring at me through the blinds. But three things in particular gave the job a weird, unexplainable feeling; not once did I reshelve anything (in fact, I never saw anyone come into the archives), I never saw Mrs. [-] leave, and [-] never showed up again after hiring me. It was like I was the only living thing in the entire building, and by the second night I was super relieved when I got back to campus, feeling like I’d returned to the world from my job in the Twilight Zone. I should’ve quit the moment it felt weird, but I just chalked it up to being unused to the new job. And I was being so productive with schoolwork that I was ready to fight to keep it.

By the third night, I’d actually caught up so much with work that I ran out of stuff to do, leaving me sitting aimlessly behind the desk for a few hours playing sudoku on my phone or doodling on scratch paper. Around 10 PM I realized I had no idea of how to log my hours for my paycheck, so I steeled my nerves and walked over to Mrs. [-] office to ask her.

To my utter shock, her office was empty. I’d seen her in there no more than half an hour ago, I was certain, but she was gone now. There was only one way in and out of that office, no more than fifteen feet from where I’d been sitting. She was certainly quiet, but in the still silence of the archives I could’ve heard her shuffle from practically anywhere in the room.

But she was not there. For a few moments I just stood there stunned.

Pretty soon my mind began to rationalize. I’d probably just gotten more used to her presence and not noticed as she went by. Still, this minor change was troubling. I tried sitting at my desk but only a few minutes showed me that wasn’t an option, as the idea of being alone in that huge empty room was far from appealing.

So I decided to look for her. A few moments to check all of Broken Ink 2013

the back rooms, and knocking on the women’s bathroom door resulted in nothing. That left only one option: the basement.

Rationally, part of my mind knew it must’ve been impossible for that old woman to make it down all those stairs without killing herself, but against that clashed the question of where she could’ve gone. I didn’t stop to think hard about this before I started down the stairs.

A couple of flights down, they terminated in a short hallway leading to what must have been the lab. The door was cracked open so I cautiously peered in. The lab wasn’t very big, with just under twenty terminals. Seeing that one of them was on sent chills down my back, but I went to investigate anyway.

Open on the old Windows 2000 desktop was a single program, a pdf. whose file name was nothing more than a bunch of random characters. My hands sweaty, I sat down and grabbed the mouse.

Clicking on the file brought up a page of technobabble, a stream of random ASCII symbols like the ones in the filename.

I scrolled down for a few pages, idly looking for anything recognizable, when I noticed something weird—the scrollbar on the side seemed to be broken, with no set limit for the pages, as if the pdf went on endlessly. I held down the scroll until pages of computer gibberish flew by blisteringly. I let go of the button and the scrolling stopped, leaving the pdf on a page blank except for one word set in the middle of the page.

My name.

I shot up from the chair, breath stuck in my lungs like I’d just been thrown into icy water. I grabbed the mouse and started scrolling down again, sure that it was just a coincidence, but the pages beneath it were filled with nothing but my name, over and over andoverandoverandOVER. In a spasm I flung the mouse away and jabbed the power button, panicking. But nothing happened, even after a solid twenty seconds, so I jerked the monitor out of the way and went straight for the cords, yanking them out in handfuls in the hopes of killing the power.

Even when I was sure I’d gotten the right one it wouldn’t turn off, but there was a cord left, thick like an ethernet cord but a deep red I’d never seen before, and fused into the computer in a way that prevented removal.

I followed the red cord to where it vanished into the wall, through a single metal-circled hole. Looking for a way behind the wall I found a door right next to the terminal, which led to a small (cordless) supply closet. Thwarted, I was still determined to get my name off of that screen, so I began moving boxes in the hopes of getting to where the cords were, and it worked; behind the stack of cardboard boxes was a small access panel, just big enough for me to squeeze through.

It opened up into a dark back room, the only light coming through the panel behind me and the small hole through which snaked the red cord. I grabbed it and began following it hand over hand through the dark room, but almost immediately I tripped over something in the dark. Panicking, I flipped open my cellphone for some more light. I am thankful the light Broken Ink 2013

was dim, because what little I saw in the pale blue light of my phone was nearly enough to drive me mad that very moment.

The cord I’d followed had led straight into an immense pile of tangled cords, twisted and bunched up in the middle of the dark room. Around the pile a thick puddle of liquid, the same color as the cord itself, had oozed out onto the floor. The cords themselves seemed to glow a low crimson in the dark, which grew and dimmed like a slow pulse. Worst of all were the two shapes, one of a man and one of a woman, clearly visible beneath the pile, their skin punctured by throbbing veins of cord.

At the rear of the room sat a single terminal, identical to those in the lab, except for the number 113 taped just above the monitor. A single red cord trailed up from the pile, where it finally ended at the harddrive.

I don’t remember how I got back to my dorm after I fled the archives. I hope it was all a dream, or some pot-induced flashback, or the product of a wearied, overworked mind. But no matter what, I have to find out what is really going on there, Sarah. And if what I saw was real, I have to stop it.

This piece is heavily inspired by horror master H. P. Lovecraft. His works were written at a time when science was uncovering truly mind-blowing realities about the universe and humanity’s place in it. In this piece I tried to evoke a similar sense of horror by giving something we all take for granted - computers - an element of unexpected, alien wrongness.

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Maria Larocca

Drinks empty like rooms when all the beer is gone; your room has no windows, nowhere to sit.

Your room has no windows, but I can hear the rain outside, and I can believe in thunder and lightning and that we all have some in us, but at what point does thunder fade into white noise?

When does our lightning become nothing more than static electricity—the small streaks of light your fingers produce after you’ve tried on one too many sweaters.

You’ve got a lot of sweaters; they’re all the same color.

That happens sometimes with clothes.

The other night you obsessed over a stain on your shirt.

I said, “No one is looking at your goddamn shirt ,” because one way or another everyone’s a little more naked when they’re drunk, and they’re all too busy staring at themselves in each other’s glassy eyes, wondering what’s happened to them, wondering if their reflections are being judgmental.

They find each other offensive.

I’m trying not to offend, but do sober words ever reach drunken ears? I’m sitting very still, trying to blend in with the furniture—become a forgotten throw pillow that someone’s used to hide their vomit-scented shame after playing that drinking game they know they shouldn’t have, but I know we all do things we shouldn’t do when we know we shouldn’t be doing them.

And sometimes I think I feel your lightning, but I’m listening to your white noise voice and thinking maybe today was a sweater kind of day.

Nothing is more awkward than being the only sober person in the room. This poem describes the position of the sober social observer.

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Broken Ink 2013

This was taken for a minimalist photography assignment. The composition itself has minimal elements, but I also feel that it depicts a feeling of utter isolation and infinitesimalness.

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mary suber Standing beneath the towering trees, I marvel at the blazing brilliance accenting the fog that fills the air.

Then like a whisper in the mist, soft against my ear and unmistakably clear, I hear the voice of nature speak: The words people say are like the leaves in a tree.

Some words sound springtime green; fragrant, fresh, and full.

Chosen from the tree of knowledge, green words are softly spoken, soothing, sweet.

Some words sound like the colors of fall; Autumn words, picturesque and profound, a cause for laughter and a call from cares.

Like the coat of many colors, they lend warmth to a weary world.

Some words sound like the leaves of winter; desiccated, cold, and callous.

Wintry words gorge on tannic acid and with a gluttonous belch, spew destruction and bitterness, causing harm.

When all the leaves have fallen, and naked trees keep silent as they stand, a final lesson is given, for the progress of man: To every thing there is a season, a time to speak and a time to keep silence.

Because civility in oral expression is fading fast in today’s culture, the poem “Words are Like Leaves” was written to provoke thought about how we use words. The poem was inspired by the proverb “Life and death are in the power of the tongue.”

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Broken Ink 2013

My mother’s side of the family owns many rice fields in Iwate, Japan. The woman in the photo is my grandmother, who, at 85 years old still works the land. This photo is dedicated to my grandfather, Tomoyoshi Sugawara.

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The people photographed here are from a fire performance troupe in Augusta, GA called ‘Pyroteque.’ For my documentary photography class, I followed them for a semester, taking pictures and getting to know everybody. Photographing them has been a great joy because I have gotten some of my best work through this experience.

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Broken Ink 2013

Brad Carson I. The late crowd rolls in.

Jesters laughing at more than I would find funny.

II. I can hear their roars overflowing and dripping puddles at my feet.

III. The deeper they sink the more I remember when I drowned as a child.

IV. Water is a friend.

It makes its home in the space between throat and voice.

V. Now, I like to sit at the bottom of lakes, rivers humming to myself.

When I was around the age of two, I nearly drowned in my parents’ swimming pool. A member of my family saw that I was missing and jumped in to save me. This set of haiku describes my changing relationship with the metaphoric idea of water.

Broken Ink 2013

James Paisley

wind won’t stop to watch clouds move you must stand still on my neck I feel the sea spray the fountain nose in book someone passes close a squirrel wind blew high tide over the path pine needles tracking sand into my dorm room from the shore

I used a 3-5-3 syllabification for this haiku series to better imitate the amount of information found in a Japanese haiku. It struck me one day that USC Aiken is in the Sandhills, an ancient shoreline, and so I decided to have a day at the beach without leaving campus.

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Ambitious initiatives enthusiastically clappin’ at a living human being for the dead cow skin covering his feet. Permanently putting to sleep 13-year-old diamond miners in Sierra Leone for crystallized rocks that elevate the human imagined concept, the status of being hot like the Sahara while reciting lines claiming of being on… One inebriated life giver of our species taking from her without her sober consent, someone overheard earlier the words being said: “I’ma get dat female dog intoxicated and copulate the feces out of her.”

We capitulate to the fake ideas of what we need in life, regularly resorting to methods that lead to arbitration, demonstrating how weak we are as a homosapien nation, quick to take petty squabbles to higher escalations, the instant gratification generation too impatient to take time for meditation bombing first as a second reply. Shoot first ask questions why? Quite frankly we were just too fucking high.

Pardon my French, because a whole country’s native language is considered profane, we are the little Eichmanns selling our souls for cocaine or Rogaine, iPods and Polos, fuck Izods, pardon my Ol’ English, YOLO! Fiendishly hoarding Jordans cuz we too much for these black men and three much for these loose women, who think like men with the same intentions, crying like babies for attention. Our thirst close to dehydration for Twitter mentions.

Working a 9-5 for 19-39 years just to be fired so we don’t get our pensions. During all that time, consuming materialistic inventions that some celebrity mentioned. We are the little Eichmanns, henchmen complicit in creating bigger debt

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deficits as evident in our lack of showing compassion to others who cannot afford the same taste in fashion sense. Imagine if we all rocked Gucci and Prada, Dolce and Gabbana, YSL and Louie V, not dying young like he did, smoked on the finest treesez, free of STD’sez, and owned car fleets with fleece seatin’.

We would still find ways of putting each other down clowning on how you haters still sleep with cotton sheets. Silk and satin pleases.

Suffocating under those same blankets of hypocrisy, we are a pitifully piss-poor mockery of our ancestry. Stressing too much about what the next person has so we bust our asses to barely survive in this economy and burn flags when we look around and assess that we cannot support our Jefferson lifestyles with meagerly earned Jeffersonian profile pics. We crash and burn then stand in shock and awe at our fall. Unhappy with our 1st world lives longing to blow up like dyn-o-mite and J. Cole so we can stunt on those people full of jealousy when we ride past them in low profiles. Because if you don’t have at least five people whose attitude toward you is hostile then you ain’t the end result of digestion.

A suggestion to get more people to dislike a crab who’s climbing out of the bucket is to say fuck it. Pardon my Español but giving out fucks everyday is taking its toll. Peddling fast on our bikes but too many people jumping on the pegs, legs were built to carry only one person but that is considered selfish so now we’re cursing under the breath for taking the left at Albuquerque. Listening to Elmer Fudd duds whose main goal is to keep wascally wabbits and dangerously clever ducks away from the gold carats and cabbage. Controlled savage in civilized society committing passive-aggressive acts of sabotage to that other guy who wants the same property. We are the little Eichmanns, shining examples of propriety, shunning Socratic outcasts who question our piety.

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Failures. Surrounded by drug paraphernalia, pills for whatever may ail ya. Polly want a cracker people popping mollies (WHOO!) like it’s a hobby they picked up in the lobby as the pharmaceutical companies lobby against anything that even remotely threatens their vacation to their pet parakeet’s native country. We are the Little Eichmanns we skeet while glorifying the funky psychedelics that ironically turn our bodies into old relics extremely quick, but wait, scientists have discovered a cure for that too! Here take this blue chewable that makes your skin renewable the side effects may include, but are not limited to, paralysis and death. Warning you about the chances of this medicine killing you makes us un-fuck-wit-ab...er I mean unsue-able.

We are the Little Eichmanns who will believe in wonder cures contained in lightning but find the idea of health care reform frightening. We consume chemicals to heighten our sex drives and feed our kids pills to calm down their hyper-activeness in our hectic lives because a 2 year old hyped up off candy hopping on the bed isn’t normal child behavior, thank God for our health insurance saviors for covering the treatment of an issue so major. The majority doesn’t realize the war on drugs isn’t based on morals or well-being, it’s based on selling placebos to those who aren’t seeing that illegal drugs are illegal because Big Med can’t profit off of the feelings they give you.

Hell the side effects of the same drugs on both sides of the law can kill you.

Your illusion of being normal became a fable, the minute you seen that 2-hour infomercial at 3 in the morning telling you that you are suffering, buffering your skepticism with halftruths and paid actors who look like everyday people on cable.

We are the Little Eichmanns who read but can’t comprehend the labels on bottles putting our faith not in God but into names that we cannot pronounce but have to swallow 4 times a day to fight depression but still feel hollow up until we regress and can’t take it anymore and decide to pump hollows into random strangers. Murder-Suicides are the latest trend to follow.

Class is in session Little Bo Peeps the cure for your insomnia is to stop being sheep, and peep game on how the marketers are trying to pimp you and start being hip to the ploys they use. Do your research first then choose if this medication is right for you, and don’t lose yourself in the herd trying to cure symptoms you’ve just heard of and never seemed to be a problem before. We are the Little Eichmanns, whores to unrealistic body image, and hypochondria-tic thinking sinking deeper into drinking wonder potions that are as good for us as sulfuric acid lotion. Stop falling victim to your ID emotions.

It’s not the drugs or the symptoms, the world’s an addiction, we are the Little Eichmanns listening to the diction of society, dictating to us that we are sick for being human while taking one. Willing to suck Dr. Legal Drug Dealer’s dick for another fix, a hit of that good shit, needle pricks like footprints on the tracks of our veins because these random artificial combinations of elements from the periodic table will make you sane and stable.

Part I: It is a look into the materialistic culture that has taken over America and particularly the black sub-culture.

Part II: Inspired about how far people are willing to go to change themselves through artificial means. As if God got something wrong. Also points out those who are truly hypochondriacs and take medicine for every single sniffle.

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I used the natural light during this session of bridal portraits. I wanted to get across the excitement and nervousness she was feeling leading up to her big day.

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Broken Ink 2013

"Pure Bliss" is when a man and woman are so in love they notice nothing else around them. It’s hundreds of emotions all rolled into one, right before you share that special kiss. May it be the first of many or the last of something that once was. Remember just make it special.

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T.J. Wright

Relationships never work out for me. It’s not that I don’t want one, it’s just that I guess they’re not meant for me. Anytime I try to start one it falls apart, like cheap gum when you chew it for too long.

Yeah, like gum.

And as of lately I’ve been getting this really bad taste in my mouth. But I don’t have any gum. I could go get some, but I don’t have enough for the good gum, just the shitty gum. Shitty gum is all I’ve ever had. I don’t know what good gum tastes like. I mean sure I’ve seen other people chew good gum. My friends always have gum, that good long lasting gum. But I don’t want their gum, I want my own. I don’t even like being around them when they’re chewing their gum. It just makes me want gum.

Now I’m starting to become disgusted with gum. Everyone’s always smacking gum and blowing huge disgusting bubbles in public. Bragging about how great their gum is. Or worse, those who complain about their gum and then just spit it out. They have good gum, the kind that doesn’t fall apart. Nothing’s wrong with it.

Sure, the flavor may be gone but it’s still chewable. They don’t know what they have.

They’ve never had shitty gum.

Well I’ve still got this bad taste in my mouth and it’s getting worse. I may just go and buy some more shitty gum. It doesn’t taste good for long, and it tears apart really fast, but I still enjoy it. At least for a little while.

I wrote this poem in November of last year just to vent a little. Gum is how I view relationships and the people in them. It shows how people treat their relationships a lot like chewing gum.

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Broken Ink 2013

“Island Breeze� is a blue ceramic vase that reminds me of trees blowing in the wind, by the sea. The inside is painted white, and the whole piece is covered in clear glaze to give it a nice shine, sort of like it is being touched by the sun.

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“Lights, Camera, Action” is the moment in live theater right before the lights come up. It’s when the actors feel that one moment of hesitation right before the audience and the actors are thrown into a moment of excitement and fear. It’s the fear and excitement of the show beginning.

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Broken Ink 2013

Broken Ink is once again proud to include original songs from your fellow student musicians. This year’s selection includes hip-hop and rap, metal, romantic ballads, instrumental acoustic, and a spoken word piece.

Follow the QR code to our playlist online to listen to these songs, or visit our band page on facebook at www.facebook.com/brokeninkmusic

Leaving Me Hanging Then I Try

3:27 3:29

Please Call This A Comeback

6:30

Euphoric Discord 1:43 Floating 2:45 Going, Gone 2:15

After The Gale

2:08

June 9th, 2012 (Spoken Word) 2:23

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Have you ever looked down through the clouds at freshly fallen snow? This piece creates a whole new perspective of the Earth. As it turns out, above the clouds is even more beautiful than under them. Sometimes, it’s nicer to just look down.

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Broken Ink 2013

AWARD WinnER

I took this as part of an engagement shoot. I think this shows the couple’s affection for each other as they share a loving embrace.

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james paisley

james paisley Carolina roads are watermelon carnage July Halloween hanging shafts of light squeezed through spaces between clouds drying fresh pasta pine needle tea mends curtains mother made to hide portals of your heart swallowed icicles patch your eyes’ cracked windowpanes and keep warmth within west-facing window watching a neon mitten knit and unraveled

Uplift your paws! Invite the world to play, then bow your head in mock surrender low and tremble, pause, a moment only stay, until your springs release and off you go.

All Earth awaits discovery, but yet your legs and brain do not always agree.

You crash against a wall without regret and bumble forth again to novelty.

There’s something in this hole, you’re sure it’s true, but poking in your head has left you stuck.

You bark into the dark then wiggle through, emerging minutes later dripping muck.

To eyes above, your life’s a game, a lark!

Forgotten childhood makes them miss the mark.

rain’s touch softened earth fireflies leave porch lights lit clearing clouds shoot stars one song in twenty allowed to finish before she changes her tune from the air pinpricks flowing into the city it’s breathing in light

Oh South Cackalack. I tie these haiku to you with loose knots, since some of them could be in other places if they wanted to be.

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Puppies! Inspired by puppies! This sonnet is dedicated to Tara Gail Bostwick, who wrote, “Sonnets are cool, but puppies are cooler.”

Broken Ink 2013

This piece was taken of a mother rocking her newly adopted daughter in a rocking chair that had been passed down from various generations.

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Caitlin Huggins

Meet the Cruel King, an accomplice to Greek austerity, a stalking silhouette wagging his brown finger over your shoulders, dribbling spittle, as he spits out pieces of broken English and muffled Greek, resonant of foreign obscenities.

This Cruel King, he imagines himself some mighty overseer. For behind this masquerading restaurant, rests the peasants sleeping in shacks and windowless trailers furnished with frameless mattresses, jaggedly-cut carpet, and festering roaches. Some of his workers live directly beneath him, where he likes to keep them, snuggled in the snares of perpetual dependency. No diploma, no G.E.D., no car, no security. He cradles their weaknesses, and promises more, promises success, promises an escape outside of smoke-filled plastic bottles, sweet-tarts laced with hallucinogenic delight, and boxes of boxed wine—Kroger, aisle 9.

Out of one of these shacks, I stumble into daylight, greasy shirt, wrinkled pants, and flush-faced.

Out of the Knave’s bed, the Witch stumbles, just to see him again, in the dungeon where the Cruel King acts guard.

The Knave dumped the resident blonde pizza-maker for this witch, the Damsel in perpetual Distress, just so I can have a bit of release till I escape this black hole sucking me into its stifled economy and ever-present caste system. Knave passes me a glass bowl right before my feet shuffle towards the lockless door

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directly in front of the overseer’s palace. I suck in its clouds, promising instant euphoria, along with his wide chestnut eyes, promising to consume me in their veiled misery.

It’s too bad, I think. Intelligence never comes packaged with good looks.

It’s too bad, I think. I’m just a hollow shell carrying a shallow soul conscious of its amorality.

It’s too bad, I think. I should have been born a man.

But we all use each other, some way, somehow.

The Knave will meet me atop the hill where we’ll run back and forth, commanded by aristocratic Aikenites and our Cruel King. The serfs never sleep. We step inside the kitchen and avoid the ship, his frantic frenzies that I loosely translate to be an attempt to motivate us, and that wagging brown finger that never ceases. I keep my sunglasses on as long as I can; they shield me from his gaze, at least momentarily. Rolling silverware, after knife and fork, and knife and forth, and knife and goddamn fork, awaiting the first table, Knave and I exchange words of crude lechery. Cruel King’s ears receive the transmission, and he blows his steam whistle.

“What’s this?! Talking?! Talking?! No talking! You want talk? Have all night talk, now work!”

His mouth keeps moving, along with his brown finger, but he says nothing at all.

Desperate to escape his inane tangent, I brush past the Broken Ink 2013

babbling fool, repeating himself like a broken toy, a broken, crazy, Greek old man toy. Bubbles of stale grease fly above us and stain our sweating skins. The saloon doors whip open with a crack onto to the plaster walls painted in chips to reveal an empty dining room, with no partners for this cowgirl to tussle.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. The hour rolls, and I’m still only getting $2.15 at its conclusion. Even if the silent night burns out and barely ten dollars cling and clang in my apron, the Cruel King will still pay only $2.15 for every hour. After all, it’s not his fault if the serfs don’t make his estimation of the shift’s tips. Under the big brown thumb of his antiquated authority, they sleep restless in his slums. His tenants pay for their rent in hours. His tenants pay for their mistakes when they wait tables for his failing business. His tenants pay for broken dishes, scuffed doors where the tips of toes have kicked them in, and dishes rejected by Aiken’s aristocracy and one-time customers. His tenants pay for work-aprons and uniforms. His tenants pay $700 a month for a shack called a house, without an oven, without a refrigerator, without doors, or locks. His tenants pay in blood, and he gobbles it up like a delirious vampire.

Finally, the mechanical beep beep rings and sounds its robotic announcement.

“Front Door 1 Open.”

Deadened senses reanimate the bored workers, and we jump at the whimsical sound of promising revenue, revenue embedded within the pores at the tips of chubby fingers, fingers of fattened women, no longer trophy wives for Aiken’s elite.

A couple of Aikenites enter the silent parlor, pulling the glass door that creaks in pain as it strives to open. Two lumpy and aging asses cross the threshold; the door maintains its cry of agony till a loud slam finishes its wail of misery.

These asses, they’ve been softened by what I can only presume to be days of sitting in private law firms, cubicles, and vacant drawing rooms of nameless Aiken mansions, shielding tourists from the rotting trailer parks swept under the carpet of this deceitful town’s underbelly.

These asses, they arrive equipped with visors, striped polo shirts, and bleach blonde hair, fried with its mistress’s futile attempt to preserve long-lost youth. They walk in and sit on stiff booths and with brief grunts, demand pools of ranch and buckets of tea infused with buckets of sugar.

I snarl at their opening prayers as they proceed to brainstorm ways to drain tenants, whilst gorging themselves on old cheese and pre-packaged gyro meat, gyro meat courtesy of a Broken Ink 2013

neighboring pseudo-Greek restaurant. Vampires, all of them— bloated, pink-poloed, saggy-eyed, and wrinkled vampires, suckling on the teats of concealed poverty. The Knave watches me from afar, wondering what witchery I’m up to, secretly scrutinizing and conjuring new methods of futile subjugation.

Like a proper knave, he’ll continue the jest till the sun rises anew, and I stumble anew out of the shacks of the shantytown.

Pouring drinks and avoiding their eyes, lest they glamour me with their devilish trickery, I scurry back into a cloud of inescapable grease. But the slow Southern accents summon me again, and again, and like a good cupbearer, I usher in frozen mugs of the redneck’s ambrosia, Bud Light. If they only knew what a terrible mistake they had made; for the Cruel King wastes nothing, and gives nothing. Within the fridge, below the fountains connected to the kegs, rests two pitchers filled with the aging remains of the golden liquid. He places a piece of plastic wrap over the tops in a minimal effort to preserve its flavor. Days and days pile on top of each other, and still, he demands we pour from these pitchers, this “draft” beer.

When I slink away from the feasting beasts, my Knave tells me in his crushing Southern drawl, “You should smile.”

Immediately, clapping monkeys, dancing and smashing their cymbals, come to mind.

Except they’re probably happier than me.

A bratty 19-year-old tries to wield her pseudo scepter over her lowly peasant subjects. While the Greedy Princess snacks on steak in front of her father’s starving tenants, I imagine the island in which she abides—far, far away from life’s scares and strife… but saturated with caste mentalities and free tickets to Greece where she dances in skin-grasping denim, barely covering the bottom of those butt cheeks to repetitive Greek club music.

I also imagine smashing her face into the stovetop, forever infusing her pores with week-old gyro juice. Then she would smell as rotten as her insides, and the insides of her rotten father.

Meet Miss E., Miss B., Big B for bitch. This princess lives in the tower atop the hill hovering about the serfdom. Miss E., Miss B., Miss C., the power put into her thin-fingered hands by her tyrant father.

Greedy Princess hates me. Willful peasant. Only royalty may think.

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My refutation to her subjugation infuriates her. Perhaps if she didn’t estimate my tips avoiding minimum wage compensations, then I would consider obeying a command.

But in a kingdom where the rulers possess minds much smaller than the ruled, it is difficult to listen. She takes just as her father takes, and she gives just as her father gives. She owns the Knave and a few of the other peasants helpless in their inescapable contracts with the blood-gobbling fiend. But what she cannot own, must burn.

Burn the witch.

A chart, scribbled with lines drawn by a clumsy hand with black marker, rests against the bulletined wall, along with several pointless notifications and rules to which none of the workers actually abide, rules such as: Wipe the pipes. Wipe the tubes connected to the fountain drinks. Wipe the walls. Wipe the tea urns. Wipe the white rail of the balcony outside.

And by “wipe,” they mean take a used white cloth that has been sitting in water for a probable three to four hours, water used to cleanse the rag of canned marinara sauce, aged cooking oil, smeared pollen from the rails, sticky dried tea, and newly deserted fining tables, and continue to wipe it gray.

This chart sits amidst these nonsensicalities and lists the number of hours assigned to each employee. The more my treacherous witchery unveils its growing will, the more the hours on this list dwindle, and dwindle, and dwindle. This does not extinguish the subtle fact that the evil vampire’s aspiring empire of Greek canned-delicacies fades, and fades more with each slumber of the moon. Seems that even the greedy Aiken goblins can sense the evil brewing in the Walmart Lasagna. The empire’s frailty shows most when the hour hits 7:00 p.m. The parlor regains its stubborn silence, and our pockets regain their aridity.

The blood-driven Greedy Princess, she assigns only one time slot for the two nights I work: 6:30 p.m.

Oh so greedy, greedy. It’s easy to assign someone a time, aware that this specific time only allocates a total of $5 to $12 dollars from maybe two tables, when you’re royalty.

Fridays and Saturdays, totals: $8 and $10 dollars. Since the checks never rise to meet minimum wage, the witch starves, given scraps and hope for sustenance. They wanted to burn the witch; well, she was burning, and ashes would drift into freedom.

But with a bit of magic, anyone can change their fate, even a lowly heathen. Emancipated by the prospect of new revenue

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from a new and tyrantless source, I escaped the feudal prison.

Friday at 6:30 arrived, the only night assigned to me. But much to Cruel King and Greedy Princess’s chagrin…

The witch never came.

This witch never called, and she never apologized.

When the witch and royalty crossed paths again, a greeting may have transpired, or a simple scowl, but what was definite was the memory of an existent slave-laboring factory, and the suffering victims of a surviving Romanian monster.

Working for an establishment that unabashedly abused its employees, I felt compelled to compose this piece. Written in the likeness of a fantasy, I used archetypes to describe characters set in this dire situation and to emphasize certain characteristics. The exploitative experience left me hungry to write its histories.

Broken Ink 2013

AWARD WinnER

I am considered an artist, not necessarily a photographer, therefore I like to create my images and scenes and photograph them. My biggest inspiration is in the cinema world. I love Tim Burton, Quentin Tarantino and Man Ray. This piece is my ode to creating your world, not just tolerating it.

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While a huge fire blazes above, the crew of the 2nd ladder truck is briefed on the situation. Because there was no immediate danger at this scene I was able to get closer to the firefighting and catch some images of everyday firefighter work.

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Broken Ink 2013

patrick sanders She prowls the mall one Friday afternoon, a panther stalking its weak, feeble prey.

She aims her black arrow, body attuned, and wishes that before he dies, he’d pray.

Her target falls fast while the clock chimes three, all iPods blare, cell phones at the ready.

The day flows on as she set his life free.

Another arrow drawn, all too steady.

But no one realizes what she has done.

She clenches her fist and more arrows fly.

She hunts man now for their lack of vision, and by closing time everyone will die.

More men are dead, so her wisdom departs.

She hunts man now for her cold, bitter heart.

I wrote this Elizabethan sonnet for Professor Seeger’s Poetic Forms class. The poem reflects the growing selfishness of today’s society through the eyes of an abandoned Greek goddess. I made special care to contemporize this poem by including modern references.

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avi kaiser It is not the creation of my imagination that sets this man to dictation He strolls along the streets, his hand lays upon heads as a command, a prayer to the heaven, gives a child an answer, as the blood fills the rain His voice echoes across the crowd as bodies are set into a trance Laid to waste are the poets the artists the man with a violin and all the dreamers Can you hear der Deutsch-Maschine von war?

The face of “old Nick” shines as we Heil, von war!

Children at the ready, stand still as the emperor takes his quill to dictation He says history favors the bold and the brave, not the pious dreamer Life and death are not our choice, but his right as a divine command Books burn bright in the night, in our eyes, a state of trance Rumble rumble from the sky does tumble das Deutsch blut of rain Bodies lay on the beaches, their memory washed away by rain Move on, move forward, says the whip, from the hand of war Arbeit wird euch frei machen, this is our trance Castration the men, slave-ation the women, says the voice of dictation Where is my god, the one over land and sea, my life was his command Trains of death in the hands of das Deutsch dreamer He exalts himself upon a throne, as he tells the lie of the dreamer Fire bellows as ash falls from the sky, let it rain let it rain The fire’s eye burns bright into the night set forth by his command Everyone stood! No one stood up as she whispered war war war Rows beneath the hill, a nation mesmerized by his dictation Give me your children, Give me your freedom, dance to das Deutsch trance trance Dance to the trance The fiddler is gone we can hear no song, as gas fills the heart of the dreamer You can hear the numbers pound into flesh by dictation Eins zwei drei vier funf sechs sieben acht neun zehn from the crying rain Endless time flows across the sky as death rides the tail of war As mother’s sweet lips kiss me one more time, she gives me her last command With this ash, this blood, rebuild our soul, turn it into milk and honey, this is my command Break down these walls of Jericho and unite our people in a trance They have der Deutsch-Maschine, you have God as your weapon of war O my child of mine, my young joyous dreamer Let my warmth guide your quest in this time of rain Remember remember der Deutsch Maschine, so write these words as my dictation The hands of war murder by command The idea from dictation, the death by trance We shall be reborn from the soul of the dreamer, so let der Deutsch-Maschine rain rain rain.

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Brent Blackmon You painted across your pallid arms—“Martyr.”

Transfixed by absolution, rapt by redemption, Passaging suffering: your fingers as vessels, Your flayed chest, the Eightfold Path.

Transfixed by absolution, rapt by redemption, You scratched proverbs beneath your jagged nails.

Your flayed chest, the Eightfold Path, Running crimson amidst your sagacity.

You scratched proverbs beneath your jagged nails, And you gnawed away at your wisdom.

Running crimson amidst your sagacity, Harried hands, held high to the heavens.

And you gnawed away at your wisdom Until the emboli reached your fingertips, Harried hands, held high to the heavens, Fingering shaky prayers for renewal.

dani cinquemani

The lapis grave The depths of nothing Everything man’s questioned Sat in somber solitude If I swam down My lungs would give out Before I hit the bottom Yet in one Streamline leap They’d plunge down Into the void Then bob back Like a fish going Belly up

Until the emboli reached your fingertips, You wrote scriptures of flesh and bone, Fingering shaky prayers for renewal And parables, plucked from your open palms.

You wrote scriptures of flesh and bone, Passaging suffering: your fingers as vessels, And parables plucked from your open palms You painted across your pallid arms. Martyr.

“Martyr” was originally inspired by a title jokingly given to a friend, though it soon transformed into a much more serious concept—focusing on one who practices self-loathing and masochism in feeble attempts to achieve personal satisfaction and find what they believe to be “meaning”.

Broken Ink 2013

“The Diving Pool” is about a childhood memory about swimming. When I was young I was scared of jumping off the diving board because the deep end of the pool scared me. This poem is me reflecting on the memory.

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brent blackmon

No gate skirts the walls of her fortress, for she fears neither god nor man.

She hastens me to her presence, fingers wreathing about my shoulders, dragging me into her castle doors.

Her lips, curled fragments of parchment and bone, conjure necromancies, and she sultrily casts curses with her barbed tongue, lovely and divine in its unholy gestures (she speaks in a language I have never heard, yet I weep at the beauty of her words).

She slithers closer, taking me, whispering unto my petulant ears, “I am she who holds domain o’er thee, and offers provision and sustenance for thine feeble frame. I am the harbinger of distress and demise, having rent thine ranks asunder with my eyes.

The feet that leadeth thee hath flattened nations into tiles to line the terrace floors on which we dance.

The arms that embrace thee hath conquered armies and withered wives to widows— each pyre lit, an effigy offered unto my faceless image.

Kings and legionaries hath damned my name, for it is known.

I am Death, and thou hast known me.”

And she sweeps me deeper into shadow, and we dance until I know no more.

“Thanatos” pits a man against Death in the form of a woman. Though she forcefully draws him into her own domain, he makes no attempts to resist her. Overall, this poem is about an acceptance of death, whether with open arms or simply with no arms raised against her.

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Broken Ink 2013

“Neverever Land” was an idea formed from the question: where do fairy godmothers go after children cease to believe? Do they find other work and if so, in what capacity? The whole story is 120 comic book pages divided into 6 volumes. This was the first attempt at a cover for the first volume titled: “You Are Here.”

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AWARDGRoUP WinnER

n WAsHinGTo

patrick sanders Every day, it’s a-gettin’ closer— The day when I grow out of older times, my old self, my new self, and Buddy. I’m terrified of rollercoasters.

The day when I grow out of my skin like a snake is every day.

Buddy, I’m terrified of rollercoasters.

Why did you take a plane that February morning?

My skin, like a snake, is every day I die to have a love like hers.

Why did you take a plane that February morning and stop the rollercoaster?

I die to have a love like hers, but if I live, I won’t sleep in the snow and stop the rollercoaster.

Every day, it’s a-gettin’ closer.

In Professor Seeger’s Poetic Forms class, we covered a repetitive poetic verse called the pantoum. Pantoums repeat lines in a pattern throughout the poem, which instantly reminded me of song lyrics. I wrote this pantoum as a memorial to Buddy Holly and his song “Everyday,” in addition to his tragic death.

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Broken Ink 2013

I titled this photo “Never Rains,” inspired by the classic “Tony! Toni! Tone!” song.

A few summers ago, I was walking in downtown Long Beach headed to the pier, and the scenery looked like one of those classic southern California movie scenes.

So, when I saw the classic muscle car coming my way I literally stepped out into the crosswalk to get this shot.

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The presence of this friend in my life mirrors perfectly how I captured him, like “a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes,� (James 4:14).

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Broken Ink 2013

Eric Blacks Wading through the dense, thick smoke, I make my way to the site of the dark destruction.

Among the charred, broken bricks and cold, distorted figures Lies Harlem.

A city forgotten, An exquisite china, fantastically obliterated.

A festering and stinking place.

Was this a place of incompetence? Or disregarded effort?

Maybe— A frigid wind comes, and carries the vapor

Back and forth And I am momentarily delighted.

Reflecting on the face of this wretched aftermath, I find the lone survivors.

Tiny, insignificant, infectious creatures that Scatter their venom across a dying population.

We are lost.

But beyond the bleak and horrid turmoil Came a truth so good, so sweet— A spot of green that stood so loyal, An offspring born from a morbid beat.

Standing strong among the mass, The dark night gave it an astounding story— Not weakened, but empowered by the past, With pride, it stood with morning glory.

Finally! A fragment of hope! Come take a stare!

Nurture it! Watch it grow!

Let us cherish this piece, for it is rare.

Will it save us from those ghosts of woe?

I wrote this poem as a response to Langston Hughes’s poem “Harlem.”

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The sun is setting on this red-tailed hawk as he has found a place to roost for the night. This image shows just how social these birds actually are as he seemed to be intentionally posing for me. I have always liked the look in these birds’ eyes as well.

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Broken Ink 2013

kelsey ramsey

Cancer got a hold to you.

But never will I let go of you.

Chemo weakens your body, But we strengthen your mind.

We don’t send roses because we’re the flowers.

Can’t imagine what pain you’re going through, But trust I feel the pain deep.

Wish I could be with you more, But to make a brighter future I’m back in college to explore The horizon of opportunity I can take To enable you and the family to a better place.

You’re the motivation that drives me to success.

I am blessed to have you as a grandmother, Love so pure that I can’t find it in others.

They can’t find a cure for your body But your soul is the cure for mine.

There’s not a moment you’re not on my mind.

Love forever more, Don’t let go yet.

But if you do I will understand you needed your rest.

My granny, Dorothy Henderson, endured a lot of hard times throughout her life. Each challenge and sickness she survived and became a stronger person. However, when cancer was found in her body, her fight for life began. I wrote this poem trying to cope with the idea that cancer might be the one thing that takes her away from me.

Broken Ink 2013

kelsey ramsey This year I learned the meaning of the circle of life.

It’s not an easy lesson, it’s full of strife.

The way she held me is the way I hold her.

Spoon feedings and singing her songs.

Ensuring her comfort and many late nights.

Doing silly things to make her world feel bright.

Brushing her teeth, Helping her walk.

Holding her up just in case she attempts to fall.

Just as I was, Is just how she is.

She is our baby even though we are her kids.

Over the winter break of 2012 I had to face the difficult task of watching my granny’s health decline rapidly. I saw her going from being an independent lady to being an helpless individual that depended on her family to be there for her to do the simplest of tasks.

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Caitlin Huggins

The scale spins past numbers. Its red line whirls faster and faster. Holding breath, naively misled by false perceptions of how to consolidate body mass.

175, 176, 177, 178...

I suffocate under the bubbling stress as the determined climber races to his destined peak. And as will buckles to necessity, the crimson needle below my bare feet ceases and stops.

180.

Damn.

35 pounds away from avoiding the dreaded division I promised never to join again—the last grouping of ladies allocated due to excessive weight. Memories retract to the precise slide. Two years earlier, sitting in the center of a coliseum lined with wooden bleachers, and Pentecostal men sunken in sweat suits.

One foot down on the foam mats sticky with the perspiration of old.

She came towards me. The ground shook with the stomp of her bloated feet.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Extending leg after leg, chunks of steak sewn into the seams of her calves. No time passes. No sound speaks. No one exists.

Me and her.

Ref chops the air, and here we go.

But the 240 pounds to my 165 pronounces its might with a pressure that crushes into my rib cage, bending with gradual pressure. Immobile, I lay in futility. But submit me? I could not allow it.

This dying gazelle, close to rot, refuses to make it easy.

Somehow my legs wrap themselves around one of her two stumps, the width comparable to a torso. Skin on skin, the liquid slick and slippery, I grip her thigh tightly. Under the weight of the beast, my eyes avert to the digital timer behind the man in white and black. Slowly, time descends.

While seconds limp to the finish line, my capabilities diminish as I flail, pointlessly resisting defeat. Avoid the stalling deduction, in this I claim a minor victory. Slight

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movements block penalties.

Flip flop flip.

My arms, legs, and feet flail. The seconds change from double to single digit. Descending into primes, each transformation signals a harsh siren.

Three, two, one...

Beep!

Over.

Stumble to my tired feet in dazed shame. To look at the audience, feels unbearable. I am her victim not opponent.

This moment carves itself furiously into the skin. A hideous scar to mar my memory. Pounds of Neosporin slapped onto its ugly surface, but to no avail. It laughs maliciously, while you frown and squirm in its reminiscence.

The Heavy-weight Division.

No. Not for me. Not this time.

Eject the slide, and shift back to the present. Seven weeks until the international World Brazilian Jiu-jitsu Championship in Los Angeles, California. Fervent ground warriors scattered across the globe and states of this nation will gather to collide in heated battle for the title of best. Leading up to this momentous event, my training had totaled about four years.

At age 15, I picked up the thickly-stitched jiu-jitsu uniform called a “gi” and dove into the art of structured wrestling. Each week included a minimum of three to four classes. Each class included a minimum of an hour and a half. Each hour and a half included a minimum of three to six rolls.

“Rolls,” the term coined to at least six minutes of pushing, shoving and sloshing, in pursuit of domination and eventual submission. Six minutes to sink or swim. Six minutes to determine which contender is the better. In those six minutes, time lapses and consciousness fades into the primal. Problems of the past lose their significance; their dastardly hold on the benighted worrier, tossed astray.

The addiction commenced and consumed this curious participant. Best, I needed to be, and not at heavy weight. 145, I am coming for you. You can hide, but I’ll find you.

Three, two, one...

Morning sun penetrates cracks between blinds, casting striped shadows. I hit the scale once more to instill focus.

Broken Ink 2013

Breakfast time.

Two egg whites, the tasty yellow sucked from their center leave behind its bland corpse. A smidgen of salsa to liven its dullness. Wash it down with a short glass of orange juice and coffee mixed with swirls of fabricated sugar. Crystals dissolve in a pool of bitter black. With the prick of a fork and the chomp of a jaw, chunks turn to crumbs and crumbs turn to dust. Done.

But the stomach still moans and growls. Gremlins crawl and claw at the rigid wall of flesh between blood, bowels, and fat. They claw harder and harder whilst flecks of skin flake off. Snows of pound for pound shorten the hurdle to leap. An unbearable penalty of dietary dilemma. Hurry to the physical offense of daily bodily degradation. Each day a new sentence.

Today my mistress presents me with her tools of sadistic delight and savory bitterness: ten jumps on a two-foot wooden box.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Repeat.

Scurry to the rower. Pull the chord to your chest and glide back; stretch your limbs and ricochet, bend your knees, panting, and fixate on the meter count.

500, 600, 700 The numbers ascend slower and slower, imitating the pace. Extensions of time defeat rapidity in tempo. On your hands and knees, you wiggle like a dying worm cut by careless children, cursing the supposed innocent every inch you conceive to cover.

Wiggle, wiggle all the way to the tower, where you’ll dangle limp. Now come up. Reach the sky, touch the peak just to fall again lifeless. The wheels in your abdomen turn and creak, battling their rusty cogs to crank and squeak you to the top again. And again, and again, and again.

But before the machine explodes, there’s still... run, run, run, circles and circles, a path to nowhere, back at the start.

Round 1, Round 2, Round 3 to Round 5.

Mark your time. Next time will be better. But today is done, and tomorrow will reveal a new session, a new means of murder.

Hold on-we’re not done quite yet. Six minutes. Six rounds of six minutes. 36 minutes, push, shove, grab, stack and crush.

Instead of swimming, I’m just trying to float.

Night approaches, and with the moon’s sweet face, hopefully sweeter morsels will manifest upon the table.

Dinner time.

A sliver of chicken breast, pan-fried in artificial cooking spray, slides down my dry mouth. As it slides down, I wonder how the mad scientists concocted oil free of flavor. Boiled broccoli. Three or four pieces to accent the centerpiece of dead poultry.

Broken Ink 2013

Tick tock tick Faint grumbles gain momentum. Limp upon the tousled sheets, I lay, melting into the creases obsessing and weaving together images of savory morsels. The gremlins awaken to continue their nightly protest, screeching from inside the hollow caves.

Feed us Clenched fists rise in fevered fury. Crashing down upon my abdomen, silencing the mischievous little beasts. They coo and whine, gradually softening in compliance. This corpse lays stagnant awaiting resurrection. The alarm beeps with persistence, shoving energy into pores of decayed matter. The blackened skin revives in flushed tones.

Awaken.

Another day to live. Another evening to die in creeping agony.

Hours, days, and weeks pronounce their tally on the mental chalkboard. Every tally pronounces the might of my will and forbearance to suffer temptation. The gremlins grow. Their curling claws sharpen. My stomach bleeds, and the snow buries me in an isolation that stirs a frenzy inside the shadows of my weakening consciousness.

The outer world. It’s mute. People move their mouths, but a voice does not sound. The wind burns the paleness of thinned cheeks turned scarlet, but a rustle does not whisper.

There’s just the tick and the tock.

Tick tock tick tock Sending pupils left and right. Lids twitching. Madness stirring.

One week to go.

Inside the door, class gathers. Atop the mats they stand together, buzzing and strumming their fingers with excitement and energy. Ready for their strings of six minutes. Bubbly and jolly. Full of vigor. Full of the essence that is liveliness. In I stumble, limping clumsily like the petrified mummies of old, rekindled in ghastly horror by imaginative movie producers.

Raspy grumbles come in the form of flimsy acknowledgements to my brethren. Blobs of white “gis” float in a crowd faceless and nameless to me. Except for one.

He instills warmth to the cold, imbibing me wholly. But with life comes death and delight into delirium and waves of nausea spin in my stomach as I think of her and the sustenance that won’t be awaiting me on the table when I return home.

This was inspired by a time when I was cutting weight before a tournament. I had to cut 35 pounds in 7 weeks. The process mentally and physically exhausted me. I wanted to capture this essence. It operates in two time frames. It starts in the present, shifts to an old memory, and then continues in the present.

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kate hesik Your teeth were coffee stained, and your hair was long and soft.

Your fingernails were never painted, but you always wore mascara.

You didn’t mind getting mud on your boots, but you were always concerned with how your outfit looked.

You could kill a twelve pack all by yourself, but you would never touch whiskey or gin.

You were only ever interested in men, but that night when you kissed me back, Made me question everything I thought I knew about you.

“Obviously Questionable Details” describes a straight woman who’s captured the love of another. The message I tried to convey in this poem is that you cannot overlook simple details. You may have a beautiful girl in front of you one day who is in love with you, but you won’t ever know it until you kiss her.

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Broken Ink 2013

This was a project for a graphic design class to brand a celebrity fragrance. I chose Bettie Page as the inspiration for this piece and explored a glamorous retro motif for the logo and package design.

Broken Ink 2013

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Photography is about capturing the moment. The fair is a favorite place of mine to take photos. The bright colors and blurred buckets capture the excitement of riding something that was constructed only a few days before.

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Most pictures of ferris wheels are either the view from the ground or the view from the top. This picture captures the actual ride. Going up, and going back down, you have no other choice but to admire how the whole thing works.

Broken Ink 2013

Art facilitates communication, whether it’s between the artist and the audience or among audience members. People connect through art. For this issue of Broken Ink, it is my hope that you, as contributors and members of the audience, find that connection.

It has been a privilege working on Broken Ink these past few years and interacting with the high caliber of artists, writers, and musicians at USC Aiken. This year we received a wide range of quality submissions, allowing us to showcase genres that Broken Ink has never seen before and making this one of our most diverse issues to date.

Among those I must thank are the English and fine arts faculties for their support, the staff of the Student Life Office, the Washington Group Award panel for their review, this year’s judging panel volunteers, Ginny Southworth and the Student Media Board for their feedback, B.A. Hohman who selected this year’s Ink Splat Award winners, my dedicated and talented staff, our faculty advisor Karl Fornes for his guidance, and the submitters, without whom this publication would not be possible.

All submissions are reviewed blindly and rated on a scale of 1 to 5, (5 being the highest) by literary and visual art panels assembled from student volunteers. In order to supply an accurate and objective representation of USC Aiken’s artistic community, we ask all panelists to recuse themselves from rating their own submissions, should they have any, and any works that they recognize.

Accepted works are determined according to the highest average rating.

Due to space constraints, the Broken Ink staff occasionally must determine between two or more equally deserving works, both by average rating and artistic merit. Ties are resolved based on the current publication’s concept or “voice” and Broken Ink’s mission to represent a wide variety of student work. Full rubrics are located online at www.broken-ink.org/our-policies.

Broken Ink is produced yearly by a staff of USC Aiken students.

The magazine accepts and reviews submissions of student-created works of visual and literary art and compiles the best, based on our review process, into one magazine.

All students are eligable to join the Broken Ink staff regardless of year, major, or experience. We have weekly meetings in the Student Media Office located in the Student Activities Center. For more information, visit our website at www.broken-ink.org or e-mail your questions to us at brokenink@usca.edu.

Broken Ink 2013

The 2013 issue of Broken Ink was created in Adobe InDesign CS 5.5, Adobe Illustrator CS 5.5, and Adobe Photoshop CS 5.5. Fonts include Adobe Garamond Pro and Tw Cen MT. We would also like to thank the creators of the following fonts and textures for letting us use them free of charge: Basicle, League Gothic, Ostrich Sans, Sanami Textures, and Znikomit.

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University of South Carolina Aiken 471 University Parkway Aiken, SC 29801 broken-ink.org Broken Ink 2013