2010

brokenink

literary arts magazine 2 0 1 0

BROKEN INK 2010 ISSUE

Editor In Chief Layout Editor Visual Editor Literary Editor Online Editor

Christina Berkshire Brendan Hennessee Kelsey Lopez de Victoria Abe Kalsbeek John Chambers

Support Staff

Amy “Martyn” Turner Mandy Wise Felicia Ireland Horacotrel Brooks Cati Huff Maria LaRocca Joyeeta Stevenson Degan Cheek Laura Rushing Susan Chase

Adviser

Karl Fornes

The Broken Ink staff would like to thank everyone for the hard work this year that has made this magazine possible. Of course, the magazine would not exist without the student submissions. Thanks University of South Carolina Aiken 471 University Parkway Aiken, SC 29801

The Broken Ink staff would like to dedicate this publication in honor of Dr. Gardner. As artists ourselves, we appreciate the work he has accomplished during his life. Visit our website to see the full bio and memorial for Dr. Gardner. www.broken-ink.org © 2010 Broken Ink and contributing artists. All rights reserved.

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Meet the people who helped produce this magazine.

THE STAFF Christina Berkshire is a junior Fine Arts major studying at USCA to be a graphic designer. She hails from the rainy state of Washington but has adopted South Carolina as her new homeland.

Art has always been one of Christina’s major passions, though lately she includes blogging and hula hoop dancing in her list of hobbies. Her interest in Broken Ink began during her first year at USCA when she submitted to the magazine.

Horacotrel Brooks is a junior Communications major and a native of Holly Hill, SC. He is an avid reader, writing poetry and short stories in his free time. He loves all things unique and innovative and is easily bored with mundane routines.

Horacotrel has found that one of his favorite ways to break routine is to sing with the University Choir, which he joined his sophomore year. His lyrical voice can be heard floating through the campus and sends chills up the spines of the resident squirrels, in a good way. This is the first year Horacotrel has been on the Broken Ink staff after being a submitter in previous years. He plans to attend law school after graduating from USCA to be a criminal prosecutor.

John Chambers is a sophomoric sophomore Computer Science and Fine Art major at USCA from the speed trap-stricken town of Jackson, SC. Known among friends for his superpowers in overcommitment, multi-hour debating, and talking to complete strangers (or signposts, for that matter), John has a passion for everything he does. His interests include music, theater, writing, philosophy, meeting girls at the beach, and just about anything that runs on electricity. His involvement in Broken Ink as website manager began in this year’s fall semester when his friends in the art department discovered his primary 4

major. After graduating, John hopes to pursue a seminary degree and to continue to use his talents in Christian ministry.

Susan Chase is a freshman Music Education Major studying at USCA to be a choir teacher to elementary children. Susan joined Broken Ink because of her interest in reading and writing poetry and creative writing pieces. Music has always been Susan’s desire since she discovered she has superpowers from the rock gods. When she graduates she hopes to communicate her love of music to the world, and put music back into school systems.

Degan Cheek is a freshman that has yet to choose a major at USCA this year. Since having been exposed to graphic design everyday since infancy, thanks to her parents local t-shirt printing company, Degan has a great passion for creating art. Her future plans are hardly set in stone but they will no doubt revolve around design of some sort. Though her humor is a bit abstract, she tries to keep everyone around her laughing. Her super human abilities include beating Bop-It and being a trivia game wizard.

Brendan Hennessee is a senior Communications major hoping to find a career in marketing or advertising. He found his way into art several years ago with his first camera. Photography remains a large part of his life, and he hopes to have his own photo exhibit in the future. His interest in Broken Ink began a year ago after he submitted his own work. Having a few years experience with layout, he wanted to give the magazine a shot. Brendan hopes to give this year’s magazine a completely new and fresh feel.

Cati Huff is a freshman studying Fine Art at USCA with hopes of finding a job with that degree - any job. Although she comes from the Sunshine State, she has found South Carolina to be a suitable replacement until she makes her way to Miss Indigo Blue’s Academy of Burlesque in Seattle. Cati has always had a love of the creative and the strange, which is why she found an interest in Broken Ink. Next year she hopes to be even more involved with the magazine and keep her schedule below 17 hours a semester.

Felicia Ireland is a sophomore Fine Art major.

She is from the Aiken area, but often visits New Jersey to see family. Felicia eventually wants to pursue animation and work for Disney making films. She was interested in becoming a member of Broken Ink after her sister brought home one of their magazines they had produced. She hopes to one day have her work published in this magazine. During Felicia’s spare time she likes to draw, swim, or just spend time with her friends.

Abe Kalsbeek is the Literary Editor with USCA’s Broken Ink magazine. He enjoys reading science fiction novels, how-to books and writing poetry in his free time. He has majored in Psychology and hopes to have compilations of his works in print within the next several years. Abe plans to use his psychology degree to console underprivileged youth and adults as well as integrate his love of writing into his profession.

Maria LaRocca is a freshman Fine Art major with a concentration in graphic design. Though she’s currently studying the ways of graphics, she’s open to other fields of the arts in regards to her future following graduation. Her involvement in literary magazines started in high school. Maria plays a little cello and guitar and has recently taken an interest in photography.

Kelsey Lopez de Victoria is a second-year

junior double-majoring in Psychology and Biology and eventurally entering the field of Neuropsychology. Kelsey is very talented and can sing and play the guitar in a way that would melt your heart. She is the Visual Arts Editor for Broken Ink, and also works in the Intercultural Program here at USCA. Kelsey is Puerto Rican and has lived from all the way from Terre Haute, Indiana to Aiken, SC. Laura Rushing is currently a freshman Communications major at USCA, and has plans to attend the Art Institute of Atlanta next semester to pursue a major in Advertising. She hopes to work for an acclaimed company, while using her superpower of unconventional thinking for the common good. Laura’s decision to join Broken Ink was based on the experiences she had with her high school literary magazine. She enjoys hanging out with her boyfriend and silly friends, who share the same strange brand of humor. She enjoys watching “Anchorman”, baking out of scratch, and listening to music with acoustic guitars and pianos in it.

Martyn Turner is a third year Fine Art major with a concentration in Photography. God is her source for inspiration; she knows that He will never let her down. She loves indie style photography and lens flare. She is a third generation photographer in her family. One day she would like to be in Hollywood working on movies with her uncle.

Mandy Wise is a sophomore biology major at USC Aiken. She enjoys writing songs and making road trips to concerts with her friends. She is interested in visual arts, especially photography.

Mandy is also an avid dancer, taking lessons from a very young age. Mandy enjoys staring up at the stars and thinking about what all that the world has in store for her. Mandy’s superpower is cookie-making and other assorted techniques of making people smile.

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Meet the artists and writers.

CONTRIBUTORS Taylor Austin got her first camera (a Canon SLR) when she was in eighth grade. Taylor was hooked, and she knew that photography was her career. She mainly focuses on portraits, and takes most of her photos in black and white. She attended the USCB campus in 2007, and then to USCA and graduates this December with a Bachelor’s in Fine Art. After graduation, Taylor plans on continuing her education with a Master’s degree, but she’s not sure where just yet.

Elizabeth Fonte has been inspired by art ever since she can remember. During her spare time, she captures inspiration from movies, graphic novels, and library books and sketches at home or on the margins of her class notes. As an English major at the University of South Carolina Aiken, Elizabeth continues to revel in the English language and literature and also helps others refine their writing skills through her work as a consultant at USCA’s Writing Room.

Ben Cheeks is a Communications major at USCA. He started writing in high school, where he dabbled in various forms, including poetry, prose, and comics. Ben continues to hone his writing in all of these forms, and hopes to eventually earn a living writing comics.

Samantha Gantt is an English major who graduated in December 2009

Berrien Chidsey is a Fine Art senior who will graduate this spring.

Alycia Cummings is a Fine Art senior.

Bonnie Davis is a senior English major from Swansea, SC, is the lead tutor in the USCA Writing Room and a member of Sigma Tau Delta. She has always loved art and literature and will maintain this positive influence in her life. Bonnie plans to join the Peace Corps a year after graduation and then hopes to become a published writer.

Seth Logan Fields is a Fine Art alumni who graduated in December 2009

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Jessica Hughes Goodman grew up on Millhaven Plantation in South Georgia. Her father is a wildlife biologist and his influence fostered her love for nature and photography. Visiting her family in the Lowcountry has provided plenty of great opportunities to take pictures. Jessica received her first manual camera when she was 14 and since then has been taking her camera everywhere she goes! She is an education major and hopes to teach science or work as a nature educator in the future.

Andrew Hasben is an English major with a concentration in writing. He had always written short stories for his family and himself when he was younger, but became serious about it during his second year at USCA. The main influence came from his first two English courses. He found immense inspiration through the poets and authors they studied; writers like Edgar Allan Poe and Ernest Hemingway, and poets like John Keats and Walt Whitman. Andrew intends to continue pursuing a career in writing.

Miranda Hein is a non-traditional student, and an Accounting major. She enjoys photography as a hobby and hopes to share some of her favorite pictures with the community.

Brady Morris is a freshman English major at USCA. He has always been a big reader and writer, even though this is one of his first submissions. Brady is an even bigger fantasy nerd, and hopes to one day be a successful author in the fantasy genre.

Islen Price spent the summers of her childhood running wild through the twists and turns of the St. Lawrence River in Upstate New York.

Her life has always revolved around nature, her family and the arts. Her newest venture is film photography, which she enjoys and plans to continue throughout her studies in becoming a teacher.

Jeanine Rodriguez is a Fine Art major and has lived in Aiken for the majority of her life. Her favorite artist is Zak Smith, and her favorite band is the Deftones among others. Jeanine lives and breathes music and art. The two usually take up the majority of her time, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Oscar Daniel Urizar is majoring in Fine Art Technology. He got into art about five years ago when a friend started showing their own digital art. After that Daniel began looking into more artwork from painting to photography, and learned that he really enjoyed taking photos. In the future, he would like to open up a photography studio and also do graphic design on the side.

Heather Waller is an sophomore English major.

Meghann Williams is a Fine Art junior.

Ashley Wilson has always enjoyed writing.

One of her earliest memories of creative writing is from fifth grade. Writing for her is a way to procrastinate, a coping mechanism, a device to change how a situation happened, a form of entertainment and whatever else she needs it to be. After graduation, she plans to teach English on a high school level and continue writing as a hobby.

Savannah Stephens is a Fine art senior who will graduate this spring.

Katelyn Stenberg plans to major in Biology and minor in Spanish. She has drawn ever since she was in elementary school, and her love of writing blossomed around sixth grade. She likes to draw whatever comes to mind, including landscapes and animals. Writing is a semi-secret passion, and she dreams about having her own work published one day.

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CONTENTS

BROKEN INK 2010 ISSUE 9 Meghann Williams 10 Savannah Stephens Andrew Hasben 11 Bonnie Davis Taylor Austin 12 Bonnie Davis Jeanine Rodriguez 13 Degan Cheek 14 Meghann Williams Jeanine Rodriguez 15 Martyn Turner 16 Horacotrel Brooks Elizabeth Fonte

17 Christina Berkshire Abe Kalsbeek 18 Brendan Hennessee 19 Maria LaRocca Abe Kalsbeek 20 Taylor Austin Andrew Hasben

22 Meghann Williams 23 Degan Cheek 24 Savannah Stephens Brady Morris 26 Islen Price 27 Christina Berkshire Martyn Turner 28 Brendan Hennessee Seth Logan Fields 29 Brendan Hennessee Miranda Hein

30 Bonnie Davis Islen Price 31 Maria LaRocca Joyeeta Stevenson 32 Joshua Hopperton Islen Price 33 Alycia Cummings Felicia Ireland 34 Felicia Ireland Oscar Daniel Urizar

On the Cover Red Tree Martyn Turner

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35 Seth Logan Fields Berrien Chidsey 36 Andrew Hasben Heather Waller 37 Abe Kalsbeek Ashley Wilson 38 Berrien Chidsey Joyeeta Stevenson

39 40 41 42 44 45

Ashley Wilson Maria LaRocca Jeanine Rodriguez Ashley Wilson Samantha Gantt Ben Cheeks

Hanney Meghann Williams

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Chain Reaction Savannah Stephens This boundless energy Is welling up, excitedly And begging to be uncaged The smoke-blue mountains Rise protectively ominous On the horizon Sensing the tightly coiled tension As generous clouds Attempt to provide relief With gracious showers That steam against My sweltering skin But I can be contained Only as easily as desert wind Blistering, unbridled and unforgiving Roaming freely, wandering aimlessly No convictions, no control

Eden Andrew Hasben My life before you snaked into my mind seeping venomous lies of false love.

Like Adam & Eve, I bit into an apple.

Innocence fell from my eyes.

I saw you standing there, enveloped in flame, licking your lips with hungry eyes, entrenching my heart in thorns.

Color Blind Bonnie Davis What would they think if they caught us here?

Could they stand the sight of my ebony skin fixed against your milky hide? Our meetings of love would make no sense to them. We cover our hearts when they’re around and only seek our truth while alone on this section

acknowledge you on the side of the street or stretch out for your arms to wrap around me.

I’ll just enjoy our time together with our bodies embracing as one. I’ll make believe that people can change and let us live lives of blissful satisfaction, and we’ll love forever on this lonely expanse of coast at our rendezvous.

of beach that acts as our solace. We can discover each other here and play out our passions. The break of waves is our music. The wind is our dance. The seagulls— our audience. I whisper secrets in your ear, and you hum promises in mine, but I wonder why your vows can’t become reality. Are they as flimsy as my bathing cap in the wind?

I know we’ll never be accepted in the public eye. My skin is too black; your’s—too white.

But for now we have our meetings, our joining. I’ll continue to wear your favorite color and laugh at your clever words. I won’t

Coorse Taylor Austin

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He walked down the gray, dingy street thinking about work and dinner he missed with his loud family. He was trying to enjoy his quiet walk home from the office, as cars occasionally drove past. As he turned to the building where his apartment dwelled, he began to wonder how he would explain why the meeting that was at six lasted until ten.

“Is her perfume on me?” he asked himself. “Check the tie; straighten the collar,” he went over his usual checklist of his attire. He walked up a flight of stairs, put the key in the lock of apartment 22, and walked inside.

It was quiet; he put down his briefcase and coat. After walking to the room his sons shared, he opened the door quietly and saw that they were fast asleep. He went to the kitchen and pulled out a plate of food his wife had put together.

“Emm, pot roast,” he murmured under his breath.

He heard his wife’s timid feet and looked at her come in the door way in her night gown and slippers as she said, “Hey honey.

I’ve been trying to call…I was getting worried…You said you’d be home at 7:30...” She trailed off after each statement, scared of badgering him, wanting him to want to come home.

“Yeah, well, the meeting lasted longer than I thought… you know, important business to attend to,” he said as he began

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to heat up his food. His wife walked over to embrace him, and received a squeeze on the arm and a kiss on the forehead instead.

“I made your lunch for tomorrow--chicken salad sandwich, just the way you like it.

Chips and cookies too.”

“Thanks, make me another one. I’ve got another meeting tomorrow.” He pulled the food from the microwave and grabbed a fork.

His wife hung on the edge of the counter, not knowing how to

react and not reacting how she felt. What could she say to him when she felt so small? She slowly found the strength and hesitantly began, “Another meeting?…This is the fourth meeting in the last week and a half. Your boys don’t even see you. You’re not here most of the time…you’re always at the office or some important meeting, and when you are here, you’re typing away on that damn computer.” She ended in a shrill, desperate voice.

“Listen! Someone has to make

money around here! Who pays for this place that you live in? Who provides for you and the boys?

Who keeps food in the house and clothes on your back? Who!? Tell me!” He screamed.

She turned away, knowing he had won. He always did, –always had an excuse, an alibi, a comeback. It was always thrown at her. How many times had she tried to leave? How many times had he told her she was no good, had no where to go, no job skills, and nobody to turn to? How much longer could she go on like this, knowing the man she married, shared a home and two kids with, was not hers?

While she leaned into the

Rorschach Degan Cheek

counter, he looked at her and ate his food. She had once been beautiful, had once laughed, had once given him all he needed.

Now, she never dressed up, never put on make up, never worked out. She had gained seventy pounds since they’d been married, and for some reason, all of this was important to him. He needed something else.

She took a deep breath and said, “I’ve given you a home. I’ve made you three meals a day for ten years. I’ve cleaned your house, done your laundry, cleaned your dishes, folded your socks. I’ve raised your boys to be respectful, given them the attention you denied them. I’ve smelt the

perfume, noticed the undone zipper, the smudge of lipstick, the ruffled hair, the mysterious phone calls. But most of all, I’ve noticed your unwillingness to be at home with your family. And I’ve done nothing about it.”

“That’s right, because there’s nothing you can do.” And he turned and walked to the bedroom, where he would think about the other one, the only one, as he undressed, brushed his teeth, and went to bed.

She let one tear fall as she cleaned his dinner plate, because she knew he had won. He always did.

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Corinthians 5:17 Meghann Williams

Disease Jeanine Rodriguez

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Heidi Martyn Turner

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The Ritual Elizabeth Fonte

Whistler’s Mother Horacotrel Brooks She waits— in the foyer, vexed, with silence by her side.

Hope slowly dwindling as the days go by.

She waits— her face made up, crow’s feet digging for her eyes; with a distressed brow tugging at her receding hair, and thin pursed lips tightening her saggy jowls.

She waits— patiently for him, the steady thud of his footsteps against the cobblestone path; but he cannot return the favor.

She waits— soaking her kerchief with salty tears, wringing it dry with trembling hands.

She waits— wearing black because she knows; waiting because she cannot accept.

In the foyer soothed

by Death at her side, her heart beat slowly fades as the minutes go by.

She waited— but since he will not come to her, she will go to him.

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Hum...the ritual has begun a spinning wave of books on oak shelves come to a stop as I lay the essentials, fundamentals, credentials that give me the name, state-role of a student motivations: money, mastery, making a difference-the art of Aristotelian anal retentive studying holistic learning of Hellenistic material transformed into modern dances of phonics, facts, philosophies building blocks in my brain catapults of computers, commuters casting spells on my ceremonial cerebration But on I go grasping great ideas and illustrious images storing marbles of memory in the mind jar phrases flying fast to oblivion kindling fires of kept kinesthesia A magnificent mess-a marvelous epiphany-Silence.

A quick glance at the glorious hour-Hum...the ritual is done.

Entwining Christina Berkshire I let them drain a pint of meO negative, always in style.

Like the smiling scrubs the phlebotomists wore, those yellow-draped needle-wielders laughed as they searched for veins On the crook of each donor’s armblue highways rushing towards their lungs.

Later, an ambulance will scream down another road, delivering my pint to a crash victim.

Our selves entwined, not in the twisted metal of the car’s wreckage and debris, but in the rushed transfusion.

Nurses will run with furrowed brows, their scrubs that somber hospital green, wielding crash carts and tourniquets, My O negative pint in a healing, gloved hand.

The Final Cup Abe Kalsbeek As soon as I awake, the dawn twins -Java and Mochacaress my addicted carcass: a body marred by caffeine.

Those two cups of coffee barrage my taste buds with nuttiness far richer than the wealthiest kingdom.

This morning ritual always filtered the events of an earlier night.

How can something as murky as coffee absolve all those afflictions?

Doctors warn me of a deadly path and speak of trouble brewing: “Tests have shown this, and you will become another statistic.”

Five cups of coffee a day for countless years could cause such a comment. I laugh and gulp down the liberating potion.

Today, I drank one cup too many.

One side of my body became numb.

I lost my balance and toppled to the floor. I gripped my chest, feeling the life drain out of me.

Before I met my Coffee Maker, my thoughts drifted back to the alluring aroma of the cup as I lurched into a darkness which mirrored that of my one and only love: A Grande Dark.

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Liquid Marbles Brendan Hennessee

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Monopoly on my Heart Abe Kalsbeek She tries to slip the question in, casually of course: the makings of a false realization.

It starts with the fake “ah-ha!” moment like a forgotten dessert except this sweet thing is sprinkled with doubt instead of the conventional crumb.

The Market Maria LaRocca

This game of blame begins as it always did: her, the banker, and I mortgaging the property.

Why can’t she play fair?

(Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200) This pastime scatters our Chances of a fair or quiet argument… but at least I got it off my Community Chest.

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The Grave Taylor Austin

Waiting for the Sun

Andrew Hasben

The dying light from the sun seemed to take with it the last remaining sources of warmth and light that were left in the cold, gray corners of the Maynard residence. It was twilight, and all was growing dark in the house, save for the light that emanated from a simple candle situated carefully on the marble-topped end table in between the two chairs that Mr. and Mrs. Maynard now occupied.

The light from the candle was dim. There were days where Mrs. Maynard grew afraid that the flickering light would go out, but it was enough for the couple to see by in the growing darkness that teased them more and more every day. A crystal picture frame sat beside the candle, and the whole ensemble looked like a memorial. If it wasn’t actually a kind of prayer for the life of their only son, Joshua, who was a sergeant in the US Army, it might represent the dying love between the couple. The only time they ever seemed to find common ground was during this time of day—when the sunlight would shine directly through the window behind the end-table, causing a spectrum of colors to appear on the wall across from 20

their usual sitting place. Though they wouldn’t speak, they each found a certain solace in their mutual act of despondency. And this was how they had come to spend their days, which had become very empty and idle in the recent years: waiting for the frame to become a prism and waiting for the sun to refuse to rise.

This particular night, however, was different. After an unusually peaceful day between the two, Evelyn decided to test the waters by breaking the silence with an exaggerated sigh. She glanced at Harvey from the corner of her eye to catch his reaction. His face remained stoic and unchanged. She sighed again, this time even louder. Harvey, sensing what she wanted, only rolled his eyes.

“I wonder if our boy is thinking of home right now?” she inquired to no one in particular.

“Joshua is no boy,” he replied gruffly. “He’s a man, and he’s got more important things to think about than home, like, trying to stay alive for example.”

Unsettled by his harsh response, she fell mute and silence stole over the two again. It was awhile before

any noise threatened to break the stiff air. Evelyn Maynard recalled her reaction towards Joshua’s desire to join the Army. It was a mixture of pride and fear, with the fear winning out. She remembered the fruitless hours she had spent attempting to change his mind. But he had his father’s unrelenting spirit; and in the end, she gave him her full support. That had been almost six and a half years ago. Since then, Joshua had come home and left, come home again, and left again. He was now stationed in Iraq and had not been home for three years. He was always volunteering for special missions--missions that kept him away from base most of the time, or so her husband constantly reminded her. The tension between the couple had grown in the last three years they had been kept waiting. Harvey’s attitude had begun to shift, and he became quite short and very rude. It was a blow that caused Mrs. Maynard to become even more tousled and unstable; and while she used to keep the house looking spotless and pristine, it had falling into disarray. The couple could barely look at each other, let alone talk anymore.

“Don’t know why you’d think Josh has time to think of home anyway.” It was Mr. Maynard who broke the silence this time. “If the man,” he stressed this word, “decided to waste his time thinking of home all the time, he might not make it back.” He glanced over at Evelyn. “Would you like that? You want your boy dead?”

Mrs. Maynard was beginning to regret her decision, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She could tell his anger was rising. “No, dear, that’s not what I want.” After the silence stretched on longer, and the shadows in the gray corners of the house loomed over their heads, Evelyn became restless and got up from her chair. She began to clean, not the larger expanses of the house, just the room they were in. They had grown quite comfortable within its small space these days. When they weren’t eating dinner in the kitchen or watching TV in the sitting room, they were in the living room, surrounded by family photographs, academic awards, and diplomas, all of which Mrs. Maynard carefully dusted every day. She didn’t want Joshua to think they were destitute when he came home.

She made her way around the shadowy space carefully and slowly. Though she had memorized the layout of the room by now, it was still rather risky to move about it with so little light. Harvey eyed her as

she worked, almost glaring at her. Evelyn could feel his gaze burning into the back of her head, but she refused to respond to him. She continued to work silently.

By now the sun had set completely, and the Maynard’s rainbow had dissolved with the passing light; night had set in. The darkness in the room became thick, as did the growing tension between Mr. and Mrs. Maynard. However, Evelyn was not fazed.

She had grown used to the faint glow of the candle and didn’t care for any more light than that. She found the soft flame soothing.

After dusting in one corner for an unusually long period of time, she cautiously moved across the floor and began dusting around the make-shift shrine to her son. She moved like a stray cat, not wanting to set her husband off again. Her motions were methodical and calculated, giving away the number of times she had done it before. She gently grasped the crystal picture frame containing the photo of Josh. She handled it tenderly, smiling to herself. She cherished the moments she could spend taking care of Joshua’s things. She polished the edges and face of the frame until they gleamed. She stroked it with the love and care one would wash a child; and when she placed it back on the end-table, it was with regret. Harvey, who was watching this scene with reproachful distaste sneered and shook his head.

“You’re pathetic, Evelyn. You know that?” She stopped cleaning for a moment and stared out the window before her. “The way you mope around this dump pretending to be cleaning,” he glowered at her from his chair, “trying to maintain something that can’t be kept.” Evelyn continued to watch the yard silently, hoping the shadows would hide the tears that were forming in her eyes. Harvey sneered, his eyes burning like coals in the light of the candle. “Can’t you see this blasted house is falling down around our heads?”

At this statement she bit her lip hard, fighting back hot tears. She attempted to ignore his words, but out of spite and jealousy, he continued to badger her unrelentingly. Mrs. Maynard remained silent.

She endeavored to push his voice out of her head. It was as if she fought some distant truth with her mind.

Determined, she focused her attention on the large pool of wax that had formed beneath the melting candle. She began scratching at it fiercely with her fingernails.

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“You’re just going to ignore me, then?”

His temper was growing wild, she could tell. She made no reaction that showed she heard him; but the anger began to rise within the pit of her stomach, and before long she was clawing at the wax furiously.

Part of her wished it was her husband’s face. “You’ve gotten good at that over the years haven’t you?” He shifted angrily in his seat. His breath was quickening.

“You just ignore what we’ve become,” he stared up at her defiantly. “Well I can’t ignore this anymore Evelyn.” His expression shifted to a pained grimace as he spoke. “I can’t hold this within me anymore.”

Evelyn paused and eyed her husband curiously.

“Josh is gone Evie.” He could barely speak, and he held his head solemnly in his hands. “Your boy is dead.” The words were spoken at almost a whisper, but the words rung in Evelyn’s ears as if they were a yell. They echoed through the halls of the empty house like a death toll. A long silence followed, and it engulfed the couple in a thick coat of heavy emotion.

Harvey couldn’t speak. The only sound that escaped his lips was a collection of deep and heavy breaths that showed signs of great mourning and regret.

Evelyn didn’t breathe at all. She stood granite-

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like, frozen. Part of her had always known. All of Harvey’s exaggerated stories of Joshua, supposedly taken from letters she never received, suddenly began to make sense. She grasped the authenticity of Harvey’s words with one look into his face. It had been three years since she had seen any such emotion in his ordinarily steel-faced eyes.

In one smooth motion she collapsed in a pile of grief that came from a truth she had known, and yet avoided, for too long. She lifted a hand to wipe the moisture from her face. It was a mere flinch, but it was all it took and the crystal picture frame came crashing from its long-kept sanctuary. The sound was deafening to Mrs. Maynard. To her, it was the sound of hope lost; the sound of a much more valuable treasure that could never be returned or repaired.

Mr. Maynard left his chair and knelt down beside his wife to offer some comfort. And when he spoke, his voice was so heavy and so full of pain, that the wind which escaped from his lips snuffed out their last light. They held each other in the dark and waited.

They waited with heaviness for a sun that would never rise again.

Greene Meghann Williams

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Tired Swing Degan Cheek

Some Sort o What am I doing? is the first thought in my mind when I walk in. The party’s already on in full, people dancing to some unoriginal beat, happily chatting to friends and strangers alike, partying, whatever. A quick scan and thank God, there’s a table in the back, I realize. I manage to stay unnoticed as I weave my way through the partiers and sit down.

I bring my personal mix of confusion, insecurity, and self-hatred to the table, a little black concoction that I’ve been brewing over the past few... months?

Years? Doesn’t really matter. I idly watch myself pass the bottle back and forth between my hands, sliding it across the table while the party goes on around me. Taking a swig, I wince. It burns going down, and burns worse when it hits the bottom, but distracts me from everything else. Why am I here? I wonder.

She sits down next to me. On the table, she places a big bowl of uncertainty, almost overflowing with awkwardness. Tiny gray bits of self-doubt float

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within. It looks cold.

With a half-grin that’s terrifyingly tempting, she says give it a try. There’s a prize at the bottom, if I can reach it.

I frown at her. Something about this girl makes me want to actually do it, a notion completely out of character. I didn’t really come here to socialize, not that I can think of any reason at all for why I actually showed up. I definitely didn’t come to the party to stick my hand into that mess, but it’s like she’s daring me with her eyes, eyes so dark they look black. Maybe it’s from the lighting, but that gaze makes me more than a little uncomfortable. Coming to the party had been hard enough, and this sudden challenge has me even more unbalanced. I open my mouth to decline, so dark they look, and find myself rolling up my sleeve, like in a dream where you want to run or scream or jump, but can’t. Something about this tells me I’m going to need another drink soon. I hold the

All Hallows Eve Savannah Stephens

of Precious Brady Morris

bottle in my left, while I slip my bare right arm into the mix. Goosebumps shoot up my arm immediately, less from the chill than from the feeling of the liquid on my skin. It’s thin like some kind of oil, thinner than water. Ticklish and penetratingly cold.

She’s sitting there with her head in her hands, elbows on the table, watching.

I find something near the bottom of the bowl. My fingertips brush against something, and she perks up a bit with some interest. Finally. Whatever it is slips away in the bowl, and my fingers follow. It slides down again and I reach for it, shuddering from the feeling of reaching so deep within the emotion soup.

I’m up to my elbow. How deep is this bowl? I wonder idly. I sigh, and she crinkles her nose from the smell of my breath. I shrug and take another drink, fire down the chest.

The goddamn thing is slippery, and my numbed fingers can’t seem to get a grasp of it. For almost a

second, I contemplate putting down my drink to use both hands, but then I just laugh at myself. Is it a cube? I ask, but she keeps throwing these confusing looks at me. What’s wrong? how deep is. She echoes my questions.

I notice she’s got a bit of my drink on her lip, but I know for a fact the bottle has never left my hand. She seems bored and looks around at the party, and this frustrates me. The fumes from the soup are starting to make me dizzy, nauseous. And I’m beginning to get pissed off. Every time I get a hold of the box, it slips back to the bottom just before I can pull it to the surface. I almost get a glimpse of it, a few times, but it always slides out of my slick and shivering fingers.

It’s small, can’t be bigger than one of those little black boxes that rings always come in, but seems heavy.

I just can’t get a grip. Why the hell am I doing this again? I ask her.

She ignores me and puts her head down on the

25

table.

And that makes me even madder. This was her damn idea, after all. Why doesn’t she help me out? At the beginning, she was more interested about it than I was. I keep trying. Again, again and get a grip again, but it always slips back down. The whole situation reminds me of some myth of the damned, who grasp for the water in the river to soothe their eternal thirst, but the water always recedes out of reach. I’m far too frustrated to search for any specifics on that thought.

Meanwhile, she’s either asleep, or on the way there. I look at the bowl, look at the bottle in my right hand, the object always slips and I think to hell with it. I set down my drink and go hardcore, sleeves and all.

My determination overcomes every other emotion.

The bottom of the bowl vanishes as my arms plunge within, and I stop just before I end up with a faceful of the soup. It feels so uncomfortable that I almost pull away, but then both hands close around the box and my surprise removes my discomfort.

Clutching the box like it’s some sort of precious antidote, better not spill a drop, I think, I slowly

26

draw it out. It’s small, made out of some dark wood, smooth. Ordinary. What is it?

But she’s gone when I look up. My drink, too. I look around, but she’s gone.

I look back at the box. There’s a simple seam running around the side. Soup’s dripping off of it, off my arm, pooling onto the table and dripping on the floor. No one seems to notice. I could care less if they did or not, so I wipe it clean on my shirt, and wipe my oily fingers on my pants. The lid slides off far easier than I thought it would. Some sort of Precious There’s a small shard of hope in there, amazingly enough. For the first time in a long time I don’t question why I’m smiling. The shard is small, and already starting to melt away, but it’s there nonetheless. I put the lid back on, and after thinking for a moment, set it back down on the table. My fingers don’t hesitate, so I don’t pick it back up.

Something tells me I’ve gotten what I need, and someone else can have this one. One last look at the box and I stand up, wondering where she disappeared to.

Overlooked Islen Price

Tootsie Christina Berkshire

Kitty Martyn Turner

27

Newborn Brendan Hennessee

28

A Boy Named Sue Seth Logan Fields

Despida Flor Brendan Hennessee

Traffic Miranda Hein

29

Grill Bonnie Davis

Forgotten Islen Price

30

Focusing Maria LaRocca

Clearwater Joyeeta Stevenson

31

On Alert Joshua Hopperton

Creeping Islen Price

32

All About the Eyes Alycia Cummings

Leah Felicia Ireland

33

Man in Fedora Felicia Ireland

Promise of Forever Oscar Daniel Urizar

34

Anxieties of War Seth Logan Fields

Fish Berrien Chidsey

35

Synesthesia Andrew Hasben The Artist knows the landscape with His hands.

He feels the shapes of trees whose images burst forth from the motion of His fingers.

He draws inspiration from the rigid angles of roots, the spiraled layers of branches crossing paths in their ascent to the sky.

His eyes are stirred by the soft glow of sunlight peeking through the leaves, silhouetting the trees against a darkening canvas.

The Artist possesses the colors of passing seasons.

His brush becomes a prism casting streams of pigments across His canvas, and coloring the surface of the Earth.

He breathes life into the pastel greens of spring as mint and lavender spice the air.

With a divine spark, colors flow from his fingertips in a flurry of majestic shades: Leaves the color of fire sparkling in the sun’s passing gaze.

He blesses the sky with sun-soaked strokes of paint, merging them into a mural of warm hues.

They stretch a blazing trail along the horizon, a gradation of colors that rises and falls with the Earth’s shifting moods.

The Artist composes worlds with a breath of sweet air imbued with the colors of sounds.

A rhythmic melody of words fall from His lips like rain, watering seeds of life.

Senses merge within raindrops that burst into song upon the ground, singing chords in perfect harmony.

He plays the notes from memory on the wind, shaping notes of music with His fingers, combining sensations like lovers in His hands.

Never Say Goodbye Heather Waller The brown of his eyes goes right along with the browns in his uniform; he pulls on his beret as the sunlight hits our faces. He has to wear his cover outside.

He holds out his right arm to escort me, his tan bag weighs down the left.

The plane is in sight now, and I try to hold my enemy—my tears— off until this day is over. In just a few hours, it will be over. The only man I’ve ever loved will fly to another country to fight for the country we love.

Every day and every night, he’ll wear his cover; every minute of every day, life as I know it will crawl as I pray for my soldier to stay safe.

I steal one last kiss as the plane’s engines roar to life.

He whispers softly in my ear, “I’ll see you later,” because, in the Army, you never say goodbye.

36

Bankai Blues III Abe Kalsbeek Fat kid’s trying-once was dying from the shyness that once clung to his every jerk and spasm.

That chasm that separated him from her and what a sin it was to slur those words.

Those nerves filled his ears and fed his fears but in the end… that was then.

Now, they are wed.

Not helping.

You are not helping but pelting others who once called you brother with false facts and cracks about their weight or height… to debate or fight is your prerogative.

Now old, still bold in your taunting.

And flaunting that raggedy, straight-up tragedy (starred and scarred) jacket.

Pack it away I say!

You built your life around a knife piercing persons that worsen at every stab: to berate creates thin lines between hate and truth in that jack o’ lantern of youth.

Bit his lip for too long.

Not wrong to find new friends.

It all depends.

No more worry no more hurry towards issues of the mind.

Well, only time will tell.

Baby Maker Ashley Wilson “It’s unnatural” he says.

Explaining softly reproduction.

Making reference To the Easy-Bake Oven In my abdomen.

Just add water And bake for nine months.

“I won’t be baking,” I insist.

“You’ll change your mind,” He tells me.

“You’ll meet a sun-bronzed, Sword-wielding, Knight in shining armor.”

But I’ve met my knight And left him, Sword in hand.

I exchanged him for a super hero.

Bearing no weapons Other than her pale, soft skin.

37

Graffiti Table Berrien Chidsey

Scary Joyeeta Stevenson

38

Ashley Wilson

She hit the ground, hard. She made no attempt to get up, knowing he would only knock her down again. There was a knot in her throat and she felt the tears burning behind her eyes, but she refused to cry. She stared intently, and angrily, at him. Occasionally, she glanced at his face. But her eyes stayed focused on his hands. He was yelling; she knew by his expression, but all she heard was a droning sound underneath the pounding of her own heart. She didn’t move as she listened to his heavy footsteps fade away. Then she stood up, and kicked the dishwasher in an act of frustration.

“Brooke, if you break something, I swear to God...” He let his sentence trail off to evoke a mental image of things to come.

I would do anything to get out of here, she thought, as she raised her middle fingers to the wall hiding her father.

She didn’t always hate him. She thought back to when he had been a decent man, back to when her mother was alive. Brooke’s mother had died years ago, of lung cancer. All the doctors had been able to do was apologize for their loss.

Lung cancer? My mother never smoked a day in her life, Brooke thought. It was him. Two packs a day, and he couldn’t even bother to go outside. He should have been the one plastered with make-up at that funeral.

After the death of her mother, Isabel, Brooke’s father hadn’t spoken for days. All he did was drink. And the drinking became increasingly worse. Pill bottles of all sorts

gathered around the house. The more he drank, the angrier he became.

Brooke loved school. School helped her forget about home. She didn’t understand why everyone was so excited when the last bell rang; when it did ring, she went home like everyone else.

One day when Brooke came home from school, she found her father passed out in the living room. He held an almost-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which had spilled onto the floor when he fell asleep. Upon seeing the empty pill bottles on the table beside him, Brooke’s face burned with anger. She rolled her eyes and went to clean the mess her father had made.

“Isabel?” his voice was soft and slurred.

Brooke hurried out of the room, not wanting to be around when he woke. As she went upstairs, she saw a photo of her mother.

Not recalling it having been there before she, stopped to look. She realized she was looking at her own reflection. She stared at her mother’s face, at her blonde curly hair; her father’s blue eyes began to water. She quickly walked away from the mirror, and fell to her knees in a fit of crying. The force with which her body hit the floor knocked the vase off its stand. The vase her parents had bought together on their honeymoon in Italy--the vase her mother had cherished--was now shattered.

“Goddamn it!” her father shouted, “What did you break?” Brooke didn’t answer.

Her father staggered up the stairs. When he saw the vase, the anger in his face was replaced with an expression of shock and despair.

39

Brooke stared at her father, shaking.

Brooke felt as though an eternity passed, and her father hadn’t moved. “Dad?” she asked quietly, fearfully. “Are you okay?” He began to cry.

Brooke had never seen him look so powerless. She walked over to him and put her hand on his back. She could feel the notches in his spine. She wondered when he last ate.

He looked up at Brooke, cheeks still wet, and eyes red. “Isabel?” He looked up with a new found hope, “ Isabel, I dreamed you were gone.

God, I love you so much.” He was sobbing, “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault you’re sick! Can you ever forgive me? Please, Isabel, Please forgive me.”

Brooke was in shock as she watched her father beg her for her mother’s forgiveness. She focused on his boney face and his grizzly beard.

The features that had always made him seem so intimidating now made him look pitiful.

“I forgive you.” She meant it, but she realized it wasn’t her forgiveness he wanted.

“She forgives you. You can’t blame yourself.”

She felt sorry for him.

Nostalgia Maria LaRocca

40

“I love you so much.” He held her tightly.

Brooke realized that he didn’t see her.“Dad?” there was no response, “Dad! You’re scaring me.”He held her hands lacing his fingers with hers.

“Please stop.” He leaned forward kissing her. She shrieked and pushed him away from her. “Dad, it’s me! It’s Brooke! Stop!”

“You love me, Isabel! You love me.” He slammed her onto the ground and climbed onto her.

“Dad, stop. Stop! It’s me, stop! Please,” she cried in desperation. He couldn’t see her. He didn’t stop.

When he passed out in the hallway, Brooke slowly got up and went to the bathroom. If he gets to sleep through this, so should I, she thought. She opened the medicine cabinet, and found her father’s sleeping pills. Brooke swallowed a pill, then two more. She ran a bath of scalding hot water. She wasn’t sure of any of her thoughts. She couldn’t stop thinking, but she couldn’t understand any of the words in her head. As the water cooled, Brooke closed her eyes and sank into the water.

Echoes Jeanine Rodriguez

41

The

Prophet “Honestly, I don’t need to be here,” Jessica argued. “I’m fine.”

The officer would not respond. Jessica sat uncomfortably, with her left arm chained to a metal chair that had thin blue cushioning. She looked at the covers of old magazines that she couldn’t reach, as they waited for the doctor.

“Jessica Cole?”

The officer undid her handcuffs and led her into a room where she sat awkwardly on a white couch. The room was so still it seemed as if it wasn’t affected by time. Jessica resented having to be there. She felt uneasy in this environment.

A woman nodded at the officer, and he left.

Jessica shifted restlessly in her seat, looking for an appropriate position; she couldn’t find one.

She sat up straight with her legs crossed, trying to mirror the rigid posture of the woman across from her.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Isaia,” the woman said as she smiled warmly. “How are you feeling today?”

She was dressed in white, hair tightly pulled back into a bun. She had square glasses that she continuously adjusted as she looked back and forth from the paper in her lap to Jessica.

The woman cocked her head to the left as she stared at Jessica, waiting for a response.

Jessica thought to herself that this woman looked exactly like a psychologist should look: professional, stiff, cold, and well put-together.

“Fine,” Jessica said abruptly, knowing that was not the answer the woman was looking for. The doctor wanted to hear how depressed Jessica felt. She wanted Jessica to say that she was ready to give up on life.

“Is there any thing you would like to talk 42

Ashley Wilson

about?” Dr. Isaia asked.

“No.” “You haven’t been upset, or stressed about anything? Nothing at all?”

“No. I’m fine, really.”

“Can we talk about what’s brought you here today?”

“I’m not suicidal,” Jessica responded nonchalantly, as if saying ‘I’m not hungry.’

“You weren’t going to jump off of that building?”

“Well, I was. But I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I wouldn’t even had been injured, if that man hadn’t pulled me off the ledge.” Jessica motioned toward her right arm, which was in a sling. Her shoulder had been dislocated by a police officer when he yanked her away from the edge.

Dr. Isaia stared expressionlessly at Jessica.

Then she continued to write on the paper in her lap.

Jessica wondered what the doctor was writing. She hoped that this doctor didn’t think she was insane; she hated when people thought she was crazy. “I wasn’t going to hurt myself.

I was going to fly, or levitate, or something.

I don’t really know how. But I know that I wouldn’t have been hurt,” Jessica explained.

“You believe you can fly?”

“I’m not crazy. God told me I wouldn’t be hurt.”

“God told you to jump off a building?”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“I never said that. I simply want you to tell me exactly what happened. Don’t worry, I’m not here to judge.”

“Well, I’ve been trying to spread the word

of God. A new word for a new generation. A lot of people don’t read the Bible because it doesn’t relate to them, because it’s so old. So God told me to spread the message. When I try to tell people about it on the street, they just ignore me. Or they drop change at my feet like I’m some homeless person. It’s quite offensive.”

“So then, why were you going to jump off the building?”

“I needed to prove that I had been chosen by the Lord. I wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“God told you that you would fly?”

“Well, not really. I was told that I needed to perform a great feat in order to prove that I am truly a prophet. Peter walked on water, so I was going to walk on air.” Jessica paused, curious about what the woman thought.

Dr. Isaia simply nodded.“Jessica, I would like you to tell me when God began speaking with you.”

“A few years ago. But it really started before God began speaking to me.”

“So, when did it start?”

“I think I’ve always been protected by God. When I was a kid, I liked being up high. I loved climbing trees, going to the mountains, and being on tall buildings. One day, I climbed onto the roof of our house without telling anyone. I stepped on some pine straw, and I slipped. I fell off of our two-story home; on my way down I could see an angel, as clearly as I can see you. It felt like I was in slow motion, like I was floating down rather than falling. When I hit the ground I didn’t have a single scratch on me.”

“I see. How old were you when He first spoke to you?”

“God isn’t a he.”

“Then how old were you when God first spoke to you?”

“I think I was seventeen.”

“Can you hear His voice or is it in your head?”

“It’s not my imagination!”

“Okay, but I want to know if when you hear His voice does it sound as though others should be able to hear it as well, or does it sound like a thought?”

“It sounds like It speaks directly to my soul.”

The doctor continued to nod as though she understood perfectly. “What is the message He wants you to spread?”

“God isn’t a he. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some ultra-feminist who believes that God has to be a woman. God isn’t a woman. It’s silly to think we could label such a powerful thing by our simple definition of gender. God has no need for gender.” Jessica was upset that the doctor had ignored her previous statement on the issue.

Dr. Isaia was taken aback by Jessica’s sudden aggravation. A moment passed and nothing was said. Jessica looked around the room once more. It was very similar to the offices of the other psychologist she had seen.

The walls were always white, and framed degrees hung next to the bookshelves filled with titles such as The Angry Marriage. Jessica wondered why they couldn’t make the rooms fun and welcoming.

“You’ve been to mental institutions before?”

“Yeah, a few times.”

“How was that experience?”

“A lot like this one; weird, uncomfortable, and completely unpleasant.”

“Can you tell me why you went?”

“When I told her I heard God, my mother freaked out.”

“So you told her when you heard it?”

“Not at first. I wasn’t really sure what was happening when It first began speaking to me.

I started to study the Bible. I would bring home a lot of religious books from the library. My mother became suspicious because our family was never very religious. The more I studied Christianity, the more I understood what I was supposed to do. When I did tell my mother, she sent me to a shrink.”

“I think we should have you stay here a while for observation.”

“You think I’m crazy! I’m not. I’m a Prophet!”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, Jessica.

However, you need medication and some guidance.”

“I don’t need anything from you!”

“Jessica, please calm down. We need time, but I’m certain we can help you.”

43

“I don’t need your help!” Jessica shouted as she ran out the door. She climbed the stairs two by two, with Dr. Isaia following close behind.

The numbers painted onto the walls increased - 3, 4, 5 - until Jessica reached the roof. Jessica walked to the edge of the building as Dr. Isaia burst through the door.

“Don’t!” the doctor cried, frantic and out of breath. “You need help! Just come back inside.”

Jessica turned around and smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

“Jessica, wait! You never told me the message God wants you to spread. Come back inside, tell me, I want to know.”

Jessica turned her back on Dr. Isaia and stared at the scenery, admiring the world.

The sun was setting and the lights of the town sparkled against the pink and purple sky.

Jessica could see the wonders of the world from that roof; she could see beauty that Dr. Isaia could not. Jessica thought it was a shame that the doctor only saw the danger and the pain in the world.

“The message?” Jessica asked.

“Yes, the one God has given you,” Dr. Isaia pleaded. She was willing to say anything to get

Jessica off that ledge.

“That’s simple. Love. Love your sister, your brother, your neighbor, and your enemy.

Love all of humanity no matter their sin, for judgment is not yours.” Jessica looked up at the sky, breathing deeply.

After a moment Dr. Isaia looked up as well.“Is He really up there?” She asked sincerely.

Jessica shook her head and looked at the doctor, “No, It’s not. It’s within us. Not above us.”

“Jessica?” Dr. Isaia was staring at the sky.

Jessica didn’t respond, she lifted her leg and stepped off of the ledge.

“No!” Dr. Isaia stood horrified with her hand covering her mouth in a weak attempt to hold back her last meal.

She hesitantly walked to the ledge, hoping Jessica wasn’t splattered on the sidewalk below.

Dr. Isaia found herself praying for the first time in years, asking God for the safety of the young girl. She found herself desperately wanting to believe Jessica truly was a prophet. The Doctor closed her eyes and counted to three before looking down.

Plea from Hiroshima Samantha Gantt

44

Pitch-black blood fills my inner being, Fills my lungs and body with coughing, heaving I cannot move from this bed, I can barely raise my head.

Why must I sit here and face this doom?

Friends, loved ones consume my room My sister was right, I only want a long life, Free from pain, suffering, and strife.

My sight begins to fade and soon there’s only darkness, Faceless people talk but I only long for his kiss.

My bloody, sticky touch will only make a mess, I avoid all contact as my desperation begins to press.

My hope begins to dwindle, I become even more frail.

Someone holds my hand; I know it’s him, my holy grail.

The coughing and heaving returns to no avail, I believe this time my lungs will truly fail.

I’m sure those soldiers must be happy, Another one bites the dust in Hiroshima, oh how sappy.

1 The prison guards dragged William Fletcher out of his cell, into the long hallway ahead.

William struggled against the ropes they used, but he had very little strength left and could not hold the guards back.

“Quit struggling,” one guard said. “I just want to get this over with.”

William had not aged well. Though he was only twenty-five, he looked several decades older. His jet-black hair had turned silver. His beard, unshaven for ten years, could not be contained by the muzzle that was always placed over his mouth when he came into the care of the guards. But both his hair and beard had been shaved off in preparation for today. His eyes constantly darted around, desperately trying to find everything that could threaten his territory.

The guards finally forced William into a small room containing only an electric chair.

William thrashed and snarled as the guards strapped him into the chair, and continued to struggle against his metal restraints while the guards retreated to a safe location.

In another room, the executioner stood ready to throw a switch. The guards walked in to bring him news.

“This Fletcher?” the executioner said.

“Yep,” one guard said. “He put up a fight, but we made sure no one was hurt.”

“Shouldda got that muzzle on him sooner,” another guard said. “I don’t get why they let him bite pieces out of five people before they finally put him in solitary.”

“Is the Governor giving any pardons today?” the executioner asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” the first guard said.

“Good. This son of a bitch deserves what he’s getting.” The executioner flipped the switch.

2 “William Fletcher Junior,” the judge said,

“you are charged with murder in the first degree of William Fletcher Senior. How do you plead?”

William Fletcher, a twenty-year-old man with a long black beard and black hair, stood glaring around the courtroom with an obvious disdain. As he took the witness stand, his eyes slowly scanned the courtroom for threats. He did not respond to the judge’s question.

“Your honor,” William’s attorney said, “my client should be allowed to plead insanity.

As you can tell, his mind is a wreck. I don’t know what sort of trauma might have caused this condition, but it’s clear that Mr. Fletcher can barely even speak, let alone function as a rational adult. I will prove this much if I may question my client.”

The bailiff presented the court Bible to William.

“Do you swear to tell the truth,” the bailiff said, “the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” William leaned forward and sniffed the Bible.

“Please, put your hand on it. I don’t want to have to stand here with you all day.”

“Mr. Jackson,” the judge said to William’s lawyer, “do you truly believe you have enough evidence for an insanity plea?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” the attorney said.

“There should be ample evidence in the defendant’s character. If you’ll notice, he hasn’t shaved since his hair started growing, he’s wearing rags to a courtroom, and furthermore –” “Anyone can put on a show, Mr. Jackson.

What other evidence do you have?”

“Your Honor, would a sane man kill and eat his own father?”

“He bit me!” the bailiff cried as he jerked his arm away from William, who had both his hands securely on top of the Bible while he eyed the bailiff madly. “I tried to take the Bible 45

back, and he bit me!”

“Get this man out of my courtroom!” the judge said, ordering more bailiffs to restrain William.

William flailed wildly as the bailiffs dragged him off. He gave the guards several cuts and a few bite marks each, but his current case of food poisoning left him too weak to prevent his own capture.

“I don’t care how you do it,” the judge said. “Just get that son of a bitch out of my courtroom!”

3 “Eat yer meat, boy,” William’s father said as he passed his son a chunk of charred meat. “Or I’ll shove it down yer throat.”

William stared at the blackened, unidentifiable mound with lowered, saddened eyes. He was only fifteen, but already had a thick, black beard that covered his entire neck.

He sniffed the meat every so often, but refused to bring his mouth anywhere near it.

“Oh come on,” William’s father said. “Don’t tell me yer just gonna mope about it. This is yer dinner. Now eat it!”

William looked to the side, away from his father and the meat.

“Look, I done told ya, weren’t nothin’ left to eat but her. We ran outta stamps ages ago, and we ain’t got money for nothin.” William’s father drank from his can of beer. “She weren’t yer real momma anyway.”

William whined loudly in protest.

“Oh, that’s it, boy!”

William’s father jumped up and ran alongside the table to his son. William struggled as his father forced his mouth open, shoved a charred piece of meat into his mouth, then held his jaw shut until he was forced to swallow it.

“There, boy. Now maybe you won’t get sick every other day. I ain’t got the money to pay yer medical bills.”

William fell to the ground and attempted to cough up his last meal, but to no avail.

“Get up, William.”

William continued to cough until he could no longer stand to.

46

“I said get up, you son of a bitch!”

4 William nosed around the back side of his house, looking for something to eat. He started to climb into a trash bin, but got scared halfway through and dropped down to the ground flat on his rear.

William was only ten years old. His black hair was soft, but uncombed and filthy. The rain was the first wash it had received since the last rainstorm. William constantly looked around, hoping to find something interesting, or at least someone he recognized.

From out of the fog, a recognizable figure appeared. William’s eyes opened wide, and he ran to greet the familiar face, tripping over his own feet every so often in his excitement.

A gray mutt wandered up, holding a dead piece of something it had retrieved from the road. The dog dropped the half-rotten piece of meat, presenting it to an ecstatic William.

William shoved the meat into his mouth and began to devour it furiously.

“Boy, where are you?” William’s father yelled. “Boy, you better not be eatin’ things the dog give you again!”

William immediately started looking around for places to hide, but could find none.

He simply sat there until his father eventually found him with that piece of something in his mouth. When his father arrived, William looked up at him with wide, sad eyes.

“Boy, I told you not to eat things that dog give you. Ain’t you appreciate the food I got you with them food stamps? Or are you just an ingrate?”

William stared up at his father, still holding the dead something in his mouth.

“That dog ain’t yer momma, boy. I give everything for you, you know.” He drank from his can of beer. “And what do you give me? A boy who’d rather spend time with his dog than his old man.”

William continued to stare.

“Well, fine. That dog can be yer momma.

You wanna be a son of a bitch, you can be a son of a bitch.”

Washington

Group Awards

Washington Group Prize in Poetry “Baby Maker” Ashley Wilson

Washington Group Prize in Fiction “Son of a Bitch” Ben Cheeks

All submissions were screened in a blind review (no author names attached) by a committee of three English faculty. On behalf of all the students whose work appears in this year’s magazine, the Broken Ink staff thanks Dr. Andrew Geyer, Mr. Roy Seeger, and Dr. Tom Mack for their review.